mastery; and, to some considerable extent, this mingled weather was representative of the youth's mood of mind and fortune. The rich moonlight fell full upon him, and never could its beams have lit up a manlier form. About five feet ten inches in height, he was sinewy, and well made up in proportion. There was no redundancy of flesh, but every limb was well formed and rounded. It was the frame of one who could endure much hardship. His chest was full and strong, giving promise of a man who could pull well with the oar, or sing a fine old song of the sea-kings, and storms and battles. Now that his coat and vest were flowing open, it was evident, from the deep heavings of the chest, that some strong passion or emotion was moving him; his hands, too, were clenched so firmly that they seemed to be grasping some terrible enemy, with whom, mentally, he was contending. While he stood, a policeman passed, cast a glance upon him, looked sorrowful, and moved on with quicker step until he reached the cab by which the youth had arrived. The driver hailed, and asked, had he noticed the "young gent" with his back against the rails? "You know," said he, "he jumped out of the train into my cab, and told me to drive for life up here. Well, I drove; and my horse can go. There aint a better, kinder bit of horseflesh in Hampshire than my Belter. I've been offered more than £10 above what I bought him for.... But, as I was a saying, I drove him up here like lightning. There was Crack Jemmy with Lobe's silk-van tried to keep up with us, but it was no go. And when we got here he paid me handsome; that he did. It aint often as we gets anybody to pay like he did. They hauls us cabbies up when we makes a mistake about distances, and tries to get sixpence over our rights, and all the blessed papers takes it up, and bullies us as a set of robbers; but I want to know why they don't haul up them closefisted gents as tries to cut us down sixpence below what the scale gives us? There's nothing said about their trying to do us out of a shilling, or more; but all the world hears about it if we tries to get sixpence above our fare. But now he's got here, there he stands, and aint no nearer. Now, what did he want to come so quick for? What can he want standing there? Do you think he's all right in his head ?"

During the time that "Cabby" was delivering himself of this speech, the policeman was doing something with his lamp, which was rather out of order. When he had done it, he simply replied, "Oh, yes; he's right enough, I'll warrant. It's young Mr. Lester, and I've heard his mother was nearly killed yesterday. So I suppose he's just come home, and don't like to go in. I know when my brother was run over at the races, and they took him home for dead, I was working away at Shirley, and didn't hear of it till late on in the evening; then, when I got over home, I couldn't go in-doors; though I had the latch in my hand twenty times, if it had been to save my life I couldn't lift it. Let him be; he's all right, and he'll go in soon, I The colloquy ended there, for both policeman and driver went off

dare say.

in opposite directions."

But he of whom they had been speaking heeded them not. His pale face -not pale through ill health-was still turned upon the house, and it was evident that the fiend and the angel, fear and hope, were striving within him for the mastery. His eyes, large and black, shone with an unnatural fire; but, seeing by the light upon a curtain that a small lamp was being moved in one of the upper rooms, he suddenly recrossed the road, knocked with greater force, and this time his summons was almost instantly answered. A female servant, who had long passed the middle age, opened the door; and on seeing

him she was very demonstrative of her joy, and seemed, for the moment, to be utterly unconscious both of what she said and did.

The door had hardly been closed behind them before the young man had seized her arm, and asked, "How is mother? Am I in time to see her alive ?"

To which, after kissing him, with all the fondness of a privileged old nurse, the woman, called Jane, confusedly and incoherently replied, "Yes, Master George, it is all right; it will all go well-it must. Oh, sir, dear George, you can't think how glad I am to see you. I'm sure Mistress will get better-she must. Mary, your Miss Mary, I mean, is here. The doctor will be back again soon; he said he'd call again to-night." "But," interposed the anxious George, "Tell me, Jane, how is mother now pi

We

It was useless to question her, for evidently terror and joy had completely unbalanced her small powers of coherent thought. All he obtained in answer was, "Mistress is sure to get better; she must. .. Your dog is down stairs now, for we are afraid he would disturb Mistress. were terribly afraid you would not get the letter. It was down them ugly turn-about stairs she fell: but a fall can't hurt her so much. I've fallen many a time, and I wish it had been me this turn. She must get better, she must." And here, her fears becoming strong enough to contradict her positive assurances, bursting into tears, she sat down upon a chair in the small room into which she had followed him while speaking, and wept convulsively.

Vainly did George endeavour to extract from her some connected narrative of what had occurred-of how his mother was-who was with her, and if he might venture upon entering her apartment, for although she attempted to answer, her thoughts wandered, and she was stopped by her tears; so that after uttering a few kind words, he turned away to seek information elsewhere, or to gain admittance to his mother's apartment.

Quickly, but with light step, ascending the well-known stairs, he reached his mother's sleeping apartment; but at that moment his sister Ella was upon the landing, gently closing the door after her. Turning round, she started on seeing George; yet with that instinctive power of woman engaged in tending the sick she betrayed no emotion, but calmly whispered, "Asleep," and motioned him to descend the stairs to her little sitting-room, where they could speak without fear of arousing the sleeper. The door, however, had scarcely closed behind them before she was utterly deprived of power and consciousness. She was not a girl of shallow sentiment, a mere simpering miss who sheds tears to order, and faints when a frog crosses her path; she was not one of those who have been robbed of their womanhood at a boarding-school, who can play a grief or pretend a sorrow. Neither was she of the cold unfeeling class, but a thoroughly honest, strong English maiden, one who could freely lavish tears and merry laughter in their due season, and who was strong enough to keep the tear fountains closed when the voice of duty bade her remember there was somewhat else to do than to gratify her own feelings. Now, although her heart was wrung with fear and grief, she had walked down the stairs into the room with all the calmness of some Roman matron; but before that brotherly and sisterly embrace was over, she had sunk perfectly unconscious into his young strong arms, where she lay bereft of motion, and seemingly of life. Gently placing her upon a couch, bathing her temples with water near at hand, not without feeling alarmed, he awaited her return

;

to consciousness, which happily was not long delayed. Then came the long pent up tears, which for two days had been restrained only by great exertion these gave relief, so that within a quarter of an hour she was able to reply to her brother's questions.

From her answers he gleaned that on the previous day, shortly after breakfast, his mother, in her usual kindly way, had been playing with her little godson, who was up to his eyes in glee rolling oranges about the floor. The door of their sitting-room had been left open, one of the oranges passed through on to the landing, the child ran after it; when, fearing lest he should fall down the stairs, Mrs. Lester darted after him out of the room. In some unaccountable manner her foot was caught by the landing carpet, which threw her with great force down the stairs, and thus it was that she met the fate from which she had rushed to protect the child. It appeared that no bones were broken, yet the family medical man had intimated that a broken bone would probably have been a lesser evil. "But," said Ella, "I hope she is not in so much danger now as when I wrote my strange letter to your Oxford Chambers. I was alarmed lest you should not be there to get it, and then I was afraid about having written too strongly about immediate danger. I do not feel half so much fear now as I did then, and now that you are here I seem to feel that dear mother will soon recover."

There was ground enough for hope to build upon, and when the first burst of mutual grief was over, the twain failed not to build apace. The idea of her dying was too terrible for them to admit into their chapter of possibilities, and repeating the language of nurse Jane, which even amid their sorrow brought a half-smile to their faces, they concluded that "She would recover— she must do so. It was however but a delusive hope.

66

At this moment Jane, or nurse Jane" as they generally called her, entered the room, bearing some creature comforts which she had hastily prepared for her young favourite. She hoped that both her children would take something, and although the toasted cakes of her own making were left untasted, the tea was freely used, and proved acceptable. Jane stood there as a privileged person to advise and suggest, but, as a rule, although her kindness was unbounded, her knowledge and judgment were particularly limited. She recounted all she knew of the accident, which was not much, but it led to Ella remembering more than she had previously related. "When dear mother had fallen," said she, I was in the room, and when I got to her side she was lying perfectly unconscious of all that had happened. I cannot describe what I felt; but I cried out for Jane to fly away and bring back Doctor Moule, or some other medical man."

Yes," interposed Jane, "and as I was running down the road what should I see but his carriage coming. I shouted out to the coachman, but he seemed to think I was a mad woman. The Doctor saw me, and knew who I was, bless his good heart; when I got to the carriage he opened the door, and before I could tell him half of what had happened to poor mistress, he said, 'Come into the carriage-you must.' Ah, he's a good man, is Doctor Moule, and he brought me home again."

"He arrived," resumed Ella, "before we had got dear mother removed to her room. Cousin Mary and Mrs. Dacer came in at the moment, and they helped, but I fear if it had not been for the kind assistance of the Doctor, we could not have got her into bed. We cut off most of her clothes, and during the whole time, until he had taken a little blood, he never spoke a word of hope; then I thought he appeared to form a more favourable opinion. But

before going away he strictly enjoined that no person should be allowed to enter the room save those who lived in the house-no visitor upon any consideration; and that if mother rallied and seemed desirous to speak, we were to tell her that all conversation was forbidden. He came in twice during the day, and last night he remained above an hour. I told him of my having written to you, but that I was afraid my letter was too alarming; but he said I had done right, as none but an alarming letter would be sure to bring you over, and that you should be here at once. I felt his words ringing in my ears like a death knell; for you know he is as careful against unduly alarming the friends of his patients, as he is of saying anything to cherish false hopes in dangerous cases."

Lester heard all, and appeared like one who could not hear enough, yet he was unusually silent, and evidently his thoughts were of the worst that would happen. For a moment hope seemed to gain an ascendancy in his mind, when the usual glow of health and joy revisited his fine face; but it soon gave place to darker thoughts, which however he carefully wrapped up in his own mind, and thus forebore to speak. He was deeply impressed by one little circumstance related by his sister-that it was not until the afternoon of the current day his mother had rallied sufficiently to be able to speak, when her first words were, "George, my dear child, George!" Ella had leant over to whisper, "He is coming, dear mother, he will soon be here," to which she replied, "Soon, yes soon, or it will be too late!" Since then she has twice asked for you.

Lester had dreamt the night before of hearing his mother cry out come soon or you will be too late"; twice had he been roused by the seeming shrillness of the voice, and when in the early morning he dreamt it again, he had risen in alarm and dressed himself. The painful impression had, however, worn away, and he accounted for his dream by the fact, that being engaged to row that morning in a race, the desire to be up early had operated upon his mind with sufficient strength to beget the dream. But now that the words were repeated to him by his sister as words actually spoken by his parent, although in no sense superstitious, he found it impossible to prevent sad thoughts from entering his mind. It might be, as he half-believed, only one of those curious coincidences which happen in life to all men; yet its strangeness operated painfully upon his mind. While he was meditating upon this, the knock of Doctor Moule was heard at the door, and although Lester was desirous of seeing him, he feared to do so; but there was no escape, and halfreluctantly, half-gladly, he rose to receive the visitor.

On entering the room Doctor Moule greeted George with the warmth and earnestness of an old friend, and seemed to be greatly relieved by his presence. He was a tall, mild-looking, intellectual, and altogether a most gentlemanly man; one who evidently was much superior, both in mind and manner, to the ordinary run of his profession. Taking a chair near the fire, after hearing from Miss Lester that her mother had fallen asleep, he gently, almost paternally, intimated his desire to spend a few moments alone with George. Ella fearfully quitted the room, when, without uttering any of the ordinary commonplaces about hope and resignation, and bearing our losses meekly, he took the hand of the youth, and said, "My dear George, you are a man now, and must bear manfully the blow about to descend upon you. If you feel it like a man you will be the better able to bear it bravely. As an old friend to your family I shall speak plainly, because it is best for all parties. This is your first great trial, but it will not be your last. Do not buoy your

self up with false and delusive hopes, but stand prepared to bear that which, under the circumstances, will be the least of many threatened evils, and to prevent the worst. Your mother will probably rally a little, and it is likely that after this sleep she will be able to talk with you, but you must be prepared to see her sink back, perhaps leaving half her sentence unspoken. Nothing that human power can do will save her; but you can save your sister, and cheer your cousin. You are all they will have to rely upon. Your sister is one of those quiet, undemonstrative girls, who will not allow their grief to be seen by strangers. She is like the eagle which covers its wound with its close-pressed pinions. But she has a keenly sensitive nature, and what I fear is that, through being so jealous in hiding her grief, she may irreparably damage her mental constitution. That is what I deem the worst evil we have now to contemplate, and it rests with you, and you only to prevent this. Be much with her, do all you can to cause her tears to flow, and then, my dear boy, although you cannot save your mother's life, you will save your sister from a fate which would be more terrible than death."

George listened to him in silence, and, by a strong effort of the will, stifling his suffocating sensations, he promised obedience, and then asked if he might go up to see his mother when she awoke.

"Well, yes, perhaps you may," said the adviser; "but I should like to be there, so as to be able to check any undue excitement. I do not intend leaving until she awakes, unless called away. I will then see her, and if there is no promise of amendment, I shall advise your admission." At this moment a gentle knock was heard at the door, which, the Doctor, knowing who was there, opened, and Ella entered looking much more cheerful. She said that her mother was awake, and quite free from pain, that she knew her son had arrived, and wished to see him. Judging from the countenance of the physician, he was not so well pleased by this intelligence, and mildly, yet authoritatively, intimated that, with Ella, he would see her first, and then, if prudent, he would come down again for George.

They ascended to the sick room, and found the patient much disappointed that George was not with them. There was an unusual dash of asperity in the tone of her voice, and this, coupled with the peculiar anxiety of her countenance, usually so placid, indicated to the physician that the end was drawing nigh. Seating himself by the bedside, and with the tenderness of an old friend, he did his best to impress upon her mind how necessary it was that, for the sake of her children, she should exercise all her self-control.

The idea and desire uppermost in her mind was immediately to see her son; and comprehending all his fears, as well as anticipating all his arguments, she said, "Do not be alarmed about my becoming excited. There is now no danger of that; but I wish to convey my last solemn injunctions to him; I know that my time is short, so let me see him at once, and I will be as calm as you can desire me to be. Do not shorten the duration of my earthly happiness!"

Thus solemnly appealed to the worthy Doctor, who, despite his long professional training, was as much moved as if it were the first death-bed he had been present at, interposed no word of objection; but answered, "You shall have what you desire." He descended the stairs, took George by the arm, bade him bravely exercise his strong will, to keep down his emotions, were it "only in mercy to the two girls; and remember," said he, "that, if you give way, the sight of your sorrow will probably hasten the end, so that you will lose many words it is important for you to hear,"