total incapacity to maintain any continuous course of violent action. The next moment he was weak as water; and to carry out this threat would have been impossible. But the momentary outburst had again its effect, and the three servants before him felt an increase of respect.

Pardon me, sir,' said the housekeeper, with bland persuasiveness confronting him on the landing, and thus arresting his steps; we'll have a fire lighted in a moment. Mr. Northwood and her ladyship would be so hurt if you went. Shall I send in word that you are come, sir?'

The fire was being lighted, and the poor young man went back to the room without replying to the housekeeper's last question-glad for the moment that he was prevented leaving the house, and the next moment angry with himself for having been persuaded to stay.

But the lighting of the fire was no easy matter. The chimney was damp, and the heavy external atmosphere drove down the smoke, which soon filled the room. The window was obliged to be opened; and the stranger, who now would not be persuaded in any way to mend his condition, was finally left to himself, to be talked over amongst the servants below. Nevertheless, the housekeeper did the best she could for him, by sending him up hot water and wine, and a little supper delicate enough to tempt an invalid's appetite.

He did not remove his travelling attire; and though the fire burned up, and the room began to be warm and comfortable, no sense of comfort or satisfaction came to his mind. He felt that he had no home there, yet was painfully conscious that he had not strength enough to resent with a man's spirit the neglect that met him in his father's house.

As he thus pondered the door quickly opened, and a tall, stout, handsome woman-no longer the young slender sister of former days-attired in rosecoloured moire antique, and blazing with jewels, entered the room.

She was not rapturously overjoyed to see him, nor did she seem aware that his reception had lacked cordiality. Still, she kissed his forehead, as he sat, with a show of tenderness, and held his thin hand in her two delicatelygloved ones. What could she do more? She called him her poor, dear Harry, and said his father thought he had better rest to-night, and he would see him in the morning. She said how

unfortunate it was that he should come that evening; he should have sent a telegram from Southampton to say he had arrived. But Count Romanhoff was staying in London-he was with them that night; and he longs to see you,' she said; but I'm not sure that you'll like him-for he is not quite one of your sort-but he's very nice!' And the Countess Paulowsky, she said, was staying in the house-she was ten years older than Alexander, and had been a great beauty in her youth. And again she was so sorry he happened to arrive just on that night; but this was one of the Countess Picciola's receptions, and she made them so charming everybody was delighted to come to them, and they always had such fine music.

Then there was a knock at the door. Would Miss Northwood be so good as to go down-the countess wanted her immediately.'

Yes; but she must yet have a moment's talk with her dear Harry, for she would not be able to come up again that night, and to-morrow they were all going to the opening of Parliament -Alexander wished to see it, and in the evening to the ball at Lady -'s. It was unfortunate they had so many engagements just then. But the season was early this year, and everybody was coming to town; she did hope dear old Lady Beryl would come— -Harry would like her. She was very peculiar, but so sweet and kind!

But now she must really go, for she was sure he was tired. And, by-theby, he did not look well-and so much older! She had really been so taken up with the joy of seeing him that she had not noticed his looks. But he was tired; and if he wanted anything he must be sure and ring. And had he not a servant with him? Well, it was very good, but rather a pity to have given him up to the other gentleman, even though he was so ill. But she was chattering without mercy, and he was so tired! He must go to bed; he would be better after a night's rest. He might lie as long as he liked in the morning, only if he came down to luncheon he would see papa-for he never made his appearance before then. And they all were so impatient to see him. Poor, dear Harry! And then laying her gloved hand on his shoulder she was so sorry to go!

'Au revoir,' said she, in conclusion; and gathering together her long skirts, passed out of the room.

Harry was not hungry for outward food, and of that abundance was before him; but he was hungry to faintness

He

for love and sympathy, for the tenderness of genuine affection, which would send its welcome to the heart. locked his door; and whilst the confused buzz of mingling voices and music and mirth, and the roar of carriages far into the morning, sounded in and around the house, he lay on his melancholy bed, and, overcome by the burden of his sick heart and enervated frame, wept like a child or a woman.

Let not my readers despise him for this weakness, for of a truth he feels sick almost to death; and this meeting with his sister, the cherished love of his boyhood, lay like an icy hand on his heart.

CHAPTER II.

Now whilst they and the rest of the fashionable world are sunk in downy sleep, may I be allowed a few words on the highly respectable family of Clitheroe-Northwood?

In the first place, they were supposed not to know the want of money; and that, in the world's estimation, is the foundation and corner-stone of respectability. Secondly, the head of the family had been so singularly fortunate that his name was, in consequence, proverbial.

