no very pleasant mood, he looked back at times, to see whether he was followed, as he fancied he might be, by a party of riot ing and hooting boys; and he looked about him also, in the apprehension that he might be waylaid and pounced upon by such a party, headed by his brother Philip. As to his little sister, all had been forgotten of a tender and affectionate nature, so that not even when he drew near to the spot where he had caused her tears to flow, did his thoughts recur to any object so pleasing, or so dear, as her tiny form.

The moon was just rising as Seymour approached this spot,-the full broad moon of a midsummer evening, and the halfshadow and half-daylight which still lingered over the earth, threw all objects into a kind of mysterious obscurity, with which Seymour would have amused and interested himself, under ordinary circumstances. Now, however, he had no capability of being amused by anything; but he could not help being struck with an appearance of something which looked soft and white beside the very bough on which his little sister had sat down to cry. It looked like a lamb, Seymour thought, but it must be a dead lamb, or why should it remain there alone, so far separated from the flock, which he had left quietly reposing on the opposite side of the field? Stooping down, and looking more intently, the boy perceived that the lamb was no other than his favourite of the family fold, no other than his little sister Kitty, sleeping there, with her head resting on the bough for her pillow.

It was a beautiful sight; for the moon had then risen so high that her slanting beams fell directly on the countenance of the child, always lovely, because so much beloved by him who gazed silently upon it. Seymour shrank from awaking the little sleeper, and yet the dew was falling, so that every leaf and blade of grass already glistened in the moonlight.

"So you waited for me, little dear one, did you," said Seymour, "all this long while?" and he stooped down, and kissed the already cold cheek of the sleeper, with a warm feeling of gratitude, mingling with his affection.

It was surprising how much strength, as well as consolation, Seymour derived from this circumstance. To think that

his sister loved him well enough to wait for him all that long while, operated like a cordial to his sinking spirit; and, taking her up in his arms, still half unconscious as she was, he pursued his way, even with this additional burden, more lightly than before.

But, Seymour's trials were not over yet. He had to brave the jeering of his brother Philip as soon as he entered the house. This was what he expected, and had nerved himself to bear. In addition to this, however, he had to endure what was much worse, the cool and manly scorn of his brother Robert, who would not believe the story told by Philip, to be more than half true, if true at all.

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Nonsense," said Robert, when he grew tired of the perpetual teasing which Philip inflicted on his sensitive brother. "We have had quite enough of this, Philip. Now hold your tongue. That Seymour might look into such a place from curiosity I do not doubt, but that he should make such a fool of himself as to join these people in their devotions, I do not believe; still less that he should use the familiarity you talk of to a servant girl. I don't believe it, Philip, the thing is impossible; so now let us talk about something else. Where shall we go to-morrow?"

Seymour will be fetching the cows home to be milked, I should think,' said Philip; "seeing his fondness for the blooming Polly."

A box on the ear from his brother Robert, more playful than severe, was all the reply which this allusion elicited. Seymour was silent-very silent, and very sad. What should he do? Robert evidently did not believe the story in half its absurdity, and was ready to forget it altogether. "Why," thought Seymour, "should I not allow him to forget itwhy should I awaken in his mind that contempt for myself, which from him would be almost as dreadful as death? Philip may think of me as he likes. He is a a spiteful, vulgar fellow." And with that the fair forehead of the suffering boy contracted, and a scowl grew over his otherwise beautiful countenance. Something strange arose within his heart in connection with this look. Could it be hatred of his brother? Poor Seymour. he had urgent need to watch as well as

pray; but his natural tendency was to prayer, not watchfulness.

Was it possible that Seymour could hate any one, especially a brother? And he so loving, and so fond of being loved. A single kind word, a single considerate act, on the part of Philip would at any time have melted his heart, and brought back all his better feelings; but Philip knew nothing about such feelings. Being teased and laughed at made no impression upon him. If any one opposed, interrupted, or otherwise annoyed him, his tendency was to knock them down; but they might laugh as much as they liked-that could never hurt him. This boy was destined for the church.

