When Ethel came home, burning with the tidings of the newly-excited hopes for Cocksmoor, they were at once stopped by Margaret eagerly saying, “Is Richard come in? pray call him;” then on his entrance, “Oh, Richard, would you be so kind as to take this to the bank. I don’t like to send it by any one else—it is so much;” and she took from under her pillows a velvet bag, so heavy, that it weighed down her slender white hand.

“What, he has given you the care of his money?” said Ethel.

“Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket into the drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad way. He said his fees had come to such an accumulation that he must see about sending them to the bank; and then he told me of the delight of throwing his first fee into dear mamma’s lap, when they were just married, and his old uncle had given up to him, and how he had brought them to her ever since; he said she had spoiled him by taking all trouble off his hands. He looked at it, as if it was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose of it, that I begged him not to plague himself any more, but let me see about it, as dear mamma used to do; so he said I was spoiling him too, but he brought me the drawer, and emptied it out here: when he was gone, I packed it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to the bank, out of his sight.”

“You counted it?” said Richard.

“Yes—there’s fifty—I kept seventeen towards the week’s expenses. Just see that it is right,” said Margaret, showing her neat packets.

“Oh, Ritchie,” said Ethel, “what can expense signify, when all that has been kicking about loose in an open drawer? What would not one of those rolls do?”

“I think I had better take them out of your way,” said Richard quietly. “Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret?”

“Yes, do,” said Margaret; “pray do not tease him with it.” And as her brother left the room, she continued, “I wish he was better. I think he is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of his arm, going on so long, seems to me to have pulled him down; it does not let him sleep, and, by the end of the day, he gets worn and fagged by seeing so many people, and exerting himself to talk and think; and often, when there is something that must be asked, I don’t know how to begin, for it seems as if a little more would be too much for him.”

“Yes, Richard is right,” said Ethel mournfully; “it will not do to press him about our concerns; but do you think him worse to-day?”

“He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he does not drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone with Richard, are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying; he does not think poor old Mr. Southern will get through the evening, and he is so sorry for the daughter.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and he would go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter will detain him, and he is not fit to go through such things now.”

“No, I hope he will soon come; perhaps Richard will meet him. But, oh, Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been talking of?” and, without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel would have told her story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to her, said, “Hark! was not that his step?” and Dr. May came in, looking mournful and fatigued.

“Well,” said he, “I was just too late. He died as I got there, and I could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.”

“Poor thing,” said Margaret. “He was a good old man.”

“Yes,” said Dr. May, sitting wearily down, and speaking in a worn-out voice. “One can’t lightly part with a man one has seen at church every Sunday of one’s life, and exchanged so many friendly words with over his counter. ‘Tis a strong bond of neighbourliness in a small place like this, and, as one grows old, changes come heavier—‘the clouds return again after the rain.’ Thank you, my dear,” as Ethel fetched his slippers, and placed a stool for his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of thinking it an achievement to have, unbidden, performed a small act of attention which would have come naturally from any of the others.

“Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me?” said Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better than the bustle of the children downstairs. “Thank you,” as he gave a smile of assent.

That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, and all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffonier, that Flora exclaimed, “Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?”

“I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set it to rights,” said Ethel, gulping down her dislike of being reproved by Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same.

“My dear!” cried Flora presently, jumping up, “what are you doing? piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you think they will ever stand? let me do it.”

“No, no, Flora;” and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice, which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and despair.

“He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravitation,” said Flora.

Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means, Ethel, without being in the least irritated, gave the chiffonier a thorough dusting and setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, and finding her own long-lost ‘Undine’, at which she was so delighted that she would have forgotten all; in proceeding to read it, curled up on the floor amongst the heaps of pamphlets, if another gentle hint from Richard had not made her finish her task so well, as to make Flora declare it was a pleasure to look in, and Harry pronounce it to be all neat and ship-shape.

There was no speaking to Margaret the next morning—it was French day—and Ethel had made strong resolutions to behave better; and whether there were fewer idioms, or that she was trying to understand, instead of carping at the master’s explanations, they came to no battle; Flora led the conversation, and she sustained her part with credit, and gained an excellent mark.

Flora said afterwards to Margaret, “I managed nicely for her. I would not let M. Ballompre blunder upon any of the subjects Ethel feels too deeply to talk of in good French, and really Ethel has a great talent for languages. How fast she gets on with Italian!”

“That she does,” said Margaret. “Suppose you send her up, Flora—you must want to go and draw or practice, and she may do her arithmetic here, or read to me.”

It was the second time Margaret had made this proposal, and it did not please Flora, who had learned to think herself necessary to her sister, and liked to be the one to do everything for her. She was within six weeks of seventeen, and surely she need not be sent down again to the school-room, when she had been so good a manager of the whole family. She was fond of study and of accomplishments, but she thought she might be emancipated from Miss Winter; and it was not pleasant to her that a sister, only eighteen months older, and almost dependant on her, should have authority to dispose of her time.

“I practise in the evening,” she said, “and I could draw here, if I wished, but I have some music to copy.”

Margaret was concerned at the dissatisfaction, though not understanding the whole of it: “You know, dear Flora,” she said, “I need not take up all your time now.”

“Don’t regret that,” said Flora. “I like nothing so well as waiting on you, and I can attend to my own affairs very well here.”

“I’ll tell you why I proposed it,” said Margaret. “I think it would be a relief for Ethel to escape from Miss Winter’s beloved Friday questions.”

“Great nonsense they are,” said Flora. “Why don’t you tell Miss Winter they are of no use?”

“Mamma never interfered with them,” said Margaret. “She only kept Ethel in her own hands, and if you would be so kind as to change sometimes and sit in the school-room, we could spare Ethel, without hurting Miss Winter’s feelings.”

“Well, I’ll call Ethel, if you like, but I shall go and practise in the drawing-room. The old school-room piano is fit for nothing but Mary to hammer upon.”

Flora went away, evidently annoyed, and Margaret’s conjectures on the cause of it were cut short by Ethel running in with a slate in one hand and two books in the other, the rest having all tumbled down on the stairs.

“Oh, Margaret, I am so glad to come to you. Miss Winter has set Mary to read ‘To be, or not to be,’ and it would have driven me distracted to have stayed there. I have got a most beautiful sum in Compound Proportion, about a lion, a wolf, and a bear eating up a carcase, and as soon as they have done it, you shall hear me say my ancient geography, and then we will do a nice bit of Tasso; and if we have any time after that, I have got such a thing to tell you—only I must not tell you now, or I shall go on talking and not finish my lessons.”

It was not till all were done, that Ethel felt free to exclaim, “Now for what I have been longing to tell you—Richard is going to—” But the fates were unpropitious. Aubrey trotted in, expecting to be amused; next came Norman, and Ethel gave up in despair; and, after having affronted Flora in the morning, Margaret was afraid of renewing the offence, by attempting to secure Ethel as her companion for the afternoon; so not till after the walk could Margaret contrive to claim the promised communication, telling Ethel to come and settle herself cosily by her.

“I should have been very glad of you last evening,” said she, “for papa went to sleep, and my book was out of reach.”

“Oh, I am sorry; how I pity you, poor Margaret!”

“I suppose I have grown lazy,” said Margaret, “for I don’t mind those things now. I am never sorry for a quiet time to recollect and consider.”

“It must be like the waiting in the dark between the slides of a magic lantern,” said Ethel; “I never like to be quiet. I get so unhappy.”

“I am glad of resting and recollecting,” said Margaret. “It has all been so like a dream, that merry morning, and then, slowly waking to find myself here in dear mamma’s place, and papa watching over me. Sometimes I think I have not half understood what it really is, and that I don’t realise, that if I was up and about, I should find the house without her.”

“Yes; that is the aching part!” said Ethel. “I am happy, sitting on her bed here with you. You are a little of her, besides being my own dear Peg-top! You are very lucky to miss the mealtimes and the evenings.”