He was the younger son of a younger son; and his grandfather was a poor man, dependent on a half-brother for the means of educating his sons, of whom Thomas was the youngest. This rich half-uncle grumbled because he was called upon to educate his nephews; nevertheless he did it for the credit of the family.

They were the Clitheroes of Sussex, and the youngest, Thomas, was christened Northwood, after his godmother, a single lady of good family, but no fortune, a friend of his mother's. He was the only one of the boys that showed any abilities at school; and in consequence his uncle enabled him to study law as he grew to man's estate. The elder brothers, who were twins, and not richly endowed by nature, died early.

Thomas therefore remained the sole representative of this branch of the house; and no sooner was he so than Fortune began to shower her gifts upon him. He was in his six-and-twentieth year, a briefless barrister, when his godmother had reason to suppose that a considerable property was being kept from her by a distant relative, and begged him to undertake her case.

He did so gladly; he would just then lave undertaken any case, let it have

been as hopeless as it might, if there were only money to fall back upon for his own expenses. He, however, proved the old lady's claims to be valid; and she, in gratitude to him for so doing, left him the whole property at her death, about two years afterwards, with the condition that he henceforth took the name of Northwood. Thus he became ClitheroeNorthwood.

He obtained by this bequest sixty thousand pounds; and then, as if Fortune wished to surpass herself in lavish generosity, a cousin-german, who had been lost sight of by his family for half a century, turned up in India, as the possessor of an immense fortune, which he had amassed by the growth of indigo and cotton. He was an old bachelor, and the fact of his existence and death were announced by the agreeable though singular intelligence that he had left every penny of which he was possessed 'to his cousin-german, Thomas Clitheroe, whom he neither knew nor cared for.'

The value of this Indian property was said to amount to half a million; and the heir to it, then an old man, died as it were from sheer astonishment at his good fortune; and his son troubled himself no further about law.

He married a lovely young lady, without fortune, unless her pure, amiable character might reckon as such; bought a fine estate in Kent, where he lived in great style; took a town house in Portland Place, which he furnished without regard to cost; and thus established, as I have said, one of the most respectable families in London.

Two children were born of this marriage; first, a daughter, which was a disappointment, because the bells would have rung all day, and an ox have been roasted, and no end of ale been drunk at the village in Kent, had it been a son and heir. However, they made as much of the daughter as possible, and she was called Thomasine Henrietta, after both her parents.

A year later a son and heir was born; but the bells did not ring, nor yet was there feasting in the Kentish village, for the mother scarcely survived the birth; and the first sorrow of the great man came when he least expected it.

There was an immense and most sumptuous funeral, with a mural tablet in the chancel, commemorating the beauty and the virtues of her who slept beneath. There was also, as a matter of course, a very complete nursery establishment, with a staff of physicians and apothecaries-for the child was

delicate from its birth; and many were the fears and prognostics that it never would be reared. The christening was grand but solemn; its godfather and godmother the wealthiest of the wealthy; and the name given was Henry Thomas, again to commemorate both parents; but the name by which he was called was Henry-or Harry, as he grew older, for the father's heart clung as yet to the dead mother.

Poor little Harry! They scarcely let him do anything for himself, they were so afraid of losing him. At ten years old he was a remarkably handsome but delicate boy, peculiar in character and difficult to manage, because, in truth, everybody managed him badly. His father indulged him, and treated him with severity at the same time. Their characters were diametrically opposite; and the boy had been indulged to that degree that he had no idea of concealing his sentiments and impulses. He preferred playing with any village lad, no matter how poor and shabby, to riding about in state either by his father's side or with a groom behind him. He had no love of money except to give away, nor yet of fine clothes, but to keep him warm; so that on one occasion he clothed a beggar-boy in his Sunday suit, because he was in rags and shivering with cold. He really was enough to drive such superfine and conventional people as his father and the grand folks that he associated with out of their senses. Even his sister, though only a year older than himself, was often ashamed of him; but then she was a thoroughbred young lady, full of every grace and possible charm that the finest personal education can give.

Harry loved his sister intensely; his earliest consciousness of beauty was associated with her. A word from her would tame him, as it were; and she, encouraged by her father, who was pleased with her beauty and early accomplishments, ruled him despotically.