It is possible that this early dedication of Philip to an office which, above all others, Seymour would have chosen for himself, had something to do with increasing those fits of petulance which the boisterous mirth, and the rude unsparing raillery of this boy called forth on the part of his brother. Seymour was now quite old enough to draw comparisons between their separate destinations, and if something like envy, at such times, thrilled through his heart, it was not much to be wondered at; for just in proportion as he feared and hated his own doom, he sighed for the peaceful serenity, and the picturesque or rural calm of the lot to which his brother was consigned. But strict and irrevocable to them was the household law, and they had nothing left but to submit. Robert, too, was in the habit of speaking about willing and cheerful submission, as if it was the only way of acting consistently with a noble and manly spirit. It was his way; if he rebelled, he would rebel openly, determinedly, and to some purpose. A constant murmuring of mind, without open rebellion, was very despicable in his opinion; and he told his brother Seymour this plain truth, without any polishing or wrapping up in pleasant flattery; and Seymour felt, when he did so, that nobody understood him.

Thus, with Robert, too, Seymour grew by degrees to feel estranged and separate, more especially since the time when he suffered his brother to pronounce him incapable of doing what he really had done, but wanted the courage to avow. What Seymour suffered from this circum

a confession of the truth.

And Seymour felt so wicked all this while, and he wanted to be so good! He felt so far estranged from God, and heaven, and holy things, and he wanted to be so near! Ah! how was he ever to get through the world? How, indeed, except for One who has said, "Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Thus Seymour Clifton was fast growing into an unsocial, abstracted, and, at times it must be owned, a somewhat peevish boy -so unlike, his mother said, the kind and gentle child he used to be in infancy! She thought he had been too tenderly treated on account of this gentleness, and she consulted with her husband, but far more frequently with her other friends, as to the mode of discipline to be applied, imagining the case to be one which demanded more severity. "The sea," people said, "would cure all." The mother thought the same, and negotiations were already going on with the uncle, in the hope of ensuring his patronage for the boy.

In the mean time there came a lookeron upon the Clifton family, one who observed with gentle wisdom, and who was not long in arriving at the conclusion that she understood the circumstances and feelings of the boy better than either of his parents. This observer was an unmarried aunt on the father's side, best known to the children by the name of "Aunt Ann." Hitherto their knowledge of this lady was very slight, owing to her having lived in a distant part of the country, but lately she had come to live nearer London, and her visits to the villa consequently became more frequent. Hitherto the little Cliftons had not known exactly whether they liked, or feared, or, as Philip boldly said, " despised' "their Aunt Ann; for though a delicious box of sweetmeats generally accompanied her portmanteau

into the house whenever she arrived, there was a good deal of hushing of their boisterous play, and some extra fault-finding all the time the visitor remained. Not that Aunt Ann by any means required this of her nephews and nieces; but maternal discipline is not inapt to lay hold of any visitor as a pretext for tightening the reins which a single hand is not always equal to the task of holding. Thus, we have known other visitors besides Aunt Ann made, quite unintentionally, objects of painful apprehension to the minds of the young. Nor do visitors alone come in for this distinction. Some of those changes in life which necessarily occur, particularly having a governess, or going to school, are made the grand instruments of chas tisement which the mother triumphantly brandishes over the heads of her children, never dreaming that even if the good of her own child were all she had to consider, this also would be a mistake, and a very dangerous one too.

Thus far Aunt Ann very unconsciously and undeservedly had acted as the domestic whip in Mrs. Clifton's hand. Robert, notwithstanding, liked his aunt, and had the courage to avow it. Seymour liked her in his heart, but had a strong predis- | position to think she was always on the point of finding fault with him, though she seldom did. Philip liked her so long as the box of sweetmeats lasted, but after these were consumed, he always discovered that his aunt was only an old maid, and that she wore a little scrimping cap that might have served for Kitty's doll.

But the girls were now beginning to have an opinion on such matters as well as the boys, and Helen stood by her aunt most faithfully, while Kitty looked at her rather more in doubt, thinking sometimes that she really could love her exceedingly if quite sure that she would not find fault with Seymour. Once or twice, however, the aunt had spoken to Seymour in a tone of voice which Kitty thought severe, and that at a time when nobody else was blaming him at all. This seemed very hard to one who had already acquired the habit of thinking every moment of happiness enjoyed by her brother a moment gained; and every one a moment lost, or worse than lost, in which he was made to suffer pain. Foolish

little Kitty! your favourite must suffer a good deal of pain yet, before he will be able to enjoy happiness, even if he can find it.