“That is the reason I don’t feel it wrong to like to have papa sitting with me all the evening,” said Margaret, “though it may make it worse for you to have him away. I don’t think it selfish in me to keep him. He wants quiet so much, or to talk a little when it suits him; we are too many now, when he is tired.”

“Oh, it is best,” said Ethel. “Nothing that you do is selfish—don’t talk of it, dear Margaret. It will be something like old times when you come down again.”

“But all this time you are not telling me what I want so much to hear,” said Margaret, “about Cocksmoor. I am so glad Richard has taken it up.”

“That he has. We are to go every Friday, and hire a room, and teach the children. Once a week will do a great deal, if we can but make them wish to learn. It is a much better plan than mine; for if they care about it, they can come to school here on Sunday.”

“It is excellent,” said Margaret, “and if he is at home till Easter, it will give it a start, and put you in the way of it, and get you through the short days and dark evenings, when you could not so well walk home without him.”

“Yes, and then we can all teach; Flora, and Mary, and you, when you are well again. Richard says it will be disagreeable, but I don’t think so—they are such unsophisticated people. That Granny Hall is such a funny old woman; and the whole place wants nothing but a little care, to do very well.”

“You must prepare for disappointments, dear Ethel.”

“I know; I know nothing is done without drawbacks; but I am so glad to make some beginning.”

“So am I. Do you know, mamma and I were one day talking over those kind of things, and she said she had always regretted that she had so many duties at home, that she could not attend as much to the poor as she would like; but she hoped now we girls were growing up, we should be able to do more.

“Did she?” was all Ethel said, but she was deeply gratified.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you. I knew you would like to hear it. It seems to set us to work so happily.”

“I only wish we could begin,” said Ethel, “but Richard is so slow! Of course we can’t act without papa’s consent and Mr. Wilmot’s help, and he says papa must not be worried about it, he must watch for his own time to speak about it.”

“Yes” said Margaret.

“I know—I would not have it otherwise; but what is tiresome is this. Richard is very good, but he is so dreadfully hard to stir up, and what’s worse, so very much afraid of papa, that while he is thinking about opportunities, they will all go by, and then it will be Easter, and nothing done!”

“He is not so much afraid of papa as he was,” said Margaret. “He has felt himself useful and a comfort, and papa is gentler; and that has cheered him out of the desponding way that kept him back from proposing anything.”

“Perhaps,” said Ethel; “but I wish it was you. Can’t you? you always know how to manage.”

“No; it is Richard’s affair, and he must do as he thinks fit. Don’t sigh, dear Ethel—perhaps he may soon speak, and, if not, you can be preparing in a quiet way all the time. Don’t you remember how dear mamma used to tell us that things, hastily begun, never turn out well?”

“But this is not hasty. I’ve been thinking about it these six weeks,” said Ethel. “If one does nothing but think, it is all no better than a vision. I want to be doing.”

“Well, you can be doing—laying a sound foundation,” said Margaret. “The more you consider, and the wiser you make yourself, the better it will be when you do set to work.”

“You mean by curing myself of my slovenly ways and impatient temper?”

“I don’t know that I was exactly thinking of that,” said Margaret, “but that ought to be the way. If we are not just the thing in our niche at home, I don’t think we can do much real good elsewhere.”

“It would be hollow, show-goodness,” said Ethel. “Yes, that is true; and it comes across me now, and then what a horrid wretch I am, to be wanting to undertake so much, when I leave so much undone. But, do you know, Margaret, there’s no one such a help in those ways as Richard. Though he is so precise, he is never tiresome. He makes me see things, and do them neatly, without plaguing me, and putting me in a rage. I’m not ready to bite off my own fingers, or kick all the rattle-traps over and leave them, as I am when Miss Winter scolds me, or nurse, or even Flora sometimes; but it is as if I was gratifying him, and his funny little old bachelor tidyisms divert me; besides, he teaches me the theory, and never lays hold of my poor fingers, and, when they won’t bend the wrong way, calls them frogs.”

“He is a capital master for you,” said Margaret, much amused and pleased, for Richard was her especial darling, and she triumphed in any eulogy from those who ordinarily were too apt to regard his dullness with superior compassion.

“If he would only read our books, and enter into poetry and delight in it; but it is all nonsense to him,” said Ethel. “I can’t think how people can be so different; but, oh! here he comes. Ritchie, you should not come upon us before we are aware.”

“What? I should have heard no good of myself?”

“Great good,” said Margaret—“she was telling me you would make a neat-handed woman of her in time.”

“I don’t see why she should not be as neat as other people,” said Richard gravely. “Has she been telling you our plan?”

And it was again happily discussed; Ethel, satisfied by finding him fully set upon the design, and Margaret giving cordial sympathy and counsel. When Ethel was called away, Margaret said, “I am so glad you have taken it up, not only for the sake of Cocksmoor, but of Ethel. It is good for her not to spend her high soul in dreams.”

“I am afraid she does not know what she undertakes,” said Richard.

“She does not; but you will keep her from being turned back. It is just the thing to prevent her energies from running to waste, and her being so much with you, and working under you, is exactly what one would have chosen.”

“By contraries!” said Richard, smiling. “That is what I was afraid of. I don’t half understand or follow her, and when I think a thing nonsense, I see you all calling it very fine, and I don’t know what to make of it—”

“You are making yourself out more dull than you are,” said Margaret affectionately.

“I know I am stupid, and seem tame and cold,” said Richard, “and you are the only one that does not care about it. That is what makes me wish Norman was the eldest. If I were as clever as he, I could do so much with Ethel, and be so much more to papa.”

“No, you would not. You would have other things in your head. You would not be the dear, dear old Ritchie that you are. You would not be a calm, cautious, steady balance to the quicksilver heads some of us have got. No, no, Norman’s a very fine fellow, a very dear fellow, but he would not do half so well for our eldest—he is too easily up, and down again.”

“And I am getting into my old way of repining,” said Richard. “I don’t mind so much, since my father has at least one son to be proud of, and I can be of some use to him now.”

“Of the greatest, and to all of us. I am so glad you can stay after Christmas, and papa was pleased at your offering, and said he could not spare you at all, though he would have tried, if it had been any real advantage to you.”

“Well, I hope he will approve. I must speak to him as soon as I can find him with his mind tolerably disengaged.”

The scene that ensued that evening in the magic lantern before Margaret’s bed, did not promise much for the freedom of her father’s mind. Harry entered with a resolute manner. “Margaret, I wanted to speak to you,” said he, spreading himself out, with an elbow on each arm of the chair. “I want you to speak to papa about my going to sea. It is high time to see about it—I shall be thirteen on the fourth of May.”

“And you mean it seriously, Harry?”

“Yes, of course I do, really and truly; and if it is to come to pass, it is time to take measures. Don’t you see, Margaret?”

“It is time, as you say,” answered Margaret reflectingly, and sadly surveying the bright boy, rosy cheeked, round faced, and blue eyed, with the childish gladsomeness of countenance, that made it strange that his lot in life should be already in the balance.

“I know what you will all tell me, that it is a hard life, but I must get my own living some way or other, and I should like that way the best,” said he earnestly.

“Should you like to be always far from home?”

“I should come home sometimes, and bring such presents to Mary, and baby, and all of you; and I don’t know what else to be, Margaret. I should hate to be a doctor—I can’t abide sick people; and I couldn’t write sermons, so I can’t be a clergyman; and I won’t be a lawyer, I vow, for Harvey Anderson is to be a lawyer—so there’s nothing left but soldiers and sailors, and I mean to be a sailor!”

“Well, Harry, you may do your duty, and try to do right, if you are a sailor, and that is the point.”

“Ay, I was sure you would not set your face against it, now you know Alan Ernescliffe.”

“If you were to be like him—” Margaret found herself blushing, and broke off.

“Then you will ask papa about it?”

“You had better do so yourself. Boys had better settle such serious affairs with their fathers, without setting their sisters to interfere. What’s the matter, Harry—you are not afraid to speak to papa?”

“Only for one thing,” said Harry. “Margaret, I went out to shoot pee-wits last Saturday with two fellows, and I can’t speak to papa while that’s on my mind.”

“Then you had better tell him at once.”

“I knew you would say so; but it would be like a girl, and it would be telling of the two fellows.”

“Not at all; papa would not care about them.”

“You see,” said Harry, twisting a little, “I knew I ought not; but they said I was afraid of a gun, and that I had no money. Now I see that was chaff, but I didn’t then, and Norman wasn’t there.”

“I am so glad you have told me all this, Harry dear, for I knew you had been less at home of late, and I was almost afraid you were not going on quite well.”

“That’s what it is,” said Harry. “I can’t stand things at all, and I can’t go moping about as Norman does. I can’t live without fun, and now Norman isn’t here, half the time it turns to something I am sorry for afterwards.”

“But, Harry, if you let yourself be drawn into mischief here for want of Norman, what would you do at sea?”

“I should be an officer!”

“I am afraid,” said Margaret, smiling, “that would not make much difference inside, though it might outside. You must get the self-control, and leave off being afraid to be said to be afraid.”

Harry fidgeted. “I should start fresh, and be out of the way of the Andersons,” he said. “That Anderson junior is a horrid fellow—he spites Norman, and he bullied me, till I was big enough to show him that it would not do—and though I am so much younger, he is afraid of me. He makes up to me, and tries to get me into all the mischief that is going.”

“And you know that, and let him lead you? Oh, Harry!”

“I don’t let him lead me,” said Harry indignantly, “but I won’t have them say I can’t do things.”

Margaret laughed, and Harry presently perceived what she meant, but instead of answering, he began to boast, “There never was a May in disgrace yet, and there never shall be.”

“That is a thing to be very thankful for,” said Margaret, “but you know there may be much harm without public disgrace. I never heard of one of the Andersons being in disgrace yet.”

“No—shabby fellows, that just manage to keep fair with old Hoxton, and make a show,” said Harry. “They look at translations, and copy old stock verses. Oh, it was such fun the other day. What do you think? Norman must have been dreaming, for he had taken to school, by mistake, Richard’s old Gradus that Ethel uses, and there were ever so many rough copies of hers sticking in it.”

“Poor Ethel! What consternation she would be in! I hope no one found it out.”

“Why, Anderson junior was gaping about in despair for sense for his verses—he comes on that, and slyly copies a whole set of her old ones, done when she—Norman, I mean—was in the fifth form. His subject was a river, and hers Babylon; but, altering a line or two, it did just as well. He never guessed I saw him, and thought he had done it famously. He showed them up, and would have got some noted good mark, but that, by great good luck, Ethel had made two of her pentameters too short, which he hadn’t the wit to find out, thinking all Norman did must be right. So he has shown up a girl’s verses—isn’t that rare?” cried Harry, dancing on his chair with triumph.

“I hope no one knows they were hers?”

“Bless you, no!” said Harry, who regarded Ethel’s attainments as something contraband. “D’ye think I could tell? No, that’s the only pity, that he can’t hear it; but, after all, I don’t care for anything he does, now I know he has shown up a girl’s verses.”

“Are these verses of poor Ethel’s safe at home?”

“Yes, I took care of that. Mind you don’t tell anyone, Margaret; I never told even Norman.”

“But all your school-fellows aren’t like these? You have Hector Ernescliffe.”

“He’s a nice fellow enough, but he is little, and down in the school. ‘Twould be making a fourth form of myself to be after him. The fact is, Margaret, they are a low, ungentlemanly lot just now, about sixth and upper fifth form,” said Harry, lowering his voice into an anxious confidential tone; “and since Norman has been less amongst them, they’ve got worse; and you see, now home is different, and he isn’t like what he was, I’m thrown on them, and I want to get out of it. I didn’t know that was it before, but Richard showed me what set me on thinking of it, and I see she knew all about it.”

“That she did! There is a great deal in what you say, Harry, but you know she thought nothing would be of real use but changing within. If you don’t get a root of strength in yourself, your ship will be no better to you than school—there will be idle midshipmen as well as idle school-boys.”

“Yes, I know,” said Harry; “but do you think papa will consent? She would not have minded.”

“I can’t tell. I should think he would; but if any scheme is to come to good, it must begin by your telling him of the going out shooting.”

Harry sighed. “I’d have done it long ago if she was here,” he said. “I never did anything so bad before without telling, and I don’t like it at all. It seems to come between him and me when I wish him good-night.”

“Then, Harry, pray do tell him. You’ll have no comfort if you don’t.”

“I know I shan’t; but then he’ll be so angry! And, do you know, Margaret, ‘twas worse than I told you, for a covey of partridges got up, and unluckily I had got the gun, and I fired and killed one, and that was regular poaching, you know! And when we heard some one coming, how we did cut! Ax—the other fellow, I mean, got it, and cooked it in his bedroom, and ate it for supper; and he laughs about it, but I have felt so horrid all the week! Suppose a keeper had got a summons!”

“I can only say again, the only peace will be in telling.”

“Yes; but he will be so angry. When that lot of fellows a year or two ago did something like it, and shot some of the Abbotstoke rabbits, don’t you remember how much he said about its being disgraceful, and ordering us never to have anything to do with their gunnery? And he will think it so very bad to have gone out on a lark just now! Oh, I wish I hadn’t done it.”

“So do I, indeed, Harry! but I am sure, even it he should be angry at first, he will be pleased with your confessing.”

Harry looked very reluctant and disconsolate, and his sister did not wonder for Dr. May’s way of hearing of a fault was never to be calculated on. “Come, Harry,” said she, “if he is ever so angry, though I don’t think he will be, do you think that will be half as bad as this load at your heart? Besides, if you are not bold enough to speak to him, do you think you can ever be brave enough for a sailor?”

“I will,” said Harry, and the words were hardly spoken, before his father’s hand was on the door. He was taken by surprise at the moment of trial coming so speedily, and had half a mind to retreat by the other door; he was stayed by the reflection that Margaret would think him a coward, unfit for a sailor, and he made up his mind to endure whatever might betide.

“Harry here? This is company I did not expect.”

“Harry has something to say to you, papa.”

“Eh! my boy, what is it?” said he kindly.

“Papa, I have killed a partridge. Two fellows got me to hire a gun, and go out shooting with them last Saturday,” said Harry, speaking firmly and boldly now he had once begun. “We meant only to go after pee-wits, but a partridge got up, and I killed it.”

Then came a pause. Harry stopped, and Dr. May waited, half expecting to hear that the boy was only brought to confession by finding himself in a scrape. Margaret spoke. “And he could not be happy till he had told you.”

“Is it so? Is that the whole?” said the doctor, looking at his son with a keen glance, between affection and inquiry, as if only waiting to be sure the confession was free, before he gave his free forgiveness.

“Yes, papa,” said Harry, his voice and lip losing their firmness, as the sweetness of expression gained the day on his father’s face. “Only that I know—‘twas very wrong—especially now—and I am very sorry—and I beg your pardon.”

The latter words came between sighs, fast becoming sobs, in spite of Harry’s attempts to control them, as his father held out his arm, and drew him close to him.

“That’s mamma’s own brave boy,” he said in his ear—in a voice which strong feeling had reduced to such a whisper, that even Margaret could not hear—she only saw how Harry, sobbing aloud, clung tighter and tighter to him, till he said “Take care of my arm!” and Harry sprang back at least a yard, with such a look of dismay, that the doctor laughed. “No harm done!” said he. “I was only a little in dread of such a young lion! Comeback, Harry,” and he took his hand. “It was a bad piece of work, and it will never do for you to let yourself be drawn into every bit of mischief that is on foot; I believe I ought to give you a good lecture on it, but I can’t do it, after such a straightforward confession. You must have gone through enough in the last week, not to be likely to do it again.”

“Yes, papa—thank you.”

“I suppose I must not ask you any questions about it, for fear of betraying the fellows,” said Dr. May, half smiling.

“Thank you, papa,” said Harry, infinitely relieved and grateful, and quite content for some space to lean in silence against the chair, with that encircling arm round him, while some talk passed between his father and Margaret.

What a world of thought passed through the boy’s young soul in that space! First, there was a thrill of intense, burning love to his father, scarcely less fondness to his sweet motherly sister; a clinging feeling to every chair and table of that room, which seemed still full of his mother’s presence; a numbering over of all the others with ardent attachment, and a flinging from him with horror the notion of asking to be far away from that dearest father, that loving home, that arm that was round him. Anything rather than be without them in the dreary world! But then came the remembrance of cherished visions, the shame of relinquishing a settled purpose, the thought of weary morrows, with the tempters among his playmates, and his home blank and melancholy; and the roaming spirit of enterprise stirred again, and reproached him with being a baby, for fancying he could stay at home for ever. He would come back again with such honours as Alan Ernescliffe had brought, and oh! if his father so prized them in a stranger, what would it be in his own son? Come home to such a greeting as would make up for the parting! Harry’s heart throbbed again for the boundless sea, the tall ship, and the wondrous foreign climes, where he had so often lived in fancy. Should he, could he speak: was this the moment? and he stood gazing at the fire, oppressed with the weighty reality of deciding his destiny. At last Dr. May looked in his face, “Well, what now, boy? You have your head full of something—what’s coming next?”

Out it came, “Papa will you let me be a sailor?”

“Oh!” said Dr. May, “that is come on again, is it? I thought that you had forgotten all that.”

“No, papa,” said Harry, with the manly coolness that the sense of his determination gave him—“it was not a mere fancy, and I have never had it out of my head. I mean it quite in earnest—I had rather be a sailor. I don’t wish to get away from Latin and Greek, I don’t mind them; but I think I could be a better sailor than anything. I know it is not all play, but I am willing to rough it; and I am getting so old, it is time to see about it, so will you consent to it, papa?”

“Well! there’s some sense in your way of putting it,” said Dr. May. “You have it strong in your head then, and you know ‘tis not all fair-weather work!”

“That I do; Alan told me histories, and I’ve read all about it; but one must rough it anywhere, and if I am ever so far away, I’ll try not to forget what’s right. I’ll do my duty, and not care for danger.”

“Well said, my man; but remember ‘tis easier talking by one’s own fireside than doing when the trial comes.”

“And will you let me, papa?”

“I’ll think about it. I can’t make up my mind as ‘quick as directly,’ you know, Harry,” said his father, smiling kindly, “but I won’t treat it as a boy’s fancy, for you’ve spoken in a manly way, and deserve to be attended to. Now run down, and tell the girls to put away their work, for I shall come down in a minute to read prayers.”

Harry went, and his father sighed and mused! “That’s a fine fellow! So this is what comes of bringing sick sailors home—one’s own boys must be catching the infection. Little monkey, he talks as wisely as if he were forty! He is really set on it, do you think, Margaret? I’m afraid so!”

“I think so,” said Margaret; “I don’t think he ever has it out of his mind!”

“And when the roving spirit once lays hold of a lad, he must have his way—he is good for nothing else,” said Dr. May.

“I suppose a man may keep from evil in that profession as well as in any other,” said Margaret.

“Aha! you are bit too, are you?” said the doctor; “‘tis the husbandman and viper, is it?” Then his smile turned into a heavy sigh, as he saw he had brought colour to Margaret’s pale cheek, but she answered calmly, “Dear mamma did not think it would be a bad thing for him.”

“I know,” said the doctor, pausing; “but it never came to this with her.”

“I wish he had chosen something else; but—” and Margaret thought it right to lay before her father some part of what he had said of the temptations of the school at Stoneborough. The doctor listened and considered at last he rose, and said, “Well, I’ll set Ritchie to write to Ernescliffe, and hear what he says. What must be, must be. ‘Tis only asking me to give up the boy, that’s all;” and as he left the room, his daughter again heard his sigh and half-uttered words, “Oh, Maggie, Maggie!”