He did not distinguish himself at Eton, excepting for his unconventionalism, his disregard of fashion, and his utter unimpressibility by rank and wealth. If pure singleness of heart, however, a character wholly without guile the true gold of manhood-could have obtained honours, he would have taken the first rank. But it was not so; and his father, who was ambitious for his son, was extremely disappointed and displeased. His sister was the same. What could Harry mean? He was tall and good-looking; still, there was no style and fashion about him. He

VOL. XVIII.— CHRISTMAS NO.

would, she was sure, be as willing to be a ploughman as an elegant gentleman; and Harry, incapable of feeling the atrocity of his sin, declared that he would.

He was now eighteen, and still gave no hopes of mending his ways. His sister was presented at court, and all the world admired her.

A great gulf was opening between himself and his family. He was perplexed and troubled, because precisely those impulses and tastes which were strongest in him set him at variance with all around him. Even his father's clerical friends treated him as one to be mourned over, who was taking wrong courses. Never did any lad wish more honestly to do right, and seem to himself to fail more completely. He began to think that he must be mistaken-for he was not conceited and full of selflove. But with all his best endeavours he could neither fall into nor admire the ways of the world.

He went to Oxford for a term or two; but neither did that suit him. He had tastes neither for study nor yet for dissipation. His father was seriously angry; and Henrietta found time, in the midst of her gaieties, to weep over him.

At length he began to suspect that what he wanted was simply something to do. He was not made for a scholar any more than for a fine gentleman. If somebody would only have allowed him to become the steward of his landed property, how thankful he would have been.

He made his sister the confidant of his wants and desires; but she could not sympathize with him. Indeed, she was at that time too much engaged, too much in a flutter of pleasure and the world's admiration, to have time or thought to give him.

His father considered himself very unfortunate in his son. He offered to purchase a commission for him in any regiment he might prefer; but neither had he a taste for the army. The measure of his father's displeasure was now full.

There were estates yet in India belonging to the old cousin-german's property, which required an agent to look after. A gentleman was engaged for that purpose; and Harry, thinking that he had found what he wanted, proposed to his father that he should accompany him. His father gave his consent willingly enough, declaring to his friends that he was glad to get him out of the country. For,' said he, he will at all events see something of the world, which is an education in itself;

D

and there are plenty of men of birth and position in India, if he will only avail himself of his opportunities and advantages.'

He was therefore furnished by his father with a whole chestful of letters of introduction to all the men of influence, diplomatic, military, and civil, in each presidency.

When he was fairly out of the country his father began to be a little tolerant of him. For,' said he, 'it is not every young man that has a taste for study; and I must confess that he never ran into debt, nor disgraced his family in any way.'

Harry was glad enough to be off. The only pain he felt was in leaving his sister, his love and admiration of whom had never suffered diminution, and who now, at the last, found a little time to bestow upon him. She sympathized with him in his Indian prospects, begged him to send her no end of presents -which he gladly promised. They went together on his last evening to the opera; and this pleasure he remembered for years, though she was thinking more of a titled admirer whom she hoped to secure than of the singlehearted brother and faithful friend from whom she was about to part.

But she did not win the titled lover. That season went by without any matrimonial triumph; and her father took her abroad, travelling en prima to Italy, whence, the following spring, she wrote the tidings to her brother at Madras, that their father had given them a stepmother in the handsome Countess Picciola. He anxiously asked in return what was her opinion of the new relative; and in six months she replied that the countess was an angel, and that their life in Paris was heavenly.

The agent whom his father sent out having merely taken the appointment to gain a footing in India, threw it up after a year, and Harry, young as he was, undertook the management. Now he was in his element: he did not, however, get much praise from home, because his father was again disappointed. Not one of the letters which he had been at such pains to provide for him had been presented, and now he had voluntarily sunk into a common civilian, devoting himself to the cultivation of cotton and indigo. The influences with which this great man was now surrounded made him look down as from an eminence on his first wife; and the only allowance he could make for his son was in consideration of his inheriting the maternal character.

Harry in the meantime worked hard and was happy. He put his soul into the employment to which he had given himself; redressed wrongs, succoured the oppressed, introduced order and strict equity into his government, and was beloved and honoured by thousands of poor people, who till then knew not what justice and kindness were. He wrote home now and theu-he was no great letter-writer at best, but always endeavoured to make his letters interesting and amusing to his sister. Oh, if she would only have replied to those letters! How he longed, poor fellow, as the day of the mail's arrival approached, that there might be one from her. But they were few and far between, and told him mostly of people of whom he knew nothing. For the last few years she had written much of old Lady Beryl, a distant relation of their mother's, the widow of Sir Nicholas Beryl, an immensely rich city merchant, who had left every penny to her, free for her own disposal; and Henrietta's hope now was to make sure of her money by being frequently with her. Harry came to detest the name of Lady Beryl, and wished his sister would introduce some other subject; but he never told her so, lest she should cease to write to him.