That there is a very narrow walk for a spinster lady in the household of any managing mother, and, especially, when that manager is a brother's wife, all will allow who know anything of human life, with its strange varieties of aspect and detail. Of this fact no one could be more fully aware than Aunt Ann; and little, indeed, would she have deserved the title of" meddler" in any family. Wherever she might be, her presence was felt, but not her interference. It was felt even in its silence, in the application of an apt and clever hand to whatever had to be done towards rendering every one at ease, and comfortable in themselves; and in a secret power of restraint and guidance which she exercised unknown to herself, upon all who met her without prejudice, and were not above opening their hearts to her mild and salutary influence.

We are not prepared to say that Aunt Ann was particularly imposing in her appearance, or that her taste in dress was without flaw. Something must be granted her on the side of imperfection-she herself would have asked for a great deal, for no one knew so well as she did all the hard struggles she had had to maintain before attaining her present position of apparent repose; no one knew so well as she did how often some of the old battles had to be fought over again even yet; nor how often her heart was ready to faint within her at the thought of how possible it was to suffer shipwreck even while drawing near to the long wished-for haven.

Amongst those natural weaknesses, or faults, as she would have called them, of which Aunt Ann was so sensible, might have been reckoned a little faint-heartedness, for we know of no better name to give it. It was not want of faith,-no, that was strong, and never failing; but something which had grown in very early life out of her deep conviction of personal unworthiness, and perhaps also, out of some circumstances which had strengthened and confirmed this conviction. It was something, which, speaking within her soul, was apt to say, "And will God indeed hear such a one as I am?" but then she always turned trustingly to that blessed

book, without which it is difficult to conceive how such natures exist at all in such a world as ours.

Perhaps it was in part this constitutional tendency of Aunt Ann's which enabled her at times to understand her nephew Seymour Clifton when no one else appeared to understand him, not even his little sister and pet; she, poor child, was far indeed from comprehending the peculiarities, and still less the morbid feelings of her brother. Something of the lights and the shadows of his character she could see, but why they came she never knew; only, as in many cases besides hers, a sort of internal sense, that blessed gift to woman, enabled her to see, as if with spiritual glance, when the light was shining, and where the shadows fell.

Aunt Ann saw more; but she was always slow to make advances towards intimacy, lest such advances on her part should be unwelcome; so she waited for Seymour to feel a want of her sympathy, or a want of her companionship, before she offered either; and, in the mean time, she came not too frequently to the villa, lest from living near, her visits should grow into a weariness, if not actually an intrusion. Had this good lady known now well-timed her visits sometimes were, she would scarcely have been so sparing of them. Especially one day, when on entering the drawing room at the villa, sae perceived with her gentle, but almost instinctive glance, that Seymour was in some unusual degree of trouble, though no one else had paid the slightest attention to the silent boy.

It happened that day that Philip had been making one of those boisterous appeals to his mother, which he was accustomed to present in so many different forms, chiefly of the most unreasonable description, that he seldom obtained what he called "a patient hearing," and often expressed his astonishment at the small amount of attention which his applications obtained for him. Indeed he had acquired, perhaps from this very reason, a trick of thrusting, pushing, or otherwise applying degree of animal force to his arguments, or persuasives, which elicited in return many a loud "Don't!" with sometimes a sharp slap, not too sharp, however, for a prudent caution came to be exercised by

a

all the household who had ever felt the practical retort of this young Hercules. On the occasion alluded to, Philip stopped suddenly in his play, and, looking up into his mother's face, said, with more gravity than was natural to him, "Must I really be a— what do you call it-parson, mamma?" "Not parson, my dear," said Mrs. Clifton, with some warmth," a clergyman, you mean?"

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"Yes," said the boy, "of course I mean that. But I suppose it is all the same.—Must I really be a clergyman, mamma?" Why, to be sure you must," replied the mother. "What else would you be?" "I should like to be a bush-ranger, I think," said Philip, a deer-stalker, or something of that kind."

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"What nonsense you are talking, child!" said Mrs. Clifton, diligently pursuing her work, as if she heard nothing worth attending to.

"I tell you what," said Philip, as if recollecting suddenly that there were more ways than one of conducting an attack, "I tell you what, that soft Seymour of ours is exactly cut out for the Church; why don't you make a parson of him?"

"Nonsense!" again said the mother, as she replenished her needle with a fresh piece of thread.

Seymour was sitting all the while near one of the windows of the same room, with a book in his hand, which he had been intently reading. To his brother Philip's accustomed prattle he was in the habit of paying very little regard; but no sooner had the subject of the Church been touched upon, than he listened to every word and sound, which might help to elucidate the doubt perpetually floating in his mind, as to whether there remained a chance for him ever to escape the doom so frightfully impending over him. "And now," thought he, "if Philip would only enforce this point, let him make me as soft as he likes, call me coward, fool, anything; only get me once into his place, and they shall see."

"You don't mean," said Mrs. Clifton, that your brother is silly, I suppose, by soft. I think his tutors and all who have had anything to do with him, would give him a different character from that."

say, he would beat me there; but silly, as girls are frightened, stupid, soft. You know what I mean. He will never make a sailor, of that I am quite sure. It is no use trying to make him one."

"But he must be one, now," said the mother, with a firmness of tone, which ran like electric fire through the brain and nerves of him who sat apart, still looking down upon his book.

Why must he now ?" asked Philip, laying stress upon the last word.

"You are so teasing," said his mother. "Just tell me that," persisted Philip, " and I will ask you no more. Why must Seymour now?"

"Because," said the mother again, in her firm grave voice, " steps have been taken, and negotiations entered into, which cannot be recalled."

"Pooh!" said Philip, and he turned away to scamper down the garden, where he happened just then to see his sisters walking.

All was silent in the room after the noisy boy was gone. Mrs. Clifton looked once, and only once, towards the spot where Seymour remained seated. She was convinced he had not been attending to what was said, or if he had, that it made no impression upon him; so she stitched away with the utmost satisfaction, while her son, as she supposed, pursued his studies with the same.

Poor Seymour! had his mother looked more narrowly, she might have seen the big tears coursing one another down his cheeks, and falling upon the page, on which he could no longer discover one intelligible word. What, in fact, was the use of reading if he could? What was the use of anything? He had a great mind to go out and hang himself.

But a gentle step came in, and a kind "Good morning" to Mrs. Clifton, soon recalled him to himself.

If you would excuse me this morning," said Mrs. Clifton, resuming her work; "I am rather busy."

So Seymour and his aunt went out into the pleasant garden, and they looked at the opening flowers, and discussed the merits of a newly planned walk, and observed that the little fountain did not play so well that day as usual; but neither of them for some time ventured upon any other topic.

At last the Aunt said kindly, and she laid her soft white hand upon the shoulder of the boy as she spoke, "Seymour, when a duty has to be done, don't you think doing it in earnest makes it easier?"

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Yes," Seymour replied, "when it is a duty."

"Ah! that makes a great difference," said his Aunt.

"I think," said Seymour, "if I knewknew positively - knew as if God had spoken it, that it was my duty to die today by some frightful and horrible death, I could do it without a murmur; but a common affair of interest, as people call it, which sounds to me always like pride and selfishness mixed together -a common affair of noise and battle, and swearing, and tumult-oh, dear Aunt I have no heart for this kind of thing, because I cannot hear the voice of God in it."

"The voice of God, my child, is often a still small voice, speaking through dif ferent channels, and sometimes through a parent's wish-is it not so, Seymour?

"It may be so. I often say to myself, it may be so even in this instance. I think it is chiefly the doubt I feel about whether it is so or not which distresses me so much. Don't you think, dear Aunt, that a parent, with the best intentions in the world, may make a great mistake?"

But, Seymour, there is one great Parent above all, who makes no mistakes, nor suffers any to be made which He is not able and willing to overrule for good."

"Do you think, then, that any good will ever come out of my going to sea?"

"That will depend upon yourself.

You

can serve God on the great waters as well as on the land. You can pray to Him there, as well as in your own chamber. If you enter upon this life from a sense of duty, depend upon it He will never forsake you."