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12 3

y\.i

'/'V

MY OWN ST OR Y^ '

-»-♦•♦ -4-

A OA^]SrA.DIA.lSr

CHRISTMAS TALE.

By GRODENK. "

TORONTO:
A. S* IRVING, Wholesale Agent for the Dominion.

1861).

,/7

//^ /t-u'c^^^ ^^: _Z^.

Entered according to Act of the Pai'liament of Canada, in the year One Thousand
Eiglit Hundred and Sixty-nine, by Johk Ross Robbrtso.v, and Jamb.s B.
Cook, m the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

■•

\ ■

»1w

TO THE READER.

The story that I toll in the following pages ia one of Canadian
every day life. It contains nothing sensational— nothin^r excitinw— but
IS true to the letter. If it instructs or amuses I shall be satisfied.

I am aware that in publishing this story I shall encounter much
ci-iticism, and perhaps some rebuke; for the Canadian who enters on the
field of literature has many obstacles to overcome. All I ask is "nothing
extenuate, nor set down aught in malice."

I am willing to face public judgment, in the hope that my small
effort may be successful, and may help to induce other Canadians to
follow in my footsteps, and assist in building up a literature of our own,
more healthy in its tone, and less injurious to the young readers of our
country than the great bulk of the novels annually imported from other
lands.

Toronto, December, 1801).

Thk Authoe.

">^

C N T E N T 8

CHAPTER _ /.--First Ai.i.oam..co on any Stage ''^"?

''• — t^liiuigcH and TruublcH ... L

III.— (i<H).l-l)yt«t(iMy Old JI,„„o '.'.'.[ ,9

IV.~My Days lit Si'linol IK

v.— Tho Heaviest Loss of all To

JJ Vl.-Tl.e Story „f Mr. mekcr ..'.....'..". oi

ti ,^YJj-~Ne\vs from Homo and the llcsidt 94.

I Vm.-Out intheWorklAlono it

«« IX.-MothorOutter'H College. A Turn of tho'wheoi.".". 3()

X.— Messrs. Jamby and Jubb "" 00

XL— Another Turn of the Wheel.... ^7

• < >fn.— Mescrs. Hardy and Adam.s [". 4/,

II Xlir.—Sinswick Cottage JT,

.! ^X'~''^" *^''^ Friend'in 11 New (Jharacter.'.'.' a^

<| XV.— Our Dinner Party t^.

u XVr.— Re-appearanconf Mr. Meeker... '..".".■.■.' .'■".' r^

XVII.-Tho iJachelors' Hall ^7

XVIII.—Sunshino and Shadow.... ri

II XTX.— Becau,so Ho was Wild '..'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'. 04

^^^■■"•^'u'^ Donlo vey'8 Defence, and what canio' of " it" ".'.".' 07

XXII.. -Florence Jarvis .. Li

II xxiii.-Love ;,■;.•:.■;;;; i,^

XXIV.— Richard Donlevev, iii.b. oi

XXV .-Gasher's Grief...;.... ^1

II xxvi.-EUen Montcriotf ::;:: ^*

'• v^^Tf!-""^'''' ^i'"* "/ *'^° ^^""•■'« ''^ •^•'^'"by &Jubb .■.■.■::.■::.■;;: »6

-^-^\.Hi- — Gn.s. C.ardcner no

u '^^'' '~S'^* "' •"" ^^^'^ "^yorU once' nVore '.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'. qa

^^X--Mary Meeker makes a Change on

< < x^Vv^^f •"?.'"', ^"h^ «l'.""ldcr i,t Dorley House 102

" XXmCsebl " ^'''""^^^''-<-'''^«*">g tlie Die .'.'.■.■.■.■.".■■.',■.■.■.■.■ 105

II xVxiv;-ALmg the Euckies ::::;::: ;??

" XXXV.-The Interview ;"

u ^^JJ^Vr—'^^''' Donievey Reunion.:.':;.':::::;.:: Jn

" XXXVII.-The Sleighing Party "A

I xxxviii.-Tho Advice of Love :::::: }??

.! XXXIX.-mat Ellen Moncrieff's Note's'aid::. ;:;:;;; 126

^^^■"P''^ ^*^^ "^ Gaslier's Nurse 1 oq

XL).— Revelations ;i^

it Arrrr t x i los

•« V r Ttt •— ]^'^«t -^rPearance of Richard AVinstanley 105

AL/lll. — Death ,'„

XLIV.-Florence Explains. ..:::::: S

XLV.-Conclusiun . jff

144

■f

PRINTEU IIY llOBKr.TSON & ("OOK, r>AU.V TlU.KdHAPH PUBLlSIUNIi H')U.^I',,
BAY STKI;KT, TOHOXTO, ONI'.

}

MY OWN STORY.

(ilAI'TKll I.

VIRNT AITKARA.MV. oX ANY STAi^K.

"A loiiiarkiibly fine (;!iil<l," s;ii<l tlio
Doctor.

"Tlioiirottiimt biihy I'vchocii lliimimny
!i day," luliled tli« old luinic.

"A dear, littlo, diirliiii^ of ii duck," o.\-
tlainicd Polly Ann, tlm si'rvant <>f nil
work.

".Just like all tlio l)alii(:« tvcr 1 hoc;
though ho nniy bo nnoitniinon liandsonio
Monio day when ho'n bigyer,"' s.iid a young
man in hoino-fliiun.

Dear reader, thefio exiirossions wcro
made use of many years ago. 1 was jire-
Bent at the time, but my mental facultie.s
were linrdly Hutllciently deveIo[)ed to nn-
dorstand their imimrt, or appreciate the
compliments they contained. Jn the nords
of the head of the chapter, it was the
occasion of "mytirst a[ipcari',nce im any
stage," I was the "rtno child," the "pretty
baby," and the "dai ling littlo duck." I
was very young at the time, ((uito a youth
I might Ha^', inasiuuch as my hour.s had
not nu)ubercd as many us mv years now
do.

All unconseiouB of Hie remarks that
were being made on my jierBonal appear-
ance, I hay in the nur.^e'n arm?, v.rapped
up very comfortably, I. have no (htulit,
and performing a series of gymmi.sticii, a.s
Polly Ann has often informed me, (juite
remarkable in one of my tender hours,
and youthftd ajjpearance. My lungs were
in gfK)d order, even at that early day, and
in the most intelligible manner I coidd
conceive I attempted to make myself heard
and understood. That 1 was heard, n<i
one ever denied, but that I v>as under-
stood admits of many doubts. My voca-
hularly was exceedingly limited, but,
thougli my gestures were numerous, and
1 believe very ajipropriate, my rcinuirks
wore only faintly appreciated. This J have
always regretted, because, lieing a polite,
though bashful individual, I feel convinced
that, at the time referred to, 1 was en-
deavoring by use of the very limited means
at my disposal, to thank the company,
from the Doctor down, for the Hatte" ing
notice they took of me, and the kind re-

marks tliey were pleased to pasH upon my
appearance. Since then, however, I havo
thanked them all many tim(>8, and perlmpn
that will nuike ni) fur my ai>paront want
of politeness at tlio jieriod mentioned.

As I said, this occurred very many

years ago, the exact tinm I need not

specify. My countrj-, like myself, was in

its infancy. The grand old forests, which

now are nearly gone, then bordered all

oiu" lakes and rivers. The hunter set Ids

traps, and trailed tho wood*, where now

the peaceful farm houso stands. The red

man, "native and to tho manor born,"

was gazing in mute astonishment at tho

, incoming shoals of his pale face brethren,

before whom ho was slowly retiring to

I other wilds. C'lusteni of rude cottages

' hero and fhcro dottod tho land, whero

; now nourishing towns and busy cities are.

Steamboats had Tiot ploughed our waters;

'• loc(miotives had not rattled over our

country ; the hum of machinery had not

t disturbed tho uid)roken fiolitndo of een-

I turies ; great marts of trade had not

' sprung up ; nor liad education found tho

I hold in the land which now it happily

hold.'^. (,'ivilization was only coming in,

or at Iciist had made but little headway in

; tho tlien "far west," where 1 first saw tho

I light of day. It was murching on, how-

! ever, over the lake nnd over tho river ;

: over tho moor-land and over tho forest,

■ and before it were retiring, slowly, sullenly

I and silently, the red man of the native

I wihls, and all tlu! barbaric customs which

! for centuries had been his. Onward it

was moving, ever westwaixl — westward —

I westward — over every ol)staclo, tlirough

every opposition, across every barrier.

1 Nothing could stop it; nothing eoulil stay

lit; nothing could ched; it. "(Jod said,

I Lf( tlu'ir be Jiijht, and fhrrc i'V(.» llijhi."

\ In tho western part of (ianada, wiiere

j is now a splendid country, rich in .agri-

1 cultiiro and manufactiu'es, I was born.

I My father was, or rather had been, an

j olticcr in the British army. For one

! oecui)ying that position he was poor, being

; the younger son of a large family, and

I having little more than his i)ay to live on.

' He succeeded in di.stingui8hing himself,

however, somewhat, in Indip, and when

on the shady side of forty gained Ixis

MY OWN STORY.

majoiity. IlcturniiiK homo uliortly after-
wanU with hia rrgiimmt, lio iiiiinied,
retirfd .)ri half i>ay, (iiul having received a
grant of land froiii tho Hovoniineiit in tlio
tlioii wiltU of WoHtern (Canada, hii K'ft
hotiio and friends, crosHed tlio Atlantic,
and took iiit liis roHideiice in tho " vast
wildornusH, as it indeed wiw. A few
other half-i>ay oflicorH, with thoir faniilien,
accompanied him, an :i1ho n number of
mcchanicrt and farm lahorerH, and thun
they established a little c<dony of them-
aelvoB.

Tho part of tho country in which they
Bc'tlod was not entirely barren of civiliza-
tion. Here and there was a Hottler,
clearinK away tho mighty f.ire.-it, and
openini,' up iho country I'lr the ^ntxX of
those who were to come after him. In
one place a few strajiKlini,' cottiyjen were
l^ouped to!j;ether, and this wa.i called a
town. It had itH school house, its church,
and tho few worksh<;ps and storcrt neces-
sary to 8\ipply tho wants of tho inhabitants.
It was, in fact, in every way simihir to tlio
back woods Canadian villages of tho
present day, e.xceptiny that tho houses
were a little more primative in appearance.
The Jndians still lin;^ered arountl tlie
country, or at least degenerate specimens
of tho race, whoHO lovo of "iiro water"
wan greater than their attachment to tlie
free, roving life of their fnre-father.s. They
huntod and trapped, certainly, but the
entire products of tho chaso were bartered
off to white men, as bad iis themselves,
for a few gaUons of rum, tho thirst for
which seciinH ho unquenchable in the ;
Indian nature. They were a quiet, harm- '
less, useless net, who seemeil to liave
entirely lost all tho jiride and love of free- ;
dom,whieliformso]ieculiaracharaetei-istic
of tho race in their i)rimativo state. They ;
did not interfere v.itli the Hettlors in any i
way ; and so Umii as they kept to thviu- j
selves, the settlori liad n.i desire to inter- 1
fero with tlieni.

Tho locality in which tho settlement
was formed is a tine, lioiirisliing, W(!;iltliy ^
district now, and were I. to descrilw it
fully, numy of my readers v/ould, [ urn
.sure, reco;^Miize it. 1 have no desire to do
so, however, as it ia not necessary to my
story. Many of tho persons to be here-
inafter mentioned are still living, and
perhai)3 mij^^ht not thank mo for jiarauin;,'
them befctro the world in this way, es-
pecially as 1 have not sought nor obtained
their permission.

In point of ago my parents wore liiixdly
suited for each other, at least tlie \vdrld
said so. My father was somewhat over
forty when he married, while my mother
had not reached half that age. In all other
respects, however, I have every reason for
believing that the union was a happy t>ne.
My mother, as well as I can remember

I lior, WAK good, kind, h>ving and confiding,
I hioking up to her husband and tnisting
I in him with that rolianco aiul conlidonco
I very froipiently foun<l where tho husband
I is jjrcatly tho senior. Sho lovod him well
I and truly, a« she abiimlantly iirovod by
I deserting the comforts of an I^iiiglish homo
and tho society of dear friends, to accoiu-
; pany him to th(! wilds of Western ('anada,
! whoro everything was rude and unctdti-
vated, the very opposite of wliat she had
been accuHt(»mod to. 'i'he long military
carocT of my father had nuide liim strict,
firm and soldierly in his habits, and while
all those around him and under his con-
trol were governed and ndoil with military
regularity and [irecision, to his young wifo
he was everall'ectionate, tender and kind.
She was his itlol tho love of Ids maturcr
years, and projialily tho first real lovo of
Ids life. Her Comfort and lukppinoss wore
his only care, 'j'hough not rich, as tho
^ world goes, ho had full an<l plenty of
I everything. In those days tho wants of
jtho iidiabitants of Canada wore few and
simple. Tin; forest, the farm and the lakes
furnished them with all they retiuirod.
They might aonu^tiuies ronu!nd»er tho
' luxuries of Ein'ope, and tho retlnemcnts
j of their former life, but they sighed not
[ for them, having voluntarily resigned
; tlieni for tho nulcT c.oniforts svith which
! they were .surrountled in their new home.
j L'p to the time of my birth, as I have
I boon tolil, tho only drawliack to my pa-
! rents' hapiunes* was that Ihey were with-
, out children. Tliey had lieen fully ten
i years marr'.ed and, as yet, no little ono
' had a])i)eared to bltus the union, and to
whom they could look forward as the lioir
of their v/ealth they \vere building up.
The joy and hajipincss, therefore, whicli
my entrance into the world brought my
parents may be imni.jiued. At last their
wishes were fulfilled, and the desires of
their hearts satisfied. The longlooked-for
heir" had come. No wonder I was pro-
nounced ;i "fine child," and a perfect prod-
igy <if infantile beauty. Had f been the
most puny, dcliealc mitiMif humanity that
(,verapipe;irod, they would have))raiscd mo,
and have considered me perfect. Fortun-
atel}', however, I was fully deserving of
the compliments i)aid me, if I can believe
the testimtmy of disiutere.sted persons wluv
had the distinguished privilege of g.azing
on mo at that early jieriod of my exist-
ence.

It is no matter of wonder that, under
these cireumstanues, there should be great
rejoicings over my birth. Major Hardy
Was the leading man of the district, a sort
of local governor, to whom all looked up
and whom every one respected; and it was,
therefore, only natural that the birth of
his heir aho\dd occasion nnivensal joy.
There was a grand fote, as I have beeu

MY OWN 8TOUV.

told, oil tlui lawn in front of thn hiiiiH;c
yi)iiiif{ folk ilaiii'i'il Mid nhiik, mkI "liiwl u
jiu-rry tl'iy," while tlm old |iuo|)li) lookud
uii mid i^iijoytitl the Hconii, or Hatuiiart ivtul
talkud of tlittir foriiuT honu.'s ln^yoiid Iho
Hiia, uiid of tiiu old frifiid.'f imd doar oiioh
tliuy Iwul left liohiiid. Ami thus was my
untruiu'i) mion this "viiUiof toura" cclo-
briited .

Moiith.H p.'iMscd a\vi\y, nml from n puling
infant, I Ih'C'iiiu) ii pnittliny l)oy. I was
very hiiii|iy, 1 ciui reiihimtnir — i)uttod and
Hpoiled l>y 111! —my fatlior took ])rido in
me ; my di.:>ir mother doivtod on mo ;
Polly Ann wor.shippod nio ; whilo tin-
youn.!,' mun in homt'.s]iiin di<iplHyod his
ftfrection hy trruisforming liim!ielf into i\
boast of hunliMi, on evury occasion, for
my speuiikl henffit.

Wo worn vt'ry, vory liaiipy '" '""' I'^i'ii-
ativo C'luadiaii honu' ; 'out it did not la«t.
One diiy our joy whm lirokon in upon, and
then I knew my fir.it groat Horrovr. I wan
too young to fool its full weight, and yet
at this diHtaiioo of time I can remombor
liow my little hoiwt aclioil, when I liuew
liow mnoh I had lost.

I was curried up to my father's room
from play onn briglit, sunny evening. The
windows wore durkeiiod, and the whole
house WHS hiislied into an unusual (piiet-
noss. The old Doctor was there, looking
solemn and sad. At my father's bod side
my niotliiT kuolt. As 1 crept to hor side,
she dasjiod me to lior hosirt in one Ion;;;,
nilent o;ulir:icc, and as hor warm kisses
were jilaood ujiou niy lijis, I folt some
tear dro])S olin^'in;^ to my cheeks. I liad
never hoou hor woej) before, for oi;r house
had always lioon happy, auil 1 folt that
lier sorrow must uoiv indeed bo groat, or
those tears would not bo tlii;ru. Tiuuigli
I knew not why, I wcjjt too. Then I was
lifted uiioii the bod where my father lay.
His face was very pale, and as 1 kissed
his lips, I folt that they wore cohl and
clammy. He Biniled faintly as he looked
np at i:io, and then placing his mouth to
my ear, he wliispored softly, so tliat none
but I heard !us words ;

" Cioil bleus you, my cliild," he said,
'• God bless you. 1 am going away from
you — away to that bright laiul in the skies,
that I have told you of, whore God and
His anuels live 1 will never, never C(uno
back, i would like to be with you always,
my darling hoy, but 1 cannot. God has
called mo in lo'i own good time, and His
will, not mine, he done. Nevor forget
these words, Hiirry ; they are the last I
shall ever siieal: to you. Remember that
God to whom 1 am going-love him,
honor him, worship him, ami after liim,
thy mother, Von may not know what
all this means now, but remember my
words; bury them in your heart, and ere
^ong God will give you wisdom to uudcr-

stitnd them. Deal honestly, u])rifjlitly
and justly, with all men, and thou shalt
have thy ruward. Love (b>d, and ho shall
bless you. Honor thy mother. He loyal
to thy kin({ and country. My so doinij
thou sh.'ilt win tho favor of thy Heavenly
Father, and tho lovo and respect of men.
Kiss nio a;][ain, my darling boy. There,
there, good-byo, <«od bless you, (iod blosii
you."

These wore the last words I over hoard
from my poor father's lips. I was car-
ried from tho room, sobhing and cryin({
bitterly. Polly, tho dear girl, tried to
comfort me, but hor ellbrts were very
weak. The big tears rolled down hor
honest cheeks oven wliile sho was kissing
mo and telling mo that I should not weep.

Next morning I had no father. In tho
following three days the house was dismal
and i|uiet, and miserable. 1 can remem-
ber wliat a mysterious fooling of awe the
unusual stillness had upon me. I know
that I had sustained a heavy loss, but I
I was not old enough to feel its full weight,
ami the most of what grief I did experi-
ence was lightened by the wonder I felt at
the strangeness of the circumstances by
which 1 was surrounded.

Then came the funeral, with its long

procession of mourning friends ; tho

tlreadful looking hearse, with its bhvck,

nodding plumes ; the clergyman, with his

I robes, looking so much like a ghost as ho

{ mov<!d around tho little mounds in tho

! (piiot graveyard. Irenu'mber tho solemn

1 tones of his voice, as lie stood at the open

I grave and rtjau "I am the Resurrection

and the Life," and long were my dreaies

! haunted by tlio hollow sound of the earth

falling upon the coflln, while the clorgy-

I man saitl "Earth to earth ---ashes to ashes

' ■ -dust to dust;" and then the grave was

I was tilled up and rounded, while tho

; irrowil looked silently and solemnly on.

I Tlion 1 was taken home a^'ain, whore my

j pour mother mot me, weeping and mourn-

j ing like one who could not be comforted.

; Then indeed did 1 fool that my father was

i gone from mo forever, and that 1 had

i sullered my first great sorrow.

CHAPTER II.

Cn.VNliKH AMU TROUni,KS.

At their best, narrativc.3 of childhood
are dull and uninteresting, on account of
their sameness. As children, even David
Coppcrfield and Nichola.i Niokleby would

t^i^...,H..,^j fr,-,. f),n .^.••.lill.ln.n'

i possess no attractions for tho ordinary
I reader, but that the events of their earlier
! years aro depicted by tho genius of a
I Dickens. In my early history there w ere
! many circumstances which his pen might
make interesting, had ho tho writing of

MY OWN STORY.

I I

them, but by mo they miist bq p.issod
over in silence. 1 prefer to acknowledge
my weakneas than to make it evident
by attempting to describe that which is
beyond my power. The reader, 1 am
sure, will thank me for so doing.

Five years passed away, and I became a
romping, mischief-making boy. Like me,
the county grew, and each year added to
its wealth, population and importance.
Our home was no Ion ;er the quiet, prim-
tivo place of my infancy. The village had
become a town — the grand old forests had
fallen before the w hnan's axe, and all
around were the n s of prosperity and
improvement.

During these years I had been kept at
home. Others, even younger than 1, and
wliose families were in poorer circumstan-
ces, had been sent east to bo educated ;
but I was so dear to my mother's heart
that she would not part with me. From
her my lirat instructions were receiveii,
and by her my yoimg mind was pi-epared
for all that it was afterwards to drink in.

She, however, was not my only instnic-
tor. There was a young gentleman,
named Richard Winstanley, who hail
much to do with my early education. He
-was the son of a very ohl friend of my
father, and had long been intimate with
our family. Our lands joined each other.
His father died before my time, and of
hia mother I have only a faint recollection.
Even before my father's death I can
remember Mr. Winstanley as a frequent
visitor at our houiie, coming and going
almost as one of the family. Ho was a
tall, dark-complexioned, black-eyed man,
and what the world would call handsome
and aristocratic-looking. Yet there was
that in his black eye and insinuating
manner wliich would make a ch)se observer
dread him. He never was a favorite of
mine, though it could be notliing more
than a childish instinct that taught me to
dislike him, for he was ever kind, ()blij^;ing,
and even pains-taking, with me.

He had little t)r nothing to do, liis
father having left him a large property,
which w.as constantly increasing in value,
and therefore his whole time was at liis
disposal. The most of it lie spent with
us. He was ever at my mother's side,
assisting her with aM'airs of business, and,
in fact, taking the entire charge of h.er
proj)erty upon himself. There wiis noth-
ing singular in this, for he was one of her
oldest friends ; ami, situated as she was,
it was <mly natural that she should seek
and secure the advice and assistance of
some one in wliom she had contidence.
He aided her in managing her projjcrty —
he advised her about financial matters,
and no assisted her in educating me.

I cannot say that in the last cai)acity,
or in any, in fact, ho was at all pleasing

to mo. With my mother I was a ready
scholar, and from her I was over willing
aTid glad to receive knowledge and in-
stmci/ion ; but Winstanley I feared and
disliked, without knowing why, and from
him I would learn nothing. His dark,
liandsome face, and i)iercing l)lack eyes,
ever inspired me with dread, and made
me forget everything I attempted to loam.

On the twelfth anniversary of my birth
a party was given in my honor. Wo liad
a merry day — wo little one?— in romping
through the old house and playing our in-
nocent games on the green lawn in front,
for our yoinig hearts knew no sorrow in
those dear times. All the world secaned
one huge play-ground, and all before na
one scene of pleasure. Wo were a weary
lot that night, and I, the youthful host,
the most weary of them all.

]'>cfore ten o'clock the happy party was
dispersed, and I went to kiss my mother
good-night, after seeing the last of my
young guests away. She was seated in
the drawing-room ahnio, and the moment
I appro.iched her she clasped mo in her
arms with more fervednoss than usual,
and kissed me warmly. It brought 'oack
to my mind tliat sad day when at the bed
side of my dving father, she had embraced
me thus; and now. as then, f felt her warm
tears on my cheek as I pressed my lips to
hers.

"My darling, d.irling boy," she ex-
claimed, as she strained me to her breast
in a long, loving embrace.

As her tears touched my cheek, I drew
back my head and looking up at her said,
"Mamma, are you very happy to night?"

"Yes, darling," she answered, looking
astonished at my question. "I am ever
happy with j'ou, but especially so to-night,
for this the anniversary of the day on
which (<od sent you to me."

"Do people ever cry Avhcn they are very
happy/" I asked.

"Sometimes they do, my boy," she said.
"Joy as well as sorrow, is frequently ex-
pressed in tears. (Jut why do you ask
so strange a questicm /"

"Because, as I kissed you just now,
mamma, 1 felt tears on your cheek," 1
replied.

"They were those of joy, darling," she
said, kissing me again, "thank Ood I have
little cause to shed tears of sorrow."

She remained silent for a few moments
and I thought she looked very sad for on«
who felt no sorrow.

"Harry, dear," she resumed somewhat
abruptly, "after me whom do you love
best?"

"Polly," I answered.

"I do not mean of those in the house,
dear, but of those who come hero," she
said, "visitors, like — like Mr. Winstan-
ley."

l\ '

;

MY OWN STORY.

alio
I liavo

Iwliat
love

loURC,

she

Istan-

' ' O, whom of the visitors do I like best?"
I B<'.id in a hesitating way.

"Yes," she replied, "take Mr. Win-
atanley, for instance. How do you like
himi"

"I cannot tell you that, mamma," I
answered.

"And why not, dear?"
"Because I do not know whether I like
or dislike him," I said boldly. "Kois
very kind and good to nie, but sometimes
his dark face and the way he looks at me
with those bright black eyes of his make
me afraid of him."

"Afraid!" she exclaimed. "Whyahould
vow fear himi"

"I cinnot tell," I answered, "but I
know that I sometimes do."

"Harry," she said very earnestly, "on
this day of all others 1 do not like to speak
crossly to you, and do not think I intend
doing so now. Yet, 1 nuist tell you, my
son, that you should not allow yourself
to think ill of any persons simply because
yon imagine you see something unpleasant
in their looks or manner."

"I do not think ill of him, mamma,"
,1 said, kissing her, "I only fear him
sometimes, because I think he looks crossly
at UK!."

"It is purely imagination on your part,
niy darling. Mr. Winstanley loves you
very, very much, and you must love him
in rt-'turn."

" Do you wish mo to love him, mannna V
"Yes, darling," she replied, "it will
plearse me greatly if you do."

"Then mamma, dear, for your sake I
will try."

" God bless you, my child," she said,
clasping me again to lier breast, "God
bless you ; for n\y sake you nuist love him,
for to mo he has been a kind and faithful
friend ; and now, dear, good night. "

As I went to my room that niglit, I
tliought it very singular that my mother
should 1)0 so jiarticular regarding my feel-
ings for ?Ir. Winstanle^'.

For several montlis. affairs Vi'cnt on

■••V,

aiul then a chanae

mueli in the old \
came.

( 'no evening, wlien 1 was poinding over |
my studios, I received word that my
motliev wished to see me in the sitting
room. (It was the comfortable old name ,
wo had for the room in those days.) On '
entering, X found my mother and Mv. I
Winstanky tliere, seated near the lire,
for it was Gliristmas time, and very cold.

"Hany, my boy," my mother said, ai!
1 closed the door, "bring a chair for
yourself, and sit here between Mr. Vvin-
t.tauley and myself."

I (iiiently obeyed, wondering what was
going to follow. After a short silence,
my motlier said :

" You are old enough ncnv, my son, to

know something of the world, and have
wisdom enough to tinderstand everything
that older people may say to you. You
are my only child, and young as you are,
it is only right that I should take no im-
portant step, in which you may be inter-
ested, without previously informing you
of my intention."

At this point, Mr. Winstanley got up
and left the room, without speaking.

"After much consideration," my mother
continued, " and after asking the aid of
Heaven, I have resolved upon making an
important change in my life — one of the
most important I ever made — and I have
called you to me this evening that I might
tell you of it."

A few words more, and no further ex-
planation was necessary. I saw it all — I
understood everything. 1\Iy nmther con-
tinued to speak, but what she said I know
not. Her voice was tremulous with
emotion, and thoiigh I dare not look up
at her, I knew thei'e were tears in her
eyes. I heard her in silence, my heart
aching bitterly all the while, and when
she h.ad finished I kissed her once, then
escaping her embraces, I liurriedly left
the apartment.

As I piissed along the hall to my own
room, the faithful I'olly met me. She v/as
always my comforter, my friend, my
confidant.

" Heaven bless the child, "slio exclaimed,
as she stooped down to kiss me, "What
makes him look so sad 1"

"Have you no idea of the reason,
Polly ?" I asked.

"No, master Harrj', how should I."
"I liave boon with mamma and Mr.
Whistanley," 1 said, "and there it was
that I heard that which now pains me."

"God bless you, my cliild," site said
warmly, "you are your own father'^ noblo
.son. 1 knew it would be this waj' when
you came to know all. I always told
Bill it would break your young heart."
I "But I will not," I said coiu-ageously.
1 " It pains me very much, Polly- more
I than anythiiig else I ever knew ; but I
I must not allow it to break my heart. My
I mother, you know, i.s a better jud'^-e of
what she should do than I am, and it ia
my duty to obey her and agree with her
i in everything."

I "The dear, darling child ! " said Polly,
[kissing me; "he is ever good, anu obe-
dient, and loving. Ho nuist clieer up.

This nuiy all turn (Uit for the best.

"It may," I said ; "luit I doubt it very
much. Something tells me it is all wrong,
and tliat it will bring nothing but scjrrow
to my mother and mysilf. He liiia
always been good and kind to Uie, and I
should like him, but 1 cannot. I wiah,
oh ! how 1 wish she would not marry
ihim."

MY OWN STORY.

"It, may seem \rroiig to you, Master
Harry," Polly replied, in a comforting
tone, "and 1 cannot wonder at that, for
it seems -wrong to myself; but wo may
both he mistaken. Your mamma is a
good, dear, kind creature, and will do
nothing; that she does not think right.
Kest assured she feels she is doing noth-
ing more than her duty in taking this
step, or she would never take it. You
are t lo young, sir, and 1 too ignorant to
understand everything wo may see or hear.
Leave all to God. liely on Him and He
will aid and comfort you."

The big tears rolled down her kind face
us she spoke. Her good words and loving
manner touched my heart ; and as she
kissed me, and told mo to cheer up, I hid
my face on her breast and wept bitterly —
the first tears I had shed since hearing that
dreadful news.

Poor Polly tried to comfort me as best
she could, and then leading me to my own
room, she left me there alone.

About twii months later, Mr. Richard
Yt'instanley became my step-father. The
■wedding was a very (juiet aflair, to which
only a few nKJ.st intimate friends were
invited. Islj- mother, I remember, looked
very beautiful ; and yet, while she re-
ceived the congratulations of her friends,
there was something in her manner which
made me think that even then her heart
smote lior for the step she had taken.

CHAPTER in.

GOOD BYK TO MY OLO HOME.

Several months passed away, and
during that time I liad every reason to
regret that my mother had been so weak
as to place a second father over me. And
now, when it was too late she hourly saw
the folly of what she had done.

From the very moment that he became
the head of our house, Mr. "NVinstanley as-
sumed and exercised an authority to which
we hod before been strangers. In doing
so, I sup'pose he only did liis duty; but he
did more tli.-m liis right, or at least he per-
formed it in a way which to me seemed
cruel and tyrannical. He ruled the Imuse-
hold with a rod of iron. To my motlier,
I cannot say that he was ever har.sh and
cniel ; yet his conduct was in strong con-
trast to her kind, gentle, cnntiding manner.
He exorcised ai;thority over her as over
every one else, but he did it in a milder
■way. His word was law, and my mother
soon di:;eovered that it was utterly useless
to attempt to oppose it. I had not been
mistaken, young as I was, in my estimate
of him. He was a passionate, F,elf-willed,
bad tenii)ered man, who woidd submit to
no dictation, be guided by no advice, and

who took delight in making all around
him fool his power.

With iiie he was particularly severe-
He knew that I had long disliked him,
and now, that I was in his hands, he pro-
ceeded to take revenge upon me. In less
than aweek after his marriage, ho reproved
my mother for her excessive kindness to
me, and told her that by such conduct
she was spoiling me — that, petted as I had
long been, I would grow up a useless, good-
for-nothing fellow, unless he was allowed
the management of nio. My mother did
not give him permission to undertake my
training, but he assumed it, and from
that moment I was miserable. He at-
tempted to rule mo with sternness and
rigor ; but free and unrestrained as I had
long been, I would not tamely submit. If
he was stern, I was stubborn. I dis-
puted his authority. I said I would
obey him in nothing unless 1 thought it
right ; that I would do just as I saw lit,
and as I had done before he became an
inmate of our house. My mother I was
willing to obey and ])lea3e, but in him I
recognized no authority whatever.

This opposition on my part, as may be
8ui)posed, brought punishment upon me.
Winstanley was not the man to be con-
quered or foiled by any one, least of all
by a boy. I was frequently sent to bed
s'lpperless, ov locked up in my room for
hours at a time, or given tasks to learn
which were far beyond my capacity, or
punished in other ways. Still I held firm
and refused to recognize any authority on
the part of the man whom I looked upon
as my enemy and persecutor. Time only
increased my troubles. My mother several
times remonstrated in a mild way, and
begged her husband to treat me witli more
kindness; but she was told to leave the
management of the wayward, stubborn
boy to him, and he would bring him right
yet, and remove all the bad traits which,
he said, her folly and weakness had occa-
sioned.

A t times wlien ho was not by, my mother
would comf(n't and pet me; but of liini she
had such an unaccountable dread that she
was most guarded in her manner (jf apeak-
ii,g of or t.) me in his presence. She v/as
seldom, indeed, to me, as the motlicr of
other days.

In all my trouble I had one friend,
true, and faithful, and firm. Now, that 1
was suffering wrongs atthehand.^ of others
Polly, if possible, v,-as more kind and
loving than ever. She did not fear Mr.
Winstanley, and was even bold enough to
tell him so on more occasions than one.
So heartil}' did she detest him that she
would have left the house but that slie so
strongly loved my mother and myself.

"Tlie poor, dear creature," she would
say, "I have been with her many a long

-^'f:

,.1

)tlier
she
U .ih3

v.as
;r of

end,

Kit I

ther-'
ami
3ir.
h to
Olio,
i she
10 so

ould
long

MY OWN STORY.

year, now. She's not tho happy beinj^
she onco was; nf)r ia this house tho merry
phict! it usud to 1)0. IJiit I mil detennineil
to remain hero. Mr. Winstanloy won't
tlrivo luo away. His crnelty is tho only
thing that keeps me here, for tlie dear
mistrfcsa wants all tho comfort I in my
poor way can give hor, and she shall have
it."

Mr. Bill Buckle, tho yonng man in
hoine-spnn, attempted to induce Polly to
change her mind, but his ctt'orta were not
crowned Avith success. Mr. Buckle had
designs upon Poll}'. Ho had been "court-
ing" lier as long as T ccmld remember, and
1 don't know how long before. He was
a blacksmith, and walked over to our
kitchen, from his shop, three times a week
as regularly as tlie sun went down. He
would sit in the kitchen and make love to
Polly by playing with the cat, and so long
had lie been thus engaged that during his
courtship he plnyed w\ih several gonera-
tifins of tabbies. Ho was a big, burly,
good-natured follow, with very little to
say, but loving our Polly with a devotion
I have never seen equalled. He lived in
a nice comfortable little cottage, of which
his mother had charge, and was a well-to-
do, hard working fellow. He was a most
peculiar lover and possessed ot the patience
•of Job, inasuuich as he had waited years
and years for Polly, and was still willing
to wait until she saw fit to give him her
hand. About once a month ho would
refer to the ffuestion of matrimony by re-
marking tij Polly that tho cottage was in
good order, and tliat tho "old woman
Avould be happy to resign in her favor."
To which the procrastinating Polly would
reply in tho words of the old song, " Wait
a little longer." Mr. Buckle accordingly
waited, and went on playing with gene-
ration after generation of cats, with a
patience wortliy of commendation.

To Polly ami Mr. Buckle all my tribu-
lations and troubles were known, and from
them I received every condolence and
comfort. As not unfreciuently happens in
life, however, their kindness only increased
my misery, and finally resulted in greater
trouble than any I had yet known.

Mr. Winstanley (I never could bring
myself to call him "father," and even
now I can only speak of him by name)
several times ordered me to associate less
with Polly and the other servants ; but,
notwithstanding his threats, I continued
to sjiend all my spare hours with them,
they being really the only true friends I
had.

One evening when I was with them, he
came in and ordered mo to my own room.
Jt being earlier than my usual bed time
I refused to go. In a moment his face
grew livid with rage, and walking quickly
up to mo he seized mo by tho ai'm and

proceeded to lead mo from tho room. I
resisted with all my power ; but my
eliorts, of course, were useless. He car-
ried mo forcibly to my own room, and
locked mo in. The mortification I felt at
receiving such treattnent in tho prosenco
of tho servants, enraged ine, and I deter-
mined to submit no longer.

The moment tho dot>r was locked I
kicked against it furiously, and the whole
house resounded with tho noise I made.
1 had given vent to my feelings in this
way for about ten minutes when the df)or
was opened and Mr. Winstanley entered.
Without speaking, he seized me firmly —
drew a largo strap from his pocket, and
inHictod upon me a most unmerciful beat-
ing.

My wild screams brought my mother
and Polly to my assistance, and by them
I was rescued from tlie grasp of the infuri-
ated man.

This was the first beating [ ever received,
and as I lay in my bed that night, sick
and sore, I made up my mind tliat it was
tho last Mr. Winstanley would ever inflict
upon me.

A few days later I was told that my
mother and Mr. Winstanley wished to see
me in the library. On entering the room
I found him sitting at a desk with an
open letter in his hand, while m;' mother
was standing at the window, looking out
upon the lawn. She did not look around
as I entered ; and though she was in such
a position that I could not see her face, I
felt sure that she was, or had recently
been weeping.

"Well, sir," Mr. Winstanley said, as I
approached liim, "have you succeeded in
recovering that amiable temper of yours
yet ?"

"I did not know that 1 had lost it," I
answered.

"Perhaps not," he said. "Youths
possessing such a temper as you l\;ive sel-
dom know Avlien they are in the wrong,
and still more seldom acknowledge it."

"Wlien I am in the wrong, sir," I
boldly answered, " I am free to confess it ;
but so long as I know that I am right, I
shall not submit, if I can avoid it, to any
punishment."

" It is wonderful that you should (pialify
your language in such a way," he said
with a sneer. "My training of you is
already producing good results, it seems."

"Tlie very opposite, IMr. Winstanley,
is the ti-uth," I said. " You know, .ind
my mother knows, that before you assu-
med authority in this house no one had
reason to complain of mj' temper. I do
not suppose that I am any better than
other boys of my age ; but, at least, no
one ever dared to chastise mo but you."

"Exactly," he added "no one darod to
chastise you because there was no one in

MY OWN STORY.

the house who had tho courago to do ao,
Tho rod was apiired luid tlio cliild Hi)uilt.
In after life Master Harry Hardy, you will
thank nic for what I liavo done."

" Do notdeouivo yourself with any such
imi>ression," I answered, " I am old
en(jnyh to know right from wrontj. 1
know when I should bo punished and
■\vhcii I Buould not. When I am dcserv-
iui^ of chastisement let it he inflicted \ipon
me ; but when my lieart tells me that 1
am iin.ocont, I will not tamely submit to
tlie cruelty of you or any one else."

'•«.)!i, indeed."

" And more tlian that, air," I continued,
warming as I siwko, " whether I am
deserving of it or not, you has'c no right
nor authority to punish nie. You may
usurp such authority, as you did the other
day, and though 1 must submit, itiabe-
caiLse of my weakness smd not because I
recognize your right."

'■ i'ou grow eloc^uent for one of your
years," ho snecringly said.

'' i am old enough to fjpoak my mind,"
I answered, "and to raise my voice against
vhat 1 feel to bo oppres.sion aiul wrong."

" Do you nioan by that, sir, that I have
wronged you i" he asked in an angiy tone.

" Yea, I do,"l replied boldly, for in the
prssenoe of my mother, 1 felt that I had
a safeguard.

" In what way ?" he a.-ikcd.

" In many ways, but especially in beat-
ing me the other day when I did nut de-
serve it."

'"You did deserve it, and richly, too."

''I did not; and had I received that
inuii.shment from my father, let alone
from one who usurps hia position, 1 woidd
Lave said that it was wrong."

"Ho looked at me fiercely, a:ul for a
moaiont 1 thought he was going to strike
jne. If such were his intention, however,
he restrained himself, and turning to my
mother, said —

"Perhaps this will convince you, Amelia,
of the truth of my words » What do yon
think can bo the temper of a boy who
speaks in such language to one occupying
iu;> tiosition /"

** Harry," iny mother said, very mildly,
"you slioidd not speak in such a manner.
Don't you know that it is very wrong "'

"I do not know that it is wrong,
mother," I answered, "I was beaten arid
abused without cause; and, a'3 you have
yourself taught me, even the poor, creep-
ing worm will turn if you tread upon it."

' ' xVnd who, sir, in this house has wrong-
ed you!" Mr. Winstanloy asked, in a tone
of su]ipressed rage.

' ' You have, and no one knows it better
than yourself," I replied.

'• Take care how you trifle with mc," he
said, with a threatening shake of hia hand.
"Do not think you can impose on mc

because your mother hapiicns to be
present."

" I was not so foolish," I answered with
provoking calmness, "as to think that
even tho i)resonco of a mother would
jjrovcnt you from abusing her son."

Ho sprang up (piickly, a.s if li-) were
going to strike mo, but in an instant my
motiier was at Ids side restraining him.

"Richard, llichard," she cried, with
tears in her eyos. "for God's sake— for
my sake — do not lay your hand upon liim."

" How am I to stand such consummate
impudence," he exclaimed, "if I du not
punish him as he deserves?"

"Ho may deserve it, Richard," she
aaid, " but spare him for mo."

"Ho has been too long spared," he
answered, "and that is why he has the
hardihood to use such language to mc."

"Ho is but a boy, my husband," she
mildly said, "and does not know thj full
meainng of what he saya."

"Young as he is, ho has villainy enough
in him for a dozen," ho said, looking
iiercely towards me.

" But for my sake, Richard, you must
ftirgive him."

"Thi'i onco I will," he rejdied doggedly,
"but let him bear in mind, that if ho
again provokes me, not even yiuir presence
or your interference will save him from a
just puni.shment."

' ' I will answer for him, that ho will not
again give you cause to be aiigry witii )iim.
Will you, my boy," she asked, turning to
me.

"I have not said anything for whicli I
should be sorry," I replied, feeling tliat 1
was boing greatly imposed upon. " I have
spoken nothing but tho truth, and nothing
but wh.at I feel ; but for your sake, mother,
I will endeavor to be a little nioro guarded
in my language."

"There, do you see the rebellious spirit
of tho fellow/" Mr. Winstanley asked.
"hi the whole province there is not an-
other boy who W(mld speak in such a v>-ay."

"There is not one who ever had the
same reason," I said.

'! Harry," my mother said, with more
sternness than before, "you must not
make such replies. I am responsible for
your good behavior, and I aak you again
to be more careful in your language."

" I ask your pardon, mamma," I meekly
said, "and hereafter I will try to saj'
nothing that can displease you."

"That's right," she answered, "and
now listen to what we have to s.ay to you."

Tolling me to sit down she returned to
the window find seated herself with her
back to Mr. Winstanloy and myself.

"As you have promised to conduct your-
self witli something like propriety," my
step-father said after a short silence, "I
will endeavor to tell you why you have

)

MY OWN STORY.

!■'

your-

', "I

have

boon culled ti> this iiitorviow. Your mother
and I h:>vo coiiiu to tho conclusion thiit it
ia high time you wore sent to some place
H'hero you may receive thoso inatructions
wliich you do not appear to bo dosii'oua
of recoiviii;^ at homo. Wore you like
other l)oy:i in your temper and conduct
there would bo no iiecesaity for sending
you away for this purpose for a year or
two yet; but as you will not improve your
mind hero, you must t,'o where you will be
compelled to do so. Wo have, therefore,
decided to send you to the Grammar
School, r.t G ."

Ho i)au,Hed for a moment, and during
tho silence 1 could j)lainly hear the half-
aujjpressed sobs of uiy i)oor mother, as she
sat at tlie v/iudow with her faco turned
away from us.

''At that iiialit\ition," ho continued,
"You will have every (jpportunity of im-
proving your mind, and of iitting your.'ielf
for your po.sition iu life. But let me tell
you ouoe for all, tliat while you are there
you will have to show less of that vicious
temper of yours, if you would avoid a soro
back and i)rcsorve a proper standing among
your fellows. This i;) all I have to say to
you on the subject now. All the necessary
preparations for your departure will be
made at once, and on ]NI(inday morning
next, you will start for ."

Without furtlicr remark he arose and
loft the room. The moment wo wore alono
my mother arose from her seat at the
window, and coming to me where I sat
nhe clapped me in her arms and kissed me
affectionately, while the warm tears fol-
lowed each other in silence down her pale
cheeks. Then siio talked to nie, long and
oarnoatly, indearand kindly terms — speak-
ing onl}' as a mother can speak. Her sweet
words, and gentle voice alt'ected me deeply,
and it was no wonder that my tears were
iuingle 1 with her own. She was no party,
she said, to sending me away from home.
Mr. Winstanle}' desired it, and she could
not object, though she had made every
effort to induce liim to allow mc to remain
in the old house as before. She cheered
me, however, with tho consolation that
though absent from her, and my homo, I
would be improving my mind and prepar-
ing myself for wliatever position iu life I
might l)c called upon to till. And, then,
when the holidays came round — those days
so dear to the heart of every school-boy —
1 would come home and be ever so Inippy
with her and my old playmates.

And thus wo sat, my mother and I,
and had a long, long talk. It was pain-
ful to think of leaving her from whom I
had never been i)artcd, even for a day.
Though years liave passed since then, I
still remember how sincere wera tho tears
I shed, and how very, very sid was my
heart.

CHAPTER IV.

MY DAT.S AT SCHOOL.

In those days the town of was

one of tho largest and moat important
places in tho province. It had long boon
settled, ccmtainod considerable wealth, a
thrifty population, and prided itself upon

its social grades. C , however, wa.^

locally famous as a seat of learning, and
therein lay its chief importance.

Scluxds, in tlujse times, wero not to be

foinid at every man's door, as they hapi)ily

now are. Nearly every settlement, it is

tnio, had its school-master, who —

"Kt^nriMl ttm yDiilliful niiii'l,

Anil tauglil till! yoiiii,' idea liow to shoot,"

in A log hut of modest dimensions and
unpretentious appearance. Very little,
however, was taught therein but the
simple rudiments of our language. Read-
ing, writing and arithmetic were tiie three
great branches ; and beyond these, many
of tho masters themselves would have
found much difliculty in proceeding.—
Hero and there a teacher was to be found ca-
pable of imparting instruction in tho higher
branches, and possessing oven a smatter-
ing of the cIa.S3ic3 ; but such "learned
men" were very scarce. There was little
call for them. The people were so taken
up with tho work of improving tho land,
and clearing tho countrj', that they had
very little time to devote to mental im-
provement. As soon as a boy was strong
enough to wield an axe or hold a jdough,
his schooling days were over, and to all
intents and purposes he liocame a man.
Very freciuently the school-master was a
farmer iu a small way, or a tradesman of
some kind, who would work at his calling
in the summer, and open school iu the
winter. From such as these, and in this
way, the children of tho early .settlers of
Canada received their education.

There wero, however, a few really good
schools in the Province. Perhaps the
chief of these was at C . Its head-
master was a man of sound learning — a
graduate of an old country University.
To this man Canada is deeply indebted in
many ways, but especially in the matter
of education. Ho was a gentleman of
refinement, polish, and sound scholastic
attainments ; and yet a strict, and oven
hard master, if all the stories which, even
to this day are told of him, are true.
Why a man of his charaotor and education
took up his abode in tho Canada of those
days, is a queBtii>:i I will not attempt to
answer. His school was nearly as great a
feature in the land as would bo a Uni-
versity in the North-West Territory
to-day. He had a hard struggle of it at
first, but by perseverance ami industry ho
prospered ; and in tho course of a few
years had a large and flourishing school,

MY OWN STORY.

compoHcd of the suns of the woiiUliier |
puoiili; (if the [ii'iiviiico.

One chirk, clriz/ly, iiiicoinfiirtahle Tuor- ;
day moniiiig, I took my seiit in the coveri-d \
wiigon, whicli did (hity im a stage coauh, !

and Htai-ted for (! . Feehiig lliat it j

was not manly to weep in the iireHunoe of \
stranv,a'rs, 1 liriished my tears away, and i
tried to forget the heavy sorrow tiiat j
■wiigiiefl npou my lioart. It wast a painful
etlort, however, for do wliat 1 would, tlie j
sad, palo face of luy motlier woidd rise up ,
before me, a:id I eould almost feel her
last long loving kiss on my lips ; and then '
the tears wouhl force themselves into my
eyes, anil 1 would have to liido my face to
C(>nceal my sorrow. Hy degrees the ■
novelty of my position wore away my i
grief, and the new and strange scenes ';
through which I was passing attracted my j
curiosity. In looking around the coach, j
I found it contained hve passengers hf-Kides
mys 'If. At my side there was a man who I
BCeined to lie a country sho[ikeeper. In
the seat behind me there were a farmer j
looking man and his wife, and on the seat
in front were a gentleman and a boy about !
my own age. J-ietween the latter and j
nij'self sundry masonic glances had jiasaed, |
and I Avas on the point of sjieakingto him |
when his father addressed me. I

"Well, Master Harry," ihe .said, "how|
doyoii like your ride this damp morning."

''Not very well, sir," I answered, v/on-
dering who he Avas and how he had learned
my name.

" It certainly is not a pleasant morning
for a ride," he added, as ho looked out at j
the 'drizzling rain, "though it might be I
worse. I met your father, or step-father
I should say, as you were getting into the
coach this morning, and he requested me
to have an eye to you during the journey.

1 am going to G , and thus we will

be together all the way, and if I can help
you in any manner, it will afford me much i
pleasure. " j

1 thanked hiui as be.st I could, and then }
ho continued :— I

"This is uiy son, Charles Courtly. He

is going to .school at C ,and therefore,

you and he will bo companions. Charles, '.
give your hand to blaster Harry Hardy.

The young gentleman extended his hand ;
and I shook it shyly. |

" And now that you know each other,"
Mr. Courtley added, " I advise you to ;
become friends at once. It will reiiuire
all your united efforts to carry you safely
through the .school, or things are not in
this respect the same here as they are in
England. Charley has been at the school
before and knows all about it, and in my
younger days a friend of that kind Avas
alAA'ays a good thing for a noAv boy. Hoav

is this matter done at C , Charley ?

Docs the now boy, liaA-e a hard time of it?"

" Sometime."!, Bir," Charley annwered.

" How did you got along duiing your
first week '/"

" Hadiy enough, sir, "('Inn ley answered
with a laugh, " I had to light about half
the boys in the school of myoAvii aL;e ; but
having been fortunate enotigh to get tlio
best of most of them, 1 was not aftei'AVurds
interfeied Avith."

"You see what is in fitore for ymi,
Harry," Mr. Courtly said, turning to me,
'• You must bo prepared to stainl up for
your rights, or you Avill lose them all,
HoAvever, judging from your <ippi!aranco,
I do not think you will tauuly alloAV your-
self to be imiioscd upon. You are a stout,
strong lad, and havo deterininatio'i in
your eye."

" [ am not inclined to be (|uarrelsoiue,"
I said, modestly, "but I will stand up for
my right.s rather than allow others to de-
prive me of them."

"That's right," Jlr. Courtly said, ap-
provingly," I would ei!co\nage no boy to
seek a ipiarrel, Vmt if my o\wi son idhiwcd
himself to be imiioscd upon Avithoiit re-
senting it, I AV(juhl conceive it to be my
duty to punish him for his cowardice,
I'lace yourself under his protection, or
rather aa upon his advice, and 1 feel sure
you Avill hold your oAvn Avith your school-
fellows."

The journey to C was u long and

tedious one. It can now be performed in
about as many hours as it then took days.
During our progress, Mr. Courtly Avaa
very kind, and treated me in precisely the
sanio manner as he did his son. He Avaa
a genial, gentlemanly man, full of anec-
dote and iiumor, and lightiMied our jour-
ney considerably by interesting and plea-
sant stories of his younger days.

We arrived at C early on Satur-
day afternoon, and liy that time Charley
Courtly and I had become fast friends.
He was an open-hearted, impul.'iive boy,
Avith a handsome face and agi'ecablo man-
ner. Judging from his inHuenci! over me,
I felt th.at he Avas born to bo popular, and
that at the school there must bo fcAV av1u>
Avero not his friends.

He gave inc much insight into my ap-
proaching school-life, and Avhile advising
me on this and that point, promised to
stivnd by inc in everything ; though, at
the same time, he gave me to understand
that I Avould have ti> tight my <iAvn battles,
no matter who might be iny foo.

Dr. IJaker's school Avas situated on the

outskirts of the toAvn of C . The

school-house Avas a largo tAvo-storey frame
building, suri-ounded by an extensive play-
ground, at the further end of which Avas
the Doctor's residence. A large Aving at
the cast side of the latter building wfw
occupied by the boarders.

We spent Sunday in a pleasant Aray, and

]

'W il

MY OWN HTORY.

' 11 I

on Moiuliiy nioniiiig Ciiarloy Courtly iviul
I oiiUiTil the BcliDol. t)liiirlny wa» ii
priiiK; fii\()Urito as I hud expected, and
his ritiini to the schr;(il ufter a Fliort
alisoii'.'f was hcilud witli joy by all. In
iicconhinco Avith i/iir own i'i;<iiu!.st, ho and
I v'oii' iiiado liomradiu, tlio mIioIo suhool
beii'^' ili\ idcil up into twos. We nat sidr-
by-ifiiU' at onr dcskf., and at our nmals,
ftiid ocmniiud tho samo 1)0(1 in thu "rook-
ery," iiH tlic large sk'opiiij^-rtiom was oalliid ,

And tl'.iis I cinuiuinoi'il my Ktuuics at
Dr. Hakor'ft acudeniy.

Tlio Dditnr was a iniddlo Hizod, chaqi-
fcatiued num. Tiio duuii lines around his
Ijnnly-H''t liioutli, iind tlio Imnhy brows
that (iver-lmnghin oyuu, i,'ave hiui asevcro,
stoni look, wliicli was rather hoigiitt-ned
than otherv.ise by the jiaiv of spectacles
whiili were always perched \ipon hia .sharp
nose. He had iuit one assistant, a n'ild,
inotl'en.'uvo ytiuiig man, named Nicholas
Meeker, with whom the boys did whatso-
ever they pleased. ^Ir. Sleeker's life, in
fact, seemed a very unhappy one, thongii
a word oi complaint never passed his lijis.
He was bulliiid by the Doctor, abused by
the Jloctor'a wife, made a butt of by the
entire arhool, audyet he never was known
to complain. He jierformed his duties
quietly and regularly ; he never apoke
excejit when it was absolutelj' necessary ;
and whenever an tipportunity occurred,
ho Would stoal awiiy out into the conntiy,
and isjieiit hours there with no other com-
panions than Ilia books and hi:j own
thought's. His gentle and iniassuming
jnanner won mo over to him at once, and
I had not been a week in the school when
he and 1. were iirm friends. This friend-
shiji bro'.rght upon me my first punishment
at tho hands of Dr. liaker.

Mr. Jleeker slept in the "rooker)-" for
the s,peci;tl purpose of seeing that the boys
conducted theni.selves properly, though,
had he been absent, I believe they would
have lieen much more orderly. He had
a bed to himself at the end of the room,
in a sort of alcove, and one of the chief
amusements of the l)oys was to tease and
annoy him in twenty ditrerent ways every
night bef(ne retiring. Though he bore it
with meekness, and oven umiled at many
of the wrongs done him, I was deeply
pained for him, and felt that my com-
panions imposed too much on his good
nature. 1 ventured to reuKjnstrate with
them, but they laughed at me and con-
tinued their annoyance with incr-jased
vigor. At last, L one night became
thoroughly aroused, and told them in
pretty strong language what I thought of
their conduct. The largest boy of the
crowd, a sort of a bully, named Monroe,
nsked mo what business it was of mine (
I gave hiin a short and not complimentary
jinswer which onrayod him. He uprang

ujiou mo ami in & moment w« vrero en-
gaged in what the lioys called a guiuiine
"rough and tuuddo light." Mr. JNIeokor,
Courtly and come of the larger boya st-jia-
rated us, much to tho disapjiointmont of
the smaller felirjws, and for the remainder
of (ho ni|;lit eveiything was (piiet in the
room. It wufi generally understood, how-
over, that tho (piarrel should not end
there, and acconlingly the iireliminarios
wer(! arranged by (Jourtly and somo of tho
(jtlur felhiws, and next day after o\ir
studies Hui'o oVi.'r wo had it out, in the
presence of the entire school. It was my
lirat fight, and, Courtly told mo, I must
do my l)est, as niioii tho result would rest
my futtn'e posation am(>ng my companions.
1 did my best aciordingly, and tho result
was that, though I was much cut up and
bruised, ^ .;ot the best of Mcuiroo, and
was ummimously deelareil Uuf victor.