He had now been ten years in India, and the climate and the arduous work to which he so conscientiously devoted himself began to tell seriously upon his constitution. Spite of a temperance equal to that of a Brahmin, his health gave way. He went to the mountains, and seemed restored only to suffer still more severely. He was reluctant to leave the life he had chosen and the people whom he had elevated, and by whom he was almost worshipped; but the physician warned him away whilst there was yet a chance of restoration. He wrote home, therefore, saying he should take his passage home in the 'Jumna,' which would arrive about the middle of February.

His

All his family were this winter in London; but I cannot say that any of them were glad of his return. father, whose money necessities had greatly increased since his residence abroad-especially since he had become so much attached to Baden-Baden and Homburg-and who feared lest the Indian remittances should cease, was extremely annoyed that any necessity had arisen for his return. His stepmother had no predilections in his favour, rather, indeed, the reverse, whilst his sister's mind being about equally divided between her coming

marriage and the best means of securing old Lady Beryl's money, had really very little interest left for her brother who had now been so long away, and whom she remembered as a very queer fellow who gave them all a great deal of trouble.

CHAPTER III.

Let us now return to Harry in his disconsolate chamber.

He did not attempt to get up for luncheon. Indeed, he was too ill to rise. The painful disappointment of his return, and a severe cold which he had taken, prevented even the effort to do so. His father accordingly went up towards evening to see him, and was about equally annoyed to find him so seriously ill, and in one of the inferior chambers of the house. This latter cause of displeasure being principally because it was necessary to summon the family physician, who was one of the most fashionable in London. But circumstances admitted of no delay, and the doctor came.

Here, however, another difficulty arose. Harry had faith neither in medicine nor fashionable physicians, and ill as he was, he had a battle to fight to maintain his principles. The physician was a wise man, however, and perhaps not having much faith in his own prescriptions, assured his family that it mattered very little whether he took medicine or not, for that his life hung in the balance, and ten chances to one were against him. They therefore let him have his way, and after several weeks of such utter prostration that he could not lift his hand to his head, life assumed her power within him. lay and developed quietly within himself not only a still higher and clearer inner life, based on the Divine Truth within the soul, but a spirit of great patience and forbearance towards those around him. And there was need of it, for the measure of his home-discipline was not yet complete.

He

His illness was a serious inconvenience to the family; for so long as he hung, as it were, between life and death, and the street was covered with straw, they were compelled to remain in a state of seclusion. As, however, towards the middle of April he became convalescent, things began gradually to fall into their natural course. Though routs and parties could not be given at the house, yet they followed in rapid succession elsewhere; and Henrietta and the countess would frequently

come into his room in their grandeur to amuse him, as they said, and bid him good-bye. This was all he saw of them. He was now removed into the large chamber which the Russian countess had occupied; otherwise probably the great ladics of the house would not have found their way to him up the back staircase.

His father, however, appeared much more attentive, and much more anxious about him. Harry lay silent, and pondered on these things. His stepmother and sister were absorbed by the world and the approaching marriage, which was natural. But in his father there was something very different. From the commencement of his conva lescence, when he first seemed capable of conscious observation, he perceived his father anxiously watching him; the old, stooping, white-haired man stealing softly about the room in his slippers, as one full of tender solicitude.

To the doctor and the nurses this was natural enough, seeing that he was his only son, now slowly rising from a bed of death; and to Harry, who had just made the passage of the Valley of Death, and come back into the unlovely realities of the world, this unwonted exhibition of paternal affection and anxiety not only touched his heart, but called forth a grateful sentiment which soothed him and did him good.

Mr. Northwood was anxious to obtain the physician's leave to have confidential conferences with his son, on what he represented to him as business of vital importance; but the physician would not permit this for some time, and the old man stole noiselessly about the room, waiting impatiently till permission was given.

At length it came. Spring time made even London cheerful. Harry sat in a large chair by the open window, the room fragrant with flowers, towards mid-day, when a message came from his father inviting himself to luncheon with him in his chamber. Poor Harry was so gratified that he would have himself gone down stairs to save his father the trouble of coming up. But his father would not hear of that, and his son received him as though he had been a king.

Poor fellow! He thought of idols supposed to be gold turning before the worshipper's eyes to miry clay as his father, now freed from imposed restraint, appeared before him in his true character, eager, and even ravenous for money; anxious only for his son's recovery that he might return to India,