No.vt day, however, my turn came. Dr.
IJakor having heard af the fight, and see-
ing tiio a|)i)eaiance Munroo and myself
cut. invcstigateil iho matter, and, arriving
at tho conclusion that I was tho guilty one,
punished mo severely. From that tinio I
was known as " Meeker's champion," and
', was looked on with fear, if not with respect,
j by the otlier boys. 1 s\ittered nnich, both
I in bodj' and spirit, but 1 had, at least, the
, grat'tication of no l<)ngcr seeing Mr.
I iMeekor annoj'cd. Months wen' by, and
I I progressed rapidly with my stiulies. Dr.
i B.ikor, 1 thought, was unusually severe
i with me, and it waj my opinion, as also
j that of Charley Cor.rLley, who Avas ao-
(piainted with my whole story, that he
; had received special instructions frf>m Mr.
' Wiustanley to treat mo hai-shly. However
1 that nuiy be, I know that 1 was more
j frequently punished, and for nun-o trilling
causes, than any other boy in the school.
I I b(u-e it all well, however, and w<jn the
I api)lauso of my fellows for tho spirit I
■ displayed in receiving all sjrts of punish-
j ment without Hinching.
I I occasionally received letters from my
mother, full of love and kind words. In
answering them I never told her of the
! cruelty with which I was treated, well
j knowing that while telling her would do
i mo no good it w(juld make her unhappy,
i Mr. Meeker showed hi.'? appreciation of
I my friendship by as,'?isting mo on all
occasions Avith my studies. He took
special pains with mo, aixd by this assis-
tance 1 advanced so rapidly, that Dr.
Baker, though he still continued to punish
nic on the slightest provocation, Avas forced
to acknowledge that my progress wasextra-
(jrdinary, and Avas in the habit of pointing
me out to the other boys as an example.

Thus months went by, and at last the
Christmas came ; school Avas broken up,
and I rode back to spend my happy
holidays at lK)me.

MY OWN STORI ,

CHAPTER V.

TUB nKAVlRHT LUM Ul^ Vl.r,.

How (loliglitfiil tlio old lioino tiouinrd
aftor mj loiig iil)3onoo. My nxithur wu»
kind iiiid Inviii),' hh over, but, looked more
pulu and Roi'i'owfiil tliiin I li;;d ever stjcii
her. Vouiii; im 1 was 1 (livinc<l Uio rt'twoii.
Slie was not liap|)y in her locoinl niarriniji).
She nev(!r spoko to me of Mr. Winstan-
luv'rt niikindneaa, l)Ut from tho faithfnl
Polly I learned all.

"Is was a sad day for the dear oroaturo
when she married him," Polly Haid to mu
in tho kitchen, iv few days after my return.

"Docs he davo to treat her \\ith
cruelty )" 1 asked, my hlood boilinj,' at
tho thought.

"No, not to say with cruelty, Mawter
Harry. Ho does not, of course, idriko or
abuse her ; but he has jjrown c(jld and
careless reifardin;; lior. The lovo wliicli
ho onoo profesnecl has loft hl:ii, and li" no
longer takes any trouble to please her or
make her lia;>py. That ?ho married him
out of pure lovo I am sure, and that she
still loTca him 1 am al'so wure; and thoro-
foro, his coldneas is all tho more pninf'.d
to her. If sho did not love him she would
not care for his iinkiudnoss."

" And how dues he f;)iow his eoldnes.s,"
I asked.

" In a Inindrod ways. lie is a biid-
teniperod, ijassiiniato man, and is continu-
ally finding fault with lier and every ono
else. Ifo seolds her and talks crossly to
her for no reason in tho wnrld ; and she,
meek darling that she is, bears all in
Bilence. Ho is abfient for days at a
time, shooting and sporting over the coun-
try with a lot of young gentlemen whose
society he seems to prefer to that of his
■wife. Ho often goes away oven without
telling her, and returns when ho sees tit.
Ho is a cniel, bad, terrible man, anil tho
result of all this -.viil be that ho will break
your po(jr mother's heart."'

On coming home I had intended to
apealc to my mother of the cruelty jtrae-
tised upon mo n.t school, Init now I
changed my mind. 8he had sorrow
enough at her heart alre;uly, and T folt
that it would ho cruel ti> increase it by
telling her of my wrongs. She bore all
her sutlerings and trouble in silence, and
•wliy should not / do the same? To liavo
told her would have relieved me greatly,
though it might not have removed the
cause. 13ut why slujuld I add to her
afliictionp, wiiich were already greater
than she had ever before known !

Of Mr. Winstanloy I saw but little. He
was absent most of tho time, but oven
■wlien at homo he kept out of my way, and
I took good care not to seek his society.
He was silent and dark looking, yet hand-

' Homo as oror; and notwitliatanding all hi*
I unk induces I saw plairdy that my mother
I loved him ns tndy and fervently a* on the
day she became his wife. I found, as
Polly had tohl mo, that ho H]>ent miich of
! his time in ithooting and tishing in coiu-
j pany with sonio gay eompanion.-i who
I liad little cIho to do; and fnunthe fhnhod
j appearance of his fact), on several ncca-
j sions, r formed the conclusion that with
■ them he indulged in exccHses, wliiili, up
to tli.vt period, lie luid always avoided. 1
I had no fear foridni, htiwover, in this |)ar-
I ticular, for lu^ was too ci'.utious and too
I ungenerous a nnm to beoomo a drunl;ard.
I Mou of his stamp soldiim loose themselves
I in such a way. Drunkards, bail as they
i are, arc made of better nntteriid.
I The holidays passed slowly a^vay, and,
I excepting tho leaving of my mother, I was
I not sorry when they camo to a cloiio. JNIy
j visit to the old homo had lu'oiight mo but
little nleatnu'e, where 1 had oxpecled n)uch,
anil ovon Dr. IJaker's Academy, with its
; tri>i\tdoii, toils and persecutions, was pro-
feraldc to the silence and sorro'.v which
hung arouml the house and all its inmates,
j My Htei>-father shook my hand coldly,
! as ho bade mo good-bye; but tho i)artin<j
I from my mother was long and i)ainful.
Sht! strained me to her brea,-;t in a long,
I fond ond)race, .and kis-^ed mo again and
again, while the big tears followed each
other down her cheeks. Slio aoemed to
have some foreboding of trouble.
I "My darling boy," she ;<.ud, v,-liilo lior
voice tremliled witli her sorrow, " some-
! thing tolls nio wo will nevor meet again.
; It nuiv bo oidy a foolish fancy of mine — I
]>ray God that it is ; but I cannot light it
, down. If it should turn out correct — if
you shoidd never see me more, my son —
! you will not - you will not. forgot your
, poor mother T'

' "Forget you, mother I and you so
I good, .and kind, and loving!" t sobbed.
] "1 know you will not, davling; I know
you will not I" kIio continued, kissing me
j [lassionately. "Mogood, kind .and true,.
i Harry, to yourself and to all men. Pay
I attention to your acliotdiug, improve tho
j the op])ortunities now given to yon ; for,
remend)cr that u]ion yoiu'in'osentconiiuct
, dependd all your future life. These boy-
, hood days will soon be over, and thou
i yo\i will be launched out into tho world to
I bnti'et yimr way over its rough soas alone.
You must prepare yourself for that, and
perhap.i this will bo your last ami only
opportunity of doing so. I know viin aro
good and obedient, and would not now
give you these instructions wero it not
that something tolls mo you will never
hear your mother's voice .again. If these
should prove my last words to you, dar-
ling, cherish them iij) in yo\ir heart, and
in after life never forget the parting

) I I

MY OWN STORY.

I'J

I 30
I.

now
mo

rue,.

V.xy
tlio

for,

iU»
UK',
and
inly
i\t
now
nut
uvur
lese
liir-
:incl
ting

advice I this day garc you. fjood byo —
good l>yu - my owu darlinj,', diirling noil !
(Jod liloMH you, and keen yon under His
fatherly earn forever and ever."

Slie kis.sod mo a;^:vin and u<^ain, witli
olniuNt wdd carueHtnoHH, ami then releas-
ing mu I hurried away, my lieart bursting
with my lu'.vvy i,'rief. 1 h)oki;d hack, and
BttW her Htandinji on tho door-Htep, lier
face buried on the faitliful Polly 'h breast,
and her form bowed down witli her woiglit
of woe.

The next nioniont I was out of night,
and I Hvw my mother novornioro.

Dr. liaki'r'.s academy was in all main
reupects unchanged. Most of the ohl boys
were there, but some were miwHing, and
their places were filled l)y new ones. My
former chum, Charley Courtly, arrived a
day or two after me, and we again became
companiouR. Dr. Haker's ])iorcing eye.s
still looked down through his .spectacles
at the rows of juvenilo liunianity before
liim ; and the mild Mr. lyieuker still smiled
goi)d-nat\ir'.'dly at liis obstreperous perse-
cutors.

Retnomberiug my mother's parting
woi'ds, I set to work with a determination
to accomplisli great thiu'^s. I studied
hard, Very h:u'd, and received e\cry en-
coura;;emeut and assistance from Jlr.
Meeker, who wa.s firm in his friendsliip
for me. Dr. Baker was still cruel and
exacting ; and though very cautious in my
conduct, ho occasionally caught mo trip-
ping, and always punished mo severely,
while others wer3 allowed to escape for
much more serious ollencos. Hi.} treat-
ment of me, in fact, was nothing less than
persecution. He sought for opportunities
to punish me, and never allowed ono,
however trifling, to escape unnoticed. L
bore it all without niurmurinv,', though I
must say that on many occasions my
spirit almost got the better of my judg-
ment, and I was tempted to resist and
oppose what I then and still think was
cruel and undeserved.

I continued to study diligently, and soon
had the nat'sfacticju «f .seeing my name on
tho black-board, witli the word ^'ditx"
after it. Even Dr. ]5a]:er was i)roud of
mo as his pujiil, and invariably brought
nie forward Avhon visitors were i)resent, as
one of the ornaments of his academy.

It was a most singular positir)n that I
occupied ; I was the best .scholar in the
school, luid the hardest v/orlcor, and yet I
was the most neverely piuiished, though
the least deserving of it. Dr. Jjaker
abused me, and was proud of me ; the boys
respected mo, and were proud of me, wliile
Courtly and Meeker loved nic and were
proud of me.

Six months passed away, and then one
day a letter came from home. It was
■written by Mr. Winstanley, tho first I

had over received from him, and befure
opening it I felt 8\tro that it wan tho
baaror of bid tidings. Nor was I mis-
taken. It was a short, cold, h\irried!y
written note, telling mo tliat my mother
was dangerinislv ill, and retpiesting mo to
come homo with all jjossible speed.

Witli sad foreboding* I .<4tartcd liomo-
wards. Tho jounioy was a long one, and
I thought it would never eonu) to an end.
After nearly four days of tedious travel,
wo arrived at tlio village, and there I was
sot down. It was a lovely siunmer after-
noon, and as the distance to my homo wan
not great, I determined to walk it, no con-
ve"auco having been sent over to meet mo.

Knowing every foot of the country
well, I took a 8h(U't cut through tlio fields,
and in a few minutes was upon our own
))roperty. Everything seemed wonder-
fully calm ami still, and as I passed along
oven tho birds around mo seemed to oitig
subdued melody.

I had passed through a grove, and was
abcmt stopping out upon tho lawn, when
I looked towards the house and saw

Along the carriage-way a mournful pro-
cession Avas moving. At its liead tho vil-
liigo clergyman and after him a hearse,
with its waving plumes, an<l sable pall.
Then came a long ])roce>ision of men,
solemn and mournful looi;ing, moving
slowly onward in awf\il silence, which
mutely told of death and grief. 1 stood
tran;itixed, and gazod vacantly at tho
mournful cortege. It wound its way over
the lawn, through the grove, out upon tho
road, and then 1 saw it no more.

I was too late; too late! My mother
had gone from mo forever.

In my deep sorrow I fell upfm the grass
and wept. With tho blue sky above mo
and tho solemn old woods an)und, 1 gave
vent to my grief, and mourned as one
who would not bo comforteil.

The shadows of tho trees had lengthened
and tho whip-poor-will was waking from
his day-dream.s, when 1 aroso and walked
slowly towards my now desolate looking
heme. There was no one in sight, and
imobserved I gained tho front door and
entered. E veiything was still as tlie grave,
and as I moved silently ah^ng tho hall it
seemed as if tho house were deserted. 1
stole up to my own room, and opening
the door softly, entered. I was abou'; ad-
vancing when I heard some one sobbing
lieavily, and looking across the room I saw
in tho dim light of the closing day, a
wimian kneeling at my bod-.'sido in an at-
titude of deep grief. A glance was suffi-
cient to tell me who it was, and stealing
slowly to her I whispered— "Polly."

8hc sprang quickly to her feet, looked
at mo for a moment, through her toars,
and then rushed into my arms.

Wo had a long, long cry together —

MY OWN HT<niY.

I'lilly and I- iind tlioti wo K.d down niilo
hy Hide, in tlint liltlo roinii whoro bIiu liiul
niirsL'd nu> uh ii child, niui hIiu tnld nivuii.

Four day« liofiiro my rutiirn, my |MMir
mother liiid diid, Hho hud l»iun very,
very Hick for a littlo wliilc hoforo. A
littlf stniiif^i'r hiid ciniio, but, it had uidy
jemiiiiicd linijj en<>ii;^li in tho worhl tu
fiirn linmaiiity, iind then it died. It was
lyint; «\Vfotly on Irt liri'UMt in the colKn,
I'nlly said, wiiile its an-^cl H[)irit was now
in Hi'uvon witli its moLliurV. Kiit! was at
my mother's Kidu wlien sliti lireatlied lior
last words. Tiiey wort) of me. She left
mc lior Idessiny, and her last ])rayer on
earth was that God would watch over and
smile upon hor lioy.

That wai.all. It wns n wwl, sliurt story
told .sim|>ly, but touchingly, by my faith-
ful oUl nur.'.o.

It was lat(( when she left me, and as I
wished to see no one else I remiiined alone
u\ my riioni, and jtassed the most sorrow-
ful night 1 had m-er known. Now, indeed,
was I alone in tlio W(jrld, with the dearest
ties that bound me to homo and life sev-
ered and broken forever.

(•n tlu^ followiui,' morninj.,' I met Mr.
"VN'instanley in tho library. He seemed to
feel his loss deeply, and was kinder in liis
manner than I had seen liini for a length
of time. Ho spoke of my motlier very
tenderly, and delivered several kind mes-
sages she had left for me. And tlien lie
spoke of niyself and my future.

" How aro you progressing at school?"
he asked.

" Verj' woll, sir," I answered, forget-
ting for the time, all the persecution I re-
ceived, though well knowing that he was
the chief cause of it.

"lam glad to hear it," ho said, "for
without a proi)er attention to your studies
now, you would bo badly jjrepared for
your future position in tlio world, what-
ever it may be. Dr. Baker in his letters
speaks favorably of you as a scholar, and
says that yoti arc making good itrogress.
I trust you will continue to d<» so. You
arc old enough now to appreciate tho
lienefits <if a good education, and should
neglect no opportunity of improving your
mind,"

"So far, sir, I believe I have done
well," I a\iswored, " And it shall be my
endeavor hereafter to do even better."

"That'.s right, Harry, " he replied, with
more than ordinary kindness, " you liavo
good abilities, and if you apply them pro-
perly you may bocomo something, some
day. How long do you wish to renuiin at
ho'me ?"

"Only as h>ng as you deem necessary,
sir," I answered, forgetting his former
bad treatment and my own animosity,
" How long woidd you advise, sir ?"

"Not long," he anawered, " You must

procure some now riolhoi*, and after that
IS done I think you luid better nltini to
your studies. A few days will sullioi>, un-
less you have any purtioular dusiro to
rcmaui longer."

" I have not, sir," I replied, " thero il
no oceasiou for delay, and under tho cir-
cumstances homo dooi not seem ut all like
homo to nie."

"1 can appreciate your grief, my boy,"
lie said " and your remaining hero now,
wo\ild make it all the more jioignant. In
a few days, tliivt is as soon as tho prepar-
ations can bo made, you will rot\irn to
."

After Bomo further conversation, I
thanked him for his kindness, and loft
the room.

In a few days all the necessary arrange-
tnents were made, and my departure was
fixed for tho following morning. Mr.
Winstanley went out after dinnei*, and
tlnis I was left to B[iend my last evening
at home alone or in company with my old
friends, I'olly and her lover, who was
still as faithfiil as tho needle to tho pole.
I decided on tho latter course.

As I entered the room, Polly was seated
near tho window sewing, while Mr. Huckle
was imjiarting instnictions in gymnastics
to a family of kittens that I had noticed
before. Ho arose and made an awkward
bow tome, ami when 1 extended my hand
he s<|ueezod it so warndy that 1 almost
cried out with pain.

" Ami so you aro going to leave homo
again. Master Harry," he said.

"Yes," 1 replied, " my schooling must
not bo neglected you know. I will soon
bo too big for school, and therefore must
not lose time."

Mr. Huckle made some remark about
my stature and pro3[iects for man's estate,
and then resumed his feline instructions.

"I am glad you came down this even-
ing, Master Harry," Polly said in an
undertone, "for I want to talk to you.
Ton arc going to leave the old homo to-
morrow, and God only knows when you
will return. I hope it may be soon, but
I'm afraid it will be longer than you or I
think. 1 want to tell you, sir, that I'm
going fron\ the old homo, too."

''YoM, P.dly.".

" Yes, Master Harry. This is no place
for n)e now. While your angel mother
was alive I would not leave hor. But
now that she is gone and j'ou going, the
old home wants me no longer, and I
ctmldn't sta}' here even if it did."

There were tears in her eyes and she
spoko sadly but very earnestly.

" But where will you go to, Polly?" I
asked.

" Bill says the old woman is waiting for
me," she answered, blushing slightly,
"and I think I'll go to her. Ho is a good.

M\ OWN flT(JUY.

kind follow, Ktul hiM wnitcd for iiin thiiHo
ntuiiy yuuFH. I lovo liiin, MiiAtor Hnrry,
ttiul now thiit tliu old liomo wuiits mo no
lun((or, I will liDCoinu liiH wifu."

1 could Kuy nolliiii^uK'^inNt her decision,
nur hud I uny dcHii'o to do no. Sho hud
donu liur duty, nnd much mom, to monnd
mine, und it wivh only rii^ht now that mIic
ihoiild huvo » homo uf her own. Kind
und truu uh nlio was, thu mnn nho had
choMoii was, I fidt sure, worthy of Iut.

"Polly," I said, kisHinn her, "from my
hourt I wish you every hap|iineN.'i. Oood
an Kill Im, he \h not |.;ood i^nouj^h for you ;
but ho will niaku you a truu and faithful
hushand, und i^'ivu yuu all tho luvo uf Iuh
hcjiiest, niunly heart."

Wo hud a lonj; talk together, and then
1 left them. Hefore rotiriny for the ni>,'ht,
tho last I would puH.s for a low^ time
beneath my native roof, I gathered to-
gether a few little trinkets of houio value,
ttll I poHMCHMcd, and left them as a wedding
present for Polly.

On tho following morning I hade good-
bye to my old h<ime, and tlie few friends
who w«ro left, und started back to U

CHAPTER VI.

THE STOUy OV Mil. MREKEK.

Two months passed away and I wua still
u pupil at Dr. Baker's academy. During
that time I had made remurkablo progress
in my studies, for 1 had labored with oven
more thai, ordinary diligence in order to
drown the thoughts of my lonely condi-
tion. So far a.s I knew, 1 wan without
any near living relations. I had often
heard my mother api'uk of her family and
my father's in England, but I knew no-
thing more of them. t)n this side of the
Atlantic I was the only one of my family
ttlivo. My school companions ha<l bn ither.s,
and cousiii.s, and nncle.s, and aunts, b\it
1 was all alone in the world, with none to
look np to, none to care for me.

Notwithbtanding my diligence in stiidj',
Ur. Baker treated mo more cruelly than
ever, and from his conduct 1 felt con-
vinced that he had received renewed in-
struction.H from Mr. Winstanley regarding
me. I was pitied by tho whole school.
Even those boys who were unfriendly to
me, naid it was a shame and an oiitrage,
that I shoidd be punished so fre([Uently
and so severely for mere trilles. 1 tried tt)
bo better than other boys, and I know I
was; and yet, I firndy believe, I received
more punishment than all the rest of the
Bcliool jint together.

Charley Courtly and Mr. Meeker were
my chief consolers. They cheered me
with the assurance that it would not last
much longer, as my school days would

soon bo oTor. Mr. Mooker was very
kind to me, and even wont so far as to
more than onco get himself into troublo
by taking my i)artanrl remonstrating with
l>r. Baker on the unj\iMt punishmenti I
received. Tho Moctor abused him soundly
for his interference, and revenged himseff
by punishing mo more soferely than ever.
" Mr. Meekor," I said one evening ai»
wo walked out together, an wo somotimo*
did, "it is very kind of yoii to take my
part, but f Would rather not have you do
so, as it oidy adds to your own troubleti."
" My troubles are nothing, my dtur
Hardy," ho answered, with a faint snnlo,
" I can bear them, and I W(/uld jiut up
with nuich more, if 1 could, by so doing,
lighten yours."

" They will soon be lighter, Mr. Meeker
I hope, for this state <.f uilairs, as you and
Cotirtly say, cumiot last forever."

" For your happiness, ilardy," he saiil,
''they cainiot bo lightened too soon.
Such persistent, wanton and ernci |>or-
socution as you are subjected to, J never
bef(jre witnessed, and 1 know not how to
account for it. You are the l)eHt boy, and
tho leading scholar in the school, and yet
yon receive more punishment than if you
were worse than tiio worst."

"I can account for it, Mr. Mocker,"
1 said.
"How?"

" 1 have a step-father at home, who Ikw
peniecutcd mo ever since he h:i<l the
power," I replied, "and 1 am convinced
that It is un(l(>r his instructions Dr. Baker
acts in treating me a« he doe.s."

'• But why should your step-father
desire this cruelty;" my companion asked
with no little astonishment.

" Tliut is more than I can an.iw>.T. .MI
1 know is that when at home he ill-treats
me, and I tirndy believe he is the instiga-
tor of all the cruelty I receive here."

Wo walk(;d on in silence for a few min-
utes, and then Mr. Meeker said :

"It is very .singular. Hardy, that man
should act in such a way ; and yet, know-
ing the world a.s I do, i cannot' (bnibt the
truth of what yon say. JVriiaps this
early persecution will, after all, be of more
use to you in .shaping your after life than
if you had never known anything but
kindness. i^Ian in his short-sightedness
never sees tho (d)jcct; Pr^jvidenee has in
view, in visiting liim ,vith suflering and
aflliction."

He !,poko in a low, sad tone, while a
shade of sorrow, mixed with resignation,
spread cjver his studious face. I "thought
of the persecutions' '.e liiniuell: endured,
and wondered, as I often liad before, win-
it was that ho boro them with such
niecki.ess.

"You speak like one whom experience
has taught," I ventured to say.

UY OWN RTORY.

"Ynii iiro rij{1it, lliirdy, (ixporioiino lian
taught iiiu iiinny thiiiKH, liiid um<iiit{ tliuiii
it tliiit of t>oiii){ rL>Hi|i{iiu(l to iinu'it fiitu."

"I luii y>iiii>K," I «ai«l, "uikI wuiitiii({
ill yiiur wiMiliiiu; iiml tliuroforo, I niuy lie
wr«>i»K ill »iiyiiiK tliut, tlumxli wii HJiutilil
pructieo [rt'BiKiiiitiim, it hIi'miM not ino-
voiit iiM romuviiig tliu cauHu of 'nir trouijlus

i( Wll COlllll tl'> K.I."

"Yen, Hurry, if wo could ilo no," hu
roinatcil with u fiiint Hiiiilo, "lnit if -vv
cniiiK't remove thoiuwo iiiwHtojiliiily huUV.-.
HiuUt iiiivny circuiiistiuict'H it xn bettor, iw
HiuiiU't Huy:«,

'T" liinr tlii'K* HIh wr Ituvo

Alul, y»)t, III! you ruimvvk, it in not nlwuys
right to miliiiiit to iirosoiit imin when wo
tliinlt wo siui II nican« of rolitf. Nono of
n», Iiowcvcr, kiiowH tho Hccrets of ouch
ntli'-r'H iH'urtis" ho aiUhul Hiidly, "uiid it
in, tlicrofuri', wrong to hliviiio ii niuii for
8ubniittin;j; tuincly to injustice, Hiiiijily he-
cftUHO uo fuucy tliut lie couUl eunily ru-
niovo it."

"Yourwordu contain windoni nml in-
utructioii," I Mivid, "und fmm tliom much
ohlcr heiidu thun mine niiyht h.'uni iiiiiny
A luBHon."

"]My wliiilo life i» ono hmj,' Iuhmoii,
Hiird)','' J'i> it'ldied, "liut only I mysoif
liavo k'urned ii;. 1 liuvo always been u
silent, refived man, living within myHulf,
thoUL!h lliank (-'od, notontiroly for myHcH;
and dill thcHe who censure uw. know my
hiatory they would he more aiiariiijfof their
blame, ancl moro tharitablo in their oiiin-
ions. No doubt, you, Hardy, in common
witli <llKra have often wondered why 1
have HO tamely borno witli Dr. Uaker'»
auL'er and tibuKe."

"I cert.iiiily have, Mr. Meeker," I an-
swered, "thounh 1 have no dimbt I was
very wroni,' in ho doini^."

"ABthe world goesyo\i were not wrong,"
he rei'lied, "for you only judged aK men
j\'dgi;; foiniiug an opinion from mere ap-
iiinranccH, without legard to hiddin facts.
You art! an imjulHive, generous youth, to
vdiom I have been attached ever since the
th-Ft day I naw you. You have iiroved
N-ourself my friend. In addition to that
you have Ihio abilities which I atlndrc,
and there is in your nature that which tells
mo j'ou are one in whom it in safe to con-
tide You iiave decnu^d ire weak aiivl
foolish for stiiiulin;^' iill (hiU 1 lia\e stood;
let ine give you my whole .^toiy, and then
you can tell lue if you think me weaK."

"Mr. jMeeker, you muHt not think that
I am enquiring into or seeking to know
your hiatory," I hastily s;ud.

"No, Hardy," he answered "you are
too generous to perforin so mean an act.
Had yon inquired you .should never liave
known. Iconlideinyou now as a friend."

While we were talking wo had rctraeid

our step* ntid wore now in ono of tho inoit
retired ilreetn of

" You Noo that oottn((ii," heiinid, point-
i\\)i to u inodcHt lookin({ little building, a
Khort dintanco from ua, "coiiio with in«
thoro and you iihall know why I liavo lo
lon<{ borne with Dr. Itaker'it uimiiu."

In a few minutes we were at tliu uottngo

door, und without knocking, he opetiod it

and entered. Ah heerortsed the thrcKhold

a beautiful girl Hprang forward with m

joyous exclamation to im^et him, but Huoing

me she restrained herself und silently on-

I tended h"r hanil to him. Ho took it in

his, and tiien <lrawing lu r townrd.i him

kissed her atlectionately.

I " Mary," he said, " thi.i is INfr. Hardy,

an intimate frii^nd of mine, and thii lady,"

{ ho added in his odd way to me, " is my

j siHt((r."

j I took her outstretched hand and bash-

' fidly uttered Home words, intended to ba

comiilimentary, but w hich, as clearly a« I

call now i-ememb( r, uinonuted to just

< nothing.

, "As you are a friend of my brother's,"
I idiu said, with a pleasant smile, "yuu shall
I also be a friend of mine."
I "Then ho shall indeed bo thy friend,
I my geiitli' sister," Mr. Meeker said, "for
I he is the mo:<t intimate and the best thy
brother has."

[ He entered an adjoining room, but in
I a few moments returned ami anked mo tr>
I fidlow him. I clid si, and found myself
1 in a .small plainly furnislied apartment.
On a boil in the farther end of the room,
I lay a indo, delicate looking woman, ap-
, parcntly nearly sixty yearn of age. Her
j long silver hair lay kKwely on the jiillow
1 around her head ; her face bore traces of
Isieknois and of hiiH'ering, ami yet there
I tieciiied t.i be a halo of jieacefiil resignation
around her which was heavenly and
j fiweot.

I "?/Ic]iiier," Mr. Meeker caid, in gentle
'■ tones, "this is my friend of whom 1
I spoke, IVfr. Hardy."

1 She 111 vcd her hand, which lay upon
I the t]uilt, antl motioned me to api>roach;
I then she Look my hand in hers, and
i looked long and earnestly into my face,
I as if kIic would read my thought-, therein.
I After a long silence she spoke.

" f am glad to meet yon, my boy," she

said, in a soft, feeble Voice. "You have

an lioner.t, iiLinly face, Mich as I have not

looked on for many a day, and I know

that it is the index to aii honcbt heart. 1

I am ;.dad, very glad to meet you ; y<»u ara

I my son's friend, and you will be my friend.

I I have few of tin in n<iw, though L once

had many. Kis;K my foreluiad oncj, my

child ; let that be the t:eal t(j our future

I friendship."

I I kissed her as she bade nio. Then Miss
I Meeker c:'.mo into the room, and she .lud

MY OWN HTOIIY.

" rHo
lir.vo
■ lidt

now
•t. 1

:u'u
iend.

OllCO

my
iture

her lirothur nml I nat down noar tlui bod-
■ido of tho invalid, uiid liml u Inii'^- ntid
pluiiiiiuit cliiit. Ttivy woro vury kiiul, niid
thoir kit)dii<>H.i iiindo iiui niori* nitpiiy than
I hiid l)C(i!i fur n l'»iKi l<»ii{ titnu. I wivn
ijorry wlum th>i tinio fur onr tloic.rtiiru
vtM ciiino. 'I'liity pri'HHO'l nm kindly to
call ii!,'iiiM, und to conio with Mr. M>'oki>r
whon'.'vor I could. I kI'^'Hv promiiicd that
i would, (iiiil tlion Mr. Mfi^kcr and I indo
thuin Kood-l>vt\ and ntartod hack to tho
ncaduiiiy. il'J wan nioro happy (h.'tn I
had (ivcr lict'oro noon him ; hut wu had
not procuuikvl f;vr heforo hi.s happinoMs
vaniiihud, and hii old ninnnur ciimu hack
to liiiii.

".U(orwliiityoiihavojiiitaoun,|Hardy,"
I>o Maid, liri'iikinif t!io Rilonco, "I nood
Bc.arcoly niicw ttio convrHiition wo liad
bofom cntoriiii^ tho cott.'i^o. I prominod
to toll yoii my story, hut inntoad of iloing
«() I havu hIiowu it to you."

" 1 Ufvoi" undiTHtood that yon had rela-
tions huru," J Haid.

"l''ow ])Ooplo ari) awivro of il,'' lie ro-
pliod, "luiil at tho ncadoiny noiin but Dr.
ilakcr ami his wifo know it. Thor>jin lies
thoir power over mo. Listen — but first
lot mo Hiiy that all yon havo soon and all
I am abc>nt to toll you aro for you alono.
\ou aro my friund, and in coiitidonco I
toll you my life's luHtory."

I assuivil him that ho would not fnid
his coiiiidouco misplacod, au<l thiai ho ro-
fluujed —

" f V, asi born and roared in circnnintancos
not only of oomforl but of ainuoiice. My
fatuily's position may bo judged from the
fact, that my fathor was f(tr many years a
momlit'r of tho Imperial Parliament. Un-
fortunately, howovor, for iiis family and
for hiuwolf, ho livo<l niont extravaijantly,
and with lii.n death all our wealth and
granclour v/iuished. When tliiit event oc-
currcil 1 w.iH about nineteen years of ;i.'^'o.
1 had ro'M'ived a HU'porior edueation, b\it
byyond that had nothiii!? to roeomiuond
nie. As my fathers had l)oen for genera-
tions b'.fori! luo, SI) was 1 to be — a gentle-
inaii of wealth and jjosition. I had boon
trained to no business, to no )>rofe8sion,
f<n- it was not e.vpoctod that ono rearod a.s
1 was wotild ever havo to work for his
diiily lir',':id. In settlinij up luy father'.s
affairs, after liis death, it was f^iund that
wo weru left with abiiolutely nothing.
Some tow friends c;imo forward with otters
of iui.sist.ui'-o. but I resiiectfnlly declined
them, being dotermined that I would live
ujMin my own efforts alono, and that while
I had hands to work my mother and sister
should receive aid from none, even through
friondsliif). Thinking that in this country
I wtuild find a better hold than at home
I came hero, leaving my mother and sistor
in Eir_'!.ui:l until sucii time as I w;i3 settled
in some good position. 1 had not been

hnro lont; boforo I diicovorod that Canada
was not tho nlacu for nuch a.i I, Had I
boon a working nuwi 1 might havu d'>n«
well, for tiii.> i» tho profior field for men
of that ntamp, l>ut for thosu who havo led
nothing but a gontlvnian'n life, Canada ii
not till) i^lacu.

" I waK, howover, dotnrnnnod to do
anything rather than return to Knifland.
I tried difl'oront kinds of employniont, hut
in all of them I miserably failod. At last,
through tho intluonco of a friend, 1 pro-
cured my |)roHunt po«ition in iJr. Kakor's
acailomy. Tho eallin;; suited mo bettor
than any t him; I h.ad yet tried, and by
I de;{rooH I hocamo uttachod to it. At lirRt
I Dr. Maker wa» very kind, but loarninff
I something of my history his treatment of
I ni'j ehangiMl, and ho bocanio tho cross and
I tyrannical num ho now is. Iloforo this
I change took place, howevor, I hid save<'.
' u)) MufHei(!nt money to i)ring my mot'er
I and sister out from Kngland. My poor
I Aiothor had alway.H boon a delicate woman,
I and tho long se.i voyage aluto.st proved
j too much for her. She arrived horo sick
j and helpless; and from that time to tha
I present she has boon tho snil'ering, though
j uncomplaining invalid yon saw her to-day.
I For nearly a year she has been boilriddcn ;
' and what sho has lindnred no tongue can
I toll. This, in a few words, i.s tho story of
I my life. My niotho;* and sister are entirely
I dependent ui)on mo for support, aJid un-
] dor ]irosont circnmstancos it is all that I
I can do to keep the wolf from my df)or.
I Ur. Maker well knows tho painful circnra-
I stances by M'hich I am surrounded, and
acts accordingly. Ho vents hia spleen
I upon n»o, because he knows I cirniot lonve
I him. I cm find no other situation here,
' and I d.-'.ro not tlirow up tho one I have
I on tho mcro chanco «if ]>rocuring another
: some jdaoo else. Ho appears to take
I pleasure in persecuting nie, and is ovon so
, cruel, as you aro aware, as to insirit on
my sleeping at the 'rookery,' when he
' knows that I would bo haj)pior with my
friend? iii our home, ]ioor and humble
i though it be. H 1 could loavu him to-
I morrow, gladl}' would [ do so; but I
I cainiot. 1 must endure it all with moak-
I noss ami resignation, knowing that in His
' own good time (rod will give mo relief.
It is a heavy burden, grievous to boar,
; anil tho world in its ignorance evils mo
; weak fir enduring it. ihit hard as it is,
Harry, I will boar it ; and wore it ten
tiino.'i as hard [ wonkl not murmur, re-
inemV)ering that in tli.at little cottage
yonder aro a kinil and loving sister, and a
gentle, Buffering, uncomplaining mother,
(loponding upon mo for their daily bread.
And now, my young friend, you know my
story. Am f wrong, or am I right, in
enduring Dr. IJakor's cruelty and abuse?"
"Mr. Mocker," I said, deeply atTccted

MY OWN STOllY.

by luH ii.'iinful ntory,. "you ivvo riylit —
nobly, c;eucri)iisly right."

"I ktiow ynn would say *>>, Hurry,
when you knew all," hu roplieil, with a,
faint siriilo. "1 ti)Kl you luy life was one
lont,' le.tHou. It teaclies perse vernnuo and
resiyniitioii. Learn it ariylit and you will
bo boneiitted."

As he spoke we entered the play-around,
and there our conversation ceased.

CHAPTER Vir.

XEWS FROM KOMK AND THE nrHT'I.T.

A few days aubsc(iuent to the occur-
rences narrated in the last cU'vptcr, I re-
ceived a letter from Polly. Mr. Winstan-
ley seldom wrote to uie, and even when
h« did condescend to do so, his notes were
short, cold and formal. Polly's letter--
plaiii, hojiest epistle that it was — was
most welcome, and from it I derived plea-
sure second only to that of seeing the kind
creature herself. It ran in this wise :

Skbly, July — , IS — .
" My Dear Master Harry :

"I have been thinking of writing to you
for a long time, but something has always
Btojiped me. Since you left homo last, I
have not heard a word from you. I have
several times asked Mr. Winstanley, but
he is such a singular gentleman, as you
know, that ho would not satisfy me, even
in such a way as that. 1 am Pt>lly Buckle
now. Bill and 1 were married jus' '^fter
you left. The old woman, ho sairl, had
everything ready, and was waiting for me.
And, true enough, 1 foiuid her at the door
to welcome me when 1 got to the cottage.
Bill is a good, kind husbaiul, and loves
ino better than ever after all his years of
courting. A long courtship it was, surely.
Master Harry iJefore you were born it
commenced. The day you were first given
into my arms to uui'se, I3ill was there.
Ho and I were younger tliou, Master
Harry. Long years have gone by since,
and we have all seen a world oi sorrow ;
but, iiill, big, rough fellow that ho is,
loves me as well as ho did that day.

"\Ve are very happy in our cottagi? and
in tholiitlo room overhead. Master Harry,
is a bed which is kept ready for you, should
you ever come to Scbly. You may never
sleep in it, but while this cottage is ours
it will ahvays bo known as Master Harry '.s
room, and in it no one else shall ever sleep.
Our cottage is poor and humblt;, Mastt:r
Harry, and not the place for such as you;
but your old nur.se is in it, and the greatest
honor she prays for is, tiiat sonu; day be-
fore .she dies, you, the darling baby that
she mirsed, may come to her in her homo,
and sleep beneath its roof. Bill lovosyou
iu his rough silent way, and would dio to
serve you."

" I never go the old house now; all its
charms are gone. I lo.)k at it somotimoa
a.i 1 i)ass along tl;c road, and thiidc of the
]iap[iy days I spent there years ago, when
you were in my arms a prattling i)oy, and
youi' angel mother was alive. Ah! those
were pleasant times, si;-, i am happy, very
hajij)y, with Dill, now, but it is not thu
kind of haj)pinesa I kmnv then. I think
about those old times very, very often,
and sometimes I dream that wo are all
together once more, living as we >ised to
live, without a single care to troub'o us.

"It is a dreary place now, is that old
home. i\Ir. Winstanley ha;i closed it up
and gone back to his own pla;o. None of
the servants v/ould stay with him after I
left, and I do not woiuler at it, for every
tiling was changed for the bad. I do not
know much about hiu), but Bill tolls mo
that he spends most of his time in sport-
ing, though his angel wife is cmly a fow
months dead. She was too g(K)d for him.
Master Harry, and though she loved him
with all her heart, it was a sad day for
you and her when she became his v/ife.
Perhaps I should not say this to you, sir,
but I can't help it, and you know how
true it is.

"Don't forget your old nur.se. Master
Harry; and remember that no matter
what happens, while she lives there is an
open door and a hearty welcome for you
at Sebly.

"(iod bless you, my darling boy, will
ever bo the i)rayor of

"Polly Ay>f i^n'Kr.n."

Accompanying this atl'ectionato letter,
which brought tears to my eyes as 1 read
it, was a short, and hardly so woil-con-
structod note from Mr. Buckle, iu which
he assured me of las undying regard, and
saidthattho "old woman" and Polly were
ready for mc and ahvays would bo. X
l)ost-script informed me that he still con-
tinned his feline instructions, tliou^h tho
school had been removed to his own cot-
tage. The last generation, he saiii, ilis-
played remarkable intelligence, ami pro-
mised to surjiass all jirevious ones, in an
educational point of viev,'. Another gen-
eration, he added, was expected shortly.

J read these letters over and over again,
and was Sio taken up with their contents
that I entirely forgot my lessons ; which,
as it hai)pcued, were on that occasion
unusually diliicult. JSofore tho opening
of school on tho following morni:ng, 1
looked hastily over them ; but limling
that 1 could not get them up 1 closed my
books, and determined to rely uiion Dr.
Baker's generosity for once. I'uring the
day. as each chwM was called up, I stated
simi)ly that I was unprepared, having
negloctod mv lessons on tho previous
evening for letters from hr)me. xS'othing
ffiw said to me by way of rebuke ; and as

now; all its
it smnotimoa
think of tho
■s ii^'o, when
iny boy, ;md
/ill ! tlioso
h|iiil.y, Viuy
t ia not tlm
ill. 1 think

vury often,
; wo iU'i! uU
i we nsuJ to
tronb'e ns.
•, irt tlrit old
cloaeil it up
i!u. None of

him ivit''v I
it, for uvory
(1. J (li> not
i;i!l tells mo
nie in sport-

I only i\ fow
ood for him,
lu loved him

sail (lay for
me hifl wife,
s to yon, sir,

II know how

nrse. Master
t no matter
;3 there is an
ome for you

iig boy, will

BrjoKLR."

ite letter,
OS as 1 read
weil-con-
in which
ri'LCiU'd, and
1 l-'olivwere
Id bo. A
stili con-
til' >ii;]h tho
s own cot-
said, dis-
, and pro-
mos, in an
)ther ,u;en-
d shortly,
vor .'igaiii,

• contents
IH ; which,

occa'don

opening

iiorui'n'.r, I

it linding

closed my

• nimn ])r.
'uriii'^ the
1, L stated
.1, having

pi'(!vioU3

JSotliing
; and as

MY OWN STORY.

Ji*.

the school wag about to close I was flatter-
tering myself on niy escape from pnni.ih-
nient, when I heard my name called, and
looking up, saw Dr. Baker's eyes peering
at me through his spectacles, while a ma-
lignant smile sat upon his thin, sharp
lips.

"Hardy!" he repeated, and I stood up.
"Come here," he added ; "you ought to
kv ow by this time that when I call you I
expect to be obeyed."

"I stood up, sir, the moment I heard
you," I said, advancing to tho platform
slowly, iny heart trembling, for I knew
that something terrible was in store for
me. Seeing, however, the eyes of the
entire school upon me, 1 attempted to
shake ofi" all feeling of fear, and face the ■
matter out as boldly as possible. |

" Hardy," he said, as I took my position I
on the platform, "it is an unfortunate!
fact that you receive more punishment ;
than any other boy in tho school." <

" No one has reason to know that bet- 1
ter than myself, sir," I said, my voice
trembling slightly as I spoke.

"Very true," ho continued, with a!
peculiar smile ; "and why is it that 1 am
80 often called upon to chastise you i"

"You ought to know that, sir, better
than I," I answered, growhig bolder each
moment.

"No, sir, 1 ought not," he sharply
replied ; ' ' you ought to know it, sir, and
if you had one particle of shame yon
■would not speak in such a way of your
own disgrace. "

"If 1 were tre.Tted .as tho other boys
ore I would very seldom bo punished," I
said.

"What do you mean?" he asked,
turning around and looking fiercely at

1110.

"I mean thi.s, Dr. Baker," I answered,
in a bold way, for I knew that I was in
for it now, a;id might as well be brave aa
cowardly: "yon punish me for offences
which are unnoticed in others, and you
seem to t;ike delight in tinding me doing
the slightest wrong, in order that you may
cliastise me."

He grew purple with rage, and advan-
cing t') within a couple of feet of me, he
said in a h.oarse voice:

" I-'o yo'i ilare to cli.argeme, hero in the
presence of my scliool, with partiality or
favoiu'itiani.''

" Ye.s : I do," I jinswered, looking him
straight in tlie f.aoe. "Every boy in tho
school knows tliat 1 am jiicked upon and
abused by you, and that I am punished
almost every day in tho week without any
just cause."

A faint murmur of api>lau3c ran through
the room, but it was (juelled in a moment
by one look of the now enraged principal.

"Hard}'," ho said, turning a:?ain tome,
and speaking in a tone terrible in its
calmness, ' ' I called you up hero for punish-
ment, because you last night neglected to
prepare your studies."

" I offered you a good and valid excuse,"
I answered, "and such an one as would
have been accepted from any other boy in
the school. But even had my excuse been
a bad one, you might have jiardoned me,
as this ia the first time you have had
to find fault with me in this respect."

"I shall take precious good care," he
said with a sneer, "that it shall be the
last also."

"In offering you my excuse this morn-
ing," I replied, "I promised that I would
neglect my studies no more, under any
circumstances."

" I don't think you will," he said, "for
I intend giving you that which will make
vou remember this day as lon<' as vou
live.

He returned to his desk, took out a
heavy raw-hide, and then appro.aching
me, continued :

" When I called you up a few minutes
ago, I intended punishing you very lightly
for your neglect of your lessons, but I
have changed my mind. You have shown
a rebellious, wicked, vicious spirit, and
liavo spoken to me in such a way as no
pupil of mine ever did before. In the
hearing of the whole school you have
used language which admits of no excuse,
and which cidls on tho severest punish-
ment I can iiiHict. Hero in the presence
of your companions, where the outrage
has been ccdiimitted, that punishment
shall be given. ( )rt' with your jacket now,
without further del.iy, and prejiare your-
self."

He folded his arms and looked fiercely
at me, but instead of obeying him I stood
still and returned his gaze.

"Do you hear me ?" he repeated, " Off
with your jacket."

" Dr. Baker," 1 3:iid, in as calm a tone
of voice as I could command, "you have
no right to punish me, and 1, therefore,
shall nut remove mv jacket."

He glared at me for a monient like a
demon. My boldness so astonished him
that fora moment he could not speak. It
w.as tho fu'.'it time in the history of the
school that a pupil had dared to disobey
such a fomiiiand, and he could now hard-
ly believe his ears.

" What's that you say," he cried, "do
I you ilaro to dinobey me ?"
; " " Ye.^, I do," I replied, "Did I feel that
I were deserving of punishment I would
; submit witliout a murmur. But I have
I borne with your cruelty too long already,
1 and will d) sn no more."

I w.as a .stout, atroug boy for my age

MY OWN STORY.

and though I did not feel that I was a
iimtcli for Dr. Bakur, I made up T.y mind
to oll'ur all tho resiatance in ni;» jinver,
rather than submit to what I knew I did
not deserve. If I wore beaten it would
only bo because he was the stronger.
With this determination 1 nerved myself
up for a desperate struggle.

"<hice more, and for the last time," he
said, pulling up his coat sleeves, "I order
you to remove your jacket."

"And onco more, sir," I answered
firmly, "I refuse."

The words had scarcely passed my lips
when ho sprang at mo tiercely, and in-
flicted a terrible blow across my left
shoulder. As 1 felt the pain it occasioned
I became thoroughly aroused, and passion
took tne place of judgment. All the
wrongs I had endured at his hands passed
through my mind like a flash ; a spirit of
revenge and hatred seized me, and I
sought and wished for the destruction
of my persecutor. He attempted to seize
me, but I evaded his grasp, though he
succeeded in dealing me another heavy
blow. I was now wild, reason forsook
me, and in my rage I would have taken
his life had 1 been able to do so. At that
moment I caught sight of a heavy ruler
lying on the des^k near me. In an instant
1 sprang t(nvards it and seized it, and
turning quickly upon my assailant, I
struck him with it with all my nught.
The blow took desperate effect, for its
hea^•A• thud was heard all over the room,
and in a moment tho doctor's face was
streaming with blo(Kl. "We closed upon
each other and fell, and were struggling
for the mastery, when I^Ir. Meeker,
Charley Courtly and several of the larger
b(jy3 interfered. So far I had got the
best of the fight, and was anxious to con-
tinue it, though in the end I would have
been beaten. AVe were pulled apart,
however, and in tlio confusion I was
ru.shed from the room by the scholars,
while the doctor vainly endeavored to
struggle after me. The boys were unani-
mously ou my side, and cheered me
lustily now that they were out oi the
presence of the dreaded principal. I had
no desire, however, to be made a hero of,
and telling theui to go off to the play
ground, I left them, and in company with
Courtly went to the "rookery."

"This is ii bad Lui<iness, Harry," my
companion said, as I proceeded to wash
myself and arrange my clc)thing.

" It is, Charlej-, very bad," I answered,
"but tell me as a friend, h.onestly do you
think I was right or wrong .'"

" I cannot blame you, Harry," ho said,
giYiug me liis hand, " for if I had been in
your position I am sure I would have
done the same."^

"Then I was right ?"

"I will not say that," ho replied, "but
right or wrong 1 would have done as you
did.^;

With as mtich speed as possilile I* wash-
ed tho blood stains away, and arranged
my clothes. I then opened my tnink,
took out a few necessaries and a little
money I had laid away, made up a small
bundle and then arose.

" Harry," Courtly asked with astonish-
ment, " what aro you doing /"

"Don't ask me now," I hastily answered.
"Como with me and I will tell you."

"Wait a moment," he said, and going
to his trunk he took something out which
he put in his pocket, and then followed mo
down stairs.

In order to avoid meeting the other
boys I went out by a back way and Courtly
followed me in silence. We crossed tho
yard, and passed thr<jugh a strip of woods,
at tho edge of which, just where it bor-
dered on a field of wheat, we stopped.

" Charley," I said, turning to him,
" hero we must part."

" Here, Harry."

"Yes, here."

"Why?"

"Because, I am going away."

" To your home I" he asked.

"Oh, my friend, you wIkj know my
history should not wound me with such a
question as that."

"Forgive me, Harry, forgive me," ho
exclaimed, stretching out his hand. " In
my thoughtlessness I said it. You knoAV
that I love you too well to ever l.-reatho a
word that would wound your feelings."

"No forgiveness is necessary, Charley,"
I responded, taking his hand in mine, and
pressing it wannly. "You have ever
been good and kind, and generous to me.
In parting from you I leave the best
friend I know. Home, I have none, for
I dare not now return to tliat place tho
world calls my home. Father, mother,
all are gone ; and I stand in the world
without one to lean upon — to help me —
to guide me."

"But where, Harry," he asked with

eagerness,

'will

you, can you go

"God knows, and He will guide me,"
I answered. ' ' After what has taken place,
you know I can no longer remain here ;
while, for the same reason, I dare not
face my step-father. I nuist go out in tho
world alono and unprotected to seek my
fortune. I am no longer a child, Charley.
I feel myself a man, willing and able to
do for myself. I may be wrong in taking
this step, but I cannot help it. I must
leave this place, and at once, and home I
dare not approach."

"Oh, how I wish I could go with you,"
he eaid with groat earnestness .

1,1 J

MY OWN STORY.

"YdU lauBt not tliink of thnt," I said,
<leei>ly uil'ectcd at liis kiiuluese. "There
is no reason why you sliould leave here ;
and even did you do so, you have a cheer-
ful home and kind friends to go to."

"1 cannot liear tliis jtarting from you,"
lie continued ; "but I have not the heart
to persuade you to remain, for under the
circumstances I would do as you are doing.
And yet, my dear friend, tliink well before
yoxi take this step. Kemember all the
consequences, all the trouble and sorrow
that may result to yourself and others."

" I have thought of these things already, "
I answered ; " 1 have long contemplated
leaving this place, where I have experi-
enced nothing but cruelty since the day I
first entered it. The time has now come ;
for, even did I wish it, I could no longe»
remain. Good bye ! my dear friend, and
hereafter, when you hear me badly spoken
of, as I shall be, say that to you at least I
was true and sincere. "

He drew something from his pocket and
I)laccd it in my hand.

''Harry," he said, "you cannot have
much to carry you on your way. Let me
loan you this— it is all I have, and I only
regret that it is not more. Naj', — nay ;
but j'ou must take it if you would have
me lielieve you the friend you say." ■

I refused no longer.

"And now, my friend," I said, while
mj' voice trembled, "goodbj^e! When I
find for myself shelter, I will write you ;
and believe me, that no matter what may
be the result of this rash move of mine,
Oharley Courtly will ever lind a place in
my heart."

I embraced him as if he had been my
brt)ther, and then Inirriedly left the spot.

CHAPTER Vin.

OIT IX THK WORLD ALONR.

WiTu my little bundle in my hand, a
heavy heart and a light pocket, 1 ti'udged
iilong, bound I know not where. Instead
of taking the road I kept to the fields, in
order the better to avoid being traced,
sho\iUl Dr. IJaker think it worth hibwliilo
to follow nie.

{•■■. It v.'as a Avarm and pleasant evening,
and tlio>i;_fh 1 luimed along at a rapid pace
tile excict'iuent under which 1 labored
drove oil fatigue; and when the sun went
down beliind the western hills, and night
sjjrtiid her mantle over tlie earth, L had
pli'.eed several miles between me and the
academy. The moon rose bright and clear,
and the night was so pleasant that I de-
termined lo (•ontinue my journey so long
iui 1 did not feel tired, f)r until some suit-
able place in which to pass the night
ofi'ered itself. Full of this determijiation

I hurried onward, passing over fields,
thr6ugh strips of woods, crossing fences
and streams, and taking good cure. all the
time to avoid the public highway and the
farndiouses. It nuist have been between
ten and eleven o'clock as nearly as I could
judge, when I began to grow tired. Know-
ing not how long a journey I had before
me, nor how many days I would have to
rely upon my strength to carry me on, I
came to the wise conclusion not to exhaust
myself at the start. Though accustomed
to much exercise, I had never before at-
tempted a long journey on foot; but 1 felt
confident that, l)y being careful not to over
exert myself at the start, I would get safely
over it. The moment, therefore, that I
began to grow tired I looked around for
some place in which to pass the nigh t. There
were several farm houses visible, but 1
was afraid to approach them to ask for
shelter, and at any rate the weather w;v3
so mild that I know I could safely pass tlio
night in open air. I was debating in my
mind whether it would be better to lie
down at the root of some friendly tree or
to creep into the middle of a wheat field,
when I caught sight of a barn a short dis-
tance to the right, and at once made ".jp
my mind to try my chances there.

A short walk across a couple of fielJ.s
brought me to the barn. Its doors were
f.-vstened, and thougli I carelully searched
on all sides ior some hole through which
to creej) in, I could find none. There
wore a couple of open sheds near by, how-
ever, and into one of these I went. It was
occupied by three or four sleepy looking
cows, who paid no attention to me, a few
lively sheep, who sprang; uji and scampered
away as I ap2)roached, and half-a-dozen
pigs, who gave mo a friendly grunt cf
welcome as I entered. In a rack across
one end of the shed was a (luantity <jf jita
straw, and this I determined should be
my bed. I crept in upon it, and as I
stretched my weary limbs it seemed to me
the softest and moat delightful bed I liad
ever lain upon. In a few momenta I
wait lost in my first sleep of vagrancy.

1 dreamed curious dreams that ni^jiit,

of my old home and of my early days.

Once I thinight tny mother was bending

I over me, in u\y own little room. I fiuicicd

i that I heard her call my name, and with

a .tuddiiii start 1 awoke, and for a monicnt

wondered where I was. The moon was

i still riding high in the heavens, the

I twinkling st.ars were still looking down

j upon me, and everything around was

i wrapped in the sweet slumber of a .sum-

! mer night, which was broken only liy the

j shar]), shrill whistle of the whip-poor-will,

' and the mournful hooting of the owl. I

j fell asleep again, and slept soundly during

! the remainder of the night.

MY OWN STORlf ,

I! I

ill

Wlion I awoko night wai gone, and tho
sun was fully an hour high. I But up and
looked around. My companions of the
night — tho cows, sheep and pigs — were
gone, and I could see them taking their
morning meal in a field near by. 1 felt
very stiif and sore, so much so that at first
I could hardly walk, and there was a
knawing at my stomach, which told me
I must have nourishment soon, or my
strength would fail. I brushed my clothes
aa well as I could, and then issued from
my sleeping place. There was a farm
house near by, but I dare not approach it,
though I would hare given all of which I
was possessed if I could have gone there
and procured a few pieces of bread and a
cup of milk. After crossing a few fields
I Ciime to a clear babbling brook, whose
waters I drank, and then bathed my face
therein. Feeling greatly refreshed I
continued my journey.

After about an hour's walking, I saw a
small village in the distance, and feeling
the pangs of hunger each moment increase,
I determined to risk the chances of being
caught, by entering it in search of food,
without which I knew I could not much
longer proceed. Brushing my clothes as
Tvtll as could, in order that I might look
as little the vagrant as possible, I turned
out up(m the high-road, and in a few
minutes was in the village. I soon found
a baker's shop, and after purchasing a
plentiful supply of buns and cakes, I ven-
tured to ask the girl who waited upon mo
if she could kindly furnish me with a
drink of milk. She looked at me with
some surprise as I made the request, but
■R-ithout asking any questions brought mo
a large bowl of fresh milk, which 1 thank-
fully received and drank. She took pay
for tho cakes, but for the milk she would
receive nothing. Long years have passed
away since then, but 1 have never forgot-
ten that kind act ; and if jirayers of mine
are of any avail, that generous girl has
received the smiles and tho blessings of
Heaven.

Wonderfully refreshed and strengthen-
ed, I continued my journey, and all tliat
day I walked, not rapidly, but steadily.
I passed tlw niglit under tlie friendly shel-
ter of a h:w stack, and on the following
moniiiig, feeling that 1 was now safe from
pursuit, I sallied out upon the high-road.
Hero I made much better progress than
in the lields, and early in the evening of
my third day as a wanderer, I found my-
self in a flourishing town o!i the banks of
the St. Lawrence. I passed the night in
a tavom. and on the following morning
crossed the river; and for tiie tirst time in
my life sot foot upon foreign soil !

The town in which I ft>und myself was
then, and still is a thriving place in tho

State of New York. Here I determined
to seek for employment. I had a good
education, was a strong, healthy boy, and
had every confidence in being able to do
for myself, could I once get a start in any
business, I cared not what.

I had cast myself upon the world of my
own free will ; I had my own fortune to
make, and whether that fortune should be
good or bad, depended entirely upon
what use I might put myself to in the
future. That I should do something to
support myself was absolutely necessary,
as my stock of ready money amounted to
but a few dollars, and when that was gone
I would be left penniless. While it last-
ed, therefore, and while I could present a
respectable appearance, was the time for
me to seek employment.

Putting up at a cheap hotel, I at once,
and with a brave heart, proceeded to look
for something to do. For two days I
wandered over the town. I entered stores
and shops, and offices, and with all the
boldness I could assume asked if they
wanted a boy. Some answered me crossly,
others carelessly, and a few kindly; but
from all I received the same answer in
substance, and that was that they "did
not want a boy."

I never waited for a second answer, nor
pleaded poverty as an excuse for my look-
ing for work, but silently turned away,
and applied elsewhere. It was always the
same, and after two days diligent enquiry
I was about giving up in despair, when
Providence threw me in the way of em-
ployment, which, humble though it was,
I gladly embraced.

At the time of which I am now speak-
ing a large trade was done in buying
cattle in the northern and western portions
of the Stateof New York, and driving them
to the large cities, where they were sold
and slaughtered. This it must be remem-
bered, was before the great prairies of the
far west were settled, and before Canada
became a cattle expt)rting coimtiy.

At the hotel at which I was stopping,
were several of these drovers, one of whom
had a large herd of cattle on hand, with
which ho was about starting to Boston.
Hearing him inquire for persons to assist
him in driving his cattle, 1 applied to him
for work, fooling that anything, however
huniblo, was better than idlono.is. Ha
seemed surprised that a lad of my appear-
ance should seek such an occupation.

"You dim't look like a boy as know
nnich about work," he said, eyeing me
closely.

•'I have never v.-orkod in my life," I
answered, "but I fool th.it it i.s time to
begin."

" What would your people say to it i"
ho asked.

MY OWN STORY.

" I have no friends to consult," I re-
plied, " I have no one to please but my-
self. I ni'idi do somethinj;; to eani a liv-
ing, and BO long as it is honest, I care not
what it may be."

"Well, driving cattle's honest enough,"
ho said, with a laugh, "though it aint the
most respectable business in the world.
But we don't much mind the matter of
respectability in this country of ours, so
long as the darned thing pays. Now, you
look like as if you had been well brought
up ; but if, as you say you are poor and
want work, why como along. You may
M well drive cattle as do anjiihing else."

He was a rough, off-hand, though good-
natured Yankee, and engaged me on the
spot, agreeing to give a small sum per day,
while 1, on my part, agreed to remain
with him until the cattle were delivered
in Boston market. On the following day,
in company with my emi)loyer and throe
others, I started for Boston behind a large
drove of cattle.

Of the vast net-work of railways which
now spreads over the continent, only a
few links had then been formed. Some
of these ran into Boston, and by the shortest
practicable route wo drove our herd to a
town through which a rdilway ran, and
there shipped the cattle for the city. We
were nearly three weeks, however, in
reaching the railway town, and even after
that nearly another week elapsed before
we arrived in Boston. Once there, my
employer succeeded in disposing of his
stock without much delay; I was paid oil',
and with a few dollars in my pocket, I
once more found myself cast upon the
world.

In a great city like Boston, I felt sure
I would experience little difficulty in pro-
curing empl(.>yment. I was very hopeful,
and Ijuilt up bright castles in the air, as I
thought about the future and of what I
might become. Ahxs, for all my expecta-
tions. I sought employment everywhere
and at everytliing, but without success.
Day after day I tnidged around the city
and each night returned to my lodging,
sorro-ivful and dejected. By degrees my
little stock of money melted away. Then
I pawned the few valuables I possessed;
and at last, one dark, stormy night, I was
turned upon the street because I could no
longer pay for my lodgings and my food.

How bitter were my feelings that night
as I wandered throuj.h the almost deserted
streete. How my conscience charged me
with rashness and folly in running away
as I had done, and how I wished I were
back at school again, even were Dr.
Baker's cruelties ten times increased. I
thought of my dear old home, and in my
heart I longed for it. I thought of that
little room of mine ever waiting to receive

me, and of Polly's outstretched arms,
which would never clasp me more. I
thought of the village church upon the
hill at Sebly, where I learned to form my
infant lips in prayer. I thought of the
grassy mounds behind it, beneath which
my father and my mother slept, and in
my heart of hearts I wished that I were
sleeping there too. O, that night — that
dreary, bitter night ! Surely ii was punish-
ment enough for all the wrongs I had
committed.

After wandering around for nearly an
hour, I sought shelter from the storm in
a porch, the door of which I found open.
Crouching down in a corner, I sat there
with my head upon my knees, shiveriag
with cold, dripping with rain, and weep-
ing as I had never wept before.

I had not been there long when some
one else came in. Trembling with cold
and fear I looked up, and by the flickering
light of the gas lamp I saw that the new
comer was a lad of about my own age.
His whole appearance told mo at once
that ha was an arab of the street. His
clothes were old and much too large for
him. He wore a shoe on one foot and a
long boot on the other ; while his head
was covered with a cap evidently a cast-
off contribution from some fashionable
gent. Though dripping with wet, and
shivering like myself, he did not appear
to mind it much, but stood in the porch,
knocking his feet together, and humming
the air of a popular song of the time.

"Hallo, youngster," ho exclaimed, as
his eyes fell \ipon me. "What are you
doing here ? "

"The same as you," I answered. "Shel-
tering myself from the storm."

"Where do you live?"

"Nowhere."

"Phew," ho exclaimed, with a long
whistle. "Live on the streets, eh'/"

"Yes "

"No home at all!"

"No; I'm a stranger here."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing."

"Phew," he exclaimed again, "do
nothing, and live nowhere's — that's wag-
rancy." "Do yer know what a wagrant
is!"

"Yes?"

"Do yer know what they do with 'em!"'

"No."

"When they catch 'eni they sends 'em
off to quad."

"Where's quad!" I asked.

"Oh, my eye, my eye, what a igrant
chap yer must be ! not know where ([uad
is. Why quad's limbo, an' limbo's the
prison. Now do yer know f "

"Yes."

"If they catches you, off to quad they

MY OWN STORY.

walks you, an' there tlioy keeps you juBt
as lout; lis they likes. Aint thut nicot"
"1 <lon'tkiU)W," I iiiiswuruil, ''buteven

1)riai)n wcmkl be bettor than this. I would
lavo a dry place tu sleep in, an' that's
what 1 now hiivo not."

"Sure enough youvrould, that's sartain.
But what's the use of yo'i roostin' Jiero I
If a star comes along an' sees yer, he'll
r.ab yer, an' th.'vt'U bo the last of yor out- |
d(jor fun for some time, I can tell yer." j

"I don't care if they do nab me," I said i
in a reckless way. "I'fe got no iiomo to I
go to— no friends to help me, and would |
I not be much better in j)rison than wan- i
di-riug around the streets in this wretched ]
way !"

"Poor devil," ho said, in a tone expres-
sive of a certain amount of conuniseration,
"yer aint been long enough on the streets,
that's sartain. Stand up and let's look
at yer!"

I was on the point of telling him to
mind his own business and leave me alone,
■when 1 remembered he had spoken in
nothing but kind terms to luc, and that,
consequently, it was my duty to treat him
in the same way. I therefore arose from
my crouching jiosition and stood at his
side in the stream of murky gas-light that
entered through the open door. His hair
was long and uncombed, and the rain
dripped from it and fell upon his shoulder.
His face was sunb>irnt and weather-beaten,
but tile features were regular and expres-
sive of nuich intelligence. His eyes were
blue and bright, and beamed with good-
nature. He was a rough looking boy in
appearance; but I saw at a glance that
circumstances and not nature had made
him so.

We looked at each other in silenca for
a few moments, and as I read something
of the workings of his mind, I was not
sorry that I had so singularly met him.

"Poor boy I — poor boy!" ho said, pla-
cing his hand upon my shoulder, •while at
the same moment a shade of Siidness,
mixed with pity, spread over his face ;
"it's easy to see that you ain't used to
this sort of thing. You ain't Ijoen a
■wagrant all your days — that's sartain !"

"Indeed I have not," I answered.

" Where did you come from 1"

"Canada."

' ■ Canada ! Where's that i"

"3Iany hundred miles from this ; jiway
to the north."

' ' G'rackey ! what a long distance. What
made you leave there 1"

"I ran away because I waa cruelly
treated."

"Have you no friends at all in Bos-
ting r

"No ; nor any place else. I have no
friends in the world. They are all dead."

"Poor boy!— poor boy! I'm sony for
you ;" and he patted me on tho shoulder
in a friendly way. Then looking earnestly
into my face, ho coutinued, " I know how
to feel for you, 'cause I ain't got no home,
nor friends neither. Pro got use to it now
though, for it's an old thing with me ; an'
I manages to jiush along one way or
another, an' make tho world give mo a
livin', such as it is. But witli you it nnist
be hard lines, 'cause you're a stranger, an'
don't know how to pick up a livin' as we
city boys do. What's yor name I"

"Harry Hardy."

' ' Mine's Gasher. It ain't my right one,
I spose, but it's what the other chaps calls
me, an' tho cmly one I answers to. I'm
glad I como in this stoop to-night ; for if
1 hadn't 1 wouldn't have met you. This
ain't no place for you to .sleep, Harry ;
you'd die hero 'fore mornin'. I want yer
to come with mo. I ain't got much of a
place to take yer to, but it's better'n this.
I know what it is to sleep in a stoop on
such a night. Come along, an' I'll give
yer a roof over-head anyway, an' tho best
half of a shake-down, such as it is."

I was deeply affected by his kind ofter,
and the rough delicacy with which it was
made ; but 1 hesitated for a moment as to
whether I should accept it or not.

"Don't hold back," he continued, put-
ting his arm through mine, and loading
mo from the porch. "I wouldn't make
the ofl'er if 1 didn't mean it. Gasher ain't
one of that sort. I just turned in tliere to
get out of the wet for a minit. It ain't
rainin' so hard now, an' I guess a little
duckin' won't spoil neither of us, anyhow.
So come along, an' I'll soon lodge you in
'Mother Cutter's College.'"

Without further hesitation I accompa-
nied him, and Jis we hurried down the
damp and slippery street, I attempted to
thank him for his great kindness.

"Get (Hit!" he cried, interrupting mo.
" Wo wagrants don't know nothin' about
thanks. I know yor moan it all well, old
feller ; but thanks is one on 'em things we
don't give nor ax fur nuthin'. Ycni'll find
that (3ut arter a while. Don't say no more
about it, but como along. It's gittin'
mighty late, I can tell yer, an' there's
another big shower over there that'll be
spoilin' our good clothes purty soon if we
don't hurry up."

CHAPTER IX.

MOTHER CUTTEK's COLI.EOK.
OF THK \MIEEL.

I ill

A TURX OF

After passing through several of those
winding streets fc:>r which Boston is pecu-
liar, Ga,sher and I entered upon a long.

MY OWN STORY.

I Ji

narrow, poorly lighted thornnghfaro, one I
end of which wiis noar old Faiiuoil Hall,
and tho other lost in alloy ways and tuni- |
bled down tunonients. Tliis was Ann
Btroet, a famous or rather infamous local-
ity at the time of which I speak. It still,
I believe, retains all its bad features,
thougli its name has been changed. We
proceeded along this for three or fo\ir
hundred yards, and then turned into a
large, ricketty looking building.

"This," my companion remarked, "is
Mother (Jutter's College. It aint the
nicest place in l»osting, not by no means;
but it comes handy tt) fellers like mo who
aint got no bettor home to live in."

We passed through a dark passage and
entered a large, dirty room, tho only light
in which was that given out by a flickering
fire on tho hearth. There were four
or Hvo urchins of about my own age
seated on tho Hoor, and as we entered
they gi'eotcd (Jasher with a shout of wel-
couK', which told mo at (jnce that he was
no stranger there, nor was wanting in
popularity. They looked at mo with
much wonder and curiosity.

'•Where's Mother Cutter/" Gasher
asked, as we approached tho group,

"Gone to roost," one of the lads
replied.

" She's growin' mighty keerful of her-
self," Gasher said ; and then .after a pause
he asked, "Is there many fellers here
to-night.'

" House full," was the short answer.

" Aint there no shaked-downs left i"

" Nai'V one ; we fellers come in jest too
laH^an' the soft side oi Mother Cutters'
floor is all the bed we'll get this night,
though I guess its jest about as good as a
shakedown anvw.ay."

Gasher looked annoyed and disap-
jiointed, and turning to me he said —

" I'm sorry, wo was to late. Yon hear
what these chaps says. There aint n<:)
oeds left. We're under cover though, an'
that's better'n the open street. If yer
can't stand the lloor jest say so an' I'll
jerk some of the fellers out an' give j'ou
their bed in less than no time."

I assured him that the floor would
answer (juite well, and retpiested him not
to disturb any of his companions on my
accoinit. He then stirred up tho fire, put
on another log of wood, and giving me
the vi'armest corner, we sat down with the
others.

As I looked around me I remembered
the old saying, hero literally exemplified,
that " poverty brings us strange bed-fel-
lows." The boys among whom I found
myself were dirty, miserably clad, vicious
looking fellows; and T was not many min-
utes in their company until I found that
their morals were as bad as their appear-

■ince. Wicked as I know T was, I folt
myself an angol in com|)arison with them.
Their language was tilled with oaths and
low expressions, and they seemed to vio
with each other in their blasphemy. I
w;is pained and shocked, and wished my-
self on tho street again, which, though
cold .^nd uncharitable, was infinitely butter
than the den of wickedness in which I was.
I look uneasily around me, and tried not
to hear what was being said ; but I could
not close my ears nor carry my attention
away. Gashor saw my uneasiness and
divining at once the cause he said —

"I wish you fellers would shut up. If
yer want to talk go some whero'u else.
I'm mighty tireil and want to go to sleep;
but Deaf .Jack coidd'nt sleep in this noise."
They evidently feared him for some good
reason, as they waited for no second com-
plaint; but settling themselves into as com-
fortalile positions as possible, soon dropped
ofi' to sleep. In a few minutes tho heavy
breathing of them all told me that I was
the f)nly one awake in the ivparhnent. I
sat gazing in the fire, debating in my mind
whether I should steal out again to tho
street:), or remain Avliere I was for the
night. As I thought the matter over a
heavy drowsiness crept upon me, and I
soon lost myself in sleep.

It was broad day light when I a\rokc.

Gasher and another lad were sitting near

mo, but tho rest were gone, and the noiso

i over-head shov,-ed that the other inmates

i of the house were awake and stirring.

i "Well, old feller, hi>w did yer make it

1 go !" Gasher asked, as SDon as ho .saw that

I was awake.

"Pretty well, tliank you," I answered,

as I ar.ise and stretched myself. I felt

! .stifl'and sore and dirty; but ho had boon

j so kind to lue that I coulil not tell him so.

' "It was'nt a ver}- soft place for a

! snooze," ho said, v.'ith a laugh, "but it

was the best I could do for you, an' when

a feller does that lie can't do no more.

Come and have a wash, an' a little cur-

ryiii' up, and then we'll see v.hat's the

elianccs for a mornin' snack."

I bathed my face and head in some
water in an old tin basin in one corner of
tho room, and drio<l myself as best I could
on a very dirty rag, wliich, at some
former period of its history, had evi-
dently l)een a towel. Gasher did the
same, and then we sallied forth.

" We might have got something to eat
from Mother Cutter,' he said, "but yer
aint nsed to tho kind of gi-ub she keeps,
an' I guess it 'nd onlj' make yer sick. I
know a place where they keep better stufT.
Come along."

As I walked at his side I attempted to

thank him for his kindness, l)ut he would

I not listen to ine. Ho said in his rongh

MY OWN STORY.

■way tliat T wnw lii« gtie«t, iind must net
thdiik liiiii for wliiit lie felt Hiii'o 1 WdiiKl
do for him utidcr xiiiiilai' circiimiitaiiccH.
Tlic'ii wo euturud a bukei'H hIkhi, and he
invented Homo f»;w cents in meiit pios aiid
cakes, whicli he shftrod witli iiiu ; ami tliuH
wo made our hrcakfist.

" And now," lio Hiiid, Hi wo liuisliud o\ir
repast, "I must Ic.ivo you for iv whilo;
Oftslier aint yot ii very good iiiimo, iiii' it
wouldn't do you mucli good to be scon
with him. I must (^'<i and iiicL up Hume
cents iiH best I can, iia' you had better go
an' look for some honest work. You aint
one of us, an' I don't wan I; to see yor join
us neithur. We're a bad lot, and not the
kind of company for such as yoii. Do all
you can to get a place, no matter what,
Bo long as it keejiH yoti od' the street, for
the street, Harry, is a bad place, an' no
feller knows it better'n (! usher. You
know where the Common is / Well, I'll
meet you there near the (dd elm about
dark, to-night, an' if you uint got nothin'
to do by that time, I'll help you on the
best way I know how. (>ood-byeold felkr,
un' don't forget the Cununon i'.t dark."

Before I could reply ho shot ui> a dark
alley, and was out of sight in a few mo-
ments. Tiie kind, generous fellow, rough
and luicultivated as he was, was to(j noble
to wait for thanks, though at that moment
.1 could have clasped him in my arms, as
if he had been my brother.

I spent the dav in WMidoring around
tlie city in search of employment, but
without success. Towards evening, with
a heavy lieart, I sauntered into the Com-
mon, there to meet my friend, for such
indeed had he proved himself.

It was a pleasant, beautiful afternoon,
and the warm sun having dried up the
rain of the j)revious night, the old Connnon j
looked bright and clieerful. There were
many peraons sauntering through it, en- I
joying tliemsclves (piietly after the labours i
of the day, and in my lieart 1 envied them I
their happiness. !

Attracted b\' the merry sh(juts of a ;
group of boys at j'lay, I a,pjiroached them
and looked on, tliinking .'sadly of my own j
happy days at school ; for happy, indeed,
they seemed in comparison with my pres-
ent forlorn and outcast condition. Leanins;
against a tree 1 watched them, thougli
tJicy took no notice of me ; and as I looked
upon their smiling faces, and heard their
ringing laughter and shouts of glee, my
heart swelled as if it v.-ould burst. A few
short weeks ago I had been like tlmse
boys, happy, cheerful and contented, and
riow I was a wanderer, a vagrant, without
home, friends or kindred — cast upon the
Cold charity of the world ; alone in the midst
of strangers. Oh 1 how my heart ached,
and how I again regretted my mad folly.

I had been Btandinj^thusfor nearly half
aa hour, I suppose, when u poor blind
man canio along, led by a faithful do;;,
that guided his steps into plaoew of safe-
ty. After panning a few minutes and
fueling around him with his stick, ho sat
down on the grass a few yards dintant
from mo. As soon as the boys saw him
they gave up their innocent sports, and
gathering around him, l>egan to annoy him
with heartless jests. They shouted around
him and teased him in many ways, and
finally one of them cut tlie cord with
which the dog was tied, and by their wild
shouts frightened the faithful animal away.
The poor old man bore all their annoyan-
ces with meekness. Once or twice ho
uttered a mild word of complaint, and by
a sorrowful smile seemed to b(!g of them
to leave him alone ; but they heeded him
not. He rebuked them in no sterner way,
but when he felt that his faithful guide
and companion was gone, big tears tilled
into his sightless eyes, and stealing silently
down his wrinkled cheeks, were lost in his
long, grey beard. When 1 saw these unite
evidences of the aflHcted man's sorrow, I
could restrain my feelings no longer —
Walking quietly up to the group of boys,
1 said very calmly,—

" Boys do you see that this old man is
blind '{ If you do not resjiect him in his
.alHction, respect at least his grey hairs.
Look at what you have done. Ho has
uttered no rebuke, \ised no harsh word ;
but do you see those tears on his cheeks
which your heartless conduct has brought
there? IShame on you to treat one so
heavily afilictod, in this cruel manner."

Host of them stole guiltly away as if
thoroughly ashamed of tliemselves ; but
some few of the larger ones remained,
and wanted to know what right I had to
intcrfero with them.

"1 have this right," I auswercMl, " that
this old man is blind and helpless, iind
it is my duty to guard him from your
cruelty."

" And do you intend to say that you
can stop us i" one of them .asked.

" I intend to say that I can try," I an-
swered, growing more angry every mo-
ment. " I give you due notico that I will
thr.iah the lirst one of you who annoys this
old man again. If I caimot do it, I will
call Some of those gentlemen to my assist-
ance, .and teach you that you cannot in-
dulge in such crueltv as this with impu-
nity."

They laughed .at .and jeered me, but I
8to'>d it all calmly, and as they did not
resume their annoyances 1 had no occa-
sion to c.an-y n)y threat into execution.
In a few miiuitiis they departed, and I
was left alone with the <dd man.

"They are all gone now," I said to him,

MV 0\rS STORY.

8»

'•you need foar no further nnnoyftuco from
thc-m."

" Ood Mens you, young sir," ho laid
witli (,'ruat unniustneHi), niid turning liis
sightltins oyen towards nio, "Heaven will
reward yo\i for thiH good act. May you
l>e ti% greatly bluRBed as I am aftlicted."

" I would liko to catch yo\ir di(g for
you," I H.iid, " lie in a Hhort dintance oil'.
l)o you think ho would let iiio aiiproach
himV'

" Thank you, thank you." ho answered,
" ii you speak to him kindly he will follow
you to me."

"Then remain hero for a few moments,"
I said, " and I will bring him to you."

A few kind wurds satislied the faithful
little animal, and, iM.sured ihut I w.ho a
friend, he tmttod after me, until we were
near his master, when ho sprang jnyously
forward and licked his hands, and harked
118 if to tell him of his return.

"Heaven will l)le88 you for this my
boy," the blind man said, as I tied the
dog's tord and assisted him to rise. " An
old m.'in's blessing is all I can give, and
from my heart I Moss yon Goil does not
forget those who help tlu' 'or and afflict-
ed, and for this act you sliall ho remem-
bered. God bless you ! God bless j'ou!"
And, guided by his faithful dog, he moved
fllowly aw.'iy, muttering prayers for my
}uii>piness and prosperity.

As 1 was standing looking after him, a
brisk, active little old gentleman advanced
towards me, and, stretching out his hand,
said abruptly —

" Young man, what is your name ?"

" Harry Hardy, sir," I replied, looking
timidly at tlio gentleman.

" Well, Master Harrj' Hardy," ho con-
tiniied, "I want to shake your hand,"
and suiting the action to the word he
took my hand and shook it warmly. " I
have been looking on," he added, "at all
that has occurred. You are a good boy.
You acted nobly in befriending that poor
blind man, and I could not go away with-
out telling you so. The jiarents -who
reared you should bo proud of their son,
as I have no doubt they are. Where do
they live ? "

Instead <:>f answering the question, I
looked <lown, not knowing what to say.

"Pardon me," he stiid kindly, "I do
not wish to pain you ; but from your
silence J. judge that your parents are
dead."

"Yes, sir," I answered in a low tone,
"they are."

"And you live with some friends," he
continued, " Uncle or imnt maybe I "

" No, 8ir,"l replied, " 1 have no friends
in the Avorld."

" What ! not ono ?"

" Not one sir ; I am alone."

I " But wliero is ycmr homo I Where do
you live? Surely a boy of your good
I (lunlities cannot bo caat upon the world
I without a friend !"

I "The only home I over know, iir, i»in
I Canada. Iiere I am a stranger."

" Dear me, this is nmst extraordinary.

A boy of your apjiearanco and evident

goodness in such a predicament. It's most

I ningular. What do you do for a living ("

i " .Simie I left home I have worked until

! recently. lam now out of employment,

I though' I have spent many days in seeking

it."

I "I am Buro you have. From what I
have seen of you 1 df) not think you would
willingly remain in a state of idloness.
Your case is most painful — no home, no
friends, and no work. Most unhappy
po.sition to he placed in." He was silent
for a moment, and then resumed, " You
seem a sharp, intelligent boy. I think
something can bo made out of you. Aro
yo\i willing to try I"

"Indeed I am,'sir," I eagerly answered,
" I will do anything honest, I caro not
what it is, for a living."

" That's right— that's the proper spirit
—that's what I like. It is nearly dinner
hour now, and I have no time to spare.
IJut here's my curd — .lohn Quincey Jam-
by, of Jamby & J ubb, Washington street,
every one knows our house. Call there
to-morrow morning, between ten and
eleven, and we will talk these affairs of
yours over and see what can bo done.
Good-bye now, good bye. Master Hardy.
Helping that blind man has gained you a
friend, who will try to prove that he is
such. Good-bye," and after shaking my
hand again he w.alked quickly away.

A few minutes later Gasher made his
apjiearance. He w.is delighted when he
heard of my adventures, and pictured all
sorts of bright things for my future, as wo
walked awaj together. That night I
shared Gashers' shake-down, in Mother
Cutter's College.

CHAPTER X.

MBSSRS. JAMBY XNT> JVhB.

On the following morning I was up
early, and with the assistance of Gasher
succeeded in brushing up my clothes and
cleaning myself, so as to present some-
thing like a respectable appearance. My
nu)rning meal was made at a bakery, and
consistetl of a few cakes, provided, as
before, by my staunch young friend of the
street. He seemed as proud of me, and
as interested in my welfare as if he had
known me from inf.ancy, and as we parted
he wished mo every success, in his own

MY OWN STOUY.

rough way, to lio Hiiro, but none the losft
honuHtly and Hincurcly.

Ijoii^' hufiiro tht) »[>ii<iiiitii(\ h<>nr I had
found tlio liDUni) of Juiiihy tt Julih. It
waa IV Inrjfi! whuluwilo ilry Koodn oHtaliliiih-
niont, on Wiuiliinifton Htreut, and from itn
external aiipu.iraiiuo I was convinwMl that
Oanhor had not huon mistaken in Haying
that Mr. J,'ind)y waa ono of tlio yreut niur-
chantH iif M.mton.

Slmrtly aftiT ton o'chick T oponod tho
door, anil with a trond)lint{ heart entunid.

" Is Mr. Jand)y in /" I askod of a young
man who wan vury hunily ongagod in tying
up Homo pat 'h.

" YoH,' wan lio ri'ply. "Aro you tho
youm< man who was to call on }iim tliis
morning / "

" Ye«," [ answered, ''last evening ho
reipiested mo to call hero this nior"ing
hotween ten and eleven o'clock."

"All right, eoiiu) this way. Mr. .l.'vnihy
left Word that I was to take you in im soon
ns yi'ii v.'ime," Haying \irhich ho led mo
along the store, and opening a d'lor
loading intr) a private otlico at the further
end, announced my arrival.

"Mr. Jamby," ho said, "hero';j tho
yoting man you o.fpected."

"Tlio young man! oh, yes, crtainly, I
remember. Allow him to come in. .\nd
how is my noble young friend of the Com-
mon)" ho asked, advancing to meet me
and shaking my hand warmly.

1 assured liim that I was ([uito well, and
then ho ofleredme a seat, and after telling
the young man not to disturl) him mitil
he had coiioliided his conferenuo with me,
ho sat down and looked earnestly at nio
for a few moments in silence.

"I boJieve you told me that your name
is Hardy!" he said, breaking the silence.

"Yea, sir," I ansivered.

"Well, Master Hardy, nnich as I was
prepossessed in your favor last evening,
I must sa}' that I like you still ))etter this
morning, after tho good look I have had
at you. I bolievo you are an lujiiest, good-
hearted, bravo l)oy, though misfortune or
sometliiiig else has cast you upon the world
in a singular way. What 1 brought you
hero for this morning, and what 1 intend
doing for you, I need not now state. Bo-
fore 1 make any proposition I wish to hear
your story — tho whole of it — remember,
from tho earliest moment of your exist-
ence to the present. JJo as brief as you
can, but at the same time omit no impor-
tant facts, incidents or adventures. Tell
me who and what you are, where and liow
you were reared, who were your parenfs,
under what circumstancea you wei'o edu-
cated, iind in fact all of your life's hi.st(U'y.
I have a deep interest in knowing it, for
it seems to me most extraordinary that a
lad of your appearance and evident wortli

Hhoiilil bo living in nuch u neglected, uso
h'HH way. Tell mo everything freely and
fearloHsly, with the eontident asHuranco
that I am your friend. And will undeuvor
to prove myself such."

Thus proHHod I related niy Htory. I
told him everything that I deemed of the

and of my mother, and of my early, haj)py
davB in tho nlil houio at Sobly, Of doar
old I'olly, and her love for mo. Of my
mother's unhappy step in contracting a
second marriage, and of the trouble and
sorrow which followed. Of my stepfathor'a
cruelty. Of my being sent to school, and
of the ncrsocutions I was there subjected
to. Of Mr. Meeker's kindness, ('harloy
Courtly's friendship, and Dr. Hiker »
harshnoss. Of my e8cai)e from school and
the causes which led thereto. (){ how I
roacheil Jloston. Of my adventures by
tho way, and of all that happened to nio
there. I freely and fearlessly told him
everything, feeling confident that it was
only right that I should do so.

Tho narration was a long one, but ho
listened to me with groat attention tliroiigli-
out ; occasionally loi)king up as if to read
tho truth of my statements in my face ;
though gonerally with his head bowed
forward and his eyes tixed vacantly on tho
tloor.

After I had tinishcd ho looked earnestly
at me for a few moments, and then lean-
ing back in his chair he said —

"And tliis is all ( This is your wholo
story, from tirst to last /"

"It is indeed, sir. I have no djsiro to
conceal even tho most trilling part, nor
have I done so. Yt)U asked mo to tell
you everything, and I have oboyod you."

" I feel sure that you have, Hardy,"
ho answered ; " I rcijiiro no further jiroof
than your own words. Your manner of
telling tho story of your life was honest
and straightforward, and therein lies tho
most Convincing proof of its truth." Ho
hesitated for a moment, and then draw-
ing his chair closer to his desk, ho re-
sumed, " Tliis narrative of yours, my
young friend, is a singular and a sail one.
That you have sull'ered mncli, and that
you have been greatly wronged, I must ad-
mit; but, at the same time, I feel it my
duty to tell you that your action in run-
ning away from school was hasty and im-
proper."

"Ijkiiow I was, sir," it meekly remarked,
" and liad 1 then known as much as 1 now
know, I would not have taken that fool-
ish step."

" Do you feel inclined to return then,
ask pardon for your titlence, and resume
your studies 1" he asked.

" Return to school and ask Dr. Baker's
pardon I " I exclaimed.

Ikn OWN STOUY.

"Yt'i," ho wvitl, " ftiul proniuo to do
bettor ill fiitiiro."

" Mr. .iHiiiliy," I Httid in as calm a tmio
n> I ciiiilil aMHniiii), " 1 liavc (luHorud imicli
BJucu 1 left that Nchnol, hut 1 woiiKl on-
thiro toll tiiiK'H as nmoli, nyo, ovon doath
itsoif, rathor than rotiiin ti> tho iiorsecii
tioim, and astk thu pardon of Dr. Haiior
and my stoii-fatlior.

" lint HiiiipoHing thoy woro to forgive
yon," 111! arynod.

" I can Hiiiiposo nothiny, sir," I con-
tinued, " I dooi)ly, Hincoroly rogrot hav-
ing run away ; hiit now tliat I havo d<>no
BO I will ahido by tho connu<inonco8, hu
thoy what thoy may. Do not think from
thii, sir, that I am Htiii>horn or unforgiv-
ing. I havu no spirit of rosuntmont to-
wards Dr. Kakor, nor JMr. Winstanloy ;
but I would rather dio in tho atroets of
IJo.Hton, than hnmiliato mynolf so miicha.s
to rt-turn and aak thoir foryivonoss. Did
you, sir, know all I havo ondured, you
would not blanio nio for my lirniiioss on
this ])oint."

"Nor do I, my lino follow," ho said
kindly, "1 only say, -m you yourself ad-
mit, that you did wrong in tho lirst phvce.
It is a ]>ainfiil and unfoi-tunato position to
be placed in. And yet, when 1 was your
age, 1 am sure I would havo done tho
Bamo under similar circumstances. I
know you aro not, and never could bo, a
■wilfully bad boy. You have too honest a
face for tliat, and your protection of the
poor old blind man yesterday, shows that
ycjur heart is iif the riglit place. However,
we will let all that i)a38. I will not say
aiiother word against you for your hasty
conduct in running away from school. I
am glad that I met you. A boy of j'our
ago, cast upon the streets of a largo city,
without a helper or a protector, nmst
BiMjuer or later fall into vicious habits,
and become a bad man. Tliat you aro
innocent and uncontaminated as yet, I
honestly believe ; and am willing to assist
in saving you from the conseiiuencea of
sucli a life. Aro you willing to work for
your living /"

" Oil, sir," I exclaimed, " only give nio
a chance, and see how faithfully and how
hard I will toil."

" We will uot ask you to do anything
very hard," he replied, " you have only
to be faithful and dilligent in the dis-
charge of your duties, and you will be
encouraged and helped on in the world."

"I will not promise much sir," I said,
"all I can say is that I will endeavour to
do my best, and to prove myself woi-thy
of your kindness and confidence."

"That's right; those words please me
greatly," ho replied, with an approving
smile. " I do not like to have one pro-
mise too much, especially before he knows

what ho will bo called ui>on to perform.
Youi work, for tho pronent, at lo;uit will
bo light and easily done, and an you ad-
vance and improve, I givo you my word
that you will not bo forgotten, provided
always, that you dhow yourself worthy of
encouragement, which I havo ovory conti-
deiico yoii will."

At that moment I could have gone down
on my knees and thanked him, so grateful
did i feel for his noble kimlnesa.

Mr. .Iiibb, tho junior member of tho
firm, a very tall and vjry thin man, wa.i
then called in, and I was introduced t<i him .

" Thi3,"8aid Mr. Jamby, "is tho young
man of whom 1 spoke to you this morning.
He has told mo his whole story- and iv
very luipleasant ono it is too, JuV)b— and
I havo come to the conclusion to assist
him. Don't you think wo can find room
for him some i)laco in tho house I"

" Yes, I guess we can," Mr. Jubb re-
plied, looking at lue very closely.

" Ho is a promising looking young man,
as you may see, " tho senior partner con-
tinued, "and has received a good educa-
tion, much better than you aiul 1 wore
ever blessed with; eh, .T\ibb/ I havo
every contidence in him, and now consign
him to your keeping. Make with him
whatever arrangements you see tit; and
M ho is a stranger here, and without a
home, let some of the clerks find him a
good Comfortable boarding hou.-io. (Jood
morning, my boy," he added, tuniing to
mo and shaking my hand wurudy, "I
wish you every success, and havo only to
say by way of advice, let your own heart
and conscience bo your guide, and then
y(m will never go astray."

1 thanked him again as well as I could,
and then fullowed JMr. Jubb from tho
room. With that gentleman my arrange-
ments were soon nuvde. He oll'ered mo a
salary which seemed a perfect riiino of
wealth, and I readily accepted it. Then
ho asked me about my affairs, and learn-
ing that 1 had no clothes but those on mo,
he consigned me to the care (jf one of tho
clerks, with instructions that [ should bo
furnished witli whatever 1 stood in imme-
diate need of, and placed in some conve-
nient and comfortable boarding house.
All this was done, and that night I found
myself once more beneath an honest roof,
happy and contented, and with a bright
future in the distance before me.

Ere I lay down 1 did not forget that
there was one above w^lio watches o\er tho
poor, and who is the father of the orphan.
On my knoes I poured out my thanks in;
prayer to Him, and asked for guidance,
and comfort, and strength to sujjport and
assist mo in tho future, and make mo
worthy of tho kindness of tho.so who had
so nobly taken me under their care.

MY OWN STORY.

On tlio following inorninj,' I roiiiiiicncuil
my (lutiui in tlitt luxtio i>f Munnr*. Jiiiitby

4& .lllllll.

At liint Mr. Jnlili tlioujjht ho wmilil put
n>o ill tlio ntHco fur tlui imriHUo of luiirii-
in(( tliu art of IxMikkucpiiig ; l)ut liu
chiiiii^od liiNiiiiiiil iind i>Ihci'(1 iiu> in oiio of
the (U'lwirtnicntM wlioni I wuuld rei-uive n
kn<iwli(l}{i! (if tlm lnmiiu-Hn. To mo it wiw
n iiiiittcr of iiiiliHorcnco uhcro I wivh put.
All i \vaiiti.il wiis tiiipliiyiiiunt, iinil
wluitlior I found it over it stt of liuokii, or
lit tlio hIiuIvoh and I)oxoh, and l)iilo« of
iiiorcluvndizo, I cured not.

Tlio oHtiililiidiniont wti.i mi iiniiionHuune,
mill I now diHoovorod that the rinn did u
A'ery laryo butiinuitt, in «lry goods of all
doicriptioiiH.

1 coiiiiiiuncod my dntien with a liopoful
lu'iirt, mid with tliu dfturmin.ition to work
hard and faithfully, and to rocoivo all tho
inNtruction 1 could. At first overythiinj
Hoomed vory strange to mo, but in tho
conrso of 11 fow d.iys thia fooling W(jro off,
and I bocaiiio accimtomtd to my new posi-
tion. I thought to make luyHolf usuful in
ovury way, and ;iUo to improvo niysolf lui
rapidly as iifiHsiiile.

Ill my Sparc hours in tho evtMiing, I
occasionally saw Gaslior. Ho continuod
to live as he had always lived, though lie
frotiuontly expressed the wish tli.at fortune
would open somo door for liiiii, whereby
ho might enter upon an honest and hon-
orable calling. With my success tho poor
fellow was lieartily well pleased. His
congratulations and wishes wero framed
in rough, idain words ; but they were
earnest iiiul honest, and camo from his
manly lieart freely and openly. His
friendship for me was most remarkablo.
Ho was ever delighted to meet mo, and yot
so afraid was ho that my being seen with
liim might occasion me trouble, that ho ab-
Bolutely refused to remain with me longer
than a few minutes at a time. As a street
arivb, known t(j the police, he felt that it
was not right that one occupying my
position should bo seen in liis company.

"It aint jest the thing," ho would say.
" Every star in Hosting knows Gaslior,
an' if you was seen often with me, that
good old liulTer, yer bcss, might hear on it,
and yer might get into trouble 'bout it.
I likes to see yer mightily, but I'd sooner
never nee you at all than have things go
wrong and get bust up on my 'count."

I had to do as he v.iBhed. Much against
my will, for I was greatly attached to him
on account of the kindness he had shown
me, I W.1S compelled to restr.iin my feel-
ings, and see him only occasionally, and
then for not more than a few minutes at
a time.

Two months passed away, and as I was
entering upon my third month in my new

cftlliiiK, Mr. Jambyono morning sent wonl
that hu wished to sou me in hi» other.

•'Hardy,"ho said a* I entered tho room,
"you have been with mo iiow for two
inontliH, and I cannot tell you how greatly
ploascfl I am to hear from Mr. .lulili, that
you have beuti faithful and ])ainitakini{,
and that you aro rapidly acquiring a know-
Icdgo of hUHinesK."

" [ have endeavored to do my duty,
sir," I answered, " and uiigi-ateful indeeil
would I bo if I did not by every means in
my power, try to show my thankfulness
for your gonerous treatment."

"In this business. Hardy, and, in fact,
in any busiiiLss," he coiitinuoil, "tho
humbioHt may raise himself to the highest
position, if he bo faithful, honest, and
diligent. So far you havo been all of
thoHO, and I havo every contidenco that if
you continue as you havo begun, you will
and must succeed. I sent for you this
morning simply for tho purpose of giTing
you these fow words of oncouragonicnt,
and ill order to exjiross to you tho gratifi-
cation and pleivsuro I feel at tho manner
in which y<iii havo so far conducted your-
self."

"Indeed, sir, I am very thankful to
you," I muttered.

"Do y(ju fool contented in your posi-
tion / Are you pleased with tho busi-
ness /■'

" I am most hajjpily situated, sir —
thanks to your kindness ; and do not think
I could engage in anything more pleasing
to me."

"I am glad to hear it," ho said ; "con-
tentment, Hardy, is a blessing few of us
enjoy, though it is my opinion that if wb
aro without it, it is more our own fault
than anyone else's."

Ho paused, and looked thoughtfully
down at the floor. Ho remained thus for
several minutes, when I felt that it was a
favourable ojiportunity of speaking to him
•ibout something that had been on my
mind for several days.

" Mr. Jamby," I said, "it may appear
bold and presumptuous on my part, after
all that you have done for me, to ask a
further favour at your haiuls, but there is
one which I feel it almost a duty to beg of
you."

"Out with it, my boy," ho said cheer-
fully; "if it is right and proper — and I
know you would ask no other — I will give
it a go(xl recejjtion."

"In telling you my history, sir," I re-
sumed, "I think I spoko of the kindness I
received from a boy named Gashor. "

"Yes ; you mentioned something about
him."

"He is a poor, plain street boy, Mr.
Jamby, but he has been a good friend to
me, — after you, sir, the best I have knowa

MY OWN SToUY.

■inoa n>y in»)th«»r «lioil. Ho in I'^norunt
and riin;{)i, Imt I am Hiiru lio ik honuit. iviul
)iaN a uiMitl lioart. Hi* |ircaont iikxIu of
living II Olio of iiiicuaiity, not of choico.
Liko iiiyiolf, liu in alomi in thu \vorl(l,
with iiuiiu to hul|) litiii. ilu long* to earn
hia iiviiiit hoiiuatly and honourulilv, Ijut
can Kut nothiiiif to do. Might I ivak you,
air, to iiau your intliiunuo in his hohiilft
Ho in willing to work at anything, no innt-
tur what, ho long nn it ia iturinaiiunt, and
and will givu him food and ulothing. Ho
in unodnciitcd, hut ouuld ho procure work
lio might hoard with nio aiul I could in-
■tnict itiid impiovo iiim. Hu di<l not uak
niu to do thiH, air. I aciik your aaHiatance
ill hia hchalf without hia knowluduu. I
I imiy 1)0 wrong, Mr. .lanihy, hut I owo
Oaaher much, and you uro tho only friend
to whom [ can apply."

"I atlmiro your conduct, Hardy, in thus
romnmht'ring thia hoy'a kindnoHa," Mr.
Janih^ replied, "and though I cannot
promiao to do anything for him, you may
tell him to cull hero to-morrow morning
and I will talk to him. Those street hoys
uro very had, though this one may prove
an o.\ception. You can go now."

On tho following morning Oasher ap-
peared, all hruahed up|and looking as well
as I could make him look. Mr. Jamby
had a long talk witli him, and the result
of it was that on tho following day Oasher
was duly installed as an assistant in the
packing department. That night he was
tho hajipicst creature in the world.

CHAPTER XI.

ANOTUEU TUU.V OF TUB WHBKL.

From that date I entered upon a new
existence. 1 had all that I could wish for,
and was happy and contented witli my
position. My labors were neither dith-
cult nor (merotis, and as I worked heartily
and with diligence, I rapidly improved and
became daily more usefid to myself and
my emjiloyera. During working hours 1
was always to bo found at my post, and
my evenings were spent at home. Oasher
and 1 lived together very comfortably with
a kind old dame, who could not have treat-
ed us better had she been our mother. In
accordance with my promise to Mr. Jamby
I undertook the education of Oasher.
Never was there a more willing student,
nor a more anxious teaclier. In addition
to his kindness to me, in days gone by,
which was of itself a warm incentive, I
felt an unaccountable interest in his wel-
fare, and was never more happy than when
.assisting liim witli his studies. It was,
indeed, a labor of love. Ho had quick
perception, a retentive memory', and on

I tho whide a clear, fine intolloot. It had

boon ao long neglected, however, that at

I fti-at ho leanuMl with <li(lleulty, but aa h»

I advanced thia wore olf and hia mind began

to grow anil exoand, and ijuickly received

and permanently retained inatruction. He

made really lapid atridea in learning, ao

I much ao, that even Moaars. Jamby &

Jubb noticed it with aurnriaoand pleasure.

Wo wore very hai)py, but in tho midat of

all our happineaa there was one groat cauao

of sorrow to both of us, but eaia'cially to

(Jaaher. He was, aa it were, alone in tint

world. He had kind friends, to be aure,

in myaelf and ouremployera ; hut of him-

aolf he knew nothing.

"Wlin wt«liUr*tii«r>
Viho wan lil«ijicitli«r?

IIuil hu ilNtiirT
llud Ik a lirotliiir?"
Were ((uoationa frequently askod, but
never answered. In a meaauru I was in
a similar c<mdition. J, too, was alono in
the world ; l)ut then I had the melan-
choly satisfaction of knowing that, away
in a (juiet country village in Canada, wore
tho gravea <jf thoao I had loved and lost.
I know who and what I was ; and, thougli
witliout a living relation, I could look
back to my younger days and recall tho
happiness of my old home at Sebly. I
had a name that I know was mine, and 1
had recollections that were dearer still.

With poor Oasher it wa« veiy different.
His birth, his friends, his name, all were
unknown to him. His earliest recollec-
ions were of scenes of vice, and want, and
misery ; and his oidy companions, up to
tho time when he and I met, wore the
Arabs of the streets, and the fre<iuonter»
of dens of crime. That there was sofne
mystery connected with his birth, and that
he had had at some time friends who loved
him, seemed evident, from the fact that ho
had in his possession a small minaturo of
a young and very beautiful woman. This
hung around his neck, and had been
there as long as ho could remember. On

the back of it wa.s written the w(jrdH

" My boy, retiiin this alwiiyti." This was
all. This was the only means ho liad of
tracing out his friends in tho future, and
of leaniing who aiul what ho Wius. It was
a very slight thread, to bo sure, but itgivo
us great hope ; and we lived on in tho
anxious and coutidont expectation that
some day, when we least looked for it,
events would frame themselves into such
a shape as would enable us to clear up tho
mystery, and tell us wiio and what Oasher
was.

Three years passed away— yeai-s that
were full of hope, and prosperity, and

happiness. We were no longer boys

Oasher and I— occupying subordinate
positions in the great house of Jamby and.
Jubb. We were men now. Men who

:38

MY OWN STORY.

through our own exertions, and througli
tho geuercjsity of nur einiiloyci'H, liiwl
Wf)rkeil ourselvcH onward iindui)\v!ird into
positions of trust and rusiionsibility. Wo
connncnced at tho very foot of the ladder,
and mounted it round l>y round, and step
by step, very 8h)wly at tirst, Init none the
less surely. We never lost an .advance-
ment once gained. As opportunities oc-
curred wo were promoted, and with each
promotion came increased omoluments,
and additional resjjonsihilities, of which
Ave did all in our power to prove ourselves
worthy, it was o\ir pride and our en-
deavour to do our duties faithfully and
well, and to show our employers that wo
dec])ly felt their noble conduct, .and that
we sought constantly to serve their inter-
ests tirst, in preference to f)ur <Avn.

Gasher was so changed that his old
friends of Mother Cutter's College could
not have recognized him. He ivas a
handsome, gentlemanly looking fellow, of
whom I was very i.roud as a pupil of my
own rearing. 1 ediicated him to the full
extent of my cap.-vbilities, and after that
we liotli imjiroved ourselves greatly, and
added to our general knowledge by ex-
tensive reading and study. He Avas now
not only as well able as myself to occupy
any ordinary position in life ; but in addi-
tion to this, his line appearance, easy
manners, and open, graceful bearing,
made him a great favorite in soci.al circles.
He invariably made a good impression
wherever he ajipearcd. He was known
to the world as Gasher Adams. The latter
name Avas given by Mr. Jamby. The
former he also wished to change, but Avas
overruled by Gasher and my.'ielf. Though
tho name Avas not very elegant, Ave both
admired it on account of its associations.
It ivas tho name 1 lirst know him by, and
I strongly opimsed the proposition to
change it ; being supported therein by
Gasher himself. Jlr. Jamby gave in to
us, and Gasher retained liis old, odd
name.

We had been in tho establishment of
Messrs. .Jamby ct -Fubb several years
Avlien an important cliaiige occurred. I
occupied a position in the house second
only to tliat of the proprietors, and Gasher
Avas but a stei> or two beneath me. We
Avcre in the receipt of good salaries and
had CA'ery comfort Ave could desire ; in
addition to Avliich we had tho con.tidence
and esteem of the tirni, and the goiid Avill
of those Avith Avhoui in our early business
days ATc ;iss"ciated.

One evening as Ave Avere about closing
the labors of tho day Mr. Jamby met me
in the oiiice.

"I was just on the louk out for you,
Mr. Hardy,'" he said, "Are yon and Mr.
Adams engaged for to-morroAV evening?"

"No sir," I replied.

"(That's foi-tiuiate. I Avish to talk to you
for an hour or two, and though I gener-
ally leave b\isincss in the office, on this
occasion I Avill out-step the nde. 15e kind
enough to dine Avith mo at homo to-mor-
roAV afternoon and bring Adams Avith you.
No ceremony, romcniber, but a quiet cosy
family dinner, and over our Avine wo Avill
have a friendly chat. Mr. Jubb Avill be
there, .and thus avo will haA-o a nice little
party of four."

I thanked him, .and jn'omised to bo
present, and then Avith a cordial good-bye
ho left me.

Tho folloAving evening found us at BIr.
J.amby's. Tho dinner party consisted of
Mr. Jamby's family, Sir. .Jubb and our-
selves, .and everything passed olf most
pleasantly. Mrs. J.amby Av.as a kind old
lady, plain in manner, .and in every Avay
a suitable partner for her Avortliy husband.
Their family consisted^of tAvo daughters,
good, intelligent girls, refined and culti-
v.ated, .and m.aking up in Avit and accom-
plishments Avhat they Avanted in beauty.
It must not be supposed from this that
the}' Avero plain in appearance; on the
contr.ary, they Avere bright, rosy-cheeked,
good looking girls, though not Avliat tlie
Avorld Avould call handsimie. They Avero
in a Avord fair lo(jking, rather than
beautiful.

IJinner over, the ladies left us, and tho
Avine made its appearance. Gasher and I
never exceeded a couide of glasses, .and
our host Avell know our custom in this
respect. After the decanter had circu-
lated he said :

"NoAV to business. As you .are all
aAvare, it is sehlom indeed I introduce, or
allow any one else to introduce, business
topics .at this table ; but on this occasion I
must make an exception. We came hero
for business and pleasure cond^ined, and
having enjoyed a little of the latter, lotus
take up the former. First, hoAvover, Ave
must remember tho ladies. Adams, my
boj', you are undoubtedly the ladies' man
of the party, I nnist ,ask you to attend to
them. They Avould never forgive me
were I to keep you hei-e any longer. You
Avill find tliem in the drawing room. Give
them our compliments and say avo Avill
join them shortly. Do not think from
tills, my dear fclloAV, that Ave are banish-
ing you for ,anj- secret piu'pose. Our
conference Avill not last long, and you Avill
knoAV all about it .as soon as it is over.
Run aAv.ay now, .and do the best you can
Avith the trio Auitil avo join you."

"A most pleas.ant duty, indeed," said

Gasher, ri.sing .and smiling good-lumior-

edly, "and rest assured I Avill perform

itfjiithfully."

I "I have no doubt you Avill," Mr. J.amby

MY OWN STORY.

replicil, "and I nm suro the ladies will
thank \m heartily fur having di'iven you
iiway from this cabal. And now," ho
added, as the door closed after (iasher,
" draw your chairs closer, gentlemen,
away with the wine for the present, and
listen."

".Something wonderful coming from
the senior," Mr. JuUb remarked with a
laugh, " He never banishes the wine on
such occasions without good reason." |

"You'll hear it all in good time, my
derv fellow," Mr. Jamby replied. "And
now, in the first place, tell me what you
think of thi.'i boy here !" and he nodded
towards me.

"What I think of him?" Mr. Jubb
exclaimed.

"Yes, your candid, honest opinion,
(;penly expressed hero before himself."

"Well, this is a curious beginning,
certainly," Mr. Jubb laughingly said,
' ' you kr,ow Mr. Jamby that I could hard-
ly convey in words the respect 1 have for
and the confidence I have in our young
friend. 1 have always considered it one
of the most happy and fortunate events in
the history of our house, tliat chance
meeting on the Common which led to the
engagement of Mr. Hardy."

"I know you have, Jubb," Mr. Jamby
answered, " and I only asked you the
(juestion now, in order that you might
express your feelings openly and in the
presonco of Hardy himself."

"I assure you, my kind friends," I
ventured to remark, "it required no such
test to convince nie of your {friendship.
Your actions have long ago spoken louder
thiin words ever could."

"Silence, sir," said Mr. Jamby, with
an air of mock severity, " How dai-e
you speak in the pr jsenco of your employ-
ers without permission? ]\Ir. Jubb," he
continued iu the same tone, "between
ourselves, the conduct of this young man
is becoming overbearing in the extreme "

"Now, thai; you mentioned it," Mr.
Jubb remarked, "I nni.st say that I have
long noticed it myself. He grows more
arrogant and inibearable every day. It's
ontragv;ous."

"The very word, IMr. Jubb; 'out-
rageous,' is the word. But we'll stop him,
sir. We'll show him that he cannot as-
sume these airs with impunity. We'll
punish him to the utmost limit of the law.
1 have given the (piestion iiuich thought,
and after mature deliberation have tome
to the conclusion that he mxist 'oe severely
punished, Mr. Jubb, and that punishment
is banishment."

"Most righteous judge," Mr. Jubb ex-
claimed.

' ' Yes, sir," Mr. Jamby continued, "ban-
ishment is the sentence of the court.

Nothing else will suftico. Such men must
not be allowed to infest our country. Their
conduct wo\ild have a bad inHuenco upon
the rising generation. Wo must nuike an
example of him for the warning of all
others. What think you, Mr. Jubb /"

"Think!" that worthy gentleman re-
plied, "why that yo\i arc a very Daniel
come to judgment; a greater than Solomon
is here. But in the next place, most
worthy judge, how is the sentence of the
court to be carried out I"

"A very proper (piesti(jn, Mr. Jubb,
very proper. Listen while I proceed to
answer it. There is a place up north called
Canada. The culprit, here, has, 1 believe,
been there already, and knows well the
severity of the climate, the miserable kind
of people who live there, and all its other
pecidiarities. Everything considered, I
do not think we could punish him more
severely than to send him to that far oil"
land."

"I agree with you fully," Jlr. Jubb
said, "but in what way is ho to sutler
when he goes there ! "

"Mr. Jubb, in order to answer that
question properly, allow nie to tell a short
story.

" Once upon a time there were two very
wicked old men — in fact, I might say
frightfully demoralized old men — and
they lived in a place called Boston. In
that place they had a largo house, in
which they kept numy persons, young and
old, and made them work very hard. In
another place, called Canada, they had
another house, not so large, in which they
also kept several men, and made them work
very hard, too, for they were worse task-
masters than the Egv'ptiaiis of old. One
daj' their chief ])risoner in the house in
Canada died, and it became their duty to
hll his place. Fer this pur[ioKe these tw^o
fearfully wicked old men had a long con-
ference, and after much scheming, they
came to the conclusion that they v.ould
send to Canada the very worst j'oung man
they had in the Boston prison, feeling
assured that, on account of his many bad
(pialities, and cruel disposition, he would
make a fit guardian of the prison in
Canada. So one of these dreadfully wick-
ed old men gave a (piiet little dinner-
party, and after thev had eaten of the
good things, he called the young man — as
1 call you now, Mr. Hardy — and said to
him, ' Will you accept this position in
Canada V What do you think the young
man answered?"

"He said he was almost overcome with
his kind ofl'er. He could hardly speak
his thanks, and while accepting of the noble
olfer hoped and trusted that Cod would
ever enable hiiu to show how thankful he
was to his generous benefactors."

MY OWN ST(mY.

"And so tho young man freely nccept-
ed," Mr. Jubb aaid with a smile.

"My dear, kind friends, "I said, "of all
tho generous acts you have done mo this
is the greatest. I have long wished to
return to my native land, but aa I found
that I could not do so witiiout leaving
your employment I banished the desire.
Now, however, you have given mo the
means of going there, and may heaven
reward you for it."

There was silence in tho room for a few
minutes, and then Mr. Janiby said ;

"I am delighted. Hardy, to hoar that
this proposition of ours meets Avith your
favor. At first Mr. Jubb and I were
afraid tho change might not bo agreeable
to you. By accepting o\ir offer you can-
not conceive how greatly you have pleased
us. Come, Jubb, till up old boy, and let
us drink success to Hardy in his now field
of operations."

Gasher was then called in and informed
of everything. The dear fellow seemed
grieved when he heard tliat I was going
to leave him, but his mind was relieved
and his heart made glad when told by Mr.
Jamby that he could accompany me if he
wished. He jumped at the offer gladly,
and it was then and there arranged that
we should start for our new held of labors
as soon as all tho necessary preparations
could be made.

CHAPTER XII.

MESSUS. HAUDY AND ADAM3.

In tho course of a couplr of wooks <mr
arrangements were all concluded. On
tho evening previous to our departure
Mr. Jamby gave a largo dinner party in
our honour, which v.-as attended by the
clerks, among wIkjui we liad spcjiit so
many happy years. Wo were toaated and
cheered again and again, and prosontod
Avith addresses by our fellow clerks, ac-
companied by more substantial proofs of
their regard. All this was veiy pleasant,
and Gasher and I enjoyed it fully, and, I
am sure, appreciated it properly. The
clerks, and others, who sought thus to
honor u.-j, were a good, kind-hoarted lot
of fellows, to whom we were mwdi at-
tached ; and it was not \vitJiont regret
that we parted from them. In addition
to this, Boston was a sort of second home
to me ; in fact, I often thouglit 1 v:n:i .set-
tled there permanently, after having spent
so many years in it, and having jirosperod
80 well. Some of the truest, friends I
ever knew were there, and very many
valued acquaintances. However, 1 loolced
at the bright side of the picture, and
cheered myself up with the hope that tiie
change was all for the best.

And tiuia with tho hearty good wishes
of our friends, and a bright prospect
before us, Gasher and I bade dear old
Boston farewell, and started for Canada.
The journey was an exceedingly pleasant
one, and after several days' travel by rail,
water and stage coach, wo reached our
destination.

Tho town of Bayford* was, at tho tim&
of which I speak, a flourishing and rapidly
growing place in one of tho richest agri-
cultural districts of Upper Canada, im-
portant as it was then, in a local point of
view, it was almost unknown in comparison
with tho position it has since assumed. It
is now a prosperous and wealthy city, with
a large and increasing population, and an
annual trade amounting to nearly as much
as did the entire trade of Upper Canada
at the time of tho union of the twO'
provinces. I need not here particularize
it more fully.

Bayford was to be tho future homo of
Gasher and myself. Messrs. Jamby &
Jubb had opened a branch establishment
there several years prior to our advent.
It had been under the management of an
old and well tried clerk of tho h(juse,
through whoso care and attention the
business had progressed and increased in
the most satisfactory manner. The sud-
den demise of the worthy man created jv
vacancy, to till which it now became my
duty, assisted by my friend Gasher. The
terms under which we assumed the estab-
lishment were most favorable. We were
given a share in the business, and were to-
have tlie ju-ide and satisfaction of seeing
our names over the door, as tho propriet-
ors of the entire concern. We were
strangers in Bayford, and, therefore, no
! one knew anything of our attairs ; and
i though our individual interests in the
I house were not great, before the worlil we
; h.iil the appearance of being the sole
• owners.

1 Coming duly accredited we entered into

i immediate possession, and a few days'

i later the ronidentsof Bayford autl vicinity

had the ploa.iure i)f reading, over the door,

the name of tho now iirm — ''Hakdv it

Adams."

The liMUse, we soon found, w;>» in the
enjoyment of a good ami lucrative trade ;
but we Wore not aatisliud with that. We
were determined to increase and extend it,
and with tliat purjinse in view, we set to
work en.'rL'etieally .".inl miinfr.ll.v. The
training we had receivisil in t!u>. liouse of

* luoirlrr til av.iiil all iiiiMiJi.lerst:iiidiii;{, 1 may us
Wfil liiM'i- st.-.le, tli.it tli<.ii:;ii •,]>•■ pirsniH :\h<\ plaees
iiieiiti"!!';! luri'jn :in. liniwii friitn lii'i', Uii^ iiaiin's have
ill I'Vi'iy iiijiiincr hi'.n rhaiiiji '1. Tli;> :c:is.iii i'.n- tlii»
will Iw 111 iiiii-o iini.aicut. wii.-ii it ii i-uiiiL'iiiliiri.'il that
iimny iif the pci-suhs iuirojin-oii in inii- .story aii^ still
iu the land iifthi; liviuL,', 'I'hat this will comik iinilur
tbt! eV'M iit'aMiii.! (,|t'i ■11 1 h.ivi: t.v.'iy riMsoii to li'Jl>tf
aud ht'li'jv,.', -Tin; .Vlthur.

I h

MY OWN STORY.

iriet-

were

and

the

Id we

sole

, into
days"
juiity
ill )or,
■ it

the
ido ;

We
lid it,

t to

The
so of

iiav us

liave
>!' tliis
M lliut
still
uniliT

/ h

Jamby and Jnbb, made ua botli yood
busint!i?3 men, and after having worked
faithfully for thciii for several yearu, it
•was not likely tliat wo wonld now neglect
interests in which our own welfare was
closely bound up v.ith theirs. Economy,
we knew was a source of wealth, and we
made up unr minds to practice it. Wo
had never been i^\.travagant men. We
liad lived well and respectably, but our
hard earnings had never been squandered
in viseless follies or Avorso vices. Hutl
such been the case, we would not have
made the advancement we did in the
house of Messrs. .Iand>y it Jubb.

A couple of v.'ceks after we had taken
posscE-.'.ion of our new esLablisIimeut, we
received a lengthy letter from j\Ir. Jamby.
I was fidl of g<iod, sensible advice and in-
ntructjon, .and also contained some refer-
ences to his early history, a point upon
which ]u; had hitherto aUvaVii been eingn-
larly .silent. Ho had, it is true, fre-
quently Rpidccn of the time v/h-jii he was
a young man struggling v/ith tlie Avorld ;
but more than that we had never heard.
Wo v.ere, tliereforL-, greatly surprised
wlien, in his letter, he referred to family
matters upon uhich ho had so loag been
Hilent. Tiie letter ran in this wise : —
"Boston, May IGth, 18—.
"Mv HEAR noYs :

"I am delighted ti> hear that you have
arrived at J.Jayford in srifetj-, and also that
you are so far Avell pleased with y()ur nevr'
ditties. Contentment, as some pliiloso-
pher truly remarks, is the grand source of
happiness. Without it you wonld be
miserable even had von the wealth of

esus at your comuia'ad, and all th

lie

comforts of tlie wmld around you. In
addition toHhe few words of advice 1 gave
you at parting, I do not know that I can
or need r;ay anytliiiig now. You are ujen
of Sound conniion jjjiisvI, ;uid g'ond busi-
ness experience ; and if diligence, perse-
verence and onergy are the parents of
]iros2ierity, yon will and must .succeed.
Tha.t I have the utmost confidence in you
you well know. Were it otherwise, you
Avould not be occupyin;; the imsitiou iu
wliieli you have been placed, and of which
you are in every way dc3.;rvii)g. Old
JambA'j the v.-orld says, is a slirowd, sharp
man of trade, who made himself what he
is, and wouhl bo the lai-t man in the world
to repose contideiicoand trii.st in any one,
unless he were fidly eo!iviuced that he
Avas right iu s < doing. In you, niy dear
toys, ). need not repeat, tliat I haA-e that
conlidence — full ,and complete— yo\u' pros-
perity I desire, and your v.-olfave in is my
happiness to promote,
ed me Avitli a son
■aay, leared and od-.icat'
AS'ondered a( that I. loor

as my own children? Yoii wero boy.s,
friendless and alone wh»u I mot j-ou.
Since that time I have tried to traat you
as if you wero my children, and had I
indeed been your father I Avould not have
been prouder of you, nor mora intei'esteil
in your happiness than I now mn. CJrati-
tude, as time will teach you, ia a virtue
rare ; and hapj)y am I, in my old age, to
tind rtiat from you 1 have experieiieed so
much of it. Pardon mo for referring to
these things, and belioYO me tliat I Avould
not do so were they not near to my heart.

"Be as attontivo to buBinaas in the
future as you have been in tlio jiatt, and
your succoBS in life is certain. Be dili-
gent in work, regular in habits, and
upright iu your Avalk throngli life. —
Practice economy, but bo genurous ac-
cording to yo\ir moans. Make few friends
and less enemies. Pity suiiering, and
relievo it when you can. Turn not a
deaf ear to tlio cry of sorrow, nor iu
coldness from the house of distress, jio
true to all men, and just to your.selves.
Encourage merit. tlespect the good
opiuicm of the Avorld, and try to giiiii it by
all honourable means; but remain witliout
it raither tlian Avin it unfairly, for remem-
ber that a elci'.r coiincieiice is better than
iiian's applause. To be Avell spoken (if is
a good thing, but to have a heart t;i:it does
not accufio us is much bettor. Il.'ilf the
Avorldjives on reputation, but seek it net
at all unless you can earn it honestly.

"Thujo, many persons Avould tall yon,

are curiims maxims for an old im3hie;js

iiu'.n to ter.ch. I myself know that tlioy

are; but novertheiess 1 give them to yuvi

as tlie results of a life-ti)ueof observati'Hi.

"When 1 Avas your age I received a very

dillerent lesson, ;iud in many points thoiight

tlio very opjiosito of Avhat 1 now think.

But the world has tal:en those ideas out

of mo. I have Avorkedu;)on a sot of rules

of my own making, and thanlc God 1 liave

succeeded. When I started out in life I

Avao not taught as I now teach you. —

Success, I was told, Avas t;) bo my only

I object, and I Avas to Avork for that, ind

' tluit alone, every means that aided it

1 being legitiviiate, }U'ovitled that they did

j n(jt carry mo to the priijon. Tliis, I v/ns

I taught, Avas htt:iitirs<. It may be, but it

las aui>taer name iJso, and

that

Gi.ni has not bless-
ind having, iw I may

d yon, is it to be
npoi; viro, ahnoEt

i/iVioifs/;/.' If tlio hniie^t maxims of trade
dii not form a basis upon Avliieh mm can
build success, he had much better rei.iaiu
forever iu poverty. Coniicleiice ma.--t be
onr only guide. 1 tlunight diliereiitiy once.
Let me toll yon how an incident, .simple,
though painful, in itself, chiuiged my mind.
"As you know, I pride my*.>if upon the
fact that I am a self-made ma:i. I vras
poor once— very poiir — and in humblecir-
eimstauces w.is born and re.ired. V\lien

MT OWN STORY.

a young man, my parents died, and I was
left in the world with only one relation,
a sister, whom I dearly loved. She was
called beautiful, and I was proud of the
admiration she won wherever she appeared.
She made the acquaintance of a young
man whom T need not name, and an at-
tachment sprang up between them. At
first I countenanced and encouraged it;
but, by degrees, I learned that he was a
roui, and as I had every reason to believe.
Bought my sister's dishonor rather than
her happiness. I at once took steps to-
wards breaking up the affair. I ordered
her to see him no more, telling her at the
same time, his true character, and giving
him to understand that his visits were no
longer welcome. I need not dwell upon
the painful matter. My sister remained
firm in her attachment, and occasionally
managed to see him without my know-
ledge. The end of it all was that she
eloped with him. For a time they lived
together, and then, as I had feared would
be the case, he grew tired of her and finally
cruelly deserted her. Thus she was left
alone in the world, entirely improvided
for. She was too proud to appeal to me
for assistance, and even had she don» so
I wouldnotthen have helped her. How she
struggled on I know not. I never asked
for her, never sought her out, never sent
her a dollar to help her in her distrass.
After a while, I began to repent of my
cruelty and severity; I enquired after her,
I searched for her, I even advertised for
her, but it was M of no avail. From that
day to this I have never heard of her, and
no doubt, she long ago died of poverty
and want, while I, her brother, was sur-
rounded with wealth. The remembrance
of my hard-heartedness weighed heavily
upon me, and I would have given all I
possessed could I have recalled the past.
But it was too late. My severity had done
its work, and my sister was gone from me
forever. Then I made up my mind to
become a better man, and to try by lead-
ing an honest life, and doing an occasional
goud action, to in some way make up for
my neglect and cruelty to her. If I have
succeeded in that good resolve I thank
God. I have prospered and grown rich,
and out of my abundance I have tried to
help others. But in the midst of all this,
that poor girl is not forgotten, and to the
latest moment of my life my conscience
will accuse me for having left her to live
upon the charity of the world, or, perhaps,
to die in the midst of strangers.

"Pardon me for telling you this painful
incident of my life. I give it as showing
the point upon which my history turned.
It is a relief to talk to you of these things,
and I hope that from them you may ex-
tract some benefit, however small.

" With every wish for your happiness
and prosperity, I remain your earnest
friend.

"John Q. Jamby."
"This is a most curious incident, cer-
tainly," Gasher said, as soon as ho had
finished reading the letter, " and Mr.
Jamby is the last man in the world in
whose history 1 would expect to find it."
" From remarks I h^vo occasionally
heard him make," T replied, "I have
long been of the opinion that there was
some secret in his life. He often seemed
absent-minded, and no doubt, in such
moments, the recollection of this old
trouble was upon him."

"Dear, kind old man," Gasher said
affectionately, "Who that knows his good-
ness and his generosity could for a moment
suppose that he had ever been so cruel and
unforgiving ]"

"He gives us some good advice here,
in his kind way," 1 said after a pause,
"and we, Gasher, must show our appre-
ciation thereof by following it out to the
very letter. Let us do all in our power
to prove ourselves worthy of the interest
he has ever manifested in our welfare,
since the time when, as poor helpless
boys, he took us under his care."

" Economy must be our practice,"
Gasher replied, "and speaking of that
reminds me, that it is about time we left
the hotel and procured quarters in some
comfortable private house, where we could
be as happy and as much at home as we
were in dear old Boston."

" I have been thinking of that," I
answered, "beside the expense, I must
say that I have not felt comfortable in
that hotel, with its bustle, anij noise, and
constant commotion. I think the best
thing we can do is to advertise for such a
place as we want."

" Just the thing," Gasher said, "here
goes for it at once," and taking up a pen
he wrote :

" Wantbd — By two young gentlemen,
comfortable, well furnished rooms with
board, in a respectable locality, not more
than twenty minutes walk of the post
office. Address, Box 819."

"I think that will do," Gasher said,
after reading the production over a couple
of times, "now for a series of answers
from the unprotected matrons of Bay-
ford."

The advertisement was sent off, and on
the following morning it appeared in the
columns of the Bayford Chronicle.

I .1

VTf

II!

MY OWN STORY.

CHAPTER XIII.

8IN8W1CK COTTAGE.

/ Ab Gasher had anticipated, we received

I ' numerous answers to our advertisement.

(They came from all quarters of the city,
and from all sorts of people, and we felt
satisiied that, from among such an array,
I we could have no difficulty in suiting our-

' solves.

One of the answers struck us as being
so peculiar, that wc determined to give it
the first chance. It was worded in tiiis
way :

"Mrs. Sinswick, of Sinswick Cottage,
presents her compliments to Box 819, and
trusts that lion 819 will do her the pleas-
ure of calling at Sinswick Cottage, No. 47
Oakwood Avenue, where, she feels con-
vinced. Box 819 will ever afterwards
remain, in order that it may enjoy the
comforts of a homo, such as it appears to
desire. Sinswick Cottage speaks for
itself, as Box 819 will admit, when it does
Sinswick Cottage the honor of a visit."

The production was such a peculiar one
that Box 819 made up its mind to visit
Sinswick Cottage forthwith, if for .no
other purpose than to satisfy its curiosity.

Accordmgly at an early hour that even-
ing, Gasher and I found ourselves in
front of No. 47, Oakwood Avenue. The
building was not a pretentious one, being
simply a two story brick, with green
shutters on the windows and a porch
over the door. It looked cosy and com-
fortable, however, and was in a pleasant
quarter of the town. Being favorably
impressed with the exterior, we determined
to examine.further, and for that purpose
advanced to the door and pulled the bell.
It was answered by a good looking, neatly
dressed, rosy cheeked girl.

"Does Mrs. Sinswick live here?" I
asked.

" Yeth, thir," she replied, with an in-
teresting lisp, that came very sweetly from |
her pretty lips.

"This then, is Sinswick Cottage," I
continued.

"Ycth thir," she repeated, " pleath
walk in."

We obeyed, and were she'mi into a
nicely furnished sitting room, where the
rosy-cheeked girl loft us, and in a few
ni(<ment8, a amall-sized, airy, precise look-
ing lady entered.

"Good morning gentlemen," she said,
"Box 819, I presume?"

"We fvre supposed to be the represen-
tativoa of that recepticle," Gasher an-
swered, with a smile, "and you no doubt
are Mrs. Sinswick V

"At y<jur service sir," she replied, with
a curtsey. ' * Most happy, indeed, to have

the pleasure of meeting Box 819 beneath
the roof of Sinswick Cottage."

' ' The object of our visit, Mrs. Sinswick,
is of course known to you," 1 said, " and,
I may add, that the situation,^and general
appearance of the cottage suit us so far."
" I am happy to hear it, sir," she re-
plied, with another stately curtsey, "and
I feel convinced, as 1 said in my note,
that a fuller examination of the premises
will satisfy you that for comfort and con-
venience you cannot be better suited than
in Sinswick Cottage. You can inspect the
apartments for yourselves, gentlemen ; I
know before hand what your decision will
be."

We accordingly inspected the rooms,
and found them well and comfortably
furnished, and in every way suitable.

" Have you any gentlemen here now?"
I asked.

"Yes sir — two," she replied, "or
rather, I should say only one, as the
other is away at present spending a few
weeks at his home. They are agreeable
and well-conducted, yon may be sure, or
they would not bo inmates of Sinswick
Cottage. Perhaps you may know them —
Mr. Donlevey, a medical student, just
finishing up his course, preparatory to be-
ing admitted to the practice of his im-
portant profession. The other is a "

"We are strangers in Bayford, Mrs.
Sinswick," I said, interrupting her xinin-
tentionally, ' ' and know no one. We have
just commenced business here, and never
having been in your good town before,
cannot bo expected to have many acquain-
tances."

"May I ask what business?"

"Dry Goods ; this is Mr. Adams, I am
Mr. Hardy."

"Oh! I see; the new firm on Trade
Street — Hardy tt; Adams."

"The same," 1 replied.

"Most delighted indeed, gentlemen.
It happens, singularly enough, that your
predecessor in the business resided in Sins-
wick Cottage for several years."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed; "that is a
singular coincidence."

"Yes," she continued; "he was with
me a very long time, and a finer gentleman
I never knew."

"The fact of his having lived here," I
said, "is suflicient proof that it will be
suitable for us. However, we will talk
the matter over, and give you an answer
to-moiTow. My present impression is that
it is more than likely we shall become in-
mates of Sinswick Cottage."

"If you do, gentlemen," she said, '*I
can assure you that we shall endeavour to
make you as happy as possible. I may-
state that I am most particular about this
matter, and it is not every applicant who

MY OWN STORY.

find.} lidusc-rdinii hero. F was not always
H8 you 1111 >v find mo," she uddiul, with a
sijh. " I am the first of my family who
ever had to take in boarders fur a living.
My i/ajia was a wealthy Irish iirentluman —
a gciiniiio UcCoiirecy — and must lie uii-
ea.sy in liin grave when he seen his daughter
enga'/ed in such a way. However, ^;cn-
tlemen, [ should not trouble you with
these thin,r,'s; when you .-^eo the weak-
minded SiiLSwick yon will imderetand
everything."

"Then there waMr. Sinswick," Gaslier
remarko'l.

"Unfortunately for me, there is," the
lady ivplied. ' ' 1 need not r.iy more about
Idni. Ho speaks for himself."

As tiioSweak-minded Kiiiuwick was not
present to sjieak for himself, and ob we
liad no de.sire to hear more about him
from his better-half, we took our de-
I)ai'ture.

"On en;^uivy, wo Ictinied that Mrs.
Sinv.vick kept a most respectable house.
!SIr. !~^inbv.iek, however, was not bo well
spoken of. Ho appeared to be a nhrowd
fellow after hia manner, but was some-
what partial to the ilowing bowl, vrhieh
occasicjiiallj^got the better i^f Jiim. Coining
to the conchiriion that we should not blame
the wile for the failing.s of the husband,
we decided upon ;;iving Sinswick Cottage
a trial, 'i'wo days later, therefore, we
toiik up our residence therein.

On going home to dinner the first eve-
ning, v.o found a gentleman stretched on
the sofa ill the bitting room. Before we
liiultime to ask who he wa;', Mrs. Sinswick
entered, and the gentleman arose —

" Allow me to introduce yon to 5Ir.
Ilai-dy and Mr. Adams." she said to him,
" This is Jlr. Donlevey," she added, turn-
ing to ns, "The gentleman of whom I
sijoke."

"Mofit I'.ai'py to meet you sirs," Mr.
Donlevey said i;i a good natured way,
" and I only hope you will iind Sinswick
cottage as hapt)y a place as I have found
it."

We n tinned Ins gi"oeting, and Mrs.
Sinswick left the room.

" As we are caft to live together, for
nobodj' knows how long," Mr. Donlevej' \
resumed, ' ' we'll soon be better acipiainted. :
In the liieantiiue, however, what do you
say ti a friendlj' ghis.j of v.'ine before din- ;
nor just by way of introduction i"

"\Vith all iiiy heart," I replied.

As he proceeded to get the Avine from
the side-board, I observed him more
cloaelj'. He was a tall, active-looking,
liandsome fellow, with a tine, manly ex-
pression and bearing, and a soft, kind
look in his large blue eyes, which showed
at a dance that his heart was in the right
l)Iacc.

"Here's your Tory good health, gentle-
men," he said with an air of hearty sin-
ceritj", us soon as we had filled our
glasses, "may our esteem for each other
grow with our acquaintanee, »n<i may
v.e never know from each other unything
but friendship."

At dinner wo found him full of joke

and jest — a hearty, merry fellow, looking

at the liright sido of lifs oidy, and proof

I against the bines and ennui.

I " VOu are both strangern in CMiada, ]

I believe (" h« said.

; "No," I answered, "Mr. Adams has
j never been hero before, but 1 was boni in
this country, though I left it when a boy,
; and have never been here since, until the
i present occaaicni."

I "Oh, so yon are a Canuck," lie said,
" I iiin delighted to hear it. If you left
j it when a boy, you must find the country
j Avonilerfully cliaugcd."
I " Yes, and for the better too," I an-
1 swered. " When 1 left Canada, Jkiyiord,
I I believe, was a small ])la<:e, and now I
find it a ilonrishing city."

" I can remember," he continued,

"v.dien where we now sit wa.*? a forest. !

; was bom and reared near this place,

! though my family now live in the we.^t.

i My first educaticni was received in a small

j frame building, in those days the best

I ])lace of iearning the town contained, and

' now within rifle-shot of the .same spot,

there are schocds and colleges in which the

youth of the country su'e trained for the

professions in a manner that would not

bring discredit on the ancient universities

of Europe. This shows what progress the

rrovinc(^ has made in educational matter,?

within the last five-and-tweuty years."

" It cannot be so long as that since you
first entered a Bcho(jl-house," Gaahor said,
with a smile.

" You do not think nie old enough for
that," Donlevey laughingly said.
I "Indeed, I do not."
' " Ap])earance3 are often decentive, my
I dear fellow," he continued, "Now, can-
! didly. how old do you think I am I"
I "About the same as ourselves — sonie-
I where in the vicinity of twenty-eight."
\ "I'm delighted to find that I wear so
j well," he replied, with a laugli, " There's
hope for me yet with the fair sex, unless
; they are more discerning than you, and
i find out that I am an old bachelorof thiiiy-
five."

"You cannot roall.y be thai age," I said.
"Indeed 1 can, my dear fellow, and
fortunately or not I am, if the old family
Bible at home is to be believed."

" Vou astonish me," 1 iiddod, "at the
very most I would not take you to be
thirty."

"It's this wonderful climate of ours,"

MY OWN STORY.

for

iaid.
and

mily

the
bo

he roi)lio(l, ill n, jooilar way, "no ono
ever (.'rorvHdM liuro lieforo his time, tvnil
\vt! nuvtT (lie till oiii* hair in grey — li.irrini^
acciileiitH— atiil [ may rcjiiark that thoy
liavi' ^'rown iiiurli too coiiiiiioa sinco thoito
railruadH wiro iiiti'cHlnL'ul."

"Thtvi the iiifiiiibcrH of tlio jirofi-'j.sion
yiui ai'o filiont eiiihraciiif,' caiuiDt havo
much to flu," (tanlier Raid.

" That'a tho very n:asi ii I havo cho.'ou
it," ho rtjiliod. "I was alwaya ii lazy
tlevil, an(l pitched tip.'ti jiliywic niiuply
l)tH:a\isc! 1 know 1 Would novur havo an
over ainfiiiiil. of work on hand. J woidd.
liavo Ir.'rti throii'.'h loiif/ ago, but that I
have h«!i too l-.^>;y to study."

"Von linvo clioH(?a a most avduou-t
in-ofL'saion," I .said, " I think tho lifo of a
practising pliysici.kn uiuat ho ono of tho
most kihoriouH m-kn can cngago in, and
in iidditio'i to that it is tho iiio.st renpon-
siblo. Tho lircs of liis fnllow.s lU'u in his
keo])iiK;."

"An to the fonner point," Donlovey
ropliod, "I don't tliink I will mind it if I
onco get thorou;.,'hly at work. On tho
lattor point 1 a!<ruo with you fully, though,
hotwocn our.SL'lvoft, thore would bo littlo
uau for physicians if tlio world v/ui-o not
so i'.;iiorant. From what knowledgo ef
tho liuni.an system I havo ])ii;ked up duriny
my studie."!, I havo boon load to boliovo,
that in ninoty-nino cases out of evory
Imudred, drnf,'3 and medioinos are simply
Iiunihiiys. A littlo more caro on the pai't
of each man and wonum would Rot di.ioaso
at dotianco, and give tho doctors notiiing
to do. Wiion I cr.tor on tho ]>ractico of
my profesEion, my patients will not havo
reason to hud fault with me for the length
of tlieir druggista' liilh. Howevia-, tliis
talk is growinj; too serious. Its not like
mo at ail, as you'll perhaps iJiul rnit ))oforo
\im know mo long. As you are sti'angcrs
here, and just starting in lifo, as it were,
on your own account, allow me the jileas-
nro of drinking to your success and jiros-
lierity," aiul tilling his glass lie nodded to
us, aiul dr.'.nk his friendly toast.

"Thank y.iu, ilr. L»onlovey," Gaslier
said, " and in return allow mo to propose
a. sentiniout. Fill np. Hardy. Hcre'.s to
tho medical profession, and may Dr. Don-
lovey cro loTig bjcomo one of its brightest
ornanumts."

(laslier and I drank the toast heartily,
and Donlcvey bowed his acknowledge-
ments.

" 15y-thc-bve, Mr. Hardy, you said j"ou
were a Canadian," he remarked, after a
pause, "wcrj you educated in this coun-
trj'i"

"Partially," I answered, ni>t at all de-
sirous of saying much on tlie subject.

"May I ask in what part?" ho cou-
tinned.

' "In an ordin.iry c >untrT-school liouso,"
I rojilied, "so humble that I caro not to
montiou it, and even were 1 to do ho 1
i(ue.)tioii very much if you would know

it."

"As I hoforo rcimarkod," ho said, doh-
cately turning from tho <niestlon when ho
saw that it was nol. plcaiing to me, "the
country han made wonderful strides since
yuu and 1 wore boys. TIio youth of thin
generation havo privileges of which wo
know nothing. Still I do not seo that
thov i\TS much aliead of us after all. 1
think our peoide were much happier hi
thoso old davs than they are now. Thoy
)iosse;«ed none of tho hixurics nor the
elegancies which they (.f the present pos-
sess; but the simple, honest way in wliieli
thoy lived was better, and ti^oy were
happier."

"As well as I can remeudier my early
home," 1 said, "I fidly agree with yon.
I beliovo tho Canadia:i:i of a few years
ago v/ero tho r,io3t coutonted people on tho
faoo of tho earth."

"Did you ever live in tho bush :" D >n-
I lovey abruptly asked.

"I \vas l)orn in a nov.ly-opened diD-
trict," I .answered, "but .-.ithetimo I first
knew it, it conhl hy,rdly be called back m
the bush." .,

"Then you havo nu*,ed i.Uich, he naid,
I "bush liio is glorious. There is a charm
' abiuit it that i cannot describe. '

"1 havo alway.^ been led to suppose that
it was a most monotonous existence,
tja-siier r*aid.

"I iirant von that therj is nmch niono-
i tony about it," Donlovey answered, "but
: is ii not .so more or less witli every calbngJ
fs your business not the S'vr.ie from day to
day/ Y>o havo monotony in cveiythnig.
: 1 do no: say, rememi)er, that I wovddhke
; to spend all mv days in the \,-o(.ds, but T

■ think that occiwionally a felhjw can havo
'' glorious times there. Yon feel so free, so
i unrestrained, so much at liberty," he

added onthu-siastically, "that you seem
to 1 )e ant ither being. Tho grand ( )hl wc )0us,
the unbroken solitude, the free air of
heaven, the thousa;id beauties of the
forest, fill you with a better and a nobler
spirit, than you ould extract in a century
of time from the wonders of .ill tho cities
on tho earth. If I were forced to mrdco a

■ choice between the two I would sooner
i take the woods for a life-time than the

city."

"You are enthusiastic about your
native forests," Ga.dier said, with a snnle.
"Perh.aps I am; and my love for their
I dark solitiides and lovely .siiades has often
. ])uzzled mo. I am a social fellow ; I like
life, and plenty of it ; I love a jolly com-
panion and a true friend, and yet I have
never known Jiu.ro reul, genuine, he.art-

MT 0\T5 STOR-f .

felt happincBH tlian when nlone in the
wild old W(if)d8 I nuist Im off to tlieni
aoniu of tlic'Hu diiys," ho added, an ho
ehovod hack liis chair and arose, "I am
growiiif,' tired of this city life, and those
dreary doctor's hooks, and if I don't soon
have a nin through the hush I don't know
what will heconie of nie."

"Under any circumstances," I said,
"I hardly think you arc the sort of man to
die of ennui."

"Therein you are right," he replifid.
" Blues nro something I know nothing
about. I believe I've been in love in my
time, after a fashion. I've had tailors

with your toggery a'
there's some one hero
yo\i."

On coming dow
rolling around oi
in company wit!
and a setter — whi^..,

y down i
AutB to see

, 1 found him
ling room floor,
.logs — a retriever
as I afterwards
learned, were his constant comimnions.

" (jood morning again," he said, spring-
up quickly, "I'm at my morning devotions
you see. Rolling on the floor with two
dogs may not lie a very dignified or proper
amusement for a medical gentleman, but
it's capital fun, and I don't think the
dogs enjoy it more than their master. It

dunning me, and all sorts of troubles put- ' gives the three of us good ajipetites, and

ting in an api)earance on the most inap
propriate occasions, and yet have laughed
at them all. Other fellows get the blues
at such times, but what's the iisc? Take
the world as you find it. Tl. it's my motto.
Jump in, and if you can't swim seize on
the first thing that will float you, and keep
your head above water the best way you
can. What's the iise of going down
when a little exertion will keep you up ?
I liope you fellows smoke. If you do,
youil find some cijutal cigars on the
mantle-piece. I rather prefer my old
black pipe."

Fortunately, Gasher and I were smo-
kers. Otherwise our newly made ac-
Cuaintanco would have smoked us out of
the house without mercy. As wo enjoyed
our pipes, Donlevoy told some capital
Btoriea, and gave us food for many a
hearty laugh. He was a most amusing
fellow ; splendid company, and full of .in-
ecdote. Ho had a very winning manner,
natural and easy — and his language and
actions were ever those of the gentleman.

That first evening at Sinswick Cottage
was a decidedly pleasant one, and as we
retired for the night we thought onrselves
fortunate in having procured such agreea-
ble quarters.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN OLD FEIEND IN A NEW CHARACTBB.

Next morning I was aroused by Don-
levoy, who was out on the sidewalk in
front of my window, singing a negro
melody in a clear, manly voice.

"I thought my sweet notes would stir
you up," he sho\ited, as he caught sight
of me at the window. "Good morning
to you ; and allow me to hope that my
early serenading has not disturbed your
rest."

"Not at all," I replied; "I am rathor
obliged to you than otherwise for having
aroused me in such a pleasant way."

"All right, then," he answered. "On

is on the whole much better than snoozing
away these delightful morning hours in
bed,"

" Hava you been up long (" I asked.

" Since daylight," he replied. "I never
can sleep after the sun appears. It's a
splendid sight to see him rise on such
lovely mornings as this is. One such hour
is worth all the rest of the day. But come,
I want t(i introduce you t(j a gentleman
who wab up to-day even earlier than I,
though its very seldom he's able to say so
much."

He crossed over into the sitting-room,
and I followed. A gentlemanly-looking
man of about my own age was lying on
the sofa, and as we entered he arose.
Something in his appearance was familiar
to me, and I was wondering where I had
seen him before, when Donlevoy proceed-
ed to introduce me.

"Charley," ho said, "this is one of the
new arrivals — Mr. Hardy. Mr. Hardy,
my friend Mr. Courtley."

The name had scarce passed his lips
when I recognized in the gentleman be-
fore me my dear old school-fellow. The
recognition was mutual, and in that mo-
ment of our joy wo so forgot our age and
manliness as to rush into each other's
arms.

Donlevoy looked at us in .'silent aston-
ishment for a few moments, and then
giving a sort of Indian war-whoop, in the
performance of which he was ably assisted
by the two dogs, ho shouted :

"Hurrah ! Just to think that you two
fellows know each other. Ain't it glori-
ous? I propose morning cock-tails all
round. Where's the other fellow ? If ho
ain't out of bed in less than a minute,
he'll have the pleasure of a shower-bath
before he arises. Hold on boys until I
bring him down, and see if I don't make
a staving eye-opener on the strength of
this [re-union." And away he went like
a] shot, to make war upon the sleeping
Gasher.

"My dear, dear old school- fellow,''
Courtley exclaimed, holding me out at

• I

• »

MY OWN STOttY.

L
• I

»'

ann's lungth, the hotter to look at me,
what a pleuBure, what n happiness to meet
you thus iinox|)ectodly, after ho many
yearn of separation."

"A liappincsB, indeed, yon may well
call it, Charl'iy," I answered pressing his
hand warmly, "the world has not gone
unfavorably with me, but since that day
when you and I parted as boys, [this is the
greatest joy I have known. Thousands of
times 1 have thought of you, and let me
assure you, that in returning to Canada,
one of my KTcatest H(jurce8 of pleasure wa«
the prospect of meeting you, and reunit-
ing the ties of our old school days."

"And think not, my youthful chum,
that you havo been forgotten all these
long years," he said very earnestly, "time
and again I have encpiired for you, but
no one cimld tell mo of your whereabouts,
and I long ago gave you up as lost, so far
as I was concerned. I thought you had
wandered away to some far oil' quarter of
the globe, and had there made for your-
self a homo among strangers, and that I
would never hear of you again, much less
meet you, as I now do. This, Harry, is one
of the happiest moments of my life. But
where havo you been ? What have you
been doing ? How do I find you back here V
and away he rattled with a dozen other
questions, which would have taken me a
week to answer.

"Don't be impatient, my dear fellow,"
T laughingly replied. "You shall hear
all in good time. You cannot expect me
to stand up here the very moment I meet
you and give the history of tha last ten
years of my life all at once."

"Pardon me, old fellow," he said, its
just like me, though I'm always impatient
and thoughtless."

" And beside that," I continued, "re-
member you've got a long story to tell
also. There are ten years of your life's
history hidden away from me that I must
know all about."

"And before breakfast on a bright
morning is no time to begin," Donlevey
aaid, entering the room as I spoke. "If
you fellows think yon're going to spoil
breakfast by your ten years' yarns, you're
very much mistaken. But after all though,
aint it glorious," he added, "just to think
that after ten years separation you should
meet in this curious way. I'd give the
world to be one of yon, 'pon my honor I
would, if only for the satisfaction of know-
ing what the sensation and happiness of
■uch meetings are."

"A good hearted fellow like you can
easily imagine them," Courtley said.

"Well, perhaps I can," was the reply;
"and I can imagine what my conduct
would be, too. By-the-by, that reminds
mo of the cock-taila. Don't say no. I

won't hear such a word on such an occasien.
You nnist have them, and I must mix
them. I'm your physician, and unhesi-
tatingly prescribe cock-tails under the
circumstances. Tho other follow will be
down in a minute, and then we'll have
one rousing good drink over your old
times, and our future happiness,"

Contrary as it was to my custom, I
could not refuse tho kind fellow. He
proceeded at once to mix tho boterago, in
the most scientific manner, and with all
tho flourishes of an experienced bar-
tender. Before he had finished, Gasher
came down. He and Courtley were intro-
duced to each other, and then wo all did
justice to Donlevey's drinks.

"You fellows don't like this sort of
thing," he said, after wo had emptied our
glasses, "and you are perfectly right.
On general principles, these morning de-
coctions aro wrong, and it will be a long
time before I ask you to repeat the dose.
This is a special occasion, however, and a
glorious one ; and as the customs of the
civilized world run, it would be nothing
less than out-and-out barbarity not to
havo had just one drink together after
such a longsei)aration."

"It's all right, my dear Dick," Courtley
said. "We know your motive is good,
and accordingly forgive you."

"Hurrah! then; there's tho breakfast
bell," Donlevey replied.. "Attack the
chops instanter. I pronounce them an
infallable remedy for all the evils your
early drinking may produce."

"Courtley was not such a man in ap-
pearance as his boyhood had promised.
At school he used to be a stout, robust
boy, large for his ago, and I had always
entertained tho opinion that he would
grow up a large, powerful man. I was
very much mistaken, however. He was
medium-sized and lightly built, but his
proportions were excellent ; and his wiry,
active name indicated strength and endur-
ance. He had a finely-shaped, intellectual
looking head, and though his features
were not regular enough to bo handsome,
they beamed with a bright, intelligent
look, which would attract attention more
quickly than mere personal beauty, which,
in man, is inappropriate in ninety-nine
cases out of every hundred. Donlevey
was a handsome fellow, but his fine, manly
bearing, and honest, open countenance,
carried away everything insipid, and won
for him admiration even from those who
were loth to give it. Yet, out in the
world, and even in social circles, among
ladies, Courtley, I felt convinced, would
be tho favourite ; or, at least, would be
looked upon as the more superior of the
two, and as possessing more intellectual
weight and ability. Donlevey was a rol-

MT OWN monw

lii'UiiijT, g()d(l-ri.iliiiv(l, t.'cniiino thrii,
int'i'nrcil to Rtnnd up fur a friiunl mi nU
(ICC iHi.mn, Riul ti) iiuiko hiiii'tulf hiippy
iimlor all ciroiiinstMiftn. <hi tlio otliur
liaiul, Ciiurtlry, tlinii^'li foiid of iileuHuro,
ili'iiiroil >\ iiiuro rlevntctl ()r<l( r timii t!i!»t
vliiili Huiti'il tha other; niul v.wu for
tliii.iij jili'iksiircrt Iin Would iH'vtT m'j;li'i-'t
1)11 liiii'^H. Hi.'* iiiiTid w!i^ rct'mcd and cul-
fivr.fL'il, hid tantoi lofty imd pnrc, ami yt't
lie ('oiild <;rai]iilo with tlio oi'diimry aft'uirH
of lifij with case, and nii." with tho com-
inoii lurd St) finr beneath him Tritlioiit
for,.;i!ttin';' his ili(,Tiity or cndnnj^'orin!,' his
tasten. It iniist not bo sniiposed that I
di.Mcovfred all thi« at tho l^nakfartt-taMe
that nioriiin;j;. It wan not nntil %?o had
bc'Lii to[^;i'thtr Rovoral wiuLfl th:kt I Icariitd
his i'!iar»cter and his pooiIiavitioH fully.

"I (nippomi joii fi'llows will hnvo an all
liav t:vlU over old tiiiicg," Doidovey said,
as wi» tinish"d hreakfRHt.

" I'm I'fraid wo will not," Courtloy
ivjilicd. "Ah you are aware, T have juat
rotnnicd to town after nearly tlireu weeks'
absence, and I think my jire.senco i:» tho
oflicc id very desirable. NVe hitvo p'.L;nty
of iimo befovo n^, and tbonj^'h I eoiild not
1(0 h;v]ijiier than in talkin;,' to Hard}', bv.si-
iie^i.s nm*t not bo neglected whou thcro ia
uo fdiRohito neecssitv for it."

" 'J'hat'.s your way alway.s," Donlevey
laughingly Haid, "an(i I have no doubt it'H
the rif!;ht one, though for the life of mo I
cannot put br.sinemi in tho Unit jilaco.
" The dog and gun, tho boat a!id IJ.shiug
rod, always, somoliow or another, take the
lead Avith me, and after them cornea
br.fjincpB. If 1 over grow rich it will not
be through work or stiuly, that'.s certain."

" Courtloy i.'j right," 1 roniarkeil, "bua-
incs:i in businws lioiirs ; but to-night,
(,'harley, we'll have a long and glorious
talk over < Id times and old scenes."

"I'll haT(* Sinswick Cottage apcciftlly
lire]>arod for tlio occasion," Donlevey said,
"mornijig drinks may bo bad — wo wont
discuss tho question — but you can't say a
Word against an after dinner glass of
punch. Leave all tho preliminaries for
your grand confab to me, and if you don't
have a jolly tinio of it, you may say Dick
Donlevey is an African."

Then we separated for the day, and after
* aft(.-r business was over we asscndjlod again
in tb.o evening. Donlevey was as good as
his word. lie had apparently spent the
cutii'O day in tho pro])arations. There
were pipes and cigars and tobacco enough
for a regiment of soldiers, and more wines
and liquors than we could make away
with in a month. Ho was a solf-ajipointod
master of ceremonies for the occasion, and
had early in tho day issued si.eciivl orders,
or rather a series of them, regarding tho
dinner, 1 believe ho even desceuded into

tho kilclun and ably aMintod thu cook ia
luir o|ierationH. Ilo was in gloriou.i
Bpirit", -M nappy i\% a kin^i '^"'l I'ej'iiod
M luiu'tily in\'v tlio niectinji of Cliarlcy
and my.tolt', aftrr our lou;; Heiiaration, as
We <lid uui.selvei'. Ifu wan full of lifo and

■pirit.<, bustling hero and th' ro an<l every-
where, i?nd keeping tip a i:on;-itant rattling,
merry talk v.ith laeryono and no <ine.
He hel[)ed Mis:* Drbby Siii:«wick to sot tho

;»l)le, volunteered hi.-i HerviceH to carry

diidma and other niatter.s up from tho

kitclu-n, otlored Mrs. SiniHwiclc a ghum of
wino, which that stately li\dy accepted
without much preHsing, and then ho sent
tli'j cool: ii tumbler of cai-ital litull' for

i tht n»atiufiU'tuie of punch.

At tho dinner-table none of us liad a
chance to gi't in a woril even edgewino.
He monoimlizcil the entire conversation.

1 sayhig good-humoredly, I hat (harley and

I 1 inu.'it not say a word until our appoLites

j had been Hatif-'ie.l. Wo wisely took hia

I advic".

Diinior over, he said, after wo had
lighted our pipua;-

">iow you two fellows can lire away to

I four heart's content. Come, Adams, let
U.I leave them. You and J ciiii laid some

I way of amu.siiig our.ielves. They want to
talk o»ir old vime.'^, and under such cir-

; cumstances, I fancy oi:r i-oom vriU bo

i preferable to our ompany."

1 Wo pri.ssi.d him to renuvi.i, but ho

i laughing!}- declined, and taking Gasher

j with him left tho room.

I "What a singular m, in heir.," I said, as

j soon iwt tho door had closed behind him.

I "Yc«; .singular certainly," Courtloy
replied. "J5ut one of the best fellowfi in
tho world. I've known him for several
years, and havo always foinid him tho
jolly, good-natured, whole-souled fellow
you see liim now. lie's everlasting sini-
shine in tho house, and though I have my
doubts about hi.i ever beci)ming a famous-
physician, his good, lionest face and genial
manner will havo a wonderful ell'ect on hia
patients."

"Do you tliink he will soon bo through
with hi.i studies!" 1 asked.

"Yes; I fancy so," Charley an.iv.ered.
"He's been at them long enough, goodness
knows, and might liave boon through long
ago but for want of application, tlo has
good natural abilities, as you may see,
but cares r.ujre for a dog or a gun than
for all the medical works over written.
lint come, Harry, now that we are alone,
and not likely to be intemiptod, let me
hear your btorj-. 1 am impatient to loam
everything that has (occurred, and liow it
is that I find j-ou in good circumntancos
and prosperous, after the singular and
xinjirotected way in which you started out
iu lifo."

M> O^N STORY.

k''

My nldry w.nfi Boon tolfl. I foncoftled
iiottiiiix, liiit frcply, tkt, front frioud tt>
irioiid, rclatt^d cveTy tiling thak yciU, dear
ruudwr, iilr«'A<ly kiiuw.

" Drliglifod, my dc-tr follow," ho iinid,
aH Hooii an 1 had liniKJuid, "ikui I to tlml
tliiit you liiiTii mijcoodi'il ito w;.'ll, 1 liavo
ofttiit woiidi'i't'd how till) World \rrui Koiii^;
with you, ikiid tliou;,'li in juy hoiwt I wwlicd
you Well, I Jievor for i\ inoiiioiit thought
to liMvl you wi fikr on tlio hi^jli roinl to
fortuiu;. Ilikiiii/, thi'ico hnppy, kiu I lo
know now, afliT all the«o yc'krs of doiiht
and nucort;*inty, tlii>t ({ooil luok liua lU-
tunilud you, and thr.t ihidUi,'h honest toil
ivnd iirikiHtiwuithy o.xorti>.na of your own,

f'ou lavo w<jn a jioaitiou of which you
iftvo iivery roiM*on to fixd jiroud."

"For y<'Ur >,'i)od wislioK, (.'hark-j, 1
thank you," I Huid. "and iiiiuM) yr)U thnt
I tlo £.;(.'! pruutl <*( thu jiLico I havi; yi»inod.
1 do not worHliip wculih, nor rusjiuut !V
luan liiJc'iUHo hu imi.shchho.i it, nnle;<.) ho h:iVo
thoficj noble qualitios which it chu nuvcr
purcliAHs ; liut 1 do ru.tiiuct und ofltuuni
till! man who, without thu aid of friends,
wurkii hiiimulf onward and uiiward in tho
world, ;itid forces liis fellown, as it wcri;,
to give him honor and iiosition, whutlier
thty will or no. (Jast xipon tho wurhl
without a luljier, I triud to do tlii;4, .•'.nd if
I hikv» .succL'L-i'ed, in howcvor .iniall a
de;;rLP, 1 feol chat 1 haru reason to cou-
yratulato niyuolf, and to thank thoao
throii{,'h wiioHu kindnoMS 1 gained my ^i\C\.
This, however, my dc*r cTiarley, sounds
like Hvilf-iiraisu. Forgiro me, I'm afraid
it is a weakness of mine. I have told yoi'
my story, let )iio have youri-!."

"It is Soon told, my dear fellow," ho
aaid with a smile. "My life, bo far, hau
not been bo varied, nor so full of interest
as yours. It is hut tlie story of hundreds
axonnd us— of any ordinary man."

"lint for me it posyeiiscs interest," I
s.'iid ; "and I must have it in return for
mine."

"And so you shall, my boy," he Baid.
"Here it is :

"1 remained at Dr. P.aker'a ftcadcmj'
only about two months after your depar-
ture. You may be sure it was a dull
place to ms without your comjianionshii),
anil riylit glad was I when, in coinidianee
with my request, my fatlier removed me
from it.

"I went liomo .-uid remained there a
few weeks, h ading a dull, listless sort of
life, of which I every day grew more I
tired. |

"About that time anew school, of a:
higher order, was opened here in Jiayf jrd, '
and 1 was sent to it. 'Diere I remaineil
for over a year, during which time, I i
Hatter myself, 1 made rajtid progress in |
my studies, aa was proved by the fact that i

I carric'l ofTKovcral pvl7,ei«, iitid won Homo
little honour and di«.iiiction, ai my friends
wore pIckiHed to term it.

"This ended my aidiool days. 1 hfwl
atudieil with no riarlicular ohjoct in view,
oxeoptinL{ that of improviTig myH<«lf gener-
iklly, and tittii);^ myttolf for tho b.kttlo of
life whi'.li Wik4 b«for.) me.

"Then caiuo thu ipjosliou of my future
oallini,'. Kdue.-vtiouallT, I whs pro[»ivred
for any ordinary pu.^ition; and tho stand-
ing of my family w(ui ^ueh an to warrant
me ill looking towiwrds tlio professions.
My father j,'.ive mo my elioice of tho pulpit,
tho army, modielno or law. Tlio pulpit,
you may he sure, wiw put out of the way
at oi'co, for th« Tory good retwoa th.kt my
religioua feelings, unfortunately, were not
very strong— though, moially, I believe 1
have Hot been worrte tlii»ii others. Tho
army caught my fancy for a momoit ; but
on rejection I came to tho conclusion that
a soldier's life would never suit my tastcj.
Medicine wascitBfcftiiido without hesitation,
fi>r 1 ahvays disliked it. I'lidor these cir-
cumstances, tliero waH nothing left forme
but tho law, and tho law I aoocordingly
embraced.

" [ entevcd tho oliico of onei f our mo.H
eminent j>raotitionor», served the regidar
nuinbtr of yeais, rea<l the pre.icribed
number of books, pa.ssed tlio usual number
of examinations, and in duo couimi of tiiiio
vcMk admitted to iho bar. While reading
ii[), 1 KUi:ceeded in i^ining some little
notoriety by delivering lectures occiuiion-
ally, liere and there over the conntiy —
more for amusement than anything else.
Thus, wlieii admitted,! was not entirely
unknown.

"I oj)ened an office liero in Bayford.
At first clients we»i» not viH:y numerous;
V)ut by degrees they increased, and 1
prospered !ls well aa 1 could desire. 1 am
now in the enjoyment of a good and
lucraUvo practice, which is constantly
improving ; and, altogether, 1 have eveiy
reason to feel thankful for the success
that has up to this time crownoil my
wfl'ort.i.''

"And no one is nu>ro happy to hear it
than your old school-follow," I said,
sliakiiig his hand warmly. "You have
boon pleased to congratulate me on my
prosperity, and 1 have ample cause for
returning the compliment, which I do
most heartily. "

"Thank you, my dear fellow; tthank
you I Others have given me praise in my
time, and have expressed pleasure at my
success; but, though I feel grateful to
them for it, tlio honest gTatiHcation you
express is more cheering to me, and more
highly valued, than all tho complimeat*
that have ever been paid me."

■00

MY OWN STOUY.

CHAITKR XV.

OVR DIMNRIl I'AKTY.

"HAVByoii follown H'>t through yott"
«xcliiiiiiu(l Donluvuy, daNhiiiij into the
room clodnly followod liy (iiiHliur.

" Vus, yc'»;i(>inoul(»iiK,"('<)Urtloy njiliod,
"yo\i riro iridnt welcoiiiu, ilnrdy mid I are
<lono witli our cotiferciico, tlidiif^h for tho
niattor of that you iniKht liavo been huro
all tho tiino had yoti clioHen to remain."

"Uh, of courHe, and havo liBtonod to
your lon^^-wimhtd yarns and interesting
table-talk," iJoniovey said, "Adams and
I wuro much better engaged. We've boon
having a private conference too, and what
do you tiiink was tho result/ Why, that,
througli our united wisdom wo hav« struck
ujioii a glorious schenio."

"(ilorious!" (Jasher echoed.

'"A magnificent allair," Donlovey con-
tinned, "one of tho grandest ideas brain
of man over conceived beneath tho grace-
ful roof of Sinswick Cottage."

"It must indeed bo a noble ooncoption,"
I laughingly said, "when you and Gashor
are the fathers of it."

"N(d)lo! why it's sublime!" ho r--
•ponded.

"Perhaps mon possessing brains capable
of conceiving such nmgniticont schemes,"
Conrtley said, "will condescend to come
down from their lofty positions and mako
known their gi-eat secret to ordinary mor-
tals like v:^."

"Adams will we condescend /" Donlevey
asked.

"Under the circumstances, and for this
occasirm only, wo will do so," Gasher an-
swered.

"Very well, sir; I shnll act upon your
■wise decision," Donlevey said, ' 'know then,
oh, most common men," ho added, turn-
ing to us, "that wo two sages, Mr. Adams
and myself, have conceived an idea."

"Miraculous!" Courtley exclaimed.

"A magnificent idea," Donlevey con-
tinued, "and that grand conception is
this: we will have a dinner."

"A dinner!" Charley and I cried in
chorus.

"Yes, a dinner," tho medico replied,
"you will, with your usual readiness, ask
what's in a dinner? We have a dinner
every day? So you have; but it's a Sins-
wick dinner. Now, Sinswick dinners are
very good in their way, but they don't do
for grand occasions, any more than grand
occasions do for Sinswick dinners. This
is a grand occasion —a glorious occasion —
and Adams and I have unanimously re-
solved and decided that it must be grandly
celebrated. We must have a dinner, a
whole dinner, and nothing but a dinner.
Sinswick dinners, of tho ordinary kind,

won't do. It must be a Sinswick dinner
of an vxtraordinary kiiul— such a dinner,
in fact, as Sinswick Cottage noTer saw
before and never will see afterwards,
until 1 am duly liconiod to yhysio and
I kill."

"Tho moaning of all this," Ctshor
said, " is that wo think this happy meet-
ing should bo celebrated in somu way,
and after mature deliberatii)n wo have
come to tho conclusion that the best way
is by a (|uiet, social dinner yarty. What
say you, gontlomen, to tho proposition I"

" Yes, with all my heart, I rcjdied.

"A capital idea," Courtley nuid, "and
'pon my word, you aro dosemngof thanka
for tho j)roposition."

" Dcm't return thanks till it's all over,"
Donlevey remarked, "and now that tho
thing is decided upon, we must i\x tho
important day. Let mo see, this is Friday,
what say you to next Wednesday."

Next Wednesday suited our views ex*
actly, and it was accordingly picked upon.

'J'ho intervening days were important
ones to Donlevey. It was tinanimously
decided that the entire management of
tho aflair should be left in his hands, and
he went into it with that heartiness and
good will which woro so characteristic of
him. His dogs and gun were brought
into recpiisition, and though it was not
tho game season ho succeeded in bagging
enough of ducks, woodcock and (]uail to
food half tho city. Ho knew nil tho best
nooks in tho trout streams of tho vicinity,
and was oiF two mornings hmg before day-
light with his rod and llies, and returned
on both occasions anything but empty-
handed. He bought tho wines, superin-
tended tho cooking, and I Torily believo
had a hand in tho making of the pastry.
Ho was half his time in the kitchen, and
tho other half procuring nupplie.s. Had
ho been deputed to got up a dinner for
the entire parliament of tho country ho
could not have been moie active.

Of course the dinner was a grand affair,
and as we entered tho dining room, from
which wo had been strictly excluded since
breakfast that morning, wo co\ild not
avoid giving expression to a general ex-
clamation of astonishment and delight.
As each one of us had tho privilege of
inviting a guest, there were eight of us in
all, in full dress, on account of the impor-
tance of the occasion. Donlevey being the
eldest, and also as being general superin-
tendent, was unanimously voted into the
chair at tho head of tho table, via-a-vin to
an immense turkey. In addition to our-
selves, the company consisted of a very
pale, studious looking young man, named
Valentine Somers, invited by Donlevey ; a
red headed gentleman, with a small mous-
tache, a large mouth and a cross eye,

MY OWN STOUT.

\ *

invited by Coiirtlcy ; iind two of our own
riorkit, invited l>y (iunher nnd niVKuif.

Tliikt tliii H|>ruiul \fiM done iiin|ilt) iiiiticv
to it iiiiiiiiont ni'i>(lli>H!ttiiiitatt>. DonfuTcy'N
Dvoi ipnrkicd witli duli^lit itit lio buw tliu
TlMuU (liHiippcar, iind tlioiigli lin iitu
heartily liiiuRcIf, it ^avo liiin intiniti-ly
nioru plunniiru to ntto tiio rest of iiitdiHiiliiy
good app«'titi«g. Dn rill),' dinner tin) wiiio
circuiatid frcilr. KvtTvIiody drank witli
rvoryliody tdiii', atul in addition thereto
the yoninf """' *'•'' tho ctoms eyit <lraiik
conHideruhio on liiH own aci'oiint. Con-
iiidoriii|.j' the occivition, (laKlier and I felt
that we iiii!,'ht )i(> exuiiaud for paHRiiig our
uauiil liniit of three or four ij^laascN, and
aecordin^dy wo coniiiuiud to liriiik with
tlie rcHt, tliougli Ntill o1)Mervin((c.'iutioii.

Hy tile time dinner was over wo were all
in an extremely merry condition, thouijh
iio one was what nii({tit ho called "far
j<ono." AHkiii){ IKS to till oiirglassoH, Uon-
lovey aroHi' with great dignity, and said :

"(;ientliMiien— Wo havo met hero under
partiinilarlv pleaaaiit circuiiiRtanceH, which
are, to do honour to two tHteemcd friondu,
■who, after a separation of Boveral years,
liave been brought together in the most
liappy manner. Though tho party is a
strictly prirnto one, thoro is a toast which,
un all occasions of thi» kind, wo in tliia
country do ourselves the honour of drink-
ing. That toivst, gcntloir.on, I now give
you, ' Hor Majesty tho Queen, and all tho
IWl Family.'"

The toast was duly honoured, and tho
entire company sang the national anthem
■with great vigour.

"(lentlemt'n," tho chnimian again coni-
nicnccd, after a few minutes had elapsed,
"1 call on you to lill a bumper. As 1
havo alreaily remarked, wo aro hero to
do honour to two gentlemen whoso friend-
ship wo value highly. They aro at this
mcment present with us — they are of us,
and 1 may say they belong to us. (Hear,
liear, from the gentleman with the cross-
eye). During the comparatively diminu-
tivo period which it is our allotted
privilege to remain inhabitants of this
terrestial sphere — (tho 'valeof tc.irs' indi-
vidual to tho contrary notwithstanding) —
there is nothing dearer to tho heart •which
beats, or is supposed to do something of
that nature, within our manly bosoms,
than those holy ties which are expressed
ill what weterm— /ri'cuds/n/).' Poets may
sing about love, gentlemen, which is a
very good thing in its way, but a remark-
ably scarce commodity at present. They
may sing about glory — a capital thing
when it is not accompanied by death;
they may sing about honour — they may
sing about distinction ; but, gentlemen, if
I -were a poet— which, happily, I am not,
— what do you think I'd sing about ? I'd

■in({, gentlemen — I'd ■hout, Rontlumon —
I'd tune uji mv lyre, grntleiiun, (if I had
one) to frieniUhip. FriundMhi[i, giintlo-
men, is it fricndnhip. I repeat it,
gentlemen, it's friendship, (The young
man with tho crois-uyo again said 'Hear,
hoar). Tho other things, gentlemen, may
bo very good, love and honour and soon;
but I say it, and say it fearieKsIy, that
friendship knocks tiiem all. (Apiiiutise).
In the cont^loiiierate mass of individual
and general characteristics, those detached
and iinit<j<l particles of human iiiHtincts,
[x'ciiliarities an<l passions, the formation
of which in unalterable, unchangeable and
occasionally incomprehensiblo stratifica-
tion, constitute the geological basis upon
which is erected and constructed, in tow-
ering grandeur, tho proud metaphorical
castle of human pleasures- its tapering
turrets buried in tho blue ethereal vault,
studded with tun million scintillating
spheres, whose welcome rays look down
in i)ity on a slumbering world, ami cause
man to cry aloud in wonder. There, I
s.ay, is friendsliip. Does anyone c<intra-
dict mo/ ! paiiso for a reply. No ono
contradicts/ No reply J (lontlemeii, I
thought as much; for thoro it stands
before you, ami seeing is bolioTing. There
it stands, I repeat, and while it stands
tliore, let us drink to it. Lot it be a bum-
per, gentlemen, worthy of the grand sen-
timent which wo hero wash down,
regardless of after consequences, and with
no thoughts of tho nunTow."

Tho company did not ajijiear to bo en-
tirely satisfied as to what they were pro-
nouncing, but in compliance with Mr.
Donlevey's request, they drank heartily.

"Now, my friends," said that gentle-
man, "comes the response. Silence for
the eloquence of those whoso healths wo
had tho honor of drinking. Let order
prevail throughout the assembly while our
noble friends 8i)eak."

This remark threw a ray of light \ipon
tho subject. Tho health of Oourtley and
myself was supposed to bo mixed up soma
place in Mr. Donlevey's lucid speech. Wo
accordingly responded — Courtloy first and
I next. So far as I can romembBr, tho
responses were entirely approjiriato and
(juite as clear as Mr. Donlevey's remarks
in introducing the toast. They created
an intense sensation, especially among the
two clerks and tho gentleman ■with the
defective optic.

Then one of the clerks told us in a par-
ticularly melancholy tone of voice that
"he'd bo a butterfly, born in a bower,"
after which we drank to that insect. We
next drank somebody's health in the most
enthusiastic manner, and then tho chair-
man informed us that "he was afloat on
the fierce rolling tide," during which ho

hTY OWN STORY.

shouted S(i licautinilly ni\ ir> convey tlio
iiiil)re.'iHi(ini tliat ho v/,v\ , i hmit riuMfr
or kuel, and in n torriUlo Riato oi distress.
Jlr. yoinur.s cxjKi.ieJ lii.i feoliiiys rugarding
the "SI;^id of Atlions," and o::i)ressed jv
Btron:,' de.'ilro to havd his heart rettirned
by tliut hulj; iifter wliich (JiiHlior liowleil
iiiournfidly Jiboiii; "A hmt) h.irreu isle,"
on Avhicii aor.iobody v.'ivs sniiposcd to rcsido
in i\ fitiito of iicculiar frii'iidlef;siie.ss.

Donlcvoy \\i\'\ just connivjr.coil to "'hiin;,'
his h;\rp on ;i v.-illow tree," vvhou tha (Uior
of tlie room suddenly opcncl and n, short-
si::i:d, st(jut j^'entleniun witli a b;kid heivd
and n very iioavy cMt cif countoniuioo en-
tered.

"ily ii.ii'iiy friends, good evening," ho
said, Vi'ith a Jeor intended to pa.s.'i curront
for a &:iii'c'. He looked rather shaky, and
was evidanUy laboring under a tenijiorary
attaek oi' two much puncli. "Ifoiio yo.i'll
excuse ir.y ]i:v.iby cntriiuoe upon this festive
scene, ur.asiked, bnt the faet of the matter
ia, your :ioto.s of h'^j'jiiiieasand eiijoyineuc

'V My

kl d!Miio:»il.i

\voi'e too luiicli f
and so lure 1 am

"All right, old buy," Di.nlovey said,
stepjiing forward to i.ieet him and .siiaking
his Iiaud warmly, "do'i't apologi;«>, we
hail yoFiV ajuioaranco aijiong \h v.'it!i joy.
Gontkiin.'n, this ia the ;--iii'iwiek, tlie head
of this huuso in which it is our h,^[ipy lot
no'.v to 1)0 domiciled. Make room ijierc
gentleim-n for the Sinswiek."

The Sia;;wiek was received \7ii;li every
denionstr.itionof joy by tlia company, and
■was at oiico provided ^-vith a seat at the
table. Ho immediately made an attac!:
on the '.riue, doveh^ping jioculiar talent
for emptying glasses hi tJ. • shortest podsiblo
period of time.

:v._"Hapnyto junet you, gentlemen," ho
said, holding a glass in his hand and bow-
ing to tuo conipany generally. "The
Sinsw'ick is not what he once was at the
festive hoard. He is no longer young, as
you, gentlemen, are, — bu.t ho thanks fer-
tunc tli:it si>mo of tliu vigor of his youtli
still remains, and all the spirit. lie
pn/udly meets you now, and drinks to you
as a j.iass. Cicntlemen, the Sinsvriek does
himself the honor of drinking your com-
bined healths."

He accordingly emptied his gla'-.s with
great facility, and sat down with dignity
and grace. Donlevoy immediately arose —

"Geritlomen," ho i;aid, "wo" may bo
happy yet. Wo have been happy in the
past ; the future is before us, and may it
always remiun there. We've had festivi-
ties and ])leasures this evening, such as
the hvart of man lovcth. We've (pialied
the llowin;; liowl, and sought sweet ob-
livion in the nectar of Hibernian gods —
■whisky punch ; and now in the mid; t of
all our enjoyment a stranger aiipears — yea,

gontlcmon, a strange r even tnito you, but
unto me a bo.-iom friend. T 'e ilhistriou,-',
the fvmous Sinswick — hor»ii of all l.'.o
Sinswiek (, and gi;neral itj'ont for the aalr^
a!id purchase of v.dld lands. ' hr.vo
known the Sinswici: long r.nd irc'jMi'ntly,
iioiaetime.^ wliou he did'nt know lue."

" So you have," said Mr. Siiis./ick.

" 'j'he illustrious man says jo I have.
Do you rot .'••CO til!) :l:i,»hings of that
gigantic intellect in those few word-; "

" Let it llasb," tho gentlemen with the
cross eye remarked.

" You c;Mi't keep it from tkisliijig,"
DoTdovey continued, "any more tlian you
can keep the noon d.ry sun f;hini'i\'. I've
Iniovrn this illustrious m.'ui for y;!ars.
I've Lnovni him in all the relations of
hu.sliand, father, friend and land agent,
and i .>aj', withou fear of toi.tradiction,
that in ev.ch ;v<u\ all he is an honor to the
land of hi« birth, and an e.vamplo to his
fellows."

Mr. Sin.swick hero ''iro.-o and bowed with
great dignitj", after ■which h') devoured a
glass of punch, and resumed his seat
amid tho aiijilanse of the compiniy.

"My friends," Dimlovey continuod,
witii a flourish of liis hand, towards Mr.
Sinswick, "there v,as an ach of grace,
thei'o vfM a deed oi courtesy ]>erEori)ied
v.'illi a dignity and an e:tse that none of
us could aiisiuue. Nature's gi.-utleman
there sticks iirominently out. iMr. Sins-
v.'ick, how many summers hr.ve p:i.ssed
over yoiir hiuiored head i"

"Fifty-seven," IMr. Sinswick replied;

"Fifty-seven sumuiors, gentlemen, and
yet marked you not the dignity, the
grace, tlio elasticity of youth? Wliat a
man is he I Should ho not bo hcmored '.
Of coiu'so he should, and of course ho
.shall be. Fill nj) j'our goblets to the
vciy brim, and drink to him who sittcth
there, tho heiid of all the Sioswicks."

We tilled and drank to tho illustrious
{".dividual, and in sweet cho'.'us pi'o-
nounced him a "jolly good fellow."

JVir. Sinswick rose to rjjily :

"Sir, and gentlemen," ho commenced.
"What can J say/"

"Nothing!" tho young man with th'i
defective o[itic ventured to reply, but was
immediately silenced by ii withering
glance from ])oulevey.

"In our mother-tongue we have ex-
pressive terms," Mr. Sinswick continued,
placing one himd beneath his coat tails,
and tile -other in tho opening of his vest ;
— "hi our niother-tongtie, 1 say, tve have
expressive terms; but at the jirescnt time
they nre all too weak to convey to you .any
ade(iuate ide'V of v/hat my heart feels.
My vocabuhuy is not limited, but in the
whole range of it I cannot hnd words strong
enore/h for the occasion."

MY OWN STORY.

4 ^

"Borrow II ilictionavy," tlio cruss-eycd
geutlcimiii ojiiciil;itod.

"Ortlcrl" uliuutud Doiilcvty, in iv toiio
«if autliority.

"?ily iVicJul makuii fhuio rcuiiivk iiliont
a dictioiKiry," Mr. Siuswiuk rusumou
'•Keud I May, gcutlciiiuii, tliat all tha
lo.\ic<ina in <jiirlaii;^nago could in it fiiriUHh
jiio with cxprt'SBious tiucli as 1 at thia inn-
lucnt VLHUiiic."

"(livu u;; a stavo in Latin, ihcn," xlio
croas-eycd yontli roiuarkod.

'^^■lIcn man's heart in too full for ut- | pany ?"

peered in at her lord and mantur, atretched
out at his full length on the Hour. " Sina-
wick, you Iicast !"

"Did )-ou Kpeuk, my deari" tlio you-
tlonian asked.

"Did I sjieak ? you horrid wretch, of
c.^rso 1 si)oke," Mrs. Siiiswick replied,
ini.nything but aifeciionate tonus. "Cc;ino
ov; tliis minute. How dare you intrude
y ur horrid presence on these gentlemen t
\ oil old monster you. "What right have
yon, the father of a family, in such coin-

I V.

terance what's the use of a dictionary?"
Mr. Hinswiek continued. "I'dr, as you
have graciously said, I aiii the luiad of the
Sinswieks. All unworthy as I am, I oceu-
]iy That jinnid p.iKitioti — the; Sinswiek of
all lIic Sinswicks! iJeneatli the humble
roof of tliis, my home^SiuKwiok Cottage
— I greet you all as friends. 1 (hie) wel-
come yon with the extended hand that
man gives to his— hie — felluw man, when
guid',;d i>y tlie instincts of friond-liip and
l)r.)tlierly iove--liie. !Mrs. 8ins;vicli keeps
a boarding-liouse; a sad position, as slie
may have taken occasion to remark, for
one of the great DeC'oureeys — hie. Mins
Sinswick, the solo ofi'spring of our happy
imion, has a lover, a worthles.i young man
named Jnmper — hie. One word about
that j'oung man. You v.il! confer : n
everlasting fi;,vour on me, gentlemen, by
ir.incliing his head, or inflicting other
bodily injury on him whenever you'Koe
him in this vicinity. I, geullemen, — hie
— I, your humble servant, have some
valuable lands for sale in different parts
of this glorious audfroe country. You're
all young---perhi>i)s you'd like to invest.
Three dollavis per acre, part cai^l^, balance
in annual instalments, with interest.- —

Splend d ehaiiee I hie. Now's ynurtiine 1''

'■ ril take ten tliousand acre.'^,"' exclaim-
ed the young gentleman \rith tho jiecidiar

"All ri'i'iit, sir, yor. shall 'oe accommo-
dated ■ ten millions if you like. Magni-
ficent o])}iortiinity to gro\v- WL-alih}'."

BIr. SiuKwick \.aa proceeding in this
strain wlu-n sutldenly the docn' o],ened and
Mrs. Sinswick, followed by Miss Dabby
yinswiek, entered. The speaker in;nie-
diately subsided and a]i[jeared desirous of
eoniprcissiiig himself into tiie smallest
]io:-isibh' space. In his eit'or'.s to aecom-
[tlisU til's he slipi'cil oil" his cliair and dis-
ajipeared beneath the table.

".Madam," Jtr. Sinswick raplied, " the
family i>f which I have the hom)r of being
i father, is so very dimiiuitivo as to form
[ no argiii.ient in the world."

"Is that my fault, you old bnite?'' the
ladj'' aslced.

"I i\;ally don't know, madam,'' Mr.
1 Sinswick said, "but I presume it is."
: "Oh, you horrid man," the lady ex-
claimed v.'ith increased vehemence, "Are
I yim going to come out i"
! "At present, I tlunk not," the gentle-
; man answered.

"Ma," said Jliss rM'rif,v.-ick, in a tearful
Avay, "shall 1 call him in l''

"Yes, let him at the brute, it's the only
I way," her mother answered.

Miss Kinsiviek (opened the door, and a
curley-headed young man entered.
I "Sinswick," the wife said v/itli much
: irony, "here's your dear friend, Mr.
: Juniper, pei-haps you'll come out now .'"
; "Junii^er! Jrnnperl" Llr. Sinsv.'iek c.\.-
claimed, "Is that would be despoiler of
my dauglitci''B happiness present / Dare
ho ] 'resume to appear at such a tiuie ■ 3Ir.
Doidevey,'' he added, poking tmt his head,
"will you oblige me by puncliiiig that vile
young man's head I"

Before he could sa.\' more the vile young

man was down upon nnn, and sei/iuig

him

'(;entlemen,"Mrs. Si

said, "ex-

cuse me, l)ut I thoiight 1 lu\u<l the voice
<if that <ligraded husliand of mine.''

"Ma, he's under the table," Miss Sins-
wick remarked, as she caught ;-ight of her
venerable parent down amongst our feet.

"T'be brave I" }.irs. Sinswick exclaimed
as she lifted > lie corner of the cloth and

by the coat collar, dragged him ignomin-
ously from his hiding place. Mr. Sins-
wick struggled violently and swore ener-
geticallj', but it was useless. Mr. Juniper
held him firmly in his grat'i). The moment
hewas]mlled from beneath the table Mrs.
Shiswick and Mi.-;s Sinswick assisted ?.[r.
Jumper, and between them the head of
all the Sinswicks was dragi;ed from the
room, evidently verv mucli against his
will.

This unhappy ineident had a dampering
efl'ect on the party. We remained around
the table fo)' sometime longer, but enjoy-
ment seemed to have vanished. Donlevey
did all in his power to keep fun alive but
he could not succeed. The two clerks fell
asleep in their chair.'<. Mr. S.imers, the
mo!;t sober one of the party, smoked his
cigar in a thoughtful mood. The young
man with the crooked eye s.'Uik to the
floor and favored us with ;i snoring >{>\o.

MY OWN STORY.

Gashor made Bovcral abortive attempts at
a papular song and linally aubsidod into
a dreary howl. Donlevey, even, fell
asleep with his head in a plate of jolly.
Courtley got out of sight I know not how,
I have a faint recollection of creeping up
Btaira, after the manner of a quadruped,
I got into my room, and that is the last I
remember of out Dinner Party.

CHAPTER XVI.

RE-APPEARANCE OF MR. MEEKER.

Next morning I awoke with anything
but pleasant sensations. My tongue was
dry, my throat parched, my head ached
dreadfully, and my whole systeui felt out
of order and imstrung. It was the first
time in my life to be intoxiciited, and up
to the present moment it has been the last
also.

The mental and bodily suffering of that
morning I have never forgotten, and never
shall. I outstepped the bounds of pru-
dence once, but the occasion has not since
occurred which could induce me to do so
again.

On coming down stairs I found Miss
Debby Sinswick clearing away the debris
of our feast. She informed me that our
guests of the previous night were gone ;
that Mr. Donlevey was away with his gun
and dog.^, as fresh as ever; tliat Gasher
had gone to the store, and Courtley to
his office. I, therefore, was the last of
the party. A light breakfast satisfied my
appetite, and then I pi'ocecded to business.

A few days later I took occasion to npeak
to Courtley about a matter that had given
me much thought.

"You remember Mr. Meeker I" I said.

"Our old tutor at the academy I"

"Yes."

"Of course I remember him ; and a good,
kind, generous fellow he was."

"No one, Ciiarley, had better reason
for speaking well of him than I. During
all the persecution I received at the hands
of Dr. Baker, you and he were the only
friends I had. Can you tell me what has
become of himf

"I have not seen him for several years,
Harry, but I understand that he occupies
his oki position \iuder Dr. Baker."

"A hard life he must have had then,
during all these years, unless his superior
has improved greatly in temper."

"A most unlikely change, and one that
has not hai)pened, if all I hear of Dr.
Baker bo true. He is even said to be
more tyrannical and cruel than in our
time — impossible as you may considerit 1"

"And poor Meeker ha" had to endure
him all this time 1" '

"Necessity, Hardy, as tho old Latin
proverb runs, knows no law. What can-
not be cured nmst bo endured, and that
I presume accounts for Meeker's present
position."

' ' I have no doubt of it, Charley. Wlien
at the academy, I knew more of hia
afl^airs than even you, I fancy, and I am
aware that ho remained there simply
because he could not help it. Good and
kind hearted as he was, he wanted one
gi'eat requisite of success in life — energy.
Ho was a student and a gentleman, well
and tenderly reared, but almost as ignor-
ant as a child of the proper means of
working his way through the world.
Perhaps hia peculiar circumstances, in a
f'reat measuie, were the cause of it. After
he had been reared in luxury and afHuenca
l.e was cast upon the world to earn his
own living, and in addition thereto, to
support an aged, bed-ridden mother, and
a sister. The salary ho received from Dr.
Baker was barely sufficient for this j)ur-
posc, and ho dare not throw it up while
ho 1. ^<' ufjthing better in view. Other
men would have struck out into a now
channel, and probably have succeeded ;
but poor Meeker lacked tho energy, and
had not tho courage to do so. Thus he
remained in tho clutches of Dr. Baker,
and there ho will continue to remain
unless some friendly hand be stretched
forth to help him."

"I have often thought of the poor
fellow, and of his unhappy condition,"
Courtley said, "and have asked myself
many times if something could not be
done for him."

" So nave I, Charley, and especially of
late, since I have b,'cn in business for
myself. I owe Mr. Meeker much ior all
his kindness to me, and I am determined
to show my gratitude in the best way I
can."'

" But how, my dear fellow, are your
good intentions to be i^arried out / You
know that he is entirely devoid of business
talent, and what then can you put him at
which lie would suit, and which also would
suit him i"

' '' I have given the subject much thought,
Charley, and think I have discovered a
means of bettering his condition perman-
ently. We have a vacancy for a book-
keeper in our establishment just now,
and I feel confident that, witli a little
instruction, Mr. ]\Ieeker could be made
to fill it eiiicieiitly."

"1 must say that I have doubts about
it," Courtley said with a dubious shake of
the head.

"From V hat I know of him, I have
none," I imswered, "he already knows
tho theory jf book keeping, having taught
it for sevi ral years, and asliort experience

MY OWN STORy.

66-

would work him into the practice. Though
lacking in energy, ho is, as I said before,
a man of talent and education, and would
make it his study to improve himself in
any new calling, especially when induced
to do ao by one for whom he entertained
feelings of friendship, as I have abundant
reasons for believing he does for me. "

"1 should bo rejoiced, my dear Harry,
if you could succeed," Courtley remarked,
"and if you are really determined upon
making the attempt, I need hardly tell you
that I will give you all the aid in my power."
''Then I shall require your assistance
at once," I said, glad to find that he was
willing to help me. ' ' It is not likely that
Mr. Meeker lias heard of my return to
this country. Few persons know it, and
he of all men would bo the last. What I
want you to do is this: write to him at your
earliest convenience, and without men-
tioning my name, say that you have at
your disposal a situation in the establish-
ment of a friend, which you feel satisfied
he in in every way fitted for, and that you
olfer it for his acceptance. Say also that
it will be a permanency, that the salary
will be more than double that vrhich he
now receives, and that by accepting of it
he will confer a great favor on you."

"Why my dear fellow," Courtley said,
with a smile, "such an epistle would do
you great injustice. It would take all the
credit from you t» whom it is due and give
it to me to whom it is not due."

"Never mind that, you will learn all
the facts in good time. For the present
I wish to remain in the back ground. If
lie does not accept your offer I will write
myself and repeat it in my own name.
W'ill you do as I wish ! "
"On (juo condition."
"Name it?"

"That everything shall bo explained to
him immediately on his acceptance, in
order tliat he may know that you are his
benefactor and not I."

"The point is an unimportant one,
Courtley, but I agree to it."

" Verj' well, then, and with that under-
standing I will write."

Accordingly, on the following morning
he wrote and in due time an answer came
from Mr. Meeker. It was just such an
one as we had expected. Ho was deeply
thankful to Mr. Courtley, for his kind
offer, but knowing so very little about the
matter he did not think it would be safe
to throw up liis present position until he
had learned more. He W(juld be delighted
to escajio from Dr. Baker'.s clutches, but
he must not do so in any hasty manner,
nor before he was fully convinced that it
would be right for him to do so. Several
other loiters passed, and after a lengthy
correspondence ho partially accepted .

He did not know who his friend waa
until his arrival in Bayford. Courtley
brought him around to the store and in-
troduced him to mo, inadvertantly aa it
were, omitting to mention my name. Ho
looked at me very closely for a moment,
and in the expression of his face I oould
read that he saw in mo something that
reminded him of his boy friend.

" I did not catch the name distinctly,"
he said in a low voice.

I said, "Harry Hardy!"

The next moment I was clasped in hi»
arms, while the poor follow fairly wept
with joy. Such genuine happiness as
beamed from his pale, honest, good face,
I never before witnessed and do not think
I ever shall again.

For the first few minutes he could say
nothing ; but after that he overwhelmed
me with questions, and I could only satisfy
his curiosity by telling him everything.
He rejoiced heartily over my pn)3perity.

"And now, my dear old friend," I said
in conclusion, " when you know who it is
that oilers you the sitiation, I trust you
will no hunger hesitate about taking it."

"Thanks, a thousand thanks, Hardy,"
he answered with warmth, as he to(jk my
hand and pressed it between his own,
" I am not fitted for business, as you well
know ; but with you for my instructor, I
may learn much. I gratefully accept your
kind offer, not without fear and trembling
I may safely say, and yet with a hope that
I shall succeed with your generous aid."

"I feel sure that you will," I answered.
" Courtley can tell you that from the first
that was my opinion ; and I am more cei'-
tain of it now than ever. That point,
therefore is settled, and you may com-
mence oi^erations as soon as you like.
First, however, we must have your mother
and sister comfortably settled amongst us.
Do you think that your mother can be
removed with safety t "

"Oh, yes," he quickly replied ; "she is,
imhappily, still a helpless invalid, but
good, patient and uncomplaining, and
quite strong enough to «ndure the jour-
ney."

"I am rejoiced to hear it," I said;,
"and now our first duty is to procure a
suitable house for you and them. You

can then return to C , and bring them

on by easy stages. Sell your furniture,
and during your absence Courtley and I
will sec that your future homo is prepared
for you. We can afterwards manage other
matters."

He did not overwhelm mo with thanks
and promises, but in his calm, quiet,
earnest way, ho exjiressed his gratitude,
and left it to his future actions to si)eak
his thanks.

A few weeks later ho returned to Bay-

MY OWN STORY.

) ;

ford with his moiiior ivnd sislor, settlod in
n cof.y little cottage, and entered upon the
dntie.'i of hit) new callinf.^

His mother was the tlio patient i?nfrcrcr
of old. There were more giey Imini on her
head, and more wi-inklos on her calm,
jiale fiiec; hut othorwiKe hIio wftK un-
changed, i'.nd I would havorocogni/rdiier
any place.

i'lary Meeker looked noin«wiiat older,
and more womanly, liut siiU fresh, 1/looin-
ing i'jid l)i.';'.ntifu!. Slie trfw a noble girl.
Her doTotion to her mother and brolher
were Komething heroic. With nil a
woman's feelinj^a and instincts, nhc never
for a moment forgot ther.i. During the
yearri of my id):Aenco slie liad remained
faithful and self-sacrificing in tlie din-
ciifivge of her duty of love; and notwith-
st.'uuting the solic.iV.tionsi of her mother,
liad rel:uae<l sevur.il offerB of marriage
Ruch a) the world would call good, r.vther
than reriign her post at her niother'is bed-
side, and i'.i Iier mothei'V cottage.

Their new home in IJayford was a bright
ftud cheerful phwe, and many t!ie h.ippy
hour we spent tlicro iji the day-s that came
aftc-r.

In the meantirae business prospered
Vv'ith us, and becAUio every day iHMre ex-
tensive. We attended to it fiiithrully and
well, and liad tli.e reward v/'Iiioh mustc\cr
i'ollow'encrgy honestly dii'octed.

We were no longer sti'anger.s in 'Hayford.
Courtley and Donleveykuew everyone in
the citj- worth knowing, and through
their aKsistance Gaslicr iind 1' soon had an
exten.siro oirolo of :icqiiaintancefi. Wlior.
the next season of balls and parties came
around, we had as \iiany invitations jwwe
coiihl well attend to. Wo f-till dwelt in
Sinswick Cottage, which wo had fairly
mnnopolized, to the exclusion of ail other's,
and were fo'j that «i;'.aon known lus ''the
Sinswick quartette."

During all this lime I never saw or
heard iro;u ]Mr. Winstanley, my step-
fatiier. Sebly, my old home, was many
miles distant irvim IJayford, and 1 often
wished to visit it, Imt eoinething always
deterred me. Thror.gh otliers 1 owasion-
allv" heard oi* him, and learned that ho
was still living tliore in ease and luxury.
Much of t!io pr';.])erty in hii possession I
knew W!\fi mine, but while 1 h.'id s.illir-ipnt
Avithout it f luade up my minil nir, to
disturb him.

One day, after dinner, C'viurtley sji'ikc:
of this matter.

"O, by-thc-by. Hardy,'' ho said, "i
saw a gentleman from Sebly to-day."

" Indeed, andhow istlie dear old place."

" I'nxpi'ring well: the town is tilling

up and gi'o'AJng

rai>iillv, and seems alto-

gether to i)

(me t)f tiie
places, in tiio I'roviuce.''

most ii'iundiin'^

"I'm heartily glad of it, Charley. As
my native tf)wn 1 have a strong alfeotion
for it, and hope it may eontiinio to pros-
per. 1 suppose, however, that if I were
to go back there I would hardly rtcognizo
it as the Seblv of my childhood, and few,
if any, wo\ild remendjer me."

" 'J'here's one at least who would,
Harry ; that allectionato st-ep-fatlier of
3'ours."

" Vc-s, and I've no doubt my rc-appoar-
ance would occasion him anytliing but
ideasiu'e. Ho never wixsted Bnuh lovo
on me, and least of all would ho be likely
to do so under existing circ\im(it,'vncoa.
Did you hear miything adout him ("

" \ little. The geritleman I van speak-
ing to says he lives on in the siane old
way, in ease and comfort, lUid appw'ira to
enjoy life heartily. Ho is iut/;iisely un-
lioinilur thougii, as ia evident from lilio
fact that ho has twice tmt up fov ))arlia-
meiit, and on oacli oc3<a8iou defeatcil by a
large majority, and that too in a consti-
tuency in which the party to vdiieh ho
professes to belong possossea ail the
power."

"1 never thought his ambiiiwu would
run in that irn;-.," \ said, " in my time ho
^^■f^s {Teatly a>erse to politics."

" -In this country, my dear Hardy, men
become politicii'.ns almost involuul.ivily.
It in part of tlioir life histoiy. Tl.uiy j^frow
from Iio3diood to manhood, from manb.ood
to pioliticalhood. Wo sea instances of it
all around. 'J'lio field of jiolition is aluiost
the only one open to us, and every man
amongst ua has .'is])irat!onfj tiiat way at
pome time ('f his life, in gTutifying our
ambition, and iu seeking distincJ.ions and
h('Uor, we tiy to that he'd ; and if we are
not supjdiod tliere we niust dowitiient it,
or, ;-t !c;',st, with a very small allowance
of it, woii iu other ways."

"True enough, Courtley, Imt at the
same time, i ron astonished to find Win-
stanley anxious of winning such l;o;ioi-3.
As ! remember him, ho rather avoided
than sought them."

"x'l.Kactly, my dear fellow. Vv'iion yon
know him ho was young as v.'o now are,
.and fo'.iiid ail the I'lijoyments ho wished
in those ];le!i*urc8 wliieh now ]il!-.:iso us.
Time, however, has changed his desires.
Ho li.Ts lost a taste for tli'k-'e things, and
entered upon tliat time of life v.lien ambi-
tion reac;he3 its height, and longs to bo
satisfied. Dut to coino to another matter,
Harry, 1 must say, between (nirselves,
tliat J think you arc doing yoiu-solf great
iniustice."

'"Plow?"

•'In this question of your iiroi)erty.
Winstanley holds enough to make you a
rich man. He has enjoyed the benedts of
;'. rVir many yearo and it ia fully time yoa

MT OWN STORY.

^«

recovered possession. It is constantly iii-
cre.iaing in value, and an a friend and a
man of law, I honestly tell you that the
longer you allow it to rest the greater
will lio your difiiculties in proving your
claim and jirocuriiig possession."

"(Jourtley, wo have spoken of tliis
matter hefore, and you know my decision.
That t!ic property is mine does not admit
of a doubt ; but I could not recover pos-
Bcsfiion without a course of lengthy and
tedious lilifjatiou, that £ have no desire to
ent(UMipoii."

"Yoii would but bo asserting your
rights, my dear fellow."

"f am aware of that; but there are
certain circumstances in life, under which
the a.'i.sertion of one'a rights is better left
alone. This, I feel, is one (/f them. That
man w.as ever cruel and unkind to me ; he
haa wronged nie in a thousand ways, and
through him I was cast upon the world a
poor and helpless lioy. But, Charley, bad
as he was, anduujust as lie may even now
be, 1 can never forget tliat he was once
my mother's husband. She loved him
witli all tlie devoti. ii and strength of a
pure woinan's he.'vrt, and in her grave the
iiones of his child lio upon her breast.
These tilings, my dear (Jourtlev, I can
never forg t."

"As a friend. Hardy," ho aiid, taking
my h;i:id, "I respect your noble feelings,
and honour you for them; but as a man
of t'.io world I feel it my duty to say that
they .are wrong."

"Tliey m.ay be Courtloy, and if they are
I caniiot lielp it."

*' But you should I'emembor your inter-
ests, my dear fellow. Here is !i valuable
property of yours in the hands of anoUier,
froin whom you might recover it by a
very Kiin;«le process."

"1 a:ii v.'ell enough provided for as it is.
I have frdl and plejity of everything, .and |
feel that I am on tlii^ higli road to pros- i
pcrity. I. have no one depending on me I
— MO uit3 to do for but, my.solf, and need j
not fet;l uneasy about the future." '

"That is all very W(;ll, but yon know |
not v.Iiat reverses may occur, it is clear i
and pleas'int sailing nov.', but you cannot I
aay at \vhat moment a Gtorin ni.iy arise, i
nor can you bee any of the breakers which ^
may be ahead." !

"I have weathered cnricais storms i
already, Charley, for one of my years,
and hav(! no dread of any others that j
may como.'' |

'' But if they do come. Hardy, and if, I
nnhan'iily, you should go duwn with
themT' l

'■ I'heu I should only have to start |
where 1 did before — with no one to help j
me, and oidy a stout hunrt and strong
liands to carry ine through the world."

"Hardy," ho said warmly, "you de-
servo to succeed. You liave a good heart,
and the course you arc pursuing is only
too generous. I wish 1 could dissuade
you from it, and teach you to look at
and act in this matter as a man of tho
world."

"It is useless to make the attempt,
Courtloy," I replied. "While nij' cir-
cumstances remain as they at present are,
I shall not disturb Winstaniey. I may
change my mind some day, but it will
only bo for stronger reasons than any you
can now urge. Wo c innot tell v/hat tho
futnro may bring forth."

" 1 hope in n)y heart it will bring you
to look at this matter as I now do."

"Perhaps it nniy ; and when it does,
you, my (dd friend, shall be tlie lirst ta
know it."

CHAPTER XVII.

TUB BACHEI.OU'.S BAI.Ii.

The bachelors of B.ayford gave a ball
annually, as a return for all sucli favors
received by them from the married gentry.
It was always a grand all'air, the "baches"
going into it with great spirit, and spiring
neither labor nor expense. The Sinswick
(luartelte had mucli to do with the hrsb
one given after my arrival in the city.
Donlevey was chairman of tho connnittee
of management, and wo ail assisted him
in his duties. \Vofelt that, in a measure,
tho reimt.ation of the quartette was at
stake, and that it was our duty to sustain
it. We acci)rding]y worked with hinx
manfully, and tho result was that the ball
was a magniiicent suoi-eas, f(jr which Don-
levey received the hearty thanks (if all
who had the distinguished ]U'ivilege of
being present. He was tho prime mover,
till! head of tho attair, .and was fully de-
f:erving of all the prai.se accorded him.

(jashei'and I beiugeoiauarativo strangers
had good guides in Donlevey and Court-
loy, ^^llo know evevvbody. They did not
allow n;j to remain long in ignorance as to
"wlio was who."

The array of youth, beauty and wit was
brilliant in the extreme, and the scene
altogether was one of peculiar lovtdiness.
There wore fair gii-ls present, sparkling
and radiant and charming, for Bayford
tlien, asnoiv. w.isrjmarkablofor the beauty
of its daughters, and on such occasions
they foriuod .-4 bright galaxy which outy
needed to be seen to be admired.

Some how or anotlr r, though I had ai-
[ wayd aduuredwom vnandlovedhervainity,
j I had been proof ag linst her charms. 1
I livl never been iuHovn in my life, and had
I grown to coiiBidor mysi;lf a hardened and

MY OWN STOllY.

confirinetl bachelor iipon whoBO lieiirt a
Boftoning effect could novor bo procUiccfl.
1 had often wondered at tliiR, and liad
even regretted it, yet there was no remedy
for it 8o long as I fonndnoono who would
give nic her heart in return for mine.

I was leaning against a pillar, turning
this thing over in my mind, and admiring
the brilliancy of the scene aromid nie
■when Donlevcy approached.

" Well, old sober-sides," he said in his
merry way, as ho placed his hand on my
uhoulder, "what's the meaning of this
seri<ms countenance and inactivity?"

" 1 am tired dancing," 1 answered,
"and having no engagements for the next
few aetts, I am resting myself and admir-
ing tho beauty."

"The latter is a praiseworthy occupa-
tion, Itut of tlie formor 1 cannot say so
much," he replied, "a fellow of your
years talking of being [tired jvt this early
hour is the height of absurdity, for which
you deserve to be severely punished.
I've a good mind to announce it publicly,
in order that not another lady may d.ance
with, you during tho evening. If you
give up ni this way, what's to be expected
from an old fellow like me ?"

"I'll connnenco operati(ms again, my
dear fellow, in a few minutes," I said,
"and in the meantime if you're not better
engaged, I want your assistance."

•' With all my heart, I'm at liberty for
the next two dances, and if mj' company
Avill cheer you in yunr lonelines.s, you have
it. Only remember, old boy, that you
must not remain idle long. The reputa-
tion of the (juartette nmst be preserved.
Look at those fellows, Courtley and Adams
how nobly they are acquitting themselves.
You must do the same or we'll loose our
good name. The other chaps are dread-
fully jealous of us, and we must do our
best to keep them so."

"All right, Dick," I replied, "I'll re-
sume in a few minutes ; but for tho pre-
sent remain with me. I ,wish to receive
a little more knowledge regarding the
company."

' ' With pleasure, my dear fellow ; I
know every one in the room and Avill be
most happy to enlighten yo\ir benighted
understanding."

"Thanks, and now to begin, who is that
girl with auburn hair, with whom Adams
is dancing ? "

' * Ellen Montcreiff, 'and a fine girl she
is too ; good looking as you may see, and
quite as good as she seems. I know her
family intimately, and shall have great
pleasure in introducing you if you wish ."

" Thank you, I may requii'o your ser-
vices sometime. Who are her family '! "

" She is only daughter of Dr. Mont-
creiff, a physician of some eminence, and

who is everlastingly scolding me bocauso
1 am HO confoundedly lazy with mj
studies."

" And not without cause," I laughingljr
added. Then without pausing I asked,
"Who is that fairy looking girl in pink?"

"The one with tho scarft' across hor
shoulder I

"Ye.s."

"Jenny Murdock, the daughter of the
head of the firm of Murdock ct Henderson.
She's pretty, butinsii)id and sentimental."

"Then it seems all women are not
angels in your eyes >."

"Far from it, I like the sex generally,
on principle ; but in uU tliis brilliant
throng I do not know of .>no whom J
would make my wife, oven if I could
induce her to have me."

"You must be hard to suit."

" Perhai)s I am ; what I tell you is tho
honest truth. Admiring a girl is ono
thing, and making her your wife is an-
other. There are many here whom I
esteem highly, and whom it is a greai
l)rivilege and a blessing to have on one's
visiting list ; but I hardly think tho future
Mrs. Donlevey is present."

" Is she any place else?" I a-sked, witli
a smile.

" 1 supjHoe .ihe is," he answered, "but
where to find her would pu/zlo me greatly
at this moment."

"Then there is no bright particular
star in your finnanent of beauty /"

"If there! is, she's hidden behind a
cloud at present, or mixed up in some
nebulous collection in such a woefully
mysteritms way that the telescope of lovo
has not yet found her. If I don't discover
her soon my eyes will bo too dim to search
longer, and she will thus ronuiin forever
undiscovered."

"Who is that girl with the pearl neck-
lace r I asked.

"You have a fine eye. Hardy," ho
laughingly replied. "You pick out ths
finest girls in the room at a glance — that
is Florence Jarvis."

"A daughter of tho judge of that
name !"

"Yes,"

"And who is that coxcomb with whom
she is dancing ("

"Gus. CJardner. It's singular you havo
not known him before ; he's tho heaviest
swell in liayford, and a coiTcapoudingly
big fool."

"Ho seems very attentive to her," 1
said.

"That's his style. His empty talk and
nonsense would disgust any sensible girl
in five minutes, and I've no doubt that
Miss Jarvis is thoroughly tired of him at
this moment. He's rich, and that's his
oidy reconmiendation. Take hU money

MY OWN STORY.

• I

away, tuid thoso wlio now fivwTi on and
court him would cast him oli* in 1uh;i than
n week. You Hummud nj) his charactur
in ono word when you called him a cux-
conih."

"Still tho hvdy suonia to tolurato him in
a very iiU'iisant way."

"1 can't account for it. Sh(j'.s a re-
markably Hcnsihio, educated and accom-
plished girl, and yet uhu allows him to i)ay
her marked attention. Dame Humour
sayH they are entjaged ; but I've yot too
good an oi)inion of Florence Jarvis to be-
lieve any siuch story. She is really a
superior girl, anil in my opinion, though
1 nnvy be a poor judge, has no eipial in
the city in genuine womanly ipialities.
She is tlie very antipodes of that fellow
( iardner, and to become his wife would be
a downri^'ht sacrifice on her part."

"A girl will willingly blind her.self to
many faults in a man if ho be posse.ssed of
Wealth," I .said.

''As a rule that is correct," he answer-
ed; "l)ut Florence Jarvis 1 believe to be
tho exception which jiroves the rule. She
is too pure a wounui to over sell herself
in sucii a way to a fool like (Gardner."

" You appear to admire tho lady great-
ly," 1 said with a laugh.

" So 1 do ; I think her far ahead of any
other girl in the room, in intellectual
attainmentn, nuiral worth, and wit."

" You say nothing of her lujanty."

"That ripeak.) for itself," he quickly
replied, " siie is not what the woi'ld calls
beantifid, as you may see. But look at
that linely formed head and bright face.
They liare the cast of intellectual rather
than of phy.sical beauty. And yet she is
aliandBome girl, Uio, Hardy. She catches
a man's eye and attracts his attention
V)efore .any other lady in the room. She
is tall, beautifully formed, and moves with
a peculiar, queenly air, such as none of
the rest can ever assume, though with her
it is natural. She is, in a word, distin-
guished looking, and therefore it is that
she elicits our admiration. To my way of
thinking, slie is the lu'lle of the room,
though those who admire mere beauty of
face would hardly agree with nie."

"I freely confess, Donlevey, that she
attracted my attention the moment she
entered the room ; and what you have
told me of her has increased my udmira-
ti(m."

" Do you wish an introduction I"

"If practicable."

"Nothing easier, I am reigning prince
hero, as you are aware, and also have the
honor of tho lady's accpiaintance. I will
take tho liberty of presenting you.'"

A few minnti's later the dance con-
cluded, and as soon as Miss Jarvis was
jeated, Doulovey introduced me. For-

tunately her card wm blank opposite tho
ne.\t ({uadrille, and she allowed mo the
privilege of inserting n>y name there. It
was two or three dances down, and though
I took part in some of thom, I looked for-
ward with peculiar pleasure to tho sott in
which 1 would have tho honor of her
haiul .

I do not know why it was, but 1 felt
desirous of making a good impression.
Probably wliat Donlevey had said had
sumothing to do with it. 1 was vain
enough to think I succeeded. Sho at least
appeared interested in my conversation,
and listened to my remarks, ] thought,
with nn>re attciition than mere good-breed-
ing demanded, though that, of course,
might have been imagination on my part.
A well-bred lady will always giwe every
attention to a gentleman's ball-room talk,
even if it bo nonsense about which sho
cares nothing, and in which sho does not
feel tho slightcut interest. On tho other
hand, no true gentleman will over intro-
duce a topic on which a lady cannot speak
with ease and without i'HV>rt.

Supper followed thecpiadrillo, and there-
fore I had the additional i)leasnro of
escorting Miss Jarvis to tho table.

"I believe 1 heard y(nir friend IMr. Don-
levey, say that you have not been long
in iJayford, Jlr. Hardy?" she remarked,
as wo seated oiu'selves.

"Not a year yet," 1 answered.

"1 presume you iind it a dull, quiet
place."

"Not at all," I replied, " I have been
unusually hapjiy siuce I came here, and
have grown to like it better than any place
in which I have ever lived."

"Y'ou mustlindsocietydiii'jrent, though,
from what it is in your country," she con-
tiiuied.

"You mean in the United States, Mias
Jarvis."

"Yes; is not that your C)nntr;vl" she
asked with some little astou'shment.

"Happily, it is not," I loplied.

"lleally, I understood from Mr. Don-
levey that you wore from Boston, or some
such place."

"And he was correct," I said, "I came
from Boston here, but originally I went
from here then;."

"Then you are a Canadian/"

"I liave that honor, I was boi')» in a
small town some miles from your fair city,
ami educated in this coimtry, Ijut left it
when a boy. After several year's absence
I have returned, and trust 1 may never
have occasion 'm leave it again."

' ' I am really pleased to iind that you
'are native and to the manor born.' (Jur
young gentlemen are too much given to
roaming away into foreign parts, and leav-
ing their lonely countiywomen to die of

MY OWN STORY.

i! !

ennui or ondiirotho attentions of foroi','nora
wlio come iiinongst uf. It is pleasing to
know tliiit occiiaiondlly, as in your in-
•tanco, tlioy rotiirn to their first lovo."

"Ciinivilirtus, K<J"fi''^lly speaking, lovo
their country well," I answered, "and it
must be circmnstances and not inclination,
that nialco them reniain away from it."

"Perhaps ao," shoniplied, with a pleas-
ing smile, "though some of them, I am
aahamtKl to Hay, show their lovo in a very
peculiar way."

"I think I speak but tho sentiments of
nino-tonth.'i of tho.so who are abroad," I
rejcjincd, "wIkju I say that shoidd tho
necessity ari.se, sliould thoir services be
required, liiey would (piickly and willingly
liaston honie. I have mot few, if any,
who would not do so."

"That tlicro are thousands of such men,
Mr. Hardy, I have no doubt," alio said,
"and I iini proud that my ccnintry pos-
senses sons so true. But, unfortunately,
there are niuiiy of the opi)osito character
also."

"Tho world, JIi.?s Jarvis, i.s made up
of good and bad, of contented and discon-
tented, of true and false; and our country
is no o^'ccption to the rule."

"True," she replied, "but we are prone,
especially ^^e ladies, to lind fault with
those who do not agree with us. I think
the man wlio does not lovo Ids country
should not have a country, lie should
bo a sort of a wandering Jew, witliout a
home and v.ithout a friend. Patriotism
ahould be a part of every man's nature,
not j)racticed as a duty of necessity, but
as a labor of love."

"I fully agree with yon. Miss Jarvis,"
I answered, "and 1 believe that if the
occasion .should ever unhappily arise you
■will tind your countrymen worthy of your
admiration, .10 far as patriotisni goes."

We returned to the ball room, and there
I resigned lier to the liands of some prior
claimant for the next dance. As 1 turned
away Donlevey met mo, and putting his
arm through mine wo strolled into one of
the card rooms.

"WoU,' he asked, "what do you think
of your last f:',ir partner/"

"She is a remarkably clever and accom-
plished young lady," 1 replied.

"Then j'ou liud that my picture of her
was not too hig'ily colored?"

"Oil tlie contrary," Irejoinod, "Ithink
it fell far behind the reality. It did nut
<lo her nearly BUthciont justice."

"Ho! lio '" ]ui said, with a merry
chuckle, "so you hava been captivated,
have you ? "

" N<t, I'm proof against th<*t," I an-
swered in a very awkward way, "a fellow
din surely adntire a girl's charuu without
falling in love."

how could I be, at anything
say. To speak seriously, I

" V'es, I Bujjposo so," ho dryly answered,
though I must say. Hardy, that your eyes
have a very suspicious look at present,
and Pm a 1 urk if there aint a blush on
yoin- cheek ut this moment,"

1 turned my liead away and tried to
look angry.

"Come, come, old fellow, "he continued,
"lovo at lirst sight is not a now thing in
tho world, and you are not tho first man
who has been captivated by the charms of
Florence .Jarvis.

"Your remarks contain no reason,
Donlevey," 1 said pettishly, "you jump
at conclusions like a cat at a mouse. A
man surely may speak well of a girl with-
out having lovo laid to his charge."

"If he couldn't," Donlevey laughingly
said, "the world would have mo in lovo
with nine-tenths of the girls I meet. Put
forgive me, old fellow, you ought to know
mo better by this time. I was only
joking."

"It's all my own fault, Dick," I an-
swered, taking his hand, "I am not
angry, and
you might

admire Miss Jarvis greatly, for her liril-
liancy and wit, and for what you call her
womanly qualities. I only liope that 1
may be fortunate enough to meet her
occa.'iionally hereafter."

Nothing easier, my dear fellow, than to
make tho attempt. You liavo been intro-
duced by me as a friend of mine. I am a
friend of tho family, and on tho strength
of that introduction 1 think you will
experience no difliculty in gaining the
entree to her father's house. Go boldly
to work, at <all events, and seek tho privil-
ege of calling. 'F.aint heart,' yoti kno>
'never won fair lady.' As society ru;
in this country you are her father's oqua.,
and if I am not very much mistaken will
be treated as such."

Ijater in tho evening I had the ploasui\5
of dancing with Miss J arvis again. It was
to be her last sott she told me, and as wo
linished 1 asked the privilege oi seeing her
to her carriage, which she granted. After
hunting up a dowager aunt, who wa.i her
chipcrone, we proceeded to tho cloak-
room, where I shawled them. Mr. Gas.
Gardner was on hand, waiting to perform
that duty ; but seeing that ho was too late,
he lookod daggers at me, wishod the
ladies good-bye, and returned to the ball-
room.

A* I handed them into their carriage I
plucked up courage, and with a trembling
Jieart, said in a low tone ;

"Miss Jarvis, will you allow m« to do
myself the lionour of calling?"

There was no .answer for a few mo-
menta, which seemed an ago to me, and 1
was bo;;inning to f«el all tho mortification

/ \

t i

Ml OWN STORY.

• i

(ind pain of a refusal, ns perhaps my
U-inority dcsurved, when Miss Jurvis Ans-
wered —

"Yos."

I shut tho door, find tlic carriage
rolled away, leaving nie tho happiest of
mortals.

r rtitiirncd again to tho ball-rocan, but
danced im more. Ali tho charms of tho
all'air, in my eyes, were gone, and 1 could
stay no longer.

(!/'ourtley and Donlovoy were not prcpar-
o<l to leave, hut hunting up (Jaslu-r, ho
and I started arm-in-arm for Sinswick
Cottago — I light-hearted, hopeful and
happy ; ho heavy-hearted, despondent and
miserable.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HI .VSHINB AND BU-iUOW.

"Well old fellow," I said, as wo stroll-
ed hime in tho bright moonlight of tho
early mornini,', "how have you enjoyed
yourself to-night?"

"Excelluntly, Harry," ho replied in an
absent way; "I never spent u happier
evening in my life."

"1 am delighted to hear it; iiud yot
your appearance does not correspond with
your wonln. Yim do not seem yourself
at all. Has anything gone wrong ?"

'■(Jh, no," ho answered, with an effort
at looking cheerful; " aa I said before, 1
never in my life was more perfectly hajipy
than I have been this night, ^'on, too,
Harry, seom to have enjoyed yourself
heartily. "

"Indeed I have. This bachelors' ball
is an event in my liistory that will not
sotm bo forgotten."

"Why J"

"For many reasons."

"Is there no special one?" he asked,
smiling faintly as ho turned his face to-
wards me.

"Perhaps."

" Tliat'sa verv unmeaning word, Harry,
yet 1 think in this instance it carries much
with it."

"And pray what might that much be?
great diaccrner of men's thoughts."

"Do not force mo to answer the ques-
tion. How should I read the wcirkinga of
your mind ?"

" Porhaj)3 by analog}'."

"How?"

"Tho feelings of your own heart at
this moment might assist you to make
a very fair guess at those of mine. Is it
not ho!"

" Do not put it in that way, Harry," he
said sadl}', as ho turned his head away.
"It will lead mo into a channel 1 do not

wish to enter. But toll mo, has not that
tall, <iiioenly girl— Miss J.irvis, 1 l)elievc,
is her name — much to do with your
thoughts at this moment)"

" Why do you ask?"

' ' Ikcause of what my eyes li:ive seen. "

"(Jasher," I said, after a short silence,
" do y(Hi believe in what tho world calls
love at first sight ?"

" Mo.'tt undoubtedly, and yet, under-
stand me, I do not think there is such a
sentiment."

" Yr)U do and yet you do not. Why
this is a paradox."

"So it may seem; but allow me to
cxp'ain. Every man (and woman, too, I
suppose), possesses an ideal beauty— an
ideal wife, to carry it a little further.
FVom tho time he reaches years of maturity
he lias in hif mind's eye, a woman of tho
form, feelings and characteristics, such as
best suits his tastes and corresponds with
his nature. This imaginary being fills hia
thoughts and heart at certain tiuK^s. Ho
lovea her. She ii his idea, IiIk e incejition
of what woman ouglit to be; and though
year.') may pass away that creature of hia
thonglits haunts him like a good angel.
I Through force of circiunstances ho may
even marry one who does not en-respond
with this ideal of his. He may even have
an attachment, not love, mind you, for
another, and live hap]>Lly wit'i her all his
life. Put still that ideal comes to him
now an<l then, and in such moments he is
sad. But tliiii is not the point of what I
wi.sh to say. At some tinm of his life he
may njcet the reality of his loni; dream.
The moment he looks upon her, the mo-
ment he heai's her voice, and reads her
thoughts in her face, that moment the
ideal vanislics and tli3 real a[)pear3. Ho
loves, but not at first t;ight, as tiie world
calls it. It is a love that has existed in
his heart for years— true, faithful and un-
dying — it wa:- secret and hidden away in
the depths of his soul, whore none saw
it; and now it for the first time comes to
light, when he meets the reality of tho
ideal which he has so long wor.-^liiiipedand
of which he has so often dreamed. Doyou
take in my meaning, Hanly/"

"Yes; but why is it that you talk in
this way! yon have alwaya been a scofi'er
of the sec?"

" Nay, nay ; not a scofTer, Harry, though
something of an unbeliever in woman's
love. You yoiirself have held my views."

"Not exactly."

" Well, you, at least, have always said
that you were proof against her charms.
Even our Boston beauties could not effect
your heart. "

"Perhaps I did not meet my ideal," I
laughingly said.

" No ; but if 1 am not mistaken. Hardy,

•I -

v^ ■ ■*■

MY OWN ftTORY.

thiH nitflit you meet her. Is it not no, my
friondt"

"Your ciiiiji^ctiirt'H iwn VL'ry ui\no."

"Still yiiii do iKit tk-ny tlieui."

"\Vi.y'Hli..uld I !"

"Yoii, why Hliiiuld you/ Ilut imrdon
\nv, Hurry, I hIiouM not talk to yo\i in
Htich II wiiy. 'lliuro (110 fi'iilinK^ in nian'H
heart wliieli cvtu t!iu micrcd tie of friond-
nliip will not wnnant us in pliiyin,-^ witli.
Forgivo tilt', Hardy, if 1 liiivo dono ho.
Till! hi'nt i\m\ most );nur(k'il of um commit
I'rrors in (i\ir tim(,.''

I luiswort'd liiiii in a (w/ hiudly woids,
anil tlu'U wo \viilki)d on in Hiljuco.

Ho did not hi'cm like himsolf ivt all. Ih^
was sad, Korrowfiil and tlioiitj;!ilfid, and I
folt sure that Homctljiny serious must have
hapiieneil.

" And so j-on enjoyed yt.urself Avoll to-
night," I connnenced ayain.

"Most fully," li(> answered cuthusias-
ticiilly.

"Yet it aiiitearH < o nio, my duar Adams,"
I said, "that .yon are I'ot ([iiito c.o eheer-
ful aK U!;nal; your spirits iieem dampened
and dull."

" Hariy, ho replied, in a sad, serious
tone of v<dco, " there's no use in trying
to conceal it from you, nor do 1 wish to
do so. I am very, very unhappy."

"Unliappy, my dear Gasher?"

"Y'es; that i;-i tlie oniy word that can
express my present state of mind. I
enjoyed the hall ; it was the mo.st pleasant
affair I ever attended ; but in the nudst
of all the pkasm-o sad thoughta crept
over me, and I have hcen miserable ever
since."

" Sly dear fellow," I said, in as cheerful
ft tone as po.vsible, "you fdiould not tjivo
way to such feelings. Try to fi,i.;lit them
down. We all have our fits of blues in
our time, and our uidiap])y moments: but
•we get over them, and then we laugh at
ourselves for our folly."

"Ah! Hardy, fevr men have the L^'cat
cause of unhappincss that I am cursed
with. Y'ou, who kufiw n;y history, must
acknowledf<e that. Every hour I think
of it, and though even you may not notice
it, there is a secret sori'ow in my heart
which cannot bo removed."

"Come — come, Adams ; do not talk in
this dreary way. Positively, you will
bring the blues on me, also, if you con-
tinue. Cheer up, old fellow, and lot us
speak of pleasanter things. "

"I eaimot, Harry," he said in a most
desponding tone. "I have tried all in
my power to fight this thing down, but I
cannot. It remains in my heart, rankling
and festering, and making my life more
miserable day by daj'. It's a fii"o that
cannot be (luenched."

" But why, amidst the scene of pleasure

we have just left, shotdd it seize upon yon
so lirmly /"

" It is in such ])laces that I foci it
mont. \ secret sorrow of the heart is over
greatest when wo see others hapjiy. The
contrast ndds to its soverity. In that
scene of haiiiiincss, I alone, jierhaps, was
miserable mnie miserable than I ever
wi<s before."

"Hut why, my old friend/''

"Noedytui, who know my whole his-
tory unI; mo that /" he exelaiiiii'd with
great bittenu'Mn. "oh! Hardy, the agony
— tho pain— the movtilicatinn I this night
embn'od, were horrible. I blushed for
myself, and well 1 might ; while, in my
heart, I wished that I were dead. It is
painful to Kjuak of it, but fr.im yon, my
dear friend, I have no suerets. Listen :

" F was dancing with a fair ;;irl — you
may have seen her — a bright, lovely, bl\u>
eyed girl, JMiss MonterieiF. She spoko
gladly, and in hajjpy tones, of home, and
friend.';, and dear <uieH. With almost
childish innoceuco she told nio of all tho
sweet ties that bound her to her hoino ; of
a mother's love — a father's temhirness — a
sister's ali'eetion, and a brother's <levotion.
Of all these things (hidden mysteries to
me) she spoke with an earnest eloipienco
which adde<l to their eharniM. And then,
Hardy cho a^'kod mo of my liomo,— of my
friends — of my dear ones. Wan not their
memory holy to nie .' she said ; and in
this strange land did I not often long io
bo back with those true friends again /
Thus she spoko to mo. Hardy. To me ! —
tho Avaif — tho wanderer— the outcast !
To me — who never had a homo ! To mo
— who never knew a niothci"'s li)vc ! To
me— the Arab of tho street I Oh ! Hardy
—Hardy, — tho thoujihts of these horrid
things will break my heart!"

He spoko in wild agony that tnhl lutw
heavy was his grief, and pressing his hand
to his forehead, paurod i:i the street and
sobbed aloud. Oh, hovr I pitied him.

"My good, my best of friends," I said,
taking his hand in mine and looking him
earnestly in the face, which looked palid
and colorless in the pale moonlight, "you
must not give waj'' in this manner, your
secret is your own — tho world need not
know it."

"Would to Ood that 1 could forgot it,"
he exelaimed passionately, and with deep
bitterness, "but am I not a man, and
must I not remeud)er this cursed thing
forever? Look at me! Think of my posi-
tion! Alone in tho world. Tho meanest
urohhis that I meet can claim a parent-
age. I have none. Who am I / What
am T / The very luvmo I bear is not
mine own. Tho dogs that pass me on
the street, are not more ignorant of their
history than I. Oh, it is horrible! If I

' V

^fY OWN STORY.

(«

but had a iianio that I (hiro call minu own
it woiihl ho Hoiiiutliiii};. Kdt, no; uvoii
t)iiit Hiiiall ciiinfiirt in (K'liiud iiiu. Evury
onu I iiicot h^M fric'iuU to talk of— hut I
liavo iioiio; unci uach word of lionio and itii
coiiifortH tliat I licar in a coal of living tiru
dropped upon my huart tn score)), and
hum and tortuni my very \italH. I know
nut what 1 am. liyhuavon, 1 would rather
bu the honeiit ofrs[)rinf{ of the muaneat
wretch that ever hreatiied thw hroatli of
life, than the unknown, unnamed, nnpa-
rontcid creatine that I am."

"You nni.Ht not talk in tlii:t way," I
said, interrupting him, "no matter who
or what you are, the world knowB you as
an honorahle man — a title the longont
family record in existence could not give
you.'*^

"Yea," ho said, with an ironical oniilo,
"an honorahle man who does not even
know his own name."

"What mutters that," I rojilied, "hon-
esty, i.i above all worldly gifts. All the
wealth of India cannot purchaHC it, lu it
not dearer than mere family names I"

"No!" ho I juickly rejoined, "I'd rather
be a rogue and have a name to call mine
uwn, than an honest man and not know
who or what 1 was."

"It is yom- lips and not your heart that
now speaks." 1 said.

" N(j matter what it is, 1 say but wliat
I feel. What was I there in that room
to-night? Think you that hadtlioy known
mo for what I am thiit one of those dainty
damsels would have polluted liorself with
my touch I Would they not have spurned
me as an unholy thing ( Would I not have
been driven from their presence like a
dog ? And who could blame them ] They
smucd upon mo and were gvacioiis, but
had they known mc as the ])oor castaway
wanderer of the streets, such as you first
saw me, how different would have been
uiy reception."

"But they did not know it, and never
will. Then why need you torture j'tmrself
about it ]

"Hardy, yim just now said 1 was an
honorable man. Hcjnor never deals in
false pretences. I was then, as I am
always, in a false character. The world
calls me Mr. Adams — a name I have as
little right to as I have to yours. Is it
not dishonorable that I should wear it?"

"No," I replied," "if you do not know
your own, that at least you came honestly
by."

" Yes, given mo by a man 1 never saw
till I was in my boyhood. Honestly
enough I got it, but had he a right to give
it?"

"No matter, you at least have made it
honorable ; you have never done anything
to disgrace it."

"And with Ood'n help, Hardy, I never
shall," he Maid with great uarnestnes*. " L
am calmer now, and cait talk with mor*
reiwon ; butO, Harry, this ureat sorrow
Weighs heavily on my heart.

" With pain I acknowledge, my dear
friend, that you have abundant reasomi
for grief ; but you should battle againit
them, and live on in the hoi)o that s(jmo
day will clear everything up."

"That h(H)e docs cheer mo sometimcH,"
he re{>licd ; "but its fullllment seems
almost impossilile. A few yiNirs ago, when
I was a boy, this nuitter did not trouble
me much. Hut as I grow older I think
more and more of it, and the iiiiin those
thoughts occasion increases. Thin is only
tho natural residt of my contact with the
world. All aroimd me, go where 1 will,
— in the mansions of the rich- - in the lowly
cottages of <he poor, F meet those who
know who and what they are. 1, alo)io,
am alono. With the meanest and poorest
man I meet I wouhl willingly exchange
place.4, if, by that change, I could fill up
tho blanks in my existence, and learn][those
things which I fear I am doomed never to
know."

As ho spoke, wo reached tho door of
Sins wick CV)ttage, and entered.

"Here, at least," I said, "we have a
homo, and are above the want which many
feel."

"Yes," ho replied in a more cheerful
tone; "we ought to bo happy here, and
(uider other circumstances 1 c<»uld indeed
bo hai)py with you and my other friends.
Painful as iny life's history is, I have
much for which to bo thankful. God has
prospered mc, and has blessed me with
full and plenty of what the world calls
C(jmforts; and though I may curse my
otherwise hard lot, I can never feel sutti-
ciently thankful for all tho good that has
been done mo."

"We both have abundant reasons for
being thankful," I said; "for since that
rough night upon wiiich we first met, for-
tune has indeed smiled upon us, and pros-
pered our every mulertaking."

"liut for that one thing, Harry, we
would be very happy," he continued.
' ' In yoiu" tnio friendship for me I know
that you pity mo, and it is very wrong of
mo to pain you by these constant refer-
ences to my sorrow. I will be more
guarded in the futin-e. I will take your
advice, which is ever good, and try to
think less about tho past. I know that it
injures {and unmans me, aiid occasions
you pain also, aiW therefore I should stop
it if possible. I will make the attempt,
HaiTy, and from this out try to complain
no more." •. „'•-•'

" That's right, Gasher; those words AM
spoken like yourself. Keep ^Ip a good

, '..i

'■'•'; (.

i ,1

MY OWN «T(»UY.

lieurt Mil! liv« in linp«; none of uii kiiovr
wliiit II ilivy niny brinjj forth. lVrlm]iin,
TV'hcti wii li'iiat i'Xi>(ict it, nil thi» iiiyNtcry
will III' I'luiirud ii[), nu(\ in luldition to tlio
hunoiit rt'i'iitiitioi) yoii i.ow Kcitr, yoii nuiy
ai>|)()ar hoforo thu world with u true and
ltonoral)lu naiuo."

"I will try toliofts hoprfiil as yon would
havo nil', l!*rry," lio ri'jilii'd, wiHi i% faint
■mill', "anil on that hupo will Ii\i>. You
havu liccu t'> nut a friunil Hnch na man
iievor had ln-foro, and fnll of liano ingrati-
ttido wonld I 1)0 it' I ni'j(li'cti»il your i^ood
ftdviuo no i^cnoroudly given, and your words
of comfort HO nohly H|iokon."

Komothin^' liku a tear glintcnnl iti hiii
oyo, an hu tdiook my hand. 'I'hon liiddint;
tnu good night hu turned and loft tltu
room.

Poor, gunerouii, noblo Oanhrr — how I
folt for and |)iti(ul liim in his honorable,
ntanly Horrow.

I had not gone to liinl whoti Ciuirtloy
and l)onk'Vuy camo homo. Tliuv invaded
my room imincdiatoly and »n,t thcro for
iieiirly an hour, smoking their iiipes and
talkin,' over thi! pleasures of the night.

l^ick, an usual, was loud in his jiraises
of tho ladie'8, and )ironounced the awsem-
hlnge that ovoning the most hrilliunt and
beautiful ever seen in IJayford.

"Oh ! hy-ths-liy," ho said, turning to
ino, " you have succeeded in making oiio
mortal enemy, J lardy — a moat terrible
fell.w."

"Indeed?" I said, in a half-nleepy
way.

"Vos; that fellow Cianlner, it appear-s,
feels incensed at you for something you
Baid or did. Not knowing that I was
intimuto with you, ho asked mo who you
were. You should have seen tho magni-
ficent contempt he disj)layed when ho
learned that you were not a nabob with a
gold mine at your command."

"I'm .sure if liis contempt does the
follow any good he's welcome to it," I
answered. ''From what I saw of him, I
think it decidedly preferable to his good-
will."

" Ju.st what I, as your friend, took the
liberty of hinting to him," Dunlevey
rejoined.

"I'm nuicli obliged," I answered.

"Don't mention it. Only th.at tho fel-
low's too small game I'd like to amuse
myself with him. He's not deserving of
such notice. Just imagine that fool
making advances to such a magnificent
girl as Florence Jarvis. It's the height
of absurdity, and yet tea-table gossipers
say it will be a match."

"What! Florence Jarvis marry that
ass?" I exclaimed, now fully interested in
the conversation.

"So seems tho rumour."

"She will never do it," 1 said, with
perhaps moro energy than ihero was any
nei'i'ssity for.

"Hhe Willi pronounced tho belle of tho
ball," Donlevey said, " by every one
present -the gentlcnuin I moan; whilo
no onu can deny that Oardncr was the
most couNinnmate know-nothing in tho
room. I'laco them side-by-side, and then
imagine them man and wife."

" Ilidi'MdousI" (Joiirtley oxelaiincd. —
"Those who uprtiad such stories cannot
surely kmnv Miss Jarviii. "

We all thought it most ridiculo\i."i, and
after expressing our opinion to thateli'ect,
Donlevey and » Jourtley left tho room, to
my great satisfaction.

My dreams that ni^;htwcro particularly
pleaiiant and hapjiy, and smh as had
never haunted my pillow before. I'er-
liaps the future will give you uii idea of
what they were about.

CHAl'TER XIX.

UEC'Al'SK UK WA.S WILD.

1 did myself tho honor of calling at
Judge Jarvi.s', a couplo of days after tho
ball, and was courteously received by Miss
Jarvis and lur sedate aunt. There wan
no Mrs. Jarvis; she had been deiid for
nuvny years at tho time of which [ am
speaking, and her sister, tho aunt men-
tioned, was mistress of the household. Slio
was an old nniiden lady— Miss Amelia
C'ardell, by name— -one of a former gener-
ation; ])rim, particular and the end)odi-
ment of jiropriety. She would us soon
think of walking into tho lake, as of ovit-
stepping in the smallest degree, tho set
forms, usages and rules of those circles in
which she had so long moved. Sho was
a good wonuvn at heart, but her face ever
Wore a sedate and even severe exjircssioit
which did injustice to her nature, and
made people call her a sLoni old maid,
Sho always looked solc:nni and stately,
and even tho drab silk which she invari-
ably wore, folded itself into the most
serious looking creases, as if it partook of
her feelings of regularity and propriety.

My tirst visit, of course, was a short
and favored one, but I repeated it, and
soon became an occasional visitor at Dor-
ley House, as the house was called, and
had tho honor of attending a couplo of
parties there during that season.

Judge Jarvis I met frequently. lie was
a man of solid education and nnich natur.-vl
ability; had been a leading jiolitician in
his time, an! after lengthened services to
his party, lad been shelved away, as a
sort of reward, in a judge's chair. He
Ava.s not the most brilliant jurist that ever

MY OWN STORY.

•doniod fiiir 1>cnc)i, iitill lie wan n credit
to liiR pnift'Mion and win in I'vory wuy
fittt'd for ttio nonitimi in vrliicli he vtnn
pltifi'd. Ill other renjHU'tn ho wan a inoni
tniiii of thi) world. An ono of tlio jiiduod
of tho h\iid, hiN ndcial ponitioii, of courHO,
wuitniDoiig thu tirnti-irclos; Ixit hu wimnot
woaltliy, nor ovrr likilv to 1m<. When a
man ni'crptn a [tiacoon thi> Itcnch lui ulian-
donn all ordinary Imniiu^Hfi, and ninst cfin-
tunt hiiiiKulf wilh wiiatcviT Iiih jiidi<-ial

So.iition hringH him. 'I'liiiii it was with
iid'.'o Jarviit, liin iiicoiiiu waH what niont
puoplo would dot'ni a lari,'(i one, hut on
account of tho stylo in wiiich ho wan coni-
pcllod to live, it wa."t litllo nioni than mirti-
ciont for luB wauls. Ilowas not, norwhihi
ho I'liosn to remain on tho lionch ever could
bu a rich man. Kis family wan a Huiall
one, Florence hciiig hiit only child, hut
hiw utaudin^ in the world had to he uiiiiii-
t.aiiiod, and it cost liiuj nearly a-i much to
du that properly us if liis funiily had been
lari,'o.

I nut Mr. C!us. fiardner at Dorlcy
HouBo very often. He Heeiued to loolc
upon uio as a rival ever since that nij^ht
at tho hall, and lu) douht also considered
nie far beneath him in the social scale, and
treated luo accordingly.

Several months jJiiKfod away without
producin;,' nny important chanjjr.'?, so far
as I and the porsoiuvfjea m<.'ntioned in my
gtory were coticerncd.

Nichohin Meeker worked away manfully
over hi;t t et of i)ooks, and soon hecamo of
incalculable benefit to tho firm of Hardy .'Cr
Adams. Ho took iinmoiiHo delight in
improving liimsclf in hi.s now callini^, and
as ho progressed, beca ue correspondingly
hajppy. All liiii foinier scriousnes.s of
look and staidncss of action vanished, and
ho became a cheerful, merry fellow— the
very opposite of what he had been at Dr.
Baker's academy. Still he was almost as
studious as ever, and 8])cnt nnich of his
leisure time in deep and heavy reading.

His little cottage was n gloriously happy
place in those old times. To cross its
tlircsliold was like entering a lovely dell
where tho sun shono brightly, wliilo all
around was overhung with clouds. Mrs.
Meeker, the good, jiatient, noble sufl'erer,
endured all her troubles with a resignation
worthy of a rnartj'r, us indeed she was.
She nevfcT comj)lained — never found fault,
but was always happy and cheerful, and
talkative. And Alary Meeker was like an
angel in the hou.'-e. She was older than
I, and j)ast the ago at which women
usually marry, but often 1 thought what
a treasure of a wife she Avonld be, and
what a noble prize that man would gain
wlio coidd win her love.

Wo went to tlioir cottage very often,
we gents of the Sinswick quartette. We

were ninirmt m much nt liomu there, and
iinnivnKcdy morn )ia|ipy, than wo wuro tu
our own bachelor home. We woidd drop
in of an evening', and Hpend n iileasant
hour ot two over a game of curdn, or in
friendly chat. Wc wore over weic >mo.

Donfevey became a groat favrmrito
with Mrfi. Meeker. Shu likod ns all, hut
hu wait hi,<r Npecial favourite. Ilir^ hand-
some face, genial manners, maidy Ixtaring,
and good, Jovial, honest disposition won
upon her, and made her adtnire and
usteuin him almost us if ho had been
her own son. Ho was ever cheerful in
her presenco, aiul would Hit at her side
hy the h(»ur, ttdling jiloasant little anec-
dotes for her sptx'ial amuficment, or
reading for her in hii* rich round tones,
from litT favourite authors. He did all
this for no mere etlect, hut out of thu
goodness of bin heart, for Hick Doidovoy
was incapable of hypocrisy.

Shortly after tho Uachelora' Hall I do
not remember the exact time I noticed
(juito a change creeping over Donh^voy.
Ho was us hapjiy as ever at times, hut on
other occasiona lie would apjiear thought-
ful and abscnt-miiuled. He became moro
.st\idious also, and i)artially al)iUidoned
many of his old auniaements. Hi.s (b)gi»
were still to be seen at his heel.s, hut the/
did little towards e;irniug the'r living,
and stenied sudly dejected because their
master made such suuill use of his gun,

I was thu tirst to notice this wonderful
change in our jolly companion, and I
remained silent about it, though 1 quietly
contiinied to observo him, tor tho purpose
of discovering tho cause if i)08siblc. I
was not long allowed to remain in ignor-
ance. The sympt(^ni8 wore such as could
hardly be mistaken, and after a few days'
observation 1 discovered tho astounding
fact that Dick Donlovey-the rollicking,
merry, "wonuin-proof Dick," as some
]ieoi)le called him, wiis in love - actually
in love at last I I could hardly b('lievo it
at til-fit, but I soon received proof tho moat
convincing.

About tlio time that I made thie dis-
covery 1 made another, which both aston-
ished and jiained me. P'or some unknown
reason Mrs. Meeker,with whom Doiilevey
had l)ecome such a favorite, began to y,ru\r
cold and distant towards him. She sti'.l
received him in a friendly manner, but
did not seem entirely plea.=;ed when ho
appeared at the cottage, and I thought
even gave him to uiider.stand, by her
actions, that his visits were no longer
welcome. Tliis pained mo greatly, and
just when I had made uj) my mind to
enquire into tho aft'air, it was all made
plain to me.

One evening I dropped in at the cottage
alone. None of the usual group were

«6

MY OWN STORY.

-! ;■

tlicrt', and even Mr. Moekui" was away for
a stroll. ili'H, Meokcr reouivod iiio with
kindness, as she idways did, and telling
nio that sho wa.s <;'ad I had come alone,
refjneKted me to be se.'ited near her bed-
.side, as she wiHlied to talk to me on a very
yerionfi s\il)joct.

" I\Ii\ Tlardy," she coiunKjnced abrupt-
ly, "how long liave you known Mr.
Donlovey ?''

" Ever since T eanio to livo'in Bayford,"
1 answered.

" Did you know iiothing of him previona
to that r

"No."

" And do vou think tluit now you know
him well i" '

"Yes; very well. We have been in-
mates of tlie same house for a hmg time.
We have been, in fact, all but brother!).
The nunubers of the Sinswick Quartette
iiride tliemsclves on the intimacy and
friendship which exi.sts auKJugthcm."

"That's very right and jiroper," slie
said, "and I suppose you have had as happy
a home as bachelors can have. Bivt let me
ask ycju, IMr. Hardy, if you think you
know Jtr. Doidevey's character fully I"

" I think I do ; I may safely say I am
l^ositive 1 do, for he is no dissendiler, and
one learns all the points of his character
before lie knows him long."

"Then v.-hat are the points cf his char-
acter as discovered by yon V

" Why do you ask."

"No matter, 1 wish to liear you lirrst ;
you shall l;now my reasons afterwards."

" Mrs. Meeker,"'! .said, " until of late
yon have always treated Mr. Donlevey as
if lie were worthy of your friendship."

"True; and therein I may have been
wrong. Women are easily deceived, espe-
ci.ally by those rollicking men of tlio world,
who have the power of cojicealing their
faults and failings behind a pleasing ad-
dress and agreeable manners."

"Your words carry an insinuation."

"Perhaps so ; you have drawn it from
me. 1 do not wish to insimuite. Insinu-
ations fihould n(jt be used when Y)ositive
statements can be made. Tell me your
lioncst opinion of your friend, and 1 will
tell j'on why I doubt him. "

" Then you do doubt him /"

"Yes."

" 1 fear you do so most inijustly, Mrs.
Meeker."

"For his sake, and your.s, I hope so.
But you shall know all, and judge for
yourself, after you have told me what I
ask."

"Mrs. Meeker, it has always been my
custom to speak of a man as I find him,
You know that since my childhood my lot
has been cast camong strjingcrs, and under
those circiimstances I have had abundant

opportunities of studying human nature.
It is a good rule to consider every man
what he ajipears until you have discovered
him to lie the opposite. Of I)ick Don-
levey I formed a good o])inion the first
time we met. Time has only strengthened
that opinion. He has his faults, as we all
have, but at heart ho is a good, generous,
true man, whom I esteem and rof.puct."

"You speak of his faidts. What arc
they?"

"He is indolent, careless and not sulfi-
ciently guarded iu his conduct, and thereby
his enemies have room to slander him."

"If he does nothing wrong what has ho
to fear '."

"He fears nothing, and that is one of
his chief failings. And n(jw that you know
my opinion of him, tell me why yon have
changed your nund regarding him \"

"A few words will suthce ior that," sho
replied, "not long ago Mr. Stcnitt, tho
clergyman, met your friend hero. They
spoke to each other, but I could see by
th.e clergj'inai.'s actions tliat he was not
at all pleased with the meeting. On his
next visit he told mo the I'ctison. First
he asked mo how long I had known iMr.
Donlevoy, and by whom he had been in-
troduced here. I told him; and then he
said it was quite evident I was a stranger
in Bayford, or I would not have allowed
Dick Donlovey to become so intimate in
thi.H cottage. He said he was a terribly
v/ild fellow, and, in fact, generally con-
sidered one of the loosest men, moi'ally,
iu Bayford. Ho told me several instances
of his wildness, and while warning ino
against him ad/ised me to, if possilde,
])revent his fu.rther visits to my house.
These, 5Ir. Hardy, are mj' rciasons for
thinking of your friend as 1 do."

"JIi's. Meeker," I replied, suppressing
my indignation as well as I could, "if that
christian gentleman wore anything but a
clergyman he should be made to answer for
this, and even as it is he may be called to
account. I claim no special virtues for my
friend, but he is as good as nine- tenths of
the ycmng men to be met with in society,
and whoever says he is not, even be he a
minister of the Gospel, says that which is
untrue. "

" But is ho rot a wild, bad nian ? "

" Y(m do poor credit to my friendship,
Mrs. Meeker, if you imagine that I would
introduce to your family an iniworthy and
dishonorable man."

"0, do not think that I charge you
with any such ofi'ence; ycm may have
been deceived by Mr, Donlovey, as I have
been."

" Deceived in the character of a man
with M-hom I have so long lived on terms
of intimacy? Impossible ! In Dick Don-
levey there is no deception— not a particle.

MY OWN STORY.

«7

If there were his enomics wcmld havo less
opportunities of tiudiiig fault. His whole
character is on the surface. Yoxi cauiiot
mistake it."

'• r.ut why sliould the clergyman .speak
<jf him a-i ho did ! He had no private ends
to advance by doing so."

" In Donlevey's unguarded conduct,
the auiier-virtuous gentleman nuiy have
seen something to slioclv him. If lie
connnits a faidt all the world knov/s of it ;
but he is no wor.so than the rest (»f ua.
Wc all sow wild oats in our time, and his
cro)) has been no larger than tliose of
hundreds who occ\ipy high positions, and
wliom tlieir fellows d(diglit to honor."

" Ferluqis so, f.tr. Hardy, but I cannot
understand why the clergyman should be
BO hai'd uiiou him. He even said I should
not allow him to come here any more."

"I)idhe.s:iy why?"

" Yes ; as a friend I will tell you. The
visits of such a man, lie said, wouhl en-
danger my daughter'ii roputatif.n."

"Oh, tiio base slanderer, "I exclaimed
passionately," ;;nd this man is a cliri.-;tian
minister : Mrs. Sleeker you know, and
this nijui knows th;it Mr. Doidevey moves
in the best circles of S(jciety this city con-
tains. Would he be tolerated tho'ein if he
ho were tlio wretch this clergyman paints
him?"

"Mr. Hardy," she answered, "that is
the very reas(jn wliy his ^'isits hen^ would
ci'c.ato suspicion. Not many years ago I
belonged to a circle far, far above the
highe; t y(ju have in this new country, and
my experience therein taught me that
while wo would t(_)lcrfite rakes and roith,
their vi.^its to a humble home like this
would create suspicion and givetlio world
food for gossiii."

" Your remark, Mrs. Meeker, may be
correct, generally speaking, but in this
inst.'ince it is not. Mr. Donlevey may be
wild and careless, but he is a man of
honor, not as the world calls it, but
naturally. I am pained to know that you
should think so ill of him, and if he knew
it he woidd never outer your cottage
again. You do him great iuju.-tice, and
though you are older than I, and ought
to kiuiw the world better, I cannot
help telling you that .1 think you are
wrong."

" You men always stand by each other
in such afl'airs," she said witli a .fuiile.

" True friend as Donlevey is, iind much
as I esteem him, I would cease to know
him from this nionient if I thought he
were what you appear to imagine. You
at least can find no fault with Mr. Court-
ley, and think you he, discerning man
that he is, v ould be so intimate with Mr.
Donlevey, if he were not worthy of his
friendship ? He has luiown him for many

years, and I know has the highest possible
opinion of hhn as a nnin of honor."

"I don't know what to make of it,"
she saiil thoughtfully, "the clergynuin
was very positive, and yet I can hardly
believe what he said."

"Ho nuiy have been mistaken," I said,
at the he'll his evidence is only liearsay.
and not entitled to as much weight an is
that of those who have lived for yeara
with the nccuaed, and know his character
ahno.st as well as tiiey know their own."

"Perhaps I have been too hasity," she
replied, "and if I have you must forgive
me. Tdr. Donlevey I I'.ave liked since
the first time J saw him,, and it would
pain me greatly to knira- that he were
really a bad num."

"A really bad man he is not," I an-
swered, "if he v.'crol should never have
brought him across the thrcihold of your
home. However, Mrs. Sleeker, the
charge has bce.i made, and I feel it my
duty to acijiiaint him v.'ith it."

"No, no; ilr. Hardy, I beg of you not
to do so," ,slie cpiickly excLiimed.

' ' -Mrs. Sleeker, " I responded, ' 'nut only
his g<Knl name but mine also is at stake
in this matter, and duty compels me to
tell him everything. Nay, you must not
refuse me. i have particular reasons for
wishing to do so, though what they are I
cannot now explain."

"V/ell, if you are determined I suppose

I should not oppose you," she said, "it is

no doulit the proper cour.'io, tl'.ough it

may bring about further trouble."

I "Fear iKjt," I answered, "rest assured

I D.>nlevey will clear himself t<.) j'our satis-

I faction. He esteems you highly, and has

I an interest at stake, greater perhaps than

j you have any idea of. "

"Of v.hat nature I" she asked.
I "You must not ask me now," I replied,
I rising to take my departure. "A few days
I will tell j'ou everything; and in the mean-
! time it would be improper for me to
; speid:."

; S.ie looked surprised at my words, but
I before she could ask me any further (pies-
! tions I bade her good-bye and departed.

CHAPTER XX.

j uii'K jjo.vlevey's defenck, and what

' t'AME OF IT.

; On reaching home, I found Dick there,
I poring over his books with that diligence
which had recently become a prominent
I feature in his character,
i "I'm glad you've come in, Harry," he
i said, closing the volume of medical lore,
j and pp."eparing for a smoke. ' ' It's dread-
: fully dull here all alone. Adams and

€8

Mr OWN STORY.

Courtloy are off for a row on the bay. I
wouM have gone with them, but, thcRc
confounded books must bo read up, or I'll
never get my profession."

" You're giving tliem more attention of
late tli;vn formerly," 1 said, ligliting a
cigar.

"Yes ; I feel that I've wasted too much
time. Fellows wlio commenced reading
after me are tlinuigh and i)raetiaing, as I
inight have been long ago, but for that
indolence which has ever characterized
me."

"There does not appear to bo much of
it in your nature at present," 1 said ;
"and 1 as.'snre you tliat 1 am right glad
of it."

"It is still here, Hardy," he replied;
"but I have partially fonght it down, and
feel it growing less clay by day. Perseve-
rance will con(picr any diMieulty. A while
ago my books were an awfid bore, but L
am beginning to rather like them than
otherui:ie; and suppose ihat in time 1
will get tlioir contents into my head, and
pans that board of eruity old pliysieitiiis."

" I have witli jileasi'.re noticed this
change in y(mr liabita, Dick," I rejoined,
"and have been ]iuzzling my briiins to
discover the cuhc."

" Y'ou were foolish to give your brain
so nnicli trouble," he replied, with an air
of carelessness. '"J'he cause is percepti-
ble, or ought to be. I'm no longer a boy ;
I've been one too long. When a fellow
gets on the t hady .nidu of thirty-five, it's
about time lie deserted the auiuficments
of youths with downy chins, and settle
down to the real work of life. 1 have not
discovered this a day too noon, nor too
late either, 1 hope. Fully ten years of
my life have been fooled away in fun
and idleness, whe!i, through a little exer-
tion on my part, they might just as well
have been .sjient in a useful and honour-
able way. It'.s all over, now, tlujugh,
and from tliis out I will try to be some-
thing better than 'nJlieking Dick,' as
peojilo have had good reasons f()r calling
me."

"I'm delighted to hear you say so, old
fellow," I replied. "F'un and innocent
amusement is very good in its place, but
if a man gives up the very best years of
his life to it, he need not hope to win
either the a])plause of his friends, or suc-
cess in life."

"Right," he answered, with a amile,
" you're a much younger man than I, but
there's wLsdom in your words, which a
little while ago 1 would have laughed at.
Time is a wonderful reformei- of men's
ideas ; the most stubborn conservative
has to give way l)ofore it."

"Circumstances also have their influ-
ence," I said.

"Yes, I suppose so," he rejdiod,
"though with nie they have not yet
operated, for the very good reason tiiat
they have beeni the same for the lasV
fifteen years."

" Yon do not underMtand me fully," I
continued, " what I meant to say was
that incidents, sometimes the n\ost trifling
in themselves, often produce wonderful
changes in our mode of living."

" Yes, I syqipose they do," ho said with
Would-be carelessness.

"Have von no experience of the truili
of this!" f asked.

He looked over at me in silence for a
moment, through the cloud of smoke that
encircled his head and then said that ho
su]>posed ho had.

" You kn(jw you have, Dick," I said,
"come now, confess."

" I'shavv ; your dreaming. Hurry," ho
said with an aii of indilleience, " 1 have
no ^^lea in the world what you'r driving
at."

"Very well, then I shall be more ex-
plicit. Now, old boy, has no incident
occurred of late which lias .assisted in pro-
ducing the change in j'ou which we all
notice, and you vciin.self acknowledge ?"

" Why do you ask/"

" Never mind ; say 'yes' or 'no.' "

"if yon mii5t have an answer, I'll bo
honest and say yes. There now, ask mo
no more (picstions, for i give you fair
warning that I will not answer another
on this subject,," and he turned his head
away and commenced playing with one of
his dogs.

" You must pardon me," I said, renew-
ing the attack after a short silence, "but
I have a particular o'oject in pressing this
matter. Not an improper one, I assure
3'ou, but one in which you are nnich nioro
deeply interested than I. Yo\i must an-
swer me one move (|U'j3tion, Dick, as
friend to friend. Tell mc, now; Has not
that hard heart of yours at last l)2en sof-
tened ! Are you not in love T'

He made an attempt to laugh in his
hearty way, but it was a miserable failure,
and was the most convincing an.'jwer I
could have received.

"In love," ho exclaimed, "I, Dick
Donlevey, in love I Hardy you're a nxost
original fellov/. 'I'on my honor that's tho
best thing I've heard for a month of Sun-
days ! '■

"Still 3 ou do not answer me." 1 con-
tinued-

"Why should I ? Ha ! ha / ha !^ That's
a capital idea ! Itollicking Dielc in love !
Why, Hardy, there's not a sane man,
woman or child, in Dayford, but would
laugh at you if tliey heard that rpiestion."

He tried to put me oil' in this way, but
I would not bo satisfied with anything less

I ll

MY OWN STORY.

fru- a

(J that
Itat ho

t:ss

than a jxjsitivo answer. I persisted and
ftt last lie said —

"Well, Hardy, I sco there's no use in
my trying to deceive yon. That you are
my friend I know, and therefore, 1 can
trust yo'i. I am in love. Singular and
incoin])reliensible as it may ai>i)ear, uiy
heart has at last been taken posaession of,
and I am as deeply and passionately in
love as ever was a boy of twenty, and
much more seriously."

"J'ni delighted to hear it— heartily
delighted, "1 answered," "I have sus-
pected it for some time, and delicacy alone
prevented me speaking of it. It is only
for your own good that I have extracted
the secret from j'ou now, for rest a.ssured
I would nut have pressed you on so .sacred
a point without justifiable reason. You
must pardon me therefore if 1 go a little
further. The lady's name I will not asik
you to mention, bi.t will do so for yon.
J. have known her longer than you — I
knew her when a boy -and a better,
truer, more nolde woman the sun does not
shine on, than Mary Meeker."

The ice was broken now and we talked
freely. With all a lover's ardour he told
me of Mi.ss Meeker's good qualities, as if
I did not know each one of them even
better than himsi;!f. He spoke of her
kindness, her tenderness, and her love; of
lier devotion to her helpless mother and
of all she endured for her sake; of her
beauty and accompllshmentK, and last of
all of her attaclinient to him.

"And are you dure that she lovcj youf"
I asked.

"As sure as a man can be wr.o reads a
vrcmian's heart in her face," he replied,
"and who has heard from her own lips
the sweet ai'suraii.jo that her heart is his.
1 told lu!r of my love not very long ago; I
tsked her if she would some day be my
wife, and the answer she made could only
come from one who loved, and loved weli.
She is no schoo!-^irl, no more tlian I a
achool-boy, whose heart is fnr the iirst
time touched with a feelini; mistaken for
love. NVe are both j.ast that time of life
when lovti comes v/ith each new face we
meet, ijong years ago I made up my
mind that I would never ask a woman to
be my wife who had not my whole heart,
and who did not love me for myself. That
■wom;in V never found till now. Wild, gay
fellow that 1 have been, leading a sort of
a butterliy lift.', 1 never before asked a
woman for her liand; I never before was
really in love. Iict this attachment residt
in wiiat it may — bo slie my wife or be slie

^mothers' Mary Meeker is tlieouly woman

1 have ever loved, and in my soul I feel

that she is the only one I ever can love."

iJe spoke very earnestly, and with an

jiir of sincerity that couklnot be itsaumed.

In nine times out of ten these rakea of
fellows had good hearts. No mean,
spirited, small-minded fellow ever could
be a rake. Good nature and a generous
disposition arc necoasary qualifications.
The result is that when their wildoat.s are
in, they nearly always make better hus-
bands, and better men, than those who
have all along led paratanie lives.

Donlevey spoko very hopefully of his
love. Ho was confident that Mary
Meeker was sincerely attached to hiiii,
and he looked forward gladly to the day
wlien he eoidd make her his wife, He
had enough to marry on now, his private
income being a fair one ; but he was de-
termined not to make lior his wife until
he had secured his piofossiuii. This
j bright hope was the great incentive which
made him study so hard.

1 learned from him that he had not yet
si)oken to Mrs. Meeker. Mary had ad-
vised him not to do so for a little while —
I had an unpleasant task in informing him
of the good opinion Mrs. Meeker held
regarding him. I did so as delicately as
possible, and he heard me with mt^re
calmness than 1 had expected from him.
" I know iieople call mo wild," ho said,
"and not without good cause, I have
been a wild, careless fellow, thougli no
more than thousands of other men, and
surely I can reform as thousands have
before me / I am making the attouqtt at
all events, and nevcir will I ask Mary
Jleeker to give me her hand at the altar,
unless I feel myself as worthy of her as a
man can be."

" You iinist, at least, fu:t yourself right
with the old lady," I said, "and the
sooner it is done the better."

"It .sliall be done at once," ho said with
an air of determination, "I shall tell her
everything. Slie is or has been a W'lman
of the world, aiul bad as iuy story may
be, it will, 1 fancy, come better from my
own lips than it diil from those (jf that
faidt-iinding parson."

It was tlien arranged that wo should

call on Mrs. Meeker on tlio following

evening, and that Donlerey should mak«

a clean breast of everything regarding his

I love for ISIary, and his former wildness.

1 Next morning I scut word to Mrs,

j ?ieeker of our intended visit, well know-

[ iug that she would divine the cause, and

ill order that .slie might be [)rep,ired for

the interview. Early in the evening we

called, and found her proi)ped up on the

.■sofa with pillows, .and reailyto receive us.

She greeted us in a kindly t')ne. Mary

was there too, but left the room shortly

after our entrance, and thu.i we three

were left together.

"Mrs. l\Iefker," Donlevey c".ominonccd,
after a few commonplace remarks, " you.

MY OWN STORY ,

of course, aro aware of the object of our
visit. Mr. Harily has told mc of all that
passed between you and him last evening
regarding myself, and I come now to
■pci^k to yon about it."

" 1 only repeated what had lieen told
me, Mr. Donlcvey," she replied, "per-
haps I shoiild not have done so, but it
can't be helped now. After all, 1 suppose
I have no right to talk of such affairs. "

" You have a right, Mrs. Meeker,"
Donlcvey answered, "a stronger onj,
perhaps, tlian you imagine. Were it not
so I would not be liere now."

"I'm sure I cannot imagine wherein
that right rests," she said v>'ith a smile."

"You shall hear presently," Dick con-
tinued, " b\it lirst let mo come to tliesu
tales which have been told you. That
clergyman said 1 was a wild fellow,"

" Ilo certainly gave nie to understand
as much." Mi's. Meeker answered. "Of
course yoix know wliether he was right or
wrong."

" Ho was rigid, Mrs. Jlcekor," Don-
levey said earnestly. " lie was right. I
hiive been a wild fellow, I have done
things which I should not have done.
I have more than onoo outstepped tlic
bounds of prudence, and have given
the world cause to talk ill of me. This
much is ti'ue, Mrs. I\Ieekcr. But if you
have been told that I ever did a dishonor-
able action in my life, you have been told
that which is not true. You have lived
long enough in the world to know what is
the full meaning of tlic term "sowing
wild oats." That is what I have done.
.1 have sowed wild oats. Perhaps the
crop I put in was a largo (;no, but, at least,
many others have put in a much larger
and hiive been forgiven. [ do not iit-
tempt to excuse myself in any wa}', I oft'er
no palliations, except this, that ca'^t in
good society as I have Iteen, with plenty
of means at my dis;^os.d, with a social
disposition and a love of company, it is
hardly to be wondered that» I should
sometimes forget myself and do things
which were better left undone. Ileutem-
ber, I do not offer this as an excuse. 1 only
tell you my circumstances, and then ask
you if ninetj'-nine men out of an hundred
Vifould not have done tlm same I . If a man
is to be rushed out of society and'tabooed
because he, in his time, hiis been v.ild,
how many men, do you think, would
society have left? 1 acknowledge that 1
have been wild, b\it, thank God, [ can
safely saj^ it is a thing of the past. 1
have set out with a determination to do
better in the future. In a few months
my studies will be over and I will enter
upon the 2)ractice of my i>rofe!i.sion. I am
now preparing myself as well i»s I can for
the inipoi-tivnt duties of it morally, as well

as intellectually. I nak you, then, whom
I have looked upon as a friend, to judge
mo not too harshly. For what I have
done in the past 1 am sorry ; for what I.
.shall do I leave my futin-e actions to speak.
I have spent many happy hours liore at
your side, Mrs. Meeker, and j-our growirig
coldness has pained me nu)re than I can
tell. Though 1 know many I make few
friends, and those few are very dear to
me. You were one of them, nnd the cold
treatment you have lately shown 7ne,
though, perhaps, deserved, has given me
more sorrow than most people would say
Dick Donlovey's heart was capable of
liolding. Do not. judge me too harshly
then, (jlivc me an opportunity of appear-
ing better in your eyes ; of making myself
a moi'e worthy man, and if I do not suc-
ceed in winning your good words, you
may cast me oif as one undeserving of
woman's esteem or man's friendship."

Ife sp(jko very earnestly, and with just
a slight tremor in his .ricli, manly voice.
As lie finished, and walked away to the
further end of the room, I ghmced .ai Mrs.
Meeker, aYul saw that hia words had made
a good imiJi'ession on her generous heart.
Tliere was a short silence in the room, and
then JMrs. Meeker spoke :

"Mr. Donlevey," she said, "I am very
Sony for repeating what I heard about
you. You may have been wild, as you
say, lint no one could look upon yon and
belie^■e that you ever were a really bad
man. Forgive me for ever liaving thor.ght
so. You have been most kind to mo
during the little while tiiat I have known
you, and I should not have .so far forgot-
ten !iiy friendship as to believe the stories
that wore told me. Hiiivafter 1 will think
of you as I did L-eiore. All this shall bo
foi'gotten, and while you attempt to do
batter, and give up this Avild-oats busi-
ness, you will Hud in ino a friend — a
motlur. Come, Donlevey, give me your
hand, now, and say tliat you bear me no
ill-will for hiving judged you too has-
tily."

"Ill-will I" ho exclaimed, taking her
hand and r.iising it tohi; li])s. "Oli I T
could never bear you anything l.)ut friend-
shii'). Did you e'v-en refuse to ;ioe mo
again, 1 should still remember you .as the
kindly woman you have ever been."

"You are, indeed, a good-hearted fel-
lo'if, Donlevey,'' she said, looking up
tenderly at him. "You wild birds always
are. Will you kiss an old woman's fore-
head ? I like Uiv friends to do it. It's a
wliim of mine. There, there ; thank you ;
and now, Donlevey, we'll talk of this no
more.''

"But there is one thing else that I
would apeak of," he said, as ho sat down
by her side, and took her hand in his.

111

, V

MY OWN STORY.

"It must be something pleaaant, or 1
will not hear it," the old lady laughingly
replied.

" It'b pleasant — very, very pleasant, at
least to me," ho answered; "and my
prayer is that it may be so to you, al.so."

"Go on then; but do not bo long, for 1
will bo wanting Mary in tho ro(jm in a
moment; it's nearly time I took:my mix-
ture."

"It if) of her, of Mary, I would speak,"
Donlevey said, in a very nervous way.

"O, it's of Mary, is it!" she exclaimed,
opening her eyes vei-y wide and pretend-
ing to bo greatly castonished. "Pray, Mr.
Donlevey, what havo vou to say about
her?"

"Only this, Mrs. Meek(!r,'' ho said,
abruptly, "that I love her,"

"O, that'.s all," she answered, with a
smile at mc. "Now, this is a most sin-
giilar coincidence. Would you believe it,
Hardy; this gentleman .says he lovca ]\tary,
and only two days ago, Mary liad the
eflronty to tell mo that she loved him.
Wonderful coincidence, Hardy, is'nt it/"

"Most astonishing!" I answered.

"Then you know everything, Mrs.
Meeker?" l)ick joyfully exclaimed.

"Nothing of the sijrt, sir," she replied,
with an air of mvich severity. "Harry
will j'ou be kind enough to go into the
other room and send that daughter of mine
here. 1 must bring these two guilty ones
face to face and show them tho enormity
of their crime."

I did as directed, and in about half an
hour later was allowed to re-enter the
room, where I found Donlevey and Mary
looking very happy, and Mrs. Meeker re-
clining on her pillov« smiling more cheer-
fully than I had ever seen her before.
There was no necessity for explaining
matters to mo. 1 saw it all, and as 1 ki.ssed
Mrs. Meeker's forehead and ISIaiy's chock
and shook Dick's strong hand in my heart
of hearts, I hoped that tlic fond antici-
pations of each would, ere long, become
sweet realities.

CHAPTER XXI.

A SINiWIOK BECOMES \ .ICMFEU.

A few d.ay3 sub8e(iuent to the oec\ir-
rences narrated in last chapter, we were
sitting around tho breakfast tabic when
Miss Debby Sinswick entered the room,
blushing like U^ rose. We had seen little
of her of late. Formerly she had waited
on table, but now that duty was performed
by a shock-headed young lady, whose hair
was in a chronic state of disorder, and who
had a j)eculiar habit of hitching up her
clothes every time she moved, as if she

were afraid they would fall oil". Her
proper name, I believe, was Sally, but
Donlevey had christened her "Shrug" on
account of tho singularity of lier move-
ments in connection with her ch/hes, and
that was tho only name we eve.: called
her. As Miss Sinswick entered the room
she curt.seycd faintly to us, and then ad-
vancing to Doidevey jdaced a note on the
table, and innnediately disappeared, at
which Shrug gave an extraordinary hitch
to her clothes and chuckled aloiul.

"A\'h.at are you laughing at?" Don-
levey asked.

"Nothing, sir," that j-oung lady re-
plied, "the note'll tell you all about it.
it's awful funny," and without waiting to
explain the fun she vanished in a series of
shrugs.

"Something unusu.al is going to hap-
pen." Donlevey said, as he eyed tho
note. "Here's an epistle from IMra. Sins-
wick. She's great on uotes, and I'll wagei'
you that this contains some wonderful
piece of news. Ijct us see."

Tearing open the envelope, ho took out
a piece of note paj^er with a crest on the
top, and read as follows :

"Mrs. Sinswick, of Sinswick Cottage,
presents her compliments to tlie Sinswick
Quartette, and takes the liberty of inform-
ing said Quartette, that Mr. Zebulon
Jumper and Miss Debby Sinswick will be
united hi the holy bonds of wedlock (D. V.)
on Thursday next, the 10th inst., on which
occasi(m Mrs. Sinswick hopes to have tho
honor of tlie individual and collective
company of tho Sinswick Quartette. Tlie
event will take place at ton o'clock, A.M.,
at the cottage. The Rev. A. Menor
willofiiciate."

"Hurrah, boys; hero's a jiieco of fun
in store for us," Donlevey exclaimed, with
much of his old heartiness, "a Sinswick
is to become a Jumper, and we're all in-
vited to see t!ie unhappy youth swun"
oil". "

' ' But v.-ho in the name of wonder is
Mr. Jimiper '?" I asked, forgetting for the
moment the former exploits of that gen-
tleman.

' ' Don't you remember him ? That sky-
terrier looking fellow, with the mon-
strously large feet," Donlevey answered.

"Tho healthy youth who so nobly cap-
tured his future fatlier-in-lav.-, and re-
moved him from beheath the table on the
night of our inaugural dinner," Ga.sher
added.

" The shambling young man, who wor-
ships Miss Debby every Sunday night,
sees her home from church, and hangs
around the kitchen entrance like a men-
dicant waiting for contributions," Court-
ley said.

Further comments on the personal ap-

MY OWN STORT.

poarfvtico, nud iridivifbml pecnliiirities of
Mr. .liiiii|ior, were cut nliort liy tlio
ontriinco of Mrs. SiuHwick. Shofidviuiced
into tlio romii with Htiitoly gnimlour, and
a diiiiiiintivo jioodlo doj,', ijossossing a
(lyHpoptic civst of countenance, and a ohort
tail.

" Good morning f,'ontleni(m all," «lic!
gi-aoiously naid, as slio and the dyspeptic
canine took seats on the sofa side by side.

"(Jood morning, Jlrs. Sinswick," \tO
rci)liod in choni.s.

" 1. do not often trespass upon your
privacy, gmithMncn,'' slio s.vid, ;i3 .slie
aniootlieil her dress into liecoining creases,
•'l)ut on this occasion I liavo felt it my
duty to appear."

"An lionour Avhicli wo gratefully ac-
kno\vl(;di,'e, madam," Donlevy answered ;
anil we all bowed in support of the remark.

"Tills kindness, sirs, to one in my
humble station, shall meet with its reward
liereafter," she said, ''imd yet. liumule as
1 now a;ii, I was not always so.''

" A siipurtluous addenda, I\Irs. Sins-
wick," D<.nlevey answered, " dt) we not
know thai, yuu are a Do Courcey / "

" Ves, gentlemen," she Slid, warming
on her favourite topic, " 1 am a Do Cour-
cey ; tlio blood of the Dc (Joureeys llows
in my veins. My papa, as 1 may h.ivo
remarked on former occasions, must rest
xuieasy in his grave wlieu he sees me the
mistress of a boarding house. But life,
gentlemen, is full of clianges."

" Don't giv(! youi-self any uneasiness on
tliat point, " Donlevey replied witli mock

fraviby, "your respected papa sleejis in
relaud, and under the ciroumsLances it's
li.ardly likely that ho can observe your
movements at a distance of four thousand
miles."

" Very true, Mr. Donlevey," she ans-
■wei'cd, M.ppar!'ntly ])leajed with the remark,
" I had not thought of that before. I am
a DetJourcey nevertheless," she added,
and lowereil myself inexpressibly in the
social f.eale vvlieii I took upon myself the
name of Sinswick. Mr. Sin, gentlemen,
is a brute. 1 gave hiui my young heart,
•when I was an innocent, conliding girl
(the DcCoureeys always were innocent),
and when my aifcctions were bestowed on
him 1 dill not know what a brute lie was.
My i)apa said I was wrong, but [ did not
lieed him, .uid this is the result."'

" It's very .sad, Mrs. Sinsv.ick," Gasher
said, " and old Sin. is indeed a bruie not
to appreciate properly so deserving a
wife."

' T.ake warning by my cruel f.ato," sho
E.aid, as if she thought that we at that
moment contemplated matriim.nial alli-
ances with the nnwortliy Sinwieka, "Take
warning by my cruel fate, and beware cf
the Sinswicks."

" Madam, wo shall givo them tho widest
possibla berth," Donlevey answered.

"Do gentlemen, do,"siio said, wiping
aw.ay a te.ar with tho corner of li'U' apron,
"and talkitj; of births," sho added, "re-
minds me ot why I have trenjjassed upon
yon. My tirst-born is about leaving the
parental n.'of to take up her abode in a
domicile of her own, in conjunction with
the chosen one of her young all'octions — a
worthyyouth (jf the name of Jump'jr. My
note may have informed you of this."

It has, madam," Dick said, "and on
Hihalf of my friends and my.-ielf, allo.v mo
to wish the future iMrs. Jumper eyory
liap])ine!;s, and to inform you that we sliall
have great pleasure iu seeing her cha iga
her cognomen and her residence in tho
manner prescribed by law."

"Many thanks, gentlemen," tho lady
said, "the blood of tho OeCouiCL^ys that
courses through Jier veins and mine, will
speed more rapidly upon its lifj-giving
journey, when wo iviiow that tlie contem-
plated matrimonial alliince will be con-
summated in tho presence of ge;itlemeu of
whose indivi lual worth we hoi 1 so elevated
;in opi?uou."

We bowed gravely to the compliment,
and slio continued —

"I. have appeared before you, gentle-
men, for a special purpose, unworthy a* I
am— being a Sinswi^ik now, and not a Du-
Courcey — I trust that yon will graciously
comply witii my reipacst in one gruat par-
ticular. The Sinswick, as you oiily too
well know, is an uuworMiy creature, not
deserving of bt-iiig a fatlier. He has a
foolish and unjnstitiable ])rejudiee against
Mr. Jumper, for the simple reason that
on several occasions that amiable young
man has worsted him when he was in :,u
ungentlejuanly state of intoxica ion. Ho
i.-i, therefore, Mr. .Jumper's mortal eneuij',
and would aiiongly oppose the co;;tein-
plated alliaiii.'o did he know anything abimt
it, whieh he don't, and whieii lie slian't,
until the event has transpired. Thus,
gentlemci, at this iinjjortant period of
her life, o!i tiie eve of taking tliis serious
step, my daughter is left without pater-
r"'.I cue. \V!io will becomo a father to
her/"

We hioked upon the (pu*.sti;iu v,% n
sort of conundruiu. and unaniiuoualj
gave it up.

"I re))eat tlio (p.iestion," Mrs. Sinn-
wick cantinued : "who'll be to her a father
in this trying liosir of her o'listence f
Sinswick can't !— Sinswick won't !--a:vl
even if he would, Sinswick ahan't 1 Hj'«
unworthy of the proud position. In tliii
moment of her loneliness where a]iA\ hIiji
fly for hell)? Where shall sho seek ass- t-
auce / To whom shall she look for sue -or
but to her friends V WJioro else cuu »hj

MV OWN BTOUY. 7S

find a fikther? Ami iuiioiin those frioiul.s, | I was on my foot itroposiiij,', in Hiiitablo
gentlouuiu, v.lio iiro ho dcai" as voii ( In tcnnrt, tlui lioaltli of tlio flushing brido,
ynu hIio seeks a father, for tliis occasion when I\Ir. Siuiwick, in a slightly cl'jvated

only. Who titter than your loader and
your head I Mr. Donlovuy, will you l>o-
coimi hei' parent ("

"IT" that gentleman exclaimed, witli ]
iinfoigiicd suri>riRe, while tho rest of u.^ |
tittered in our tjleeves.

' ' Yes ; you sir, " Mrs. Sinswick an.«i\vcred.
"Tako pity ou a hmoly daughter of tho
hour4o of Sinswick, and hocjuio to her a
father."

"Certainly, Dick, liecomo a falhcr at
once." (Jonrtley «aid, with much gravity.
"You're just the man for tho jiosition.
Aceeiit tho otlire instanter 1"

condition, apjioarod. Commotion immu-
diately ensuoil. j\Ii'«. Jum[)er faintod,
Mr. Jumjier looked firm and bniV(j, tho
Ilev. A. l\Ienor took refuge behind tlio
door, Mr.s. Sinswiok calmly iiwaitod tho
coming atovni, while wo of tho Quuvtetto
looked for a splendid .soono.

"Undo! Undo! Did I hoar y.m say
brido. Jlr. Hardy (" ho asked, pulling up
hi.) shirt-collar, and looking enquiringly
at n\:\

"Perhaps yon did, sir," I answered,
with a bov.-. "If my memory serves me
rij;lit, I think I used the word brido —
"Mrs. Sinsuick,"' Do'devey said, flori- ' hi',])py and lovely brido."
oush', "you really tr.ko mo by surprise. ■"(), you said bride, did you .' — happy
I never was a pari^it in my life, and know ■ and lovij'.v brid.T I" he said in an ironical

no*:hing of the duties of tho olficL'."

I' V

tone. "Sir, this is my houso^ — tliis is
Nothiiii; easier, sir," tho lady an- j Siiiswiclc ('ottage- and hero, beneath the
sweved. "All you have to do is to give > roof of thi.i, my dcjuiicilo, I demaml t(j
tlio bri<lo away. Your duties begin and know from you, as a gentleman, why you
end there." used that word '. — why you dared to utter

"Oh ! that'.'t all I" ho oxclaimed, appar- : such ;in oxpresuioa hero in tho bo.iom of
ently jjreatly relieved. "Well, that ain't ( my family /"

much, certainly; yet I fojl a di^lieacy "IMr. Sinswick, r.ir," D(jnlevey com-
aboiit assiuiiiiig th'j duties of the heail of moncod with groat dignity, and coming to
tho house. 'I'ho genuine papa might not my reiicue, "1 am paiue.l and surpri.sed

like it."

" Never mind him, sir, he'll knov*-
nnthing about it till its all over. If ho
shonld then iiud fault, leave Mr. Jumper
and myself to attend to him
how to settle him."

Dick tried to escape the duty, but hj

that a man of your gii;nt intellect and
clear perception sliould ask .•■aieh a ([ues-
tion."

"IJnt I do ask it!" jMr. Sinswick said,
vc know ! "'and now 1 repeat it. V.'hat is tho moan-
iingof allthi.!?"

"Tho meaning of this, mv vcnci'able
could not. We all supported tho lady in I friend, is eaiily cxi>laiiied," Donl(!vey an-
hcr reijueftt, and the result wa.s that ho at sweved, "for the iir.st time in my life I've
la:;L cou'-.entijd to perform tho operation been j claying ilio ro/" of parent. 1 friund

of tranaferriiMr the bliiiihir,:; daught:,'r of

tl:

lushing s.';irl in w.ant of

)luilto

oereil mv service.'!

a father airl I
Owiu'.' to tho

the hoUKo of Sinswick' to the keeping
tho muscular Mr. Jumper. : short noti::o I received, and the straiige-

"Tho great event," an Mrs. f'inswick | ncss of -the character, I may not have
called it, came off at tho timo appointed. ' acquitted myself well; but 1 assure yon
Debby hxiked biushing and modest ; Mr. | that I did tho bo.'t I could under the cir-
Jr.mjicr looked sheepish aad m(.iro than | cumstauces. I became a father to the

half ii.!;.h,",uu;il cjf Iiii'sself, .and Mrs. Sins-
wick Inokeil gnuuli rthan ever. J)!ck per-
formed Ills dutii s like a man and a father, :
ami with beoming gravity, v.diilo the i
llov. A. Meuor hurrieil over tho service i
v.'ith i'.ll j).>:-,si:)!o spied, occ.sionidly cast- j
ing hungry gl.u'.ees towards tho wtdl- ,
spread t!i.bL' in the adjoinin"; room. Mrs. ■

fatherle.s.3, jim t^ni. 1 found 'two soul.s
v.'ith but a single thought, two hearts that
boi-.t as one,' .■uid I felt it r;iy duty to d.>
all in my power to make them one ar4
([uiekly lu possible. Look at that pair of
turtle doves — aJum[!er;uid a Sinswick.
That, sir, is my handiwork."

The turtle doves immediately br.iced

Sinswick wejit co[aously ; Debby sobl)ed ■ tliemselv(!S uj) for iaspecti^^i.

becomingly ; the shock-headed girl, howled
disiuidly, ;ind had a terrible timo keeping
nor elollies on ; and oven the cook dropped
a few greasy tears around her. We kissed
the iirido all around, the; bewildered Jum-
per being left till the hi.st ; and then we
■went to breakfast, evid(;ntiy the most
interesting part of the eeremouy, to at
least one — tho parson.

We were having a splendid timo, and

Mr. Sinswick looked around at us
fiercely, then ho looked ac tho Rev. A.
Manor crr.shed into tiio smallest possible
compass behind the door, and then he
looked at Dobbv.

"Miss Doi)orah Sin.swick," he .said,
folding his arms across his heart, and
sjicaking with f.itherly autlioritv, "tirise
and come to your father."

"Papa,'' th-i young lady answered.

I .
'I I

MY OWN STOUY.

•'under the circumativncug I would rather
not."

"Deborah Sinswick," lie repeated,
"come to vour imruiit.''

"Sir," Mr. Jniiii)or said, "the lady ig
my wife — my iiatuo is Jumper."

"Dauf^htor of the houno <if Siiiswick,"
the failicr continued, not- deigning to
notice tlie uevvly wi'ddi-d .(iimiier, "wliy
do you not lienrken to your ])!irent'H
voice t AriHe, 1 siiy, and approach him."

"Allow me to inform _vo\i, sir," Mm.
Sinswick ventured to remark, "that ni.y
da\u;hter is no lonycr of this domestic
firLlf. Witliin tlie lio'ir that is just

1)r.SHing away she assumed tlie nanu! and
iiik(.'d lier fortune to that of tliis excellent
youn;.; man — Mr. Zehulon Jumiier. "

"Madam," Mr. Sinswick said, howiny;
with diynity to liis hotter half, "I ad-
dressed my conversation to my dauj^hter,
not to you."

"And i, sir, addressed mine to you,"
the lady replied, with ecpiid dignity.
" You have jiropounded certain questions,
and I have endeavored to elucidate them.
Mr. Sinswick, partner of mj' joy.s, allow
me to introduce you to ycmr son-in-law-
Mr. Zeoulou Jumper."

" Deborah," the father added, still pre-
serving an outward show of calmness,
"have ynw so far forgotten the noble
instructions 1 have attempted to instil
into your youthfal miiul, as to wed that
contemptible young mauf"

Mr.s. Jumper looked up witli tears in
lier eyes iiud said she had.

"Then you are no longer a daughter
of mine," r«Ir. Sinswick e.'cclaimcd, bogin-
ing to lose his cahuness. "I disown you ; I
cut you olF witli II shilling ! Leave my
house ! (so Avith your Jumper ! (Jo to the
devil if you like, but never come beneath
the roof of Sinswick Cotta,<?e again. t),
my respected forefaUiers," he added,
rolling up his eyes and looking theatrical,
" what ii fidl— wlip.t a fall is hoi-e I A Sins-
wick become a Jniupor I''

" (>, mv forefathers," Mrs. Sinswick
echoed, " wliat a fall tiiere was wiien a
DeCourcey became a Siusvrick.''

"Young man," tlie venerable parent
said, turning towards ?Ir. Jumjier, "leave
this house. If that girl ii,t your side is
your w ifo take her iuul get out. (ro, cru
in a moment of phreuzy, tuid in the
agony of a father's anguish, i crush you.
Leave."

!Mr. Jumjicr did not obey the order.
lie had tested Mr. Sinswick's cnh^ihing
p('Wers ('ii former occasions, and eviilently
Inul no very high opinion of them. That
gentleman sliowed no inclination to carry
his threat into execution, and seeing that
he could not enforce it, conuueuced an
attack on another and weaker (Micrier."

" Where is tin; wretch, the vile creature,
who performed this outrageous ceremony/"
ho asked, looking around for the Ili-v. A,
lienor, " .\h ! here he is," ho added, aa
he caught sight of tho reverend gentleman
trying to squeeze himself into iiivi«il)ility
behind the door. "Here ho is ! Hero i»
the vile wretch, the despoiler of my h<uue,
tlie devourer of widow's houses," and
springing quickly against the door, ho
cruslu'd tho ilcv. A. Menor between it
and tlie wall with all his might. Tho
reverend gentleman cried aloud in n nio.it
unelerical manner, and iiiiidored us to
re.'?cuo him from the infuriated Sinswick.
NVe heljied him, and tlie moment the jires-
siu'e was taken oH' iie shot from behind
the door like a s.ible arrow from a bow,
and seizing his hat vanished like a Hash.
As he made his hasty exit his clerical coat
tail caught on tho latch, and there it was
left hanging as spoil in tlie hands of tlie
conquering Sinswick. Tliat venerable
gentleman attempted a violent application
of his boot to tho retreating form of man
of peace, but he missed his mark and fell
heavily to the floor. Ho arose, and find-
ing us all laughing at his miifortiuie, grew
more violent than ever. Pe«ling oil his
coat like a professional jiugilist, he clud-
longod us all to mortal combat in tlie back
yard, even mentioning that lie would not
object to a round witli Mrs. Sinswick and
the cook. AVe rerqiectfully declined, and
had til J pleasure of being inf(U'nied that
we were a pack of coWivrdly ruflians.
Tlien he looked around for siuiio object
upon v.Iiich to vent his auger, and liis
eye:-! fell upon tlie sliock-lieaded girl, who,
with optics wide open, was gazing admir-
ingly at the lively scene, wliilesheliitched
up her clothes at tho rate of about twenty
shrugs per minute. At her he dashed,
but ;-;he was too quick for him, and elud-
ing his gra«p, vanished in (Uie big shrug.

Tliinlcing that tlie scene had lasted long
enough, we set to Avork to cool Sir. Sins-
wick down and reconcile him to tho mar-
riage. After a little talking, and several
glasses of v.ine, we succeeded so well that
he kissed Debby, and gave her an intoxi-
cating blessing. Towards Mrs. Sinswick,
however, he maintainted an air of tho
most supremo indiilerence, while the un-
fortunate Sir. Jumper he would not con-
condescend even to look .nt. Having
settled tlio family troubles as v/e!l as wo
could, wo departed, leaving Sir. Sinswick
snoaring in a chair with his head on the
table, and Debby and Junqier diinking in
eajli otliers thoughts in a quiet corner
behind the stove.

I I

MY OWN STORY.

. ^1

I I

( UAI'TER XXII.

CI, (> KRNCE .1 AK VI H.

1 \v,\H iii> longer a strangor at Dorloy
HoiiHo. I went thoro frequently — ho fru-
quontly, in fact, as ti) nil'onl grounds Uir
the coininents of the gossiping world.
My name was sometiini-'S coujjled with
that of Fiorunoo Jivrvis in a way that could
not liut be pleasing to my vanity, though,
in truth, there was no proper reason for
it. I was known to be a visitor at Dorley
House ; people met nio there, and some-
times, at evening parties, tJioy might have
found (jcoasion for saying that I was
jittentivetoMissJarvis. On these grounds
all the ruiuoiirs regardingus wore fovnided.
And wore there any stronger grounds of
which the world did not know / I often
aaked my own heart that f[uestion, and it
always answered '• Yes. " Hincc that night
at the Bachelors' Ball, Florence Javvis
had grown very dear to me.

My heart had long been steeled against
the charms of woman; but on the night
when first wo met all that hardness van-
ished, and an impression was made which
time riiiened into love.

It was bold, very bold of me, but I
could not help it. Florence .Farvis, I felt
and knew, was a being far, far above mo
—too good — too noble for such as I ; and
yet in my very soul 1 loved her, with a \
devotion that could not die. I tried to '
tight it down, as much on her account as i
my own. 1 felt unworthy of her— felt |
that it was rdmost wicked on uiy pai't to
love her, and yet love her 1 did, and with
iill my eti'orts to smother my feelings they
still remained, and each day became
stronger and more luiconquerable.

N\'hat her feelings towards me were, 1
did not know. That she esteemed me as
a friend J liad reasons for believing; but
that she loved mo L did not hope.

In all these months I no^'er spoke of
love. I studied how b'jit to avoid the
subject, oven in ordinary conver;i ition ;
and yet several times wlioii v,-o wore alone
I was on the point of telling her of that
whicli had long tilled my lie:\it, and asking
for at l(!!i'-t ono little word of hoiie.
Somi.'thiuLC always stayed me, aad thus
my love remained uusp.iiien.

Her treatment of tJ;is. (iardnor Wiis a
mystiiry I could in»t futhoui. 1 rarely
called at Doi'ley House but I met him.
Ho was always at her side. [ could not
believe that she loved the fellow. Ho
was an insipid coxcoml), whoso conversa-
tional pov.ers could not cnrry him beyond
the weather, the fashions, horses and dogs.
His money was all ho had to i-econnuoiid
him, and 1 gave Florence Jarvis credit
.for p'o.ssessiug too true a heart, and to(j

noblo a nature, ever to love n man forlhis
gold. Still she treated liim, as I thought,
with marked favour, an<l appeared t()
encourage his attentions in every way.
1 was jealous of the fool, though angry
with myself for holding jealousy towardu
such a man.

The world in which we moved took do-
light in noticing the C(jntest between us,
which had gone on for a h»ng time before
I became fully aware of the position I
occupied in the affair. I had hardly
thought of him as a rival until certain
ball-room whispers reached my ear, in
which our respective chances for the lady's
hand were discussed, as if wo were run-
ning a race for a cup. The general
imi)ression appenrod to bo that I would bo
tho loser— that money, as usual, would
carry the day.

It was these whispers wliich first aroused
me, and showed me my jiosition. I was
looked upon l>y tho world as a suitor for
Miss Jarvis' hand, though up to that time
1 had not spoken one word of love; and,
perhaps, feeling m}' own unworthiness so
keenly, liad no intention of doing so. By
degrees, however, one thing led t > another,
and honour then, aside from my own feel-
ings, compelled me to disclose my passion,
and seek my fate.

Ono cToning 1 strolled over to Dorley
Hmise. It was in tho earlj' autumnal
time, and as I sauntered up tho carriage
way, I caught sight of Miss Jarvis attend-
ing to some Into tlowors in the garden
near by. 1 crossed over, and in a few
minutes was as.sistiug her in her pleasant
occu])ation.

" Ai'o you fond of floAvers, Mr. Hardy?"
she asked, ai with delicate touch she
trinniiud away the dead leares from a
beautiful geranium.

"Yes, passionately; though, unfor-
tunately, since I was a boy I have had
few ojiportnnities f>f indulging in my love
for tliom. A man who has to give all his
time to business, must of necessity bo
denied many such pleasures as this."

"But when you can enjoy them, they
must make business less of a toil," she
said, "at least I slujuld think so."

"Very true, lUiss .Jarvis, but you nnist
remember that there are few so fortini-
ately situated that they can link pleasure
and' business together, and while enjoying
tho one give due attention to the other."

"Yet, I have often heard of you men
combining business and jileasure. I be-
lieve it is an axiom with some of yon that
plentj' of business is pleasure. Is it
iso?"

' ' Ves, to a certain degree. Most men

will tell ycm that they are never so happy

' as when rushed with business. I might

I tell you so myself, or, at least, might have

MY OWN STORY.

i 1

told ytju BO not nmiiy iiioiitim ninct). liut,
UHitlc front tlio [iluiwuroH of liU8iueM!«, tliuru
uro iiiiHtiiiius iiiid niitUHciiieiitti which wu
often luiiy for thouyli Hcldoiu uiijoy. This
recreation niuoiig tlond lifu mid liuimty is
onu of thuin. IJoth ndiid iind hotly woiihl
liu huttor tittod for biminosH ooidd 1 spend
uu hour ciich day in wuch a lovely sjiot as
tliiH. It is a perfect little pnriidis*, and
surely one's feelings and Iieart would he
the better of a daily visit to HUch a place I"

"Do you really love llo^fers so well,
Mr. Ilanly >" she asked, lookinj; up at nio
from under her hroaddcafed ganlon hat.

"1 have already said that I love them
prts.siouately."

" 1 am glad of that," she said.

"And why/" 1 asked.

" IJccause — because," she answered hesi-
tatingly, "I love iiowers so well myself
that 1 would have every one else love thoni
too. It speaks well for a man's feelings
when we tind him have a love for such
things, a love which not even the cares of
business nor rough contact with the world
drivi.'s o\it of him."

"'I'hank you," I hiughiiif^ly uaiil, "am
J to take all this to myself"

"Xay, L ilid not me. ui tliatyoii should,"
she replied, while a slight blush sutl'used
her chiioks, "I only spoke in a general
way — not for your special benell*; though, ;
at the same time, if what I said applies to ^
you I am glad of it. Will you be kind j
onotigh to cut this dead twig for mo/"

"And do you consider that this rule of
yours works both ways!" I asketl.

"How, Mr. Hardy/"

"Tl' t he who has no love for the crea-
tures of the floral kingdo.ii, is wanting in
the liner feelings ui our n.iture.'"

"Yes, to a certain extent. Lei mo give
you a case in ] oint. There's Mr. (Jardner,
he's a good, innocent, hannless sort of a
gontlonian, but he has no more apprecia-
tion of the sid)Hme and the beautiful,
eitiier in nature en* art, than a (Jreenlander
has of orange groves. An Kden would
posses.s no attractions for him. He has
no h)ve for flowers. Hand him the most
lovely rose that ever bloomed, and he will
say, 'by George, that's a nice perfume,'
'that locjks duccd pretty, don't it/' Fur-
tlier than that his admiration could not
carry him were he to look upon a fairy
scene."

" It soems to me that yon are ^■ery hard
on our friend (Gardner," 1 Kaid pleasantly.

" No ; not hard on hnu, for wliat I
have said he might himself corroberate.
I know his character v.oll, and love of
the l)eautiful is not one of its traits. Ho
po.ssesses many good points, thougli I
liardlv think he will ever set the bay iu a
blaze.'"

"Still he is a popular man in society,"

I said, well |)lea«od with" the turn the
conversation had taken.

" To a man of the world liku you, thu
reason can bo no secret."

"I do not say that it is; yet it is a
painfid commentary on human nature to
tind tiiat because a num simply possesses
gold ho nuist bo worshipped, while he
possessing brains is frowned into obscurity
bucauso ho is poor,"

" It certainly is a painful conunentarj',
Mr. Hardy, but none the less true, and
my own sex, I regret to say, are the groat
ollenders thciein. ISiiie-tenthaoi us lovo
gold, not intellect. In a race botwoon
tho two, socially, gold always wins,"

" Always, Miss Jarvis .'"

" Yes ; or nearly so. .\nd yet in this,
after all, tlo wo not receive our c\ie from
you men / Out in the world gold is your
God. Occasionally "you let brains win;
but such instances form tho exception,
not tho rule."

"Nay, 1 nuist difl'or from you thoro.
With us it is generally brains and money
combined — tho one brings the other."

" 1 grant you oven that, and still my
assertion liolds good, is it not for gold
you toil / i)o you not take up men of
much m(>ney, and small mind, and make
them your rulers ?"

" Sometimes.''

" Y\'s ; often, Mr. Hardy. I could
nanio you instances within ni}' (jwn know-
lodge wore it necessary. "

" I cannot ctjiitradict yon, for I am
sorry to say tlnit yoiu- remark is only too
well foiuided."

"There's ono feature in man's charac-
ter," she continued with nnich earnest-
ness, after a short silence, "that I don't
like, and that i.-i this : often wlien you,
witliout fame, from the living you accord
it to the dead. If some men of more than
(^•dinary morit dies, you regret his loss
and say he was a giant in intellect ; and
yet when he was livijigyon hardly noticed
him. Postlnnnoui fame is rtadily given
when living fame was refused. You have
iu your i,'raveyards nioimnionts of marble
in niemoiy ni men you lot dio in want,
and without that winch v.as even dearer
to them even than wealth — fame."

"Though there ir; truth in your v,ordn.
Mis;; Jarvii, you must acknowledge that
in this ago merit is readily recognised
when it is shown."

"Occasionally, 1 grant you; but in
what a nuser.tbly sollish way. You never
recognise talent and worth until you are
actually forced to do so ; you withhold
your praise until the very last moment ;
you are chary of your ajjplau-ie. In the
end, when you do give it, it is only i)eca\iso
you iu-e in a measure C'.>mpollod to do

80."

MY OWN RTOUy.

" Yoti hftvo ft Iwl opinion of my unfor-
tuimto Hi!X."

"In thin ri'H|ii'i;t, yvn. Ami yot iiro not
tho opiiiiiiiiH I ii(lviiiu'(!cl Hoiiiid ("

" Villi ci'itiiiiiiy iniiy linrl inntiinei-H to

(nil)|>cii't t!i(!iii, but, ftH IV Ktinonil nilo, you

, iiiimt allow iiii; t'l (liHLr from yon on tiiin

I point."

, I "Ah. Hardy," uliolatiyluntjIyanBWorod,

i " You aru as had aH tlie roitt, I never

found a ^.;i'ntii'inun yet wlio would ayreo

with me in this matter, exeept INIr. (Jard-

ner, and he only did so toeHeapean ai';;u-

numt, yin mm never will atkno\vled'.;e

your weakmirtH, You ahuiio each other

.Sf)undly, when there are no Indies near ;

hut the moment one of us liririi^s n]> a

it weak point in your nature, voii (ly to de-

* fend it. Von may talk of your faults

yourselvcB, but Ave women munt be silent

on tlnau, oi- incur yo\ir tjverlasting dis-

» pleasure."

W "Nay; 1 (hink you wrong ns greatly

there. Eveiy true man mu.staeknowledj,'e

that woniMii is a far better judj,'e in Uiany

matters tlian we are, and Hoes our many

fault.-), perhajis, more ehwvrly than we do

ourwelves. Our only objection is that

fiometimes, from your want (jf knowlodj,'e

T of the world and its workingH, you blame

■ and censure us undeservedly."

f^ " That is ever one of your arguments,

'» but it ia not tenable. l)r) not Hatter your-

W- self that all women are as ignorant of tho

I C ways of the world aiJ you appearto imagine.

I ' In one way (U' another wo generally man-

I ' age to jiick up Sfuno little knowledge of

wordly matters, and what we once learn

you may be sure wo do not aoon forget."

" But are all of your acx to become
judges of man's character upon Buch slight
grounds (

" And pray why not T'
" For many reasons, the chief of which
is that very sekhmi, indeed, do you know
ns ivs well as you tliink."

" Tliafc is a great fallacy, Jtr. Hardy,
as I have already said Tlie boarding
school does not give ns all our knowledge,
us your remark v.ould imply."

" That you have other .sources of know-
ledge, 1 admit. But surely you will not
say that they are as numerous or as good
us those of men >. Or that tlujy enable
you to judge of our characters as Avell as
wc can judge cjf each other uurselves ("

"0\ir sources of education, certainly,
may not be as nuuu'rous as yo\irs ; but
nevertheless, J. hold that generally .spieak-
ing, wo kuQsv you men better than you
know yourselves. We recognise merit in
a man and accord jiraisc to him sooner
than you do, for the reason that you
all ajipeiir to bo jealous of each other, and
in the selfi.shness of your natures, will try
to frow^l a rising man down, especially if

ho bo young and poor, rather than ac-
knowledge liim your nuporior in mental
enilowments or attainments."

" F hope all your »ex do not hold so
bad an opinion of us," I said with a
laugh.

"I hardly think they do," she answered,
" few of \is oliservo ami study you juen an
yo\i dosevve, and it is to those few I ro-
feired when I spoke of our superior jiulg-
ment."

"O tlu'Ti you are not all so learned in
nu'ii, it seems, as I from your remarkfi
inferivd '/"

" No ; unfortunately, all of \i8 do not
(Muiuire as fully as we might and shoiUd.
From what I have said, Mr. Hardy, I ilo
not wish yon to receive tlie imjiresHiou
that I am a fault-rmdiug creature, •.'■ho
tjees no good in nuui — on the contrary, in
your sex 1 recognize tho graiul tiiumiih,
the i>erfcction of the Great (.^realor's
han<ly-work. The old adage SHvn, ' aii
honest man is the noblest work of d'oil,'
and the truth of that iiaying I fully jic-
knowledge. Woman was made to bo y(.uv
lielpmat(! and companion — your superior
in ipialities of the heart; your e(iual so-
cially, and your inferior in a certain
sense, mentally."

"Nay; thero you wrong your se?:," I
said, interrui)ting hor, " I hold that in all
respects woman is man's equal. We
occu]iy ditlerent spheres however, and
perform difl'erent duties in life. She la
for tho homo circle, while we are for the
ruder work of battling with each other,
and struggling for ]ilace, and position,
and power and wealth. Her duties are
the lioliest and the noblest, and Avill in
my humble ojiinion meet with a surer
rcAvard hereafter. All tlie refinement wo
see aroinid ns comes from woman, either
directly or indirectly. If it were possible
for our sex to exist without 3'ours, tho
residt would bo that before fifty years we
would become boors, savages, monsters.
The inclinations of man's lieart are bad,
and without the guiding and controlling
intluenco of' woman's society, these in-
clinations would swell tlicmselves into
characteristics, and the most enlightened
nation on the face of tho earth would ere
long become barbarious and ignorant.
The influence of our mothers, wives and
sisters, keeps us as we are ; and if it were
removed we would become what I have
.said."

"I mu.st agree with yoii in this," she
smilingly replied; "for I am (piito sure
that if all the women were carried away
from the earth you men woxdd become a
sad lot, and dreadfully wicked. I do not
know that I am diil'erent in my tastes and
feelings from the rest of my sex, but I do
know that T would not change places with

MY OWN STOIIV.

■ i

tlio iiio«t faiiiutiit ami fO'*'>t^<''*t >>>''^>* li^ >>i;{.

I f<>('l llllll I, HH Wdil IM ull utlltTN, liavu u

duty to iiorform, iiml tliiit iin iit'i'iiiiiitiiiu«t
1)0 riMxIuri'il ill in'corJuni'i] with tliu i>i>-

Ixirtiiiiitii'H ({ivt'ii niu. iMiiiiy of my hox.,
n^Krct ti> Hiiv, iiro over iL'uily tn tiiitl
fnult with futu lot hiiviii)^ ininUi tliuiii wliht
thuy iii'u. Tliuy (:iiin[>hiiii tluit iniiii in
I)hiu(i<l nluivti thi'iii, anil tliiit the pimition
tlioy Mocuiiy i.n iisnliordiimtcniH', I liiivu
IK) Hynii>utliy with Niiolt wmiu'ii, iitnl I
l()i)k U|iuii thi'ir vit'WH aH wroiit; iiiitl iiii-
l>r<iiior. Wniiiaii'i* ;,'ri!ittust fiioiny is ■
woiiiiin hiTsolf. Tlio iiioHt Hovure oxprcu-
nioii I'viT iiwiihi iiHu of I'l'xiiriling us, waa
that of an (^iiiiiiont I'hi^lish huly of rank,
wlio »ai(l 'that tho only thin^' that recoii-
cih'd hi.T to hur fato an u vronian, was
tho roUi'ctioii tliat 8hu c nikl iiuvur inairy
n woman!' It wa.< a cniul savin;,', and
Dnno but a Woman wantiii){ in thu Ix.'ttur
qualiticH of lior m'.\ couhl havu utlerod it."

'' It Certainly was a huvltd oxiui'imioii,"
I said; "and, a.i you say, nonu but oiio
(if your own box ( ould liavu n.sud it.
Tho moHt uuyaUaut fiHow in tho world
would not (hu'u sav anything a^jpruacliin^
it."

"Ho wo\ild be vory likoly to sutler if
ho did," ttho laughin{,dy aimwured. "IJut
1 am afraid wo aro iioi{loctihg tho tlowors
in tlio uiidst of all this, l.'ouie ! — sonio of
these plant.s aro vory tendor, and hi;^ldy
prizod by mo. Vou mu.st assist mo in
covoriii;,' thorn for tho uiyht."
, "A most iiloaHJn;^ duty," I ropliod, as
I proparod to assist her. " It is a dolight-
ful task at any tiiiio, tliat of caring for
and attoniiing to thoso lovoly croations of
Nature's handiwork, but under prouent
circuuistanooa it is particularly charm-
ing."

"Cnmo, oonio, sir, you're jilaying the
iiattoror now," she Baid merrily, yet with
a slij,'ht i-obnko in her tone. "From you
I look for better things. Flattery is tho
weapitn of fools — not of nxsn. There —
there — wo must not argue tho (piostion
now. JJo kind enough to hand mo those
two cacti, and don't say another word
until this work is linishad."

1 obeyed her, and with only an occasional
remark, wo went on with our pleasing
task.

CHAPTER XXm.

LOVE.

While thuB eniployo.l, the shades of
evening fell around, and the mellow
autumn moon, with her full, round face,
came slowly up tho east. The robin liad
whistled his vesper song, and gone to his
homo in the groTc, and the whij)-poor-

wdl, in hi* plii.intiv« nntoa, had ilono
salutation to (ho entering night. Tho
autumn air sij;ht.d past in gentle breath-
ings, bearing wiih it the sweet |)orfumL»of
tho closing tlowers and the last ntraiti of
the day iiird's aong.

It was u time for lovers made, whim one
might s»y with (,)uoen Titania—

"Ciiiit Hit III.'.' il.iwii iipoii tlil< hiii««y Imuli,
Whll.i I thjr iiiiiiiiM.' . Iiorki .In .Miy "

Such, at least, were my feelings at this
moment. Florence Jarvis had never
seemed so lovely, so truly w.uuanly in
my eyes, and as I, at her side, bout over
thoso tender plants, my heart beat mor«
rapidly, and all tho Iioly secret love which
had for so long been hidden away was
aroused and whispered mo t > tell luT of
it. It had I'lidured silence long enough,
and now the moment Inul como wluui it
iiiuiit speak, and when I must know my
f.ito, I trembled for the riisult, and yet,
even were my hajipiness blasted by it, and
all my hopen destroyed, it were butter so
than that I should go on loving and grow-
ing in love, for this fair girl, if that lovo
were never to lliid its reward. \ refusal
wo\dd bo terrible, but it could be much
better endured now than if 1 were to wait
until that love had entwined itself forever
around my lioart, and becauie a )>art of
my very existonco. Though I trembled
for the result I was not without hope.
Florence .Jarvifi had ever been careful and
guarded in my presence. We had 8el(b)in
apoken of love, and ni^ver Herjoiisly. Tho
subject had always boon avoided by nie
and appai'ently by her also. Yet sonio-
thing told nio that I was not iiidiflbrent
to her. In an occasional locik I had read
something akin to love, t)r at least I
fondly thought so, and thus I ha<l learned
to hope that some little feeling for nio
filled her hoart. Love, soniebodv says,
is blind. 1 do not so believe. Wo may,
in a nieasiu'o, bo blind to each others
faults, when love exists, l)ut oven before
tho secret of tho heart is made known,
wo must know whether or not our love-
tindi* a response. In a look we may dis-
cover it ; in an action, even long before a
word has been spoken. Of woman this
is esjiecially true. A man's love is not
long a secret from lier. She reads it as
easily as she reads her own heart, and he
can no more hope to conceal it from her
than from himself. She is more discern-
ing in this matter than wo are, and knows
the feelings of our heart very nnich
sooner than wo know tho.se of theirs. She
is seldom, if ever, mistaken in her judg-
ment in matters of love.

"Then, I think that this is the last of
them," Miss Jarvis said, rising and re-
moving her garden gloves, "my family of
tlowers arc all safely housed for tho night. "

MY OWN MTOIIV.

7l>

"Thry ciirtuiiily WKulil tlmnk you oouhl
tliL'> H|H'iik, fi>r tliiiciiruyi)Utiikoi)f tliuiii,"
I Mi'.id.

"It IK (I liili'>r of liivo, ami tlioir tliunKt
nro lint lu'ccn.Hurvi nii<l yet, Mr. lUnly,
tlii'.v tl" tli:iiik 1110. Tlu'ir lovely l.'.iveii,
tlii'ir (iiifu llf.w'i'H, tli.'ir Hwout pcrfninu
nil ciirrv with tliciii tliiitika in a iiitito laii-
t(iia<.,'Li iiitHr..T than wohIh cniild uvor con-
M)y."

"Ih tliift till! Iimynago tif llmvori/" I
luiiuhiii;,'ly askrtl.

"Yen; till' I'liil Olio— tho liiii!,'na;,'(! tlint
intiu'o hiH i^ivi'ii tlu'in. Tlio other in liul
n nit'iiiiiii;^ ni;in hiu inadu for tluin, their
own in (vnn <ioil, and Hjiuaks tlieir tli:ink:<
and |iriiiseii to Mim for liaviii;,' ;.';ivou tliem
lite and iiiidi" tln'Mi HO boaiitifnl."

"Tlio ih'!iiio HiHMii? to fill yon wit!i
|iootry, MiNH .farvid.''

" It is tlio irnth at leant, whether it ho
poeti-y or not,'' (dn)aiiidciirnrntly, "os'ery-
thiny in which <lod has jiut lite thankH
Him in itii own way. Man i.'i thu nioHt
iui»(rati.'fnl. lie Iihh inoro reasoiifj for
tfratituil'j than all the rust comliined, and
yet Ikpw rarely dooH ho \vith hia v/iiole
heart ;;ive it f The birds of the air, tlio
l)ea>*t't of thu forest, tlm ilowtrs o( thu
tield all thank tlieir j.5rnatCroator, and re-
joice hucaiise llo iiivdo them. They try
to livo, and jjrow, and give forth their iii-
croaso. Man alone is ever rush oiionj,'h
to shorten his dayi4, and to .say liy hi.4
aetion.s that (Jod did wi-oirj in yivi'i;,- him
life !ind liuii)','. Ijook at tlieie tlowern
aronnd n.s. How sweetly do tliey in
living rejoice. In their iicrfnmu they
breatiie prai-ie.s, in their le;vvoa look
thanks."

She .M|ioke very oanicscly, not ii.s ono
who wished to create a goi)d inijavsHioii i
on her hearer, Imt as if her heart felt each
word !iho uttered. In tho aift nioon-liylit
lier face looked Aery lovely, and as if it
by its liyauty would give liie thauk.-i of
which she was siieakiii;;.

"Yo'.ir feelin:;s on this point, Mins Jar-
vi^, amount to enthtiaiam," 1 .saiil, after a
short silence. '

"Perhaps .so; wo are all enthusiasts'
in some particular. This may he mine.
But come," nlie added, tnrniii;.^ away and
Btopiiim; ont upon thu yravcUud pathw.ay, .
"It is time we v.'cro i,'oiiij>iii. If I remain
out here much lonyer, aunt and tho ser-
vants will lie iiialcini; a voya;jL'of discovery
aronnd the garden, in soarch of lue."

" ihulgc Jarvis is from homo at i>reseut, '
1 understand," I said as we .strollod to-
wards (ho house. I

" Yes, he's away on tlio circuit." i

Then ue sauntered on in .silence for a
short distance, side by side. Thoughts of ,
lovo were V"ry Inisy v-ithin me. I wished '
to s[)eak them, but I knew not howto begin. '.

" It i* Very lovely ill thin K.ir.loii of
yoiifH, at this ((iiiot hour," I reiiiarkiil.

"Ves," nhii answoroil, "uiiil whi>nalono
mv '(reat happii\"'«i« i,< horo with my
thiweis."

"Jlay I a«k if yoii oxpout uiiy cullurii
tliio eveiiini; V I nsked.

" No ; Mr. (»ardner may drop in, an ho
usually does, but othurs I do not expect."

"Then whv need you hastun in ho soon (
It i.s iiinch more i . asaut here."

" How bo.intifnl that harvortt iiiooti
looks to-night," hIio Huid, nii if to turn thu
conversation.

" Tlicn let lis Hit here and enjoy its Hoft
r.ayH, and the other bi'imtiei that liu
aronnd," I said, Inniim; towards her.

" Nay, Mr. Hardy, it is );rovviiig lale,'*
she said, with a slight trc.'inor in her voice,
" I mu.<t go in or they will be looking for
iiio, Tho nioouli'.jht and luauity are very
pleasant, but thu enjoyment of tiium must
be postponed f^r tlio present,."

"Stay, Miss .larvii, if only for a. mo-
ment," 1 Maid e.armstly "Hero in this
arboiir let us sit awhile. 1 have that to
say which must bo ;'.pok"n h<w. I daro
Hot bo .dloiit loiij^er. Do not deem mo
raiiii or uiigentlein.uily in preuiing you
thus. Oraiit me lint a moment's inter-
view and I will thank you."

As i s[ioku I tool; her hand in mine and
turned into an arbor. Slio tremblufl at
my touch; her face grew very pale iu tho
mellow moonlight. Shu hesitated for a
moment, and theii v.ithdrawing her h iiul
from mine \ve entered tho arbor aii<l sat
doivti in two ganleu chairs.

"Miss Jarvi.-'," 1 said, in as firm and a-v
earnest, a tone as I could command," if I
have done wrong in seeking this interview
you iimst iiardoa mi!. l'i)o;i it my ha[ipi-
ne::.i ile[iend.). 1 havo long r.^mained
silent because I felt myself all unworthy
of appro vjhiug you as I now do, t > tell
you that I lovo you. Uod knows, if I
thought my words would give you pa.in, I
w.iul 1 i)e silent even now, and keep my
S';eret in my hoait, where none sho\ihl
evi;r know it. But 1 must spe.ik 1 - yon
must know all I — even your disi>leasuro
;iud hate would bo bettor than tliis doubt
and uncertainty. Miss-Jarvis I — Flcjrcnco I
— hero at your side let me toll you that I
l.veyou!''^

",Mr. H.irdy, yf)U must not — you must
not .".peiik to me like this," sho said in a
low tone, her face growing more jialo, and
her voice trembling.

"3li.^s Jarvis — Florcnco! for so you
must le'- UK! call you now, even though I
should never utter the sweet name again.
I ask you — I implore j'oii to hear me !" I
said passiouatch", as I toidc her hand in
mine, and held it there. "I havo been
silent long — perhaps too long for my own

i\IY OWN .ST(JJIV,

' 1

t I

>^. I'

h
V

l:il].].in(.^^- iUnl Mww iLm I Ii.ivo dafcil (':
s] i.jik, jou iiniHt let luo fiuisli. i"'iiico
tiiiit iilglit \v!icii tirsc v.e '.net, i'lorenve, I
h:ivo lived jvii;— li;vc''l y(Ai f.nully, eiini-
cstiy ami v.i'll. Tcisi i^ ko lioyish ;iiis-:ion
thiit Liin 1)0 foi'guttun isa a chviuii. It is
tuo liiHt Idvc uf hiy life, uiiil ti>y.,ii, Flor-
eiici!, now, I bi'oiitli tho iirst ■wnvils of
fomlncHa tluit wnaiiui cvei'liciird me uUur.
I liiivo lieen 110 willing' ut(.io in latittova of
the IiciU't, bivt I looked in viun fur sumo
tine tj love, xintil that li:il'i)y tinio wiici'.
fortune thvev/ lao in your path. I loved
you tho nionient ve I'u.'t — l)efo<'0 we ipolve.
In y(jur fr.co I reiid vonr mind iind heart,
und I love yun n(.v;-,»ith a dovoli.iu that
ihuhi faint uti(;rancu in wovdi;. I (.li'cr
you a htart iis huricst iind pure, Mid trno
a.'t niai ever laid at woman's feet. Spurn
it if you will, I f-tiU uhall love yuu, and
Avhile i live j'our iina;ji.: shall he thei'e,
Thi;- is all, Florenc •. i tell you honestly,
and in my own }>oc>r way, hov,- well 1 love
yon. Others miyht have told yon so in
better rnd move pasainiaie l:uig i;'.,l;o; hut
none eordd tell you more truly. I sjioko
from liiy he.-.vi;, and net from n>y li|::s,
jind t!'iOi!;,']i my \,urds may he vi'ea'c, tl.i'V
are I'trvent and sincere. ^\'ov.', Fl'ircnce,
you know all ; now I ask you if my love
be rash and hopeless, or if I may live on
n tho briyht dreav.i that some dry in tlie
eoiuing future thi.i hand vvliieh I now hold
may become mine forever and forever ;''

i jiaused, but no ansv>'er came. Her
eyes had been downcast while I spoke,
biit now she raised them and looked at
nie, and on t!iu k'ng lashes two jjearly
tei'.r-drops t,disteneil in the .'^oft moonhgiit
that stole down up(ni us through the leaf-
ckid arbour. Sim was very, very pale,
but a bright look i^.f happinesa lit nji her
features, ;aid lilled my lieart with hope
and l)!ias snuh as I had never known

before. Hhe made

.-ITort

a-! It slie

would ^'.peak•, hut T. needed not words to
convince me of her love. 1 re:id her
anjv/er in her face, and in the blisKiidiuss
of that happy moment 1 cliisiiedher in my
jirms, and imprinted ^n her lips tiro first
sweet, holy kiss of love.

" Florence, Florence, my own darling,"
I exclaimed passionately, ;is I held her to
my heart.

She lookc>l r.j) at me thvouyh her tears,
smiling and beautiful. The paleness waK
gone now, and tho rosy Idush of love was
on all her face — at that moment I'.ow
sweet she loo:i 'i' I ki-isc-il her again,
and again, and felt as if man iiad never
known such hapiiiness before.

"There, there," she siud, genlly dis-
engaging herself, "sit down beside me
now, and tell me all J'our love."

" I have already told you all," I an-
swered, " th:it I could tell in a life-time;

laid that is that I love yim m I onco
thomrht I could never love anj' b(.'ing on
earth."

" V.'ith your v/hole heart !" she asked,
smiling hapjiily.

" Vea ; with my whole sold. I do not
speak v.ildly like a boy, but bke n man
v.ho has studied his heart, find know s tho
undoing strength of true love."

" And this ill'.; been yo\ir feeling long?"

"Since that happy hour when first we
met, I have lovi'd you in silence and in
secret all this time, Mid have often been
1) )hl enough to dream of such a iiceiie as
this, tliough of Awc'u happiness never."

"A Utile wliile ago Marry, you said
that our sex. were more di-cnaning tlian
yours. Have you ever thought tlmt 1
loved yon !"

"1 have ho]ied r,o, my Florence, br.t 1
have often thought that it win ali.iost
hoping against hope."

'' Yovi have read no feeling lor you in
my l(;i'ks or actions ';"

"Sometimes I Irw.' fancied 1 diil, but
I thought I Wan misttda'ii, for it uet/iaed
too briglit i;nd sweet for I'eality."

" How blind you men are," she s;>.id,
"in comparison with ourse.K ; or else how
much better we conceal '.lur feelings than
j'ou. I read your heart's secret long, long
ago."

"Yon did, darling i"

" Ye;;; and a blinder than 1 might have
rea,d it," she answered.

" And '.\hat did you learn therefrom I''

"Tlnit v.liieli you li;ive told me now."

"And did tli;;t knowledge give you
pleaaiu'o or unhapiiinei-is C

" A few minutes since 1" could not have
answered yuu that question,'' she said,
placing her hand ci)u!idiind,' in mine,
"but, now I can. That nig'iit at the ball
T did know what to think of you. You
interested and pleased nie ; you were
diirerent from others, in manner and lan-
guage, and it was, at le-'st, a novcdty, if
nothing more, to spenk to you and draw
yon out. The ordinaiy run of men nior-
tiils, with their nomeinieal brdl-room sriiaH
talk i desjiise, thou.gh often compelled to
tiderate. The world, T know, calls mo ii
dreadful blue-srooking. r.nd if to detest
the insipid stuff with v. Inch gentlemen try
to interest hidies, and which forms .•Jiout
nine-tenrns of the conversation one hears
in society, is to be a blue-stocking, then I
am (juite content to bear the reputj.tion."

"It is a cr..'ditable oim at .all events," I
remarked.

" Be it so or not I am satisfied with it,"
she i( plied, "your conversation on that
occasion wr.s diherciit from the iirdin.iiy,
and i freely confess po.sse.ssed a cjrtain
charm for me wliiehvvas anytliing but un-
pleasaiii. Nay, don't begin flattery now

:v?Y OWN STdRY.

.cl,

lid

<,r 1 iiiiull i:(f Ill:i! yiiii. TliPii: wtis khhc-
thiug iicvtl i:i it as I lip.\e eau\ and I waa
iiitii rested. Y('<, J did imt I;ini\v ^vliotlur
or ii"/t it v,M4 all ai'Siiiiit'd. I litul licen
duc"ji\od .so before onco ov twii'o iind did
r.i.t wish to l)u iigr.in. You iniglit lie very
iiil.'.!rtst::iy i:t lii'st, r.nd yot tun o'.'t r.s
insij'id n-i .ir.r coi,ijia;iiiii!s '.■ii luovu e;;-
to;i!-iv.i;iU(ii;aint.uiti-. 1 tl-.o-j^rht, li'j\vt'ver,
that I v.onld try yor, iind tliorcforo vvlien
vol", iiificed to lie nllov.-ed to call, I coii-
Hoivtcd. tliduyli 1 felt thp.t I iii!'/]it not bo
<i\iite ii;.;ht in av.-;irdi;i^' you siuOi a jirivi-
\e<si\ under tlio (.'ircuuistanccn. Youeidled
and I need not tell you move.''

"You loved me," I cxclaiuied.

" N:iy, you aio rumiiiii^ too fast.,'' (■•lie
lai'gliingly s.'iid. "Yor. are not Bueli an
Ad(;nifi 'dH to luive luade tlie cri'iquest all
at ciiee."

" j'v.t yi'ii grew t.) Iuvr inc bv de:'rees l"
I said.

" Povlians ho," slio ann'^-cred, with ;•..
firovokiiig isnjile. " i vva^i not ! 'ns; in dis-
covering your Mecrut, though von tried so
hard to conectd it."

"And then- "I «idd.

"And then," wlio an.^-.v.ered, " I began
to 1)'; niiii'e intcrdstcd in you than ever,
thougii I do not tliink I dijjclosed liiy fot^]-
infjs in you, or any one else. Perhaji.s I
should not speak to you thus, Tlarrv, but
I felt honoured bj' that silent love of
yoiir.s. It .seemed manly and honefit, and
would, I think, have won a firmer heart
than mine."

"Blesisj'ou, my d.u'iing," I exclaimed,"
raisini; her hand to my lips.

"Vt'hat is ealled love, in thi.s ago,
Harry, secma to consist of foollBh rluqiso-
die.s and terrible vo^vr.. It.i own assumed
force slunvs ita insincerity. Fe-vv women
can be deceived by it. I iiave lioard iuieh
dei;hira<.ions, .)ut they ni'ght an ^^•i\\ l;ave
been spoken to the empty air. i !?av.' that ,
they v."trt; not earnei^t and true juid .sin- ;
cere, and that they c.ime from the liim !
without having first passed thvougli the
licjiit : r.nd, thei'efore, I regarded them

"Were urine like tluise, Flf^rencc ?" T
;;.sked.

" Had they bcii so, Hardy, y<'.u would
not now lie sittin;^ her(! at luy f-ide," she
said, very earnest i}-. "Tliat .your Vi-ords
of lo\'c eiiui.e from your he;.rt, ! know;
T read theiu in your looks and actions,
long, hmg before tliey vrere epol-en."

"They did, my own darling, fr..'m my
heart cf hearts tliey came. 1 have loved
you, au<i I now love yon with ;iu earnest-
ness Mud a trutl'ifiduess tlu'.t v.ill ne'.-er die.
My lif,' h.as not ii;id mueli happiness in it,
though I hine not h.nd to bear a heavy
loail Of hiisery either ; but yo>i have thiii
night made lue thehappaest me.n on earth.

ind

I feel v.nv.'orthy of one .Hugoml, and true,
and noble .".s yi-u ; and that feeling of un-
worthiness it was that kept mo ao long
silent. }5ut now that I have spoken, my
darling — now that you have heard my love
\ihispeied — now t!i;it I have the sweet
r.'r^urance fromyonr i>wn lips Ihat y<iu lovo
i nio, it will be my life'n cnder.vour to make
I myself as worthy of von a.s man can be."

"Yon unist not talk like that, Harry,"
she said in a tone of gentle rebuke,
know tliat you are good, and kind
true. 1 will not let you speak ill of yonr-
se'f, for in u.y heart, Harry, ] — , I love
you."

Aw she made tho confession, in a low,
sweet voice, she hid her face on my he;irt,
.•tnd I jiressed her in my arms, and tlien
llft'ng her head, kissed her lips i-gain and
rgaiu.

"<>, Floi'ence, my darlirig, you do not
l;"iKiv,- the happinesa tlu)se worils h;ivo
giv( n nie, " T exclaimed, as I loo!<ed down
at her l;eantiful face, as it lay pillir.ved on
my b.eart.

"'i'hen cheri.ih tliem iuvay in your
heart," slie said, "and think of them at
tho v.'ords ipf one wh.o for tho firat time in
her life has felt and confessed love. But
come Hnny," .ihe addi^d after a prase,
"it is growing late. Let na go in. One
■\rord of warning before wn eriter : keep
this, ( iir .'^ecret, in your heirt for tho
present. Conduct ycurr,olf :n heretofore
when others tvo near, and let no one
know wh.it has passeil betwecTi U'=."'

"It shall be as you wish, Florence."

"Thank yf>u, come now, let us hasten
in before they Iind n? lu^re in this way."

In tho palft nuioniiglit on that calm
antumn eviming we siroHed through tho
garden and entered Doiley House, for
the fuyt iiiue iu or.r lives as "plighted
youth and maid."

CHAPTEP. XXI v.

rucir.M'ii i!o:;i.r;vK^. .m., ii,

Dii'i; DoNLEVEV W.1S ;i luxrd-working
strident now ; he had, in fiiet, be.;oiuo a
jierfeet bcok-v/ori)\, as college nu'U \ise tho
teiui. He pored over th.ose dry medical
vohuiies at .;li iKUirs. Ho visiteil the hos-
pital and tli;^ dissecting room ivgularly,
ana his (.n'.y desire s'.ei!!i'<I to Ix; to ac-
(|uire knowledge iu the jnofession \ipou
the jractice of which he was about enter-
ing. He had the jovial di.spc:'iti"!: .and
good heart which had ever distinguished
him; but he no longer sought excitement
in tl'.e giddy h;nint=i of plea^^ure, nor gave
himself to those amusements v.'Iiich had
once been hi.i sole delight. I'etweon
i-lary ;>Ieeker anil his bookg all hia tinio

MV OWN STORY.

■

;

was occupied. Ldvo for the former was
a strong iiicentiyo to ililigonco in tlie study
of the latter. And truly did tiio ^ruat,
rollicking, goud-natured follow lovo her.
After his long disbelief in woman's devo-
tion, it was singularly amusing to hoar him
BiJeak of Mary's lovo and of his own fer-
vent attachment. Ho was several years
older than any f)f us ; ho had entered so
ciety when we were but boya at scliool,
and yet he seemed a very youth in his love.
Were ho twenty years of age, instead of
close upon double that, lie could nut have
been more romantic in his expressions, or
more earnest in his attachniont. Ga3-niau
of the world that he had long been, he
was really a novice in tho ways of woman.
Ho prided himself on las knowledge of
her, and yet many a college boy with the
first down of maidiood on his chin, might
have ta\ight him lessons in this subject.
It was all owing to his nature — his tem-
perament. With Jill his expericni.o of
life, ho was really an innocent, contiding,
honest fellow; witlKnit a particle oi de-
ception or hypocrisy in his compositioii,
and slow at discovering such fiiults in
others. He had all alon,' taken the world
as he found it, believing each man to be
as honest and gontnms as himself, mitil
ho had received tho most conclusive proof
to the contrary.

A inoi'e suitable husband for Mnry Mee-
ker could not have beenf(jund, Rlie pos-
sessed all the shrewdness conni'.on to her
sex ; but, like him, was op.en hearted,
contiding and faithful, and placed rm-
wavering reliance when she gave her lovo.
That she loved Dick was no secret now
from any of us. It Wiis with no girlish
passion, that found its vent in tho jing-
ling rhyme of love sonneta, Init with an
earnest, lirm, womanly devotion, v.hicli
filled her whole heart, and whii-h, though
seldom spoken, was to be read in her
every look when he was near. There v.-as
no folly on either side ; it was all truth
and sincerity; and as we younger ones
ol)served the row outward sigiis of tho
passion which, if we learned ouglit, might
help us and be a guide to us in our own
attachments.

Thus between lovo and bo(yK3 ilie days
went by with Dick Donlevey. ^^'hen once
he went thoroughly into ajiy nndertidiing
he never did it l)y halves. Even in his
pleasures tlsis characteristic h:A ahvays
been strongly developed ; and now, when
he had really set about overcumir.g the
difficulties of his studies, ho worked with
an earnestness and devotion wliicli was
most pleasing to ns who had Iteen in the
habit of blaming him for his laziness, and
which promised well for the future. Hiich
honest labor could not fail to bring an
ample reward — nor did it.

Jimt previous to the examination ho
read night and day. He was always over
lii.i books. Ho said ho was determined
to be 3ucces<ful and to pass such ari exam-
ination as woidd make those who had so-
long found fault witli him for his careless-
ness, ccinfess that tliero was something
good in him.

In this, his brightest hopes were filled.
The examination came at last, nor did it
find Dick unprepared. He went up with
confidence, he acquitted himself with
credit, anil, ;.;roatly to tlie astonishment
of those who had li>ng looked upon him as
a sort of kind-hearted, good-for-nothing
fellow, he parsed a splendid examination,
received the highest praiscfroni the learned
profeaaors, and was allowed the privilege
of appearing before the world at h'.st, as
"Richard D(.nlevey, M.D."

Sins wick Cottage had been a <]niet placo
for a long time. Vr'e had become so ex-
tremely orderly and well-conducted, that
the (i>uartetto were rapidlj' loosing the
reputation Avhich, a little while before, wo
liad been )nost anxious to preserve.
I'eople said we wore grov/ing old-fogyish,
and slow ; and tho.ie who were not in the
secret were at a loss to account for this
wonderful change. We still attended balls
and parties, to bo sure, but we v,->; -.vera
no longer looked upon, nor had any desiro
to Ije looked upon as prime movers in
every new scheme of a purely pleasurable
nature. We gradually fell into the back
ground ; became cjuiet, ordinary every
day fellows, and yet held our positions,
and in a great measure lived upon onr
reputation. Even to this day, the Sins-
wick Quartette is occasianally spoken of
in the fashionable circles of liayford,
wherever one of the old stock of those
days remains.

Though the cottage had been a .sort of
hermitage for so long a time, the occasion
demanded that on Dick Donlevey'.i pass-
ing his exnuunation, wo should have a
grand pow-wow^ in his honor. He had
b.elpcd us t) many good tluTiijs in his
time ; he had been tlie huad vi the quar-
tette, the general-in-chief of all our un-
dertakings ; and it had long before been
decided that, M'hen he became ajihysician,
we s'aould h ivo a magnificent celebration
of the important event. And we did
have it, too.

Such a night was never witnessed be-
neath the roof of Sinswick Cottage. It
Wiis a grand ait'.iir. It was </iir first for a
long tir.ie, and there was every probability
of its being onr Isst for a still longer
period. ^Ve therefore went into it with
spirit. The quartette were there, the
professors who had examined Dick were
there, a number of medical gentleme:i
were there, Nicholas Meeker was there,

he
)vor
nod
iim-

80'

eaa-

od.

itli

lent

MY OWN STOIIY.

I A)

and Hovornl other of our most iiitiiiiato
friends were thuro. It was a brilliant
party. Everythini,' was prepared in tip-
top Btylo. We wanted to show people
that the tjuartette eonld still ''do the
thing handsomely when tliey saw lit, and
that their old excolloncies were only
slninberiny — not dead.

There were songs, and toasts, and
speeches. Everyone was happy and the
happiest of all was Dick liiniself. He
became the rollicking, witty song-sinj^ing,
laughter-provoking Dick of other days.
He kept tlio table in a roar ; oven tlie sage
jirofesaors, and learned men of medicine
forgot their staidness and h ighed like
ordinary mortals. The wine made them
mellow, softened tlioirhearts, and brought
out the better feritnres of their natures.
They became men and forgot that they
were erudite lecturers in physic and sur-
gery. They wpre delighted with Dick's
success, and I tinnly believe that had he
invited them before instead of after his
examination, ho would not have had to
answer so many hard questions.

Altogether the dinner was a glorious
success, and we had every reason to feel
proud of it. Humors of it spread over
the city, and, as may be supposed, added
to rather than detracted from its import-
ance. Every narrator of it tacked on
some additional feature, until, in the end,
l)oople were under the impression that it
must have been a princely entertainment
such as liayford had never witnessed be-
fore. It was a nine-days' wonder, but
in time, like everything else, the last
great dinner of the Sinswick Quartette
was forgotten and talked of no more.

It wa-s a great happiness to us all that
Dick's studies were at last over, but it
brouglit witli it sad results as well as good \
ones. By it the iiappy quartette would
bo broken up. Being a physician now,
about entering upon the practice of his i
profession, it became his duty to have a
house and home of his own. Others may
live careless lives in bachohn- houses, and i
herd together in boarding houses and I
hotels, but a physician can never do so
if lie wishes to succeed in his i)rofession . i
He must have position, importance and :
standing ; and those, professionally, can
never bo olitained, unless he have a house
of wliich people may say as they jiasa —
"Tliis is the re.sidence of Dr. So-and-so." ;

It therefore became Dr. Donlevoy's duty ■
to jirocuro for himself a house. He had
made up his mind to remain in Bayford,
where ho was so well known and had hosts
of friends; but he could never do so and
live as he ha' . lived. A medical student
and a regular practitioner are two very
ditlerent personages. The former may live
in such a place as Sinswick Cottage, and

' even havo the name of being rather wild,

and the world will not mind it much ; but

] with the latter it is very diti'erent. Ho

: must be "respectable," make a great ap-

' pearance, live in a house of his own, be wise,

: learned-looking, and bo altogether a sort

' of model for erring humanity. Next after

. the clergygyman, the woild looks to the

physician as a guide and example morally.

This is right. Ho who has our lives in his

, hands ; who daily stands at the bedside of

the sick and dying ; who in the house of

I sorrow and sulforing grasps the kind hand

I and hears the meek voice of the man of

God, ascending to the throne of mercy in

[irayor and supplicatitm for the afllictod

imey ; ho surely, should be sound in mo-

, rals, upright in conduct, serious in his

bearing, and gentle in his addre^.s and

manners. He should have (jur contidenco

as well as our respect — our reliance as well

as our esteem .

We felt and acknowledged these things,
: and yet it was with sorrow that we thought
1 of them. Dr. Donlevey coulil no longer
i bo "rollicking Dick" — the learned title
j brought with it a necessity for a change
! in his conduct and his mode of living,
i Sinswick Cottage was no lAnco for a
' medical man to make his home. Many
' years had he been tiiero, and during all
tli-it time it had indeed been a home to
him; purhiiiis not so suitable as the new
one ho was going to, but certainly as liappy.
Wo had been years together there, wo four,
we had grown to love each other like bro-
thers, and wore, in fact, bound to,i;ethor
by the holy ties of friendship, which are,
perhaps, even stronger than those of bro-
therhood. We were as one family, and
never, during my life, have I known one
in whicli more honest, manly and sincere
attachment existed. We knew each
other's secrets ; m fact, we had no se-
crets ; they were common property.

And now the first break was come.
Now the happy quartette must coasu to
exist.

I will never forgot that day '.vhon Dick
bade good-bye to Sinswick Cottage. We
were all down-hearted and sad . We knew
that he wcjuld still be near us and that we
would see liim oftoji, yet there was the
painful retlootion that he would no longer
be one oi us ; that his home would be hence-
forth beneath another roof ; that his place
would henceforth be vacant at the table ;
that his jovial face would go from amongst
us; that his merry voice and hearty laugh
would no more be heard in our circle.
After years of friendship, was it a matter
of wimder that these thoughts made our
hearts heavy I Nor were wo of the quar-
tette the only ones who felt V.' ., we had
cause for sorrow. Mrs. Sinswick was
there wiping the aristocratic tears of tho

?,iy OWN STORY,

Do (^'muvoy.'s fmiii lier eyes, arirl cnriiest
tears tiioj' Avere, too ; and n» she bru'iliud
thciu iuvay with a Htritely move of lier
hand, slio exjmtiiitcd in flowery terms on
Dr. Dorilcvoy':i good qiiiiUtios, and uttered
nil sorts of wishes jind jirayera for hia
future jjroajiority and hiippiness.

The cook was there, lireatliir.g nsthani-
atically, and exiiressinj; tlic derpest regret
that she would never again hiivo the
pleasure of preparing choicj dishes for
Dr. Donlc\ cy'n epicurean jialato.

Mr. yinswicic Vraa there, in a senii-
intoxioai.cd state, shaking hands with
every]>ody, including his better half, and
offered to do anything in the world, even
to hanging liiuisfclf, by way of showing
liis undying friendship for Dr. Donlevey.

Sirs. Jumper wns tliero, with a little
Juniper in her arms, the tivst pledge of
her affections for the happy BIr. Zebulon
Juniper, and weepingover the many kind-
nesses of Dr. Donlovey, not forgetting the
greatest of all, on tlie occasion when ho
became her father pni /cio, and assisted so
e-fticieiitlv in making her Mrs. .f.

Mr. Jumjier was there, with one eye
fixed lovingly on the infant Jiimper, and
the other on his respected fathor-in-law,
.18 if he meditated a raid on that worthy
gentleman, in order th;it he might carry
liini oti bodilj-, and thorebj- display ener-
getically tlie earnestness of his resjjeet for
X>r. Donlevey.

And last of all the shock-hoaded girl,
Shrugor, was there, howling dismally,
dropi^ing an abundance of t stirs all over
the carpet, and perforniing a most extra-
ordinary series of shrugs and hitches at
her clothing, thereby testifying, in the
most intdli^jible manner possible, the
intensity of her sorro->v and the fulness of
her a'i'ection for Dr. Donlevey.

Dick took leave of us all and departed
from the old cottage, v.-hich had been his
homo so long and so happilj', and in his
parting he bore himself in a manly way,
and attempted many jokes which fell
ilatly from him, and created no laugh
among us. He tried to appear as if he
did not feel tlie parting much, but he did
feel it; and afterwards, when we could
speak more freely of that time, ho acknov.'-
ledged that in leaving us and lireaking
lip that happy quartette, ho experienced
one of the most painful incidents of his
life. His sociid nature and friendly heart,
could not but feel the parting, and not-
withstanding his ivir of merriment it was
easily to be seen that he was anything but
happy.

And thus he left us. In a more fashion-
able (juarter of the city he made his home;
the silver plate on the door informed the
world where Dr. Donlevej^ resided. At
first it was slov,- work with him, for few

had confidence in the ir.edieal skill of
"llollicking Dick." But, by degress, he
worked himself into a good practice, and
convinced the world, nincli against its will,
I have no doul:)t, that though a man may
bo wild and fond of pleasure in his younger
days, it does not necessarily follow that
he cannot become a useful niombcr of
society. Dick Donlevey became not only
respected in his profession, but ero long
wab looked upon as one of the most skill-
ful and successful physicians of Dayford.
He camo to see \is occasioi.ally at Sins-
wick Cottage, and onco in a while we v/ould
have pleasant little re-nnions at his home,
la this way, though the quartette was for
ever broken up, the old spirit of friendship
was kept alive, and the intimacy fit other
voars continued.

CHAPTER XXV.

« A 8 H K R ' 8 G K I ?, F .

Time made no improvement in Gasher
Adams' apj'earance. Being never absent
from him f(jr more than a day at a time,
and even seldom as lojig as that, I was
8h)W to notice the change that was being
worked in his form iind face. Dick Don-
levey was the first to point it out to me.
When my attention was called to it I
watched my dear old friend more closely,
and with greater grief than words can
express, saw that he was failing daj'-by-
day. There was an unnatural flush on
his cheeks, and a peculiar brightness in
his eyes, which, while they made him more
handsome, made mo trendile for his safety.
And then in a little wliile came a short,
barking cough, aiid physical wcnkness. I
grew alarmed, and without informing him
of my fears, advised him to place himself
under medical treatment at onco. He
laughed at me in his good-humoured way
— did not complain of weakening strength,
and said that his cough was nothing Init a
trifling cold, which ho would get over
without any trmible. His cheerful man-
ner reassured nie, and though 1 still had
my fears, I tried to remove them by
thinking with him that there was no causo
for alarm. Ho was silent and reticent in
his manner, and very much unlike what
ho used to bo. I know the cause of this,
in a measure, and though the point was a
tender one, I. ccnild not avoid approaching
it sometimes.

"Gasher," I said to him one evening as
we sat together alone, "how comes on
that love affair of yours ]"

"Which?" he asked, looking awkward
as he spoke.

" Which, my dear fellow ?" I said in a
jocular way. " Have you got so many on
hand that I must particularize ?"

MY OWN STORY.

"Perhaps so, Harry, you knoAV a fellow
must do something for excitement."

' ' That you are a sad d(jg, Oashor, I
havo no doubt," 1 rejoinod, "and yot the
work you do in tho love-making line
might bo very easily menti<mud. But,
seriously, as wo have no secrets from each
otlier, how are you and Miss Montcreiil'
progressing I"

"As you ask it seriously, Harry, 1
answer you in the same strain, that so far
as I am aware wo are not progressing at
all."

" Do you intend to have me iniderstand
that you have not yet declared yourself V
"Yes."

" Dear me ; I thought you had done so
long ago."

"If I had, Harry, you would havo
known it."

" But why do you delay / Wliat are |
your reasons for putting otl", and putting
in this way /"

"You, Harry," he replied sadly,
"should be the last to a.sk that question."
"Yes, yes ; I sei. It is that same old
reason, yoxir unknown birth and name."
"It is."

"My dear Gasher, I thought I had
arg\ied you out of those foolish notions
long since."

"Then you made a groat mistake.
Y'ou havo not argued mo out of them,
and never shall. Tliey may be foolish
notions, as you say ; but 1 cannot believe
that they are, and hold them now as
lirmly a-s I ever did."

" Gasher Adams," 1 said earnestly, as
I drev.' my chair nearer to his, "you must
hear me again in this matter. I w<uild
give all 1 am worth to make you think as
1 do. I feel it my duty to use my l)e.Ht
endeavours to convince you that you are
wrong. "

"It is utterly useless, Hardy, to make
the attempt. I iniderstand and appre-
ciate your kindness fully ; but are more
determined than ever not t jbe convinced,
for th(! simple reason that 1 am t,ure I urn
right in the view I take. We have argued
the (juestion many times, and the oftener
wo d(5 so tho firmer am I in my convic-
tions."

"And what is the v.'orld to think of
your conduct /" I asked.

"I suppose it will tliink that 1 am a
singular and perhaps a dishonorable man;
but I would even sooner have it place an
ujicharitable construction on my conduct
than know me for what 1 am."

' • W(ill, tlien, placing the opinion of the
woi'ld aside, what are the young lady and
her family to think ?"

"There, Hardy, you ask me a painful
question. I know and feel 1 am doing
wrong in continuing my visits, and God

knows I havo tried hard enough to break
them oil" ; but I cannot. My love is
almost a madne«s, I cannot conquer it.
I cannot remain away from her."

"Then under those circumstances, my
dear follow, would it not be more honor-
able to tell her everything and leani your
fate, than to deceive j'ourself and perhaps
her also, witli false hopes of future happi-
ness T'

"I acknowledge that it would, and 1
havo tried to do so, many, nuiny tinu«,
but cannot. Tho confession is so terrible,
so humiliating, that I shrink from it even
when my heart tell.^me I should make it."

" Ai-e you sure that in your heart you
love her."

"Sin-i^, H.arry r' ho repeated with a sad
smile, "am 1 sure that I live? Am I sure
that the mm shines/ Ah, Hardy, did
you know hov; I worship licr, you wo\tld
not ask that question."

"Forgive me, Gasher; I should not
doubt you, for in my heart I believe that
you luvo her dearly. And uov.-, my dear
fellov,', have you any good reasons to hope
she loves you ? "

' ' None but those which I have road in
her looks and actions. A word of lovo
has never passed betv.eon us ; and yet.
Hardy, I feel confident, I am vain enough
to say so, that Ellen Moutcreiff loves mo."

" Adams," I said earnestly, " liavo you
any idea of the stiengtli, tlio endurance,,
the truth of a woman's love / "

"I have dreamed, I havo tliought that
it.? faith is undying; i)Ut, a.3 you kn(r.v, I
have never tested it."

" Then why not do no now i "

" Locause I dare not ; I have not .-iuf-
ficienfc moral cour.age. "

"Therein you are very wrong. If j'ou
have any reason to hope that Ellen Mont-
creiil" loves you, trust her, try her, tost
her. Tell her everything, and rest as-
sured that if she realiy does love you, .she
will not ca:it ycju olt', as you fear. Duty,
yea honor, compels ymi to ])in'.';u.! this
course."

"1 feel in lay heart the truth of what
you say," he answered in as.adtone, "yet
I know not how to fr.co the dreadful
difficulty. Think of my sitting at her
side in that hapjjy h.ome of hers, and
telling her that I am a man without a
name ; that I was a pauper, an outcast, a
child of the street ; that I never knew
father, mother f>r friend ; that 1 was
reared in dens of vice and infamy. Tliink
of my telling that fair girl these things.
Hardy, and then think that I — an mi-
known, unnamed wretch — have dared to'
love one so pure and good as she. No,
no," he added bitterly, "it is too horribel,
too dreadful. I would rathet- die than
make the attempt."

U'^

flO

MY OWN STORY.

i: I: i

"Then, Gashcr, lumor leaves Vnit one
other courBo open for you, iind that is to
diacontimio your visits at once and for-
ever."

"It shall bo done," ho Biiid, lirtnly,
rising and paciny the room, " it shall ho
done, even Hhoiild it Cfist mo my life. I
shall bury this mad, hnpolcss passion away
in my heart, and carry it with me to the
grave, unsi)oken. It were better so— ton
thousand time?) better — than that I should
tell my dreadful story, and teach her to
loath and de.spiao the very name it bear."

"Von are too hard upon yourself and
too unjust toiler," I said, "you condenui
her without reason. You have no good
grounds for supposing th.it she would cast
you oil'."

" Could I blame her if she did / Wliat
other fate dare I hope for! Would not
every woman in existence do the same /"

" Perh;i,pb the vast majority would, but
that is no reason why you should believe
that she would do so. Make the attempt
liko a man ; the result cannot bo worse '
than present circumstances."

"I cannot. Hardy; I cannot; it is im-
possible."

"Tlion let me intercede in your behalf,"
1 said.

" You, Hardy!" he exclaimed, looking
very earnestly at me.

"Y'es; why nut I If you cannot-, toll
her everything, I can do it for you. I
will go to her as y nir friend ; lay b.arc to
her your whole hi-story ; tell lier of your
love, and ask a verdict from her own lips.
Can 1 not do so, Gusher i"

He looked thoughtfully at the plan for
a moment, and then said, " No."

"And why not? I asked.

" UecMUtic 1 fenr the result, Hai"dy," he
ansv/erjd, with cali!i earnestness, " tlio
chances are .a million to one that slie would
say, we must never meet again. 'I'o place
myself in suuli a pcjsitio)!, and to acijuaint
hJr with my life's history vould bo a
humiliation greater than I could bear."

"You are moat unreasonable, Adams,
■and most u'.ijust to her. You give her no
credit fm- lione.st, disintevj:ited love."

"It would indeod bo honest and dis-
interested love," lie said with a sickly
eniil'j, " th;it v.-ould live after sac'i .-- con-
fession." j

" And dt) yo'.i n^t consider he.- capable ]
of sucli a.'foctioii r* I

" I consider her good enough, aiid ca- 1
pablo of any and every virtue that ever j
adorned woman," ho said with all a lover's
warmth, " but it would lie looking for too
much to expect her to give her heart and
hand to such ii man as I, .after she had
learned my history."

"But you will not make thf attempt,"
1 said.

" Hecauso, as I said before, I dare not.
While she never knows more of me than
she now knows, she will at least respect mo
as a friend ; but if she were told all sho
would hato and despise me. As I cannot
have more, I will, at least, liavo her rj-
Bpect, and she will ever liavo n)y lovo un-
I til tho end. Let her think well of mo; it
will bo a c(m8olati(m to my heart, and
j some little satisfaction to my love."

He spoko very sadly and "yet determin-
edly, and all I could say had no effect in
' changing his convictions.
• " It is altogether a most unhapj)y affair,
\ my dear friend," I said, after a sifiort si-
lence, " from what I have seen, I believe
Ellen Moncrieff kives you. Sho looks
J liko a woman capable of a strong, unwa-
: vering attachment, and if such now really
1 exists in her heart, think what the result
' of all this will he."

I "I have thought of it," he replied,
j " long and deeply ; niglit and day have I
tlunight of it, and the more I think the
' more unhappy I become. It is wrong,
; fearfully wrong of mo to love her, but
j God knows," ho added, with doop earnest-
ness; "it was not my fault. You remem-
ber what I told you on that night when
first I met her. I loved her then. I
tried lo fight the m.ad feeling down — 1
struggled with it — I did all man oiild do
to ccmquer it, but failed. Itching to me;
it grew with me ; it iilled my heart, and
soul, and mind. Tt would not be remov-
ed ; the more I fought again.st it the
Ktronger it became ; and at last, in des-
pair, I gave n[) the attempt .and resigned
myself to my fate. It is all gone now —
all over," ho continued .sadly ; " I have
had the inestimable blessing of some sweet
delightful hour.s, tho happiest of my whole
life, at her side ; and while I live they
.".hall be remend)eryd as tlic briglitest vis-
ion of some heavenly dream. But I shall
never meet hor again. I dare not do so.
ft woidd be wrong and dishonorable, and
thor.gh till my dying hour I shall love her,
sho shall never know it."

"Well, well, (riisher, perhaps you are
right," I said, feeling deeply for hiui in
luK gre.it grief, "but I must repeat that if
I were in ytmr position I would .acquaint
Iier v.itli everything and trust hi tho
strengtli of litr love."

" rh.it I sh;dl never do," he answered
firmly. ' ' I know that there are men in the
W(U-id who w:)a'd bo base enough to win
and wed a woman, and keej) the past
secret, as I miglit do. I believe that as
3Ir. Adams, the mcrch.ant, I might gain
the hand of Jihi Montcreiff. I have a
good position in society, am in i>rosperous
circumstances, and resjiected. These
(lualirtcationa are sufticient to win mo a
wife vrere I villain enough to take one

M"i OWN STORY.

1-— •

withfiut telling her my history. You aro
tho only ono horo who knows what I am.
I might say I had an honored name, and
u family record dating back to tho Con-
<lueHt, and iio ono cottld contradict me.
It i.s not necssary that I should toll them
that such h not tlic case, but if I were
seeking the hand of a confiding girl in
marriiijjo, honor would say to mo that it
was my duty to let her know my true
history."

"E.\aotly,"I said, "and you are in
l)rccisely .such a po.iitiou now."

"No, far from it," ho answered, "to
Ellon MiiTitcrieir I have never Bi)oken a
•word of love. However deeply 1 may >ie
attached to her, I have not dared to think
of asking her to become my wife. I am
unwortliy of her in every respect, and in
my mo!)t sanguine moments 1 have scarcely
been bold en<nigli to dream of her as other i
than a being whom I loved with a devo-
tion that would never die, .and yet coidd
never be satisfied. Ellen Montcriell", my I
wife ! Ah, Harry, you paint yiuir pictures j
in tlie brighte.'tt colors." i

"Not too bright, though," I said, "if I |
could only make you look at them in the ]
aame light as I." |

"No — no; it is impossible I" ho ex-,
claimed. "Do not bewilder me with such
viaioiia. Leave me to my own dreams.
Thoy are foolish and hopeles.? I know, b\it ',
there is some happiness in them — the '
greatest I bh;ill ever know."

As he fjpoke he turned and left the
room, and I saw no more of him that ]
night. !

"Poor fellow !" I said to myself; "that
love of his is consuming him ; it is dcitroy-
ing him inch-by-iuch, and v.nloss some-
thing be done to save him, the end is not
far elf."

I thought the matter over long and
earne.itly, aHkiu';' my heart what I sliould
do — if 1 Eihoukl interfere, and if so, i)i
what nuinuer ? I knew that my dear
friend's happiness was at stake, and per-
haps his life. T luid never heard of men
dying of hive, but then 1 had never hoard
of a man being cituated aa Gaslier was.
Rough hchooUng as ho had received on
the strcotri of Boston, he wiis still a man
of tilt! very finest sense of honour. Bi>ni,
he know not where, tind rai.scd he knew
not h'lv.', ho wail by ii;itnre a [/entleman
in lieavt, feelings and conduct. Had a
palace been iii^i biitli-placeandan Tuiver-
.sity his school, ho could n<it have been
more noble, nor have jjossessod in a more
marked de;,'rce vliose characteristics which
belong only t.) Nature's gentlemen.

As the conversation given ab.ivo show.s
he Wiis willing to sacrifice everything —
even lovo and life — rather than expose
his own unknown origin, which he con-

sidered dishonorable, or wound tho feel-
ings of her upon whom his heart's dearest
ailoctions were jilacod.

Notwithstancling his retiuest thdt 1
should not do so, 1 felt that it was almost
my duty to make his history known to
Miss ifontcreif, and intercede With hor
for him. Yet, I scarce knew howjtojdo
so. It was a delicate matter, involving
tho happiness of one and perhaps of both,
and I could not make up my mitul how to
approach it properly and with any fair
prospects of success.

I gave tho nuitter nuich thought, and
at last came to the conchisiou to leave
everything to chance, and to ascertain
Miss Moutcreiff's feelings as best I could.
I determined to eound her f)n the point
in s-ome cauticms manner, and, witJiout
telling her everything, to discover, if
possible, what hor verdict would bci did
she know that Gasher loved her so well,
and that his history was so singular.

CHAPTER XXVI.

i: L L K N .M O N T C It E I K F .

An opportunity of putting my plan
into execution (jfiercd itself scjoner than 1
had expected. Wo met at an evening
party. Courtley and I entered the room
together, and I fancied that an expression
of disappointment rested on her face for
a moment as she saw that Adams was not
with us. Poor fellow, he was at homo
alone, attempting to carry out his deter-
mination of meeting her no more. The
plea of illnesi which he ofiered as an ex-
cuse fur his non-attendanco, was not
without foundation. He wa;* indeed ill,
and seemed to be growing v.'caker day by
day. That hidden love and secret sorrow
were eating his ver3^ life away.

It was Late in tho evening before I had
an opportunity of conver.sing with Miss
Montcreilf.

"Do you not tind it \iMco\iifortably
warm here, ilr. Hardy!" she said, as we
finiiiliod the last figure of a qmuhilie.

"Yes, dancing in those crowded rooms
is almo.it too severe a pleasure," I replied.
"You look wearied. Miss Montcriell';
allow me to conduct you to t'lU; balcony
yonder, where you may eiijoy a lireath of
fresh air."

S!ie was leaning on my arm, and tl'.ough
she did not iinswer, I took her silence as
an assent to my i>r(>position, and led her,
through tho French windows, out to the
Indcony, upon which they opened.

"A pleasnut gathering, this," I said,
as I pliiced hor cloak around her shoulders
to pri>tect her from the night air.

"Do you tliink so? I fear I nmst be

MY OWN STORY.

uiigonuroiia to our kind liost and hostess,
us to difiayrec with ymi."

"And siiy thiit tho gathering 'n not a
happy ono V" I iwkud.

" No, I will not go as far as that," sho
answurod, witli a hinj;nid faniilc, " I ho-
lievo ovuryono proaunt is enjoyi:iy tho
ttfl'air thoroiijjhly, oxcopt one."

" And that ono ?"

"Myself."

"Thin in singuhar, I have always looked
on Miss r.Iontcriafr as ono of t!ie mo.'it
thoroii^'hly happy in all our ball-room
gatlmriiiy.i."

" I'erhap.-i yon were orrecl. I do en-
jijy and heartily flolight in theso pleaauros
generally speaking. But to-night every-
thing aeonis tame and tlat, thou'^h I havo
no doubt it ill all imagination on my part,
for I was hardly well when I loft Iioino,
and am in n(j appreciable frauio of i:iiu(l
at the present moment."

She Hpoke in a languid, careless tone,
which showed that her thoughtH were on
other auitterM.

" 1 nu'.st acknowledge that in a nieasure
I agree '.\itli you," 1 said, after ;■. s.l.ort
silenco, " I have hardly enjoyed niyself us
well aa I had expected, notwithstanding,
tho happinejs I havo oxporicncod in meet-
ing you here."

Who turned her face away and lo.tked
up at the fitara for a moment.

" And \)ray how do yon account for tho
ab.'jonce of enjoyment in your case !" she
asked.

"I do i>i>t s;iy that there is an entire
absence of jileasurc," I answered, '' it has
simplj' viot been no great as I had loolied
for, owi;'.g ir. a ;;ieat measure to tlie ab-
sence of iijme Vfhoiii I expected to meet.''

"O, I had almo.'it forgotten," sho
laughingly replied, "th-it a cejfain young
lady has iV.iled to put in an a])p.!:!rance.
la not that the mystL-ry ?"

"There iiie many ladieM wlioni I havo
the honor of knowint', v/lio are not hero
to-night," I anH^vered awkv.-ardly.

"Yen; but there is one in i)articular
v.dio is denerviug of the most severe
punishment for having disappointed you.
Wonien are vei-y unroliablo creatiires, Mr.
Hardy. Do not expect too much ivoiii
them, or you certainly will regret it. Wo
are all alike— all fickle —and as cliaugcrJjIo
as that many featured moon, to ■.vliieh wo
are so often coni])ared."

" You are too harsh in j'our oi>i:ii'jn,i of
your sex," I said. "However, Ihat is a
question we will not noAV attemj)t t-i dis-
cuss. One of the chief causes of my viant
of enjoyment here to-night is the absence
of one who is nearly always with me — my
old and dear friend Adams."

"O, liy-the-by," slie said, coloring
slightly at the mention of tho name, and

trying to assumo an air of indiiTorunce,
" now that you mention it, I am reminded
that Mr. Adams is not present, llusiness,
I prcHume, prevented him attending."

"Unfortunately, the cause is nioro
serious ; ho is ill.^'

I wati;hod her closely, that I might note
tho oll'oct of jiiy words. fMiu turned very
pale, yet retained hor composure with
romarkablo tirmuos.i, for ono who loved as
1 thought «he did.

"Some temponvry indispo.^ition, I sup-
pose," eh(3 said, caludy.

" Such ho calls it, though I um lu'nviil
it is nioro neri;in.i tliuii lie ui willing to
admit."

" No, no, Jlr. Hardy ; surely not no-
riouii," she exclaimed, with much eagor-
noi^t.

" We must all hope nit," I replied, but
unfortunately, we have little upon which
to build our lu)pes. 1 do not think hi.i
life is in danger, but I am afraid a serious
illiieiw awaits him. tic lias been ailing
for some time, but, like all i)ersons of his
age, laughs at the fears of his frien<l.i, an<l
says he will be ail right in a dn-y or two."

" It is not long since I met him,'' sho
said, thoughtfully; "surely ho cannot
bo so ill as you would liave me under-
stand."

"I h(jpo for tho best. Miss !MonteroiiT,"
I answered, "ho is my dearest and best
friend. His v.-elfare is eipud to my own,
and under any circumstances I would wil-
lingly suli'er for him, could I do so. Yet
I cam;ot be blind to his present unhappy
condition. Ho maj' la\ig!i at our alarm,
but, when too late, he may, nv.fortu-
nately, find that it was <ndy t.)o well
fouuiled."

"Is ho, thoji, so very, very ill .' " nho
asked, in r. hnv tone.

" I ai!i afraid he i:."

Sho drew her cloivk more closely ;:n;und
her .':!i ndder.i, and tin'i\iiig away, g-i,;;o.i
v.iijanily out into tho nvionliuld:. It was
tlio action of one v>'ho lolt une.isy and yet
wished to concoid it. Hlie recovered hov-
seli in a moment, and s,ud,

" i am very sorry to huiU' of Mr. Adam's
illness, an<I hope it will not prove ;)o
serious as you expect. Hi-i friends, 1 am
sure, will i-egret his absence from such
gatherings as this, and hope it may oidy
be temporary."

She spoke in a tonii of mere ftivmiil
politenes:^, as if careful not to use a vvord
that wor.ld in tho slightest degree beti'ay
her feelings. Yet she looked resth'ss,
an<l I felt .-^ure that had her heart spcjken
it wouhl iiave used other and nioi-e earnest
laugu.ig.j.

" \Vh.T,t a lovely night this ij," she
added, after a short pause, as if to turn
the conversation.

I'S

MY OWN STORY.

" Yen, Huch II night nn is for lovora
made," 1 niiawured, gladly seizing on the
remark an n inonnn of introducing tliat.
which I wished to sny.

" Yon are ni(in> romantic, Mr. Hardv,
than I gave yon credit for," she laughingly
said, " I fear your heart ii in u bad
way."

"There ia some ronmnco in each one's
nature, Miss Montcreiff. Home show it
more than othor.s, but wo all have it — at
leant, while on the sunny side of thirty, i
Life's struggles may dampen it, as it does !
our ardour in all thint,'s ; but it is hidden
away in tiur hoart.s, and makes itself known
whrtu jjcrliaps wo ienst expect it."

"That is when love seizes hold of us, I
suppose," she said.

"Yes; csfiocially then, but at other
timou also. Love is the parent of romance,
yet many a youtli and nuud have had tlieir
hearts tilled with romantic notions before
true love was experienced by them."

"Then you are not an unbeliever in
true love /"

"No; I have too good an opinion of
human nature to hold, as some do, that
true love is a thing of the past."

"Experience lia^, no doubt, taught you
the fallacy of such view," she replied, with
a meaning look and .imile.

"Observation of the world audits ways
will teach any one that much," I answered.
"Has it not tatij^lit you so I"

"Really, I have not taken the trouble
to enquire."

"Nay, you ate avoiding the question.
Do ytm not believe that in this ago love
exists .vs truly as in the old days of chiv-
airy i"

"There miiy be instances of it," she
said ; but I think tliey are very rare. I
cannot believe that we are all selfish and
unfeeliiuj; neither do I say that love is
the only iiidncument in every union that
takes place."

"Exactly ; ymi but l:)clicvG with myself.
There are many uiai-riages of convenience ;
many for wealth— for influence — for p.j-
sition, and yet there are many whieli it
would be unjust to say were not Ijrouglit
about by love. "

"J am afraid the latter class does not
nearly e([ua! the former," fche said.

"1 grant you that; yet have you not
known such in yoiir own experience I"

"Yes; but they are very few ; I could
count them on my tin;^er ends."

"Let me suppose a case," I said ; "but
first allow mo to ask you what you un-
derstand by true love ? Few persons hold
similar opinions on the question. Tell
me what are yours?"

"You must think me either full of
fooling, or one of vast experience, Mr.
Hardy," she laughingly answered, "if you

expect me to give a definition of the term.
Tell mo yours and I will tell you if mine
is the same."

"True love," I ro[died "or at least
what I conceive to be true love, is a holy,
undying, disintoreated passion, which tills
the wholo heart, becomes part of one's
being and onlyceasos with death. Through
trouble and hajujiness — sorrow and joy —
good report and evil report— in aicknoBs
and in health, it remains faithful, \inwa-
vering and tirm. When troubles come it
otTers comfort ; when sorrows (.ppres.i, it
seeks to cheer ; with weight of woe it only
increases ; with affection it is strengthened.
This, Miss Montcreiil", is what 1 think
should be and ia true love."

She leaned over the balcimy in silence
for a few moments, and then she said :

"It is the poet's love, at all events.
Whether or not it bo that of the world is
another (juestion."

" But is it your idea of what it should
bo f" I asked.

"In ft measure it is," she answered.
My experience has shown mo few if any
eaaos di.iplaying such aflbction. That
they are not more numerous must be
regretted."

" Let me imagine a case," I continued,
determined now tj sound the depth of
her love if I could do ho. "Supposing a
lady and gentleman, apparently suited
for each other in a worldly point of view
meet. An attachment springs up between
them, which ripens into love, and they
are betrothed. Then cornea a moment of
trial. The gentlemen, though now occu-
pying a good position in life, tells her
that he is of humble parentage ; that he
was born in obscurity and reared in
poverty ; that his connections are all poor
and unknown, and that ho himself has
toiled for his living, and has not one drop
of gentle )i1o(kI in his veins. After audi
a confession, what should bo the verdict
of the lady I Should she remain true to
him, or should she reject him I"

" If .'ihe really loved him," she replied,
without looldng up, " such a conies'iion
would not weaken that love. Some would
say that it sho\ild only strengthen it."

"Let me go farther," 1 continued,
"supposing he should say, that though
occupying a respectable position now, and
called an honourable m.an, his childhood
was shrouded in obscurity ; th.at parents
he had never known ; that even the name
he bore was not his own, and that he
knew nothing of his history except such
as would lead him to suppose that con-
cealing it were better than making it
known. "

"Yon suppose an almost impossible
case, Mr. Hardy."

"Perhaps so. T take it simply as au

MY OWN 8T0IVY.

extreme cmo by whicli a wnman'i love
might ho tented."

" It would ho a test tlirongh which few
would siifuly paas," hIiu Haid.

" Do you really think so ("

" I do, indeed. It would he a pnsRion
such lis wo only dream of that wo\ildhold
the heart Arm after such a coiifesHion."

"But Bupposing the man were honor-
ably upright and respected /"

" All thone would hardly weigh down
the misfortunes you have pictured. Be-
cause a man hn])pened to he born in huntblo
circumstances is no great fault. In this
country every man has his own fortune
to make. Hereditary wealth is something
of which we know little. Wo do not look
for it. Hut however lowly a man's origin
may bo we, at least, expect him to have a
name his riuht to which none can dispute. "

"But if no be iiersonally honoraole, is
lie to bo frowned out of society bocauso
ho bo wanting in the way I have said ?"

"No; I would not frown him out of
society ; but, while a stain rests on his
origin, lie has no right to win the love of
any woman."

" Supposing that love grow on him be-
fore ho knows it, and that then ho honor-
ably tells everything I"

" It is a question, then, for the lady to
sav whether she will accept his olFer or
not."

" Would her love overcome her objec-
tions, and make fier blind to his faults."

"If it did, Mr. Hardy, it would be a
stronger and more enduring passion than
uny 1 have ever heard of. "

" Can you imagine a woman loving so
well?" I asked.

" Indeed I cannot," she replied, "and
that man would bo foolish and unjust who
would look for such afFection. Wo can
forgive many faults and failings in each
other, but there are few who would over-
look such a stain as you speak of. A
woman's heart might remain firm in its
love for such a man, but even while she
loved him duty would tell her that she
could never bo his wife."

"Then," I said, "true love will not
carry your sex. so far as I thought it
would."

" It will carry us to the grave, Mr.
Hardy," she replied, very earnestly, "but
never to dishonour."

"Would you call such an union dis-
honcmrable?"

"Yes, and no honorable man would
seek it. He might be poor and humble,
and lowly, and yet be justified in winning
a woman's love ; but xinder no circum-
stances imaginable would he be excused
for asking her to take a name to which his
Tight wivs questioned. But come," she
added, ' ' I fear we have continued this

discussion too long already. Let us re-
turn to the ball-room. They will be won-
dering what has become of us."

She took my arm and wo re-entered tho
room.

Everything wm brii{ht, and happy, and
cheerful, yet I had no longer any desire
to renuiin. Thtjughts of poor Oa.shcr and
liis hopeless love crowded my memory and
unfitted mo for further enjoyment.

I stole ([uietly away and went homo
through the deserted streets, unha]>py
and sad. Poor Uaslier, there was no
hope for him now.

CHAPTER XX Vn.

THE LA8T OF THE HoU.HK
JUUH.

()!•• JA.MIIV AKD

It is a long time since I have spoken
of Mr. Jamby. It niust not bo sujiposed
from this that I never hoard from him,
or that all connection between us had
ceased. On the contrary, ho wrote fre-
"[uontly; ho was still our benefactor and
helper, and in his letters invariably gave
us advice and instruction regarding mat-
ters of business. He was still financially
interested in our prosperity. Wo had paid
off a considerable porticmof our indebted-
ness, but we were still in his books for a
largo amount, and our success was in part
wrapt up in his. While ho ronuiinod tfene-
rous to us, as ho had always been, we had
no fear for the future. Our house was
firmly established and doing a good trade,
and the only occurrence that could injure
it materially was tho failure of Messrs.
Jamby and Jubb — a most unlikely event,
for they wore ccmsidered one of tho sound-
est mercantile firms in America, and safe
against those financial storms which occa-
sionally sweep over tho coinitry, leaving
so many wrecks behind them.

One of these storms threatened now.
Already the first notes of alarm were
heard, and wise merchants were preparing
themselves to meet tho coming trouble.

Mr. Jamby was one of the first to see
and foretell its api>roach, and ho did not
fail to warn »is of tho danger.

''Be careful, guarded, and frugal," ho
wrote in one of h is letters . " A f e w m ontlis
will see a panic in tho laud, such as wo
have not known for many years. South
Sea bubbles have been the order of tho
day long enough ; and when they burst,
as soon they must,, terrible will be the
crash. Speculaticm has run wild ; reck-
lessness has marked all men's dealings for
years past ; business in a measure rests
upon an imaginary instead of on a sound
foundation ; men have been gambjing in
the articles of legitimate commerce, and

/ i

MY OWN STORY.

' ('-

/ {

tiirninir tnido froin iU proper cliannols,
intu (itlicrii wliiuli proiniaod iiioru, at tliu
riik of all. Siicli aiiato of aflfaira cannot
last foruvur. Trade of all kind* must bu
traniautud on certain tixud principloi.
Expurieiicu has taii({ht iia that when wo
ilupart tliorefroin wo ondiinjfor tlui dociirity
of not onlv our own property l)iit that of
4)theri. 'I'hu coniinerco and trade of tho
world uru txmnd tofjotlier as in a network,
but that in any onu place and tho entire
public BiitlerH. Our prujiurty in linked
with that of the uioruhantii of Europe ;
«hould a crash coiuo there it must come
bore alHo, \ro cannot eacapo it. Present
indicatiouH are that this crash will come,
and tliat Hhortly. There are breakers
ahead; hui^u obstacles upon which many
who now s(!cm prosperous and safo will be
clashed and scattered, into fragments.
Trade is arbitrary ; it enforces its rights,
and sooner or later finishes those who
in their haste to gain wealth, depart from
tho rules it has laid down for ourguidance.
I(do not wish to create unnecessary alarm ;
1 simply warn you to get your vessel in
trim, in order that you may be pro-
pared for the storm should it burnt upon
us.

"Tho house of Jam by & Jubb, I need
scarcely tell you, has a foundation which
is equalled by few houses on this conti-
nent. We liave gallantly passed through
other storms, and foel our ability to meet
tho coming one. Our connections in
Europe are of t.lio very best, and while
they remain uid)roken wc have nothing to
fear. Yet, wo know not what a few months
may bring forth. Should a financial panic
set in in Europe, oven those houses with
which wo are joined might go down. It
is not an uncoiimKm thing' for those who
«re considered safe to be the first to show
weakness . I have no fear that such will
prove tho case with our ff)reign connec-
tions, but if it unfortunately should, thou
it is hard to tell what may happen.

"I need only say to you, bo cautious
And careful. Prepare for the worst, in
order that you may meet the storm man-
fully and out-ride it successfully. What
you should do under the circumstances I
need not tell you. The exjierienco and
training you have had will teach you your
•duty better than any words of mine could.
Forewarned is forearmed. Do not neglect
my advice then. Act \ipon it at once, and
when the trouble comes you will have
little reason for fearing it."

Thus our benefactor wrote to us. I
read his letter very carefully several
times, and was forced into the conclusion
that there was more in it than I was
willing to believe. He was a thorough
business man in every particidar, and I
•well knew, would not write in such a

strain tinless ho wore fully convinced that
every word ho wrote was true.

Tho whole business of tho establishment
now rested on my shoulders. Gashor
still remained at his post, but his increiut-
ing illness prevented him doing much. [
tried to inuuce him to remain away from
the store entirely, but ho would not do so,
and when I attempted to force upon liiia
the necessity for his going south for a few
months, he would not listen t<j me. I
called Donlevey and Courtley to my as-
sistance, but their efforts were equally
useless. Tho former told him that his
life was in danger if he remained, and
that liis only hope was in spending a short
time in some warmer 'climate. iUit tho
advice was of no avail ; ho would not give
up business, nor under any circumstances
wnatevor leave IJayford, even for a few
months. Ho was even obstinately firm
on this point, and all the arguments wo
could use were lost upon him. Ho con-
tinued to visit tho store daily, and though
I consulted him in ovorythmg, ho never
did moro than simply agree with me in
every proposition 1 made. Ho expressed
a languid indiU'erence about averything,
and yet would not listen to our words of
well-meant advice and warning.

Thus the entire care of the house fell
upon me. I accepted the charge willingly,
and did all in my power to meet the com-
ing storm.

A few weeks proved how correct Mr.
Jamby had been in his proj)hecies. • First
there camo vague nnuors of an excitement
in the English money market, and stocks
and securities of all kinds began to go
down. Tiien came tho failure of a great
Lombard street banking house, and with
it dozens of smaller houses tumbled into
ruins. Next some of the merchant princes
closed their doors, and gave up every tiling
to satisfy tho demands of greedy creditors.

The panic spread rapidly and was
heightened and increased by the news of
a terrible hurricane in the Indian ocean,
carrying destruction among the East India
and China shipping, and burying in tho
depths of the sea the hopes and wishes of
many a trembling merchant.

Then across the Atlantic tho news came
bringing with it death to many a pros-
perous house. One after another they
went down on tho boistennis sea of finan-
cial trouble, each one carrying with it
little off-shoots all over the country, it
was a time of universal calamity. Evci-y
day, every hour brought news of fresh
failures. Every merchant in the land
trembled ; for ho knew not how soon hia
turn might come. Credit was destroyed,
confidence lost, and commercial standing
set at naught. In the midst of the ex-
citement men grew callous and hardened.

"^."r.

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

1.25

m. 12.5

2.2

■" 116

U 11.6

Hiotographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

rO^

MY OWN STORY.

They repoaed confidence in none. They
vould not trust their own brotliers. Each
freah failure added to the confusion. Trade
of all kinds was upset. ' ' Money ! money !
money ! " was the cry of all. Money that
they might meet their liabilities and stave
rtff the day of reckoning to the very last
jnoment. The most usurious interest was
demanded and freely given, though few
there were who could command the confi-
dence of the money lenders suflSciently to
effect a loan, even at exhorbitant rates.
Many wlio saw that destruction was in-
evitable, dishonestly hastened it on them-
selves and others by closing on their
receipts instead of meeting claims as far
aa it would go, thereby removing so much
money from the market and from circula-
tion, which, had it been paid over and
passed from one creditor to another, might
have saved many and lessen ed_the^calam-
ities of the time.

In periods of financial panics the trou-
bles and excitement are always increased
by such transactions as these. The dis-
honesty of one man occasions the destruc-
of numy. If the country merchant pays
the city merchant, the city merchant can
pay the importer, and he in his turn cau
pay the foreign supplier and home manu-
facturer. But, on the other hand if the
country merchant fails to meet his engage-
ments Avith the city merchant, the latter
may go down, and with him the importer,
with him again the manufacturer, and so
on through the entire convention, from
the country merchant up to the original
producer of the articles sold. Tims one
act tif dishonesty on the part of some
obscure man may bring about the ruin of
a chain of houses at home and abroad.

Several weeks passed away and still the
panic continued. Firm after firm disap-
peared beneath the stormy billows of the
time, and yet there was no sign; of an
abatement.

And during all this how fared it with
the house of Jamby «fc Jubb ? Mr. Jamby
in his letters was hopeful and confident of
their passing through the trying ordeal
successfully. It was one of the few houses
in which the confidence of the commercial
and financial community remained un-
shaken. Everyone said if it did not ride
the storm none would. It had already
gyfv^ved considerable losses through the
fa) :e of others, but they were easily
borne, and in no way endangered the
house.

"While our English connections remain
firm," Mr. Jamby wrote, "we are safe.
So far they have held their position nobl^',
and if they can do so for tliree or four
weeks longer, they and we will bo past the
danger. Our two vessels are now at sea
with rich cargoes, and on their safety ours

in a great measure defends. Even should
the English houses go down, wo might
survive, provided our vessels arrived safe-
ly in port. I therefore am hopeful, and
feel perfectly satisfied, that in the midst
of the general crash, the house of Jamby
& Jubb will escape, as it often has be-
fore."

In two weeks more, the English houses
hi 1 out, and then the dreadful news of
thjir failure came. The house of Jamby
& Jubb trembled as it liad never trem-
bled before, and stood upon the verge of
ruin. The expected vessels, however, with
their valuable cargos, sustained the house
for awhile. They aff'orded good security,
and on the strength of that security the
house continued to live. Fate, however,
was against them. Just when they were
confident of weathering the storm, news
came to the effect that one of the vessels
had foundered at sea and was a complete
wreck ; and the other, being long over due,
was supposed to have ' shared the same
fate.

This accunuilation of calamities was
more than even the house of Jamby & Jubb
could endure. It sank beneath the weight.
After a history of forty years of unpre-
cedented success, and after gaining the
first commercial position in tlie land, it
disappeared, and the firm of Jamby & Jubb
ceased to be.

With this great loss came the gxeatest
failure of the entire panic. The firm had
been looked upon as beyond tlie reach of
trouble. The confidence in it had been
so great that its paper had been cf)nsidered
almost as good as gold, and had readily
been taken by the money brokers, who
thought that the demands of the finii were
only temporai-y, and that it would be well
able to meet all its liabilities. In the
hour of his need, Mr. Jamby had placed
a large amount of paper in the market,
honestly hoping to redeem it, and when
their failure was rumored as inmiinent, ii,
rush commenced which would have carried
downwithit anything but the Bank of Eng-
land. The doors of the hou.se which had
been ojien for forty years were at last
closed, never to be opened again.

A few days later a note came to us from
Mr. Jamby. Here is a cojjy of it : —

"My dear young friends — you wiU.
have heard before this reaches you that
the house of Jamby & Jubb lias ceased to
exist. We have gone down in the general
wreck. It is no fault of ours. We did
everj'thing honestly, and for the best.
We might have failed as some have done,
with fuil pockets, but we do so with
empty hands. Our house 1ms died as
it lived — honestly. A combination of
calamities carried it down. It was through
no mismanagement, no negligence, nu im-

MY OWN STORY.

proper dealing on cmr part. A greater
house than ours would have sunk under
the same pressure. It is terrible, my dear
young friends, to see the work of a life-
time destroyed with one rude blow. All
our hopes, prospects, and wealth, carried
from us as if they had never been. For
myself 1 care not — I know I did nothing
dishonourable, and therefore my con-
Bcienco is clear ; and as for the wealth
that has persihed, it was little to me, for
I am an old man now, and at the most
have not many years to live. I had built
up that house in the hope that it would
live after me, and that when I was in my
grave the name of John Quincy Jamby
would only be spoken of as that of a man
who had during his long life done honour-
ably by his fellow-men. All this bright
dream is gone now. The work of a life-
time has pejrished, and with it all hopes.
I will not live long after it. I feel it, I
know it. My life is stealing away imper-
ceptably to those around me, and before
many days I shall have left them forever.

" These are the last words J may ever
write you. Be upright, honest and hon-
orable in all your dealings. Continue as
you have begun, remembering ever that
with a clear conscience you need never
fear eternity.

"Good-bye, God bless you, and make
your lives, long, prosperous and happy.
" John Q. Jamby."

A week had not passed away when we
received word of his death. That heavy
trial was too much for the old man's
heart. He sank beneath it and passed
away forever.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

OUS. GARDNER.

The failure of the house of Jamby &
Jubb occasioned us much uneasiness. We
were closely united with it, so closely, in
fact, that its suspension might bring ruin
to our young house, and put an end to
our prosperous career. We expected and
looked for such a result, and did all in
our power to meet it honorably. Still we
were not interfered with, and aside from
formal notification from the creditors of
the late firm, informing us of the failure,
and of the amount of our indebtedness,
we knew nothing of the matter and had
not the slightest idea as to what course
would be pursued towards us. I wrote to
the effect that we acknowledged the claim
against us, and that we would do all in
Qur power towards paying it off, as quickly
as possible. All I asked was an extension
of time, and the exercise of a little leniency
on the part of those in whose hands the

books of the late firm were. Thus the
matter was allowed to rest for a time,
during which business went on with uh as
usual.

Mr. Gus. Gardner still continued to bo
a thorn in my side. I despised the fellow
too nuich to look upon him as a rival, even
had I not been satisfied of Florence Jarvis'
love, and yet I could not conceal from
myself the fact that I was in a measure
jealous of him, and often thought that he
usurped my place at Dorley House. Ho
was there at all hours, so far as I could
jiulge. I rarely called without meeting
him, and even in the streets I saw him at
the side of Florence, or strolling along
arm in arm with Judge Jarvis. His in-
timacy with the family was a matter of
public comment, and seandle-mongers did
not fail to find a reason for it. Florence
and he were engaged, everyone said, and
some even went so far as to name the day
upon which the marriage was to be con-
summated, and to describe the dress and
jew ?ls the bride would wear on the occa-
sion.

All this caused mo much unhappiness.
I had every reason for believing that
Florence loved me. | Hor words and actions
told 'me that; and j'et the attention sho
received from Gardner were most marked.
We were engaged, though none knew it
biit ourselves, and under those circum-
stances I had good reasons, and a certain
right to object to Mr. Gardner's continued
intimacy. It was painful to me to hoar
them mentioned by everyone as if their
marriage were beyond a doubt, aside from
the annoyance I was subjected to by being
chaffed as a rejected suitor, or as one who,
as the regular saying is, was "playing
second fiddle " to Gardner. The pain and
annoyance arising from this at last became
so great that I felt it my duty to express
my feelings on the point to Florence, and
to ask her to treat Mr. Gardner with a
little more indifference. It was a delicate
matter, yet I felt that I had a right to
speak of it, and the first opportunity that
occurred I did so.

We wei-e seated alone one evening when
I approached the subject.

" Was Mr. Gardner here this afternoon,
Florence ?" I asked.

" Yes ; for a little while," she answered;
" I, however, hardly spoke to him. He
had some business to transact with papa,
and took his departure after he had con-
cluded it."

" He is a very frequent visitor at Dor-
ley House," I continued ; "even I am not
so often here."

"That is your own fault, Harry, not
his," she laughingly said, "he is a con-
stant visitor, yet surely you will not blame
the man for his friendship."

MY OWN STORY.

"If it be only friendship, I do not
blame him; but the world, Florenoe, givea
to his intimacy a stronger name."

" Tlie world, then, has very little to do,"
she pettishly answered ; " Gus Gardner is
a friend of the family, and nothing more,
and those who assign any other reason for
Ilia visits here are wrong."

' ' This friendship between young people
of opposite sexes is a most dangerous
thing."

" 1 do not think so. Hardy, with all due
deference to your opinion."

" Yet I think I am right," I continued;
" friendship is very often — in fact, nearly
always — the forerunner of another feel-
ing."

' ' You mean love, of course !" she said.

"Yes."

"Absurd," she exclaimed, with an un-
easy gesture ; "your doctrine may be
very good in most cases, Har''y ; but you
do both my judgment and my love great
injustice, if you think that, under any
circumstances, I would become attached
to such a man as Gus Gardiner."

"The world does not hesitate to do you
such injustice," I said.

' ' Half the world are fools and the other
half knaves," she replied, with much
warmth. "The general belief seems to
be, that we women think of nothing but
marriage, and that we expend all our ener-
gies in hunting up what is called 'a good
match' — marrying for position, regarnless
of all other considerations."

' ' Your own sex are ever the strongest
believers in such a faith," 1 said.

"I acknowledge it with humiliation.
The conduct of many of them gives you
men grounds upon which to charge us with
being fortune-hunters. Yet you cannot
believe, Hardy, that we are all alike.
Surely you will acknowledge that there
are some among us guided by better and
higher motives than the love of wealth!"

" My own love, dear Florence, and the
bright assurance of youi-s, convince me of
that," I said, taking her hand in mine.
You have given me your heart, and well
do I know that such a priceless boon would
never be conferred on one so unworthy as
I, did love of wealth alone guide woman's
heart in her choice. Yet, my darling, the
world talks, and it will ever talk, when-
ever we carelessly give it an opportunity."

"And need we mind the idle comments
of gossipers?" she asked.

' ' Not always, Florence, but under cer-
tain circumstances, you must acknowledge
that they are deserving of consideration.
We should try and escape them; we should
avoid them if possible. Little as we may
outwardly show their effect on us, they
always produce more or less pain within."

"Not with me, Hardy. They pass by

mo as tlie idle wind, which I regard
not."

"Because they have never been brought
fully home to you. If the world is speak-
ing ill of a man, ho is ever the last to hear
it. If acquaintances are gossiping about
us we seldom know it until it has become '
an old story."

"This is us much as to say that behind
my buck people u^e my name in a manner
of which I know nothing," she said.

"Do you not think that you give them
cause, Florence?" I asked very seriously.

"Perhaps I do; but not sufficient to
justify them in carrying their comments
very far."

"They think dittere) tly," I said.
"They fancy they have good grounds for
every conclusion they arrive at."

"And pray what are those conclu-
sions ("

"Do you not knowi"

"I may have heard some of them; but
tell me the most serious. If they make
me the subject of their tea-table conver-
sations, they must certainly anivc at some
weighty and important conclusions. Those
people never stop at trifles !"

"The most serious I know of, Florence,
is that an alliance is certain between you
and a gentleman who spends many of his
hours here."

"Gus. Gardner?"

"Yes."

She laughed heartily for a little while,
and then said :

"This is too absurd. Hardy, to be
thought of soberly. I gave even tea-table
gossipers credit for better sense. Gus.
Gardner and Florence Jarvis ! Why, you
could not lind two more opposite natures
on the face of the earth, and yet they
give tis to each other, and make us man
.and wife. What dreadfully blind fools
they must be."

"And yet, Florence," I said, "will you
not acknowledge that you aflbrd them
some grounds for forming such a con-
clusion."

" Indeed I will acknowledge nothing of
the sort," she answered, "Mr. Gardner
is intimate here. He is an old friend
of the family, a sort of relation, in fact ;
but wore he twice as frequent in his
visits those who know me w(iuld not and
could not think that more than friendship
brought him here, or at least, that any-
thing but friendship could induce me to
tolerate him."

"I'm afraid you give them credit for
more than they deserve," I said, "they all
acknowledge that you are superior to most
of your sex, yet they say the attentions
of Mr. Gardner cannot bo mistaken, and
that even you are not proof against them."

"Well, well, Hardy, I care not what

MY OWN STORY.

»'

»,

thoy say. L6t thorn think as they will,
the future will show them huw blind they
are."

She turned to the piano na she spoke,
and began running her fingers over the
keys. I

" Let U8 sing something," she said, after
a [short silence, " thitt dear old duett I
love so well. Come,"

She commenced the prelude, but I
stopped her. I was in no humor for sing-
ing at that moment. I had not more than
half finished the conversation I had in-
troduced.

'■ Excuse me for a moment, Florence,"
I said, as I leaned over the piano, " I
have not done with this Qus Gardner
affair yet."

" It is a tiresome subject ; let us drop
it," she answered impatiently.

"I will do_^so presently," I replied, "you
must bear with me a little while, and
then I shall be most happy to sing. You
have said, Florence, that you do not care
for the gossip of the world."

"Nor do I," she quietly said.

" Is .there nothing that should induce
y(tu to pay some attention to what the
world says?"

" If there is I know it not."

*' Are there not my feelings, Florence ?"

"Your feelings, Harry!" she exclaimed
with a look of surprise, ' ' surely you are
not so fo^.lish as to be jealous of that man i"

' ' No ; though he is your friend I despise
him and his littleness of soul, but jealous
of him«I could never be."

"Then why do you speak of him?"

"Because of the world's comments," I
replied with much earnestness. *' Think
you not it is painful to me to hear your
name spoken of in connection with his I
I know tha; I am blessed with your love,
and that I love you dearer than life itself,
and for that very reason it is painful and
humiliating to hear you and him spoken
of on all sides as I do. Your names are
in every mouth, and spoken of in a way
that cannot but be disagreeable to one
who loves as I do. They say you do not
care for him, but that you liave given
yourself to him ; that you will become his
wife ; that his gold was too great an at-
traction for even Florence Jarvis to with-
stand, and that with it he has purchased
your hand as the hands of thousands have
been purchased before. All this I hear,
and with it I hear, too, that I am but the
victim of youi wiles, and that when the
proper time comes I will be cast ofF, and
be l.iughed at (or my folly and presump
tion in ever h iving looked up to you with
the hope of winning your love, I know,
my Florence, h )W false these charges are.
In my soul I fetl that you love me ; yet
can you wonder ihat my feelings should

be wounded when I hear you sjjoken of
in such u way I I know you as true, and
noble, and good, and feel that the idle
I comments of the world are base and false.
But is it to bo wondered that they should
I fall unpleasantly on my ear I "

"You should not mind them. Hardy,"
i she said in a low tone ; " my love should
j be sufhcient to tell you that they are un-
! worthy of your notice."
! "I know they are, my darling ; yet I
! canuf'^ hear them with a careless ear.
j From all sides they come. Even my
most intimate friends mention them, and
ask me earnestly if they are not true."

She ran her fingers idly over the keys
as she said,

"I'm sure, Harry, you should not let
them trouble you when I don't. Let the
gossipers talk. It does them no good and
us no harm. Some day we will have the
pleasure of witnessing their disappoint-
ment and astonishment."

"Florence," I said, after a short silence,
" let me ask you one question. It may
be improper, but in my love find my ex-
cuse. Has Gus Gardner ever asked you
to become his wife ?"

"What a singular question I" she ex-
claimed, smiling and blushing as she
spoke. " The man has not brains enough
to make a proposal. He would disgust
any sensible woman before he got half
through."

" But has he not asked you !" I contin-
ued.

"No, Harry, he has not," she said
firmly.

' ' Has he spoken to you of love ?"

" He has tried to, in his singular way,
several times, but I have always turned
him off, and laughed him into silence.
Very little effort is required to spoil the
sickly speeches of such a man, and make
him dumb."

"And yet, Florence, this man at whose
love you have laughed, of whose mind you
hold such a poor opinion, is your constant
companion and the world says your fixture
husband. Is it right, I ask you again,
that you should give the world cause for
speaking in such a way ?"

Her fingers still ran over the keys but
she did not answer me. Her silence was
singular and I could not account for it.

' ' I have asked you one question Florence,
let me now ask you another," I resumed,
"Is there not some secret reason for Gus.
Gardner's intimacy at Dorley House?"

"Have you a right to ask that quea-
tion," she said, looking up at me.

"If I had not, it never would have been
asked. You need not tell me what the
reason is, but is there not some cause for
that man's frequent visits and your graci-
ous reception of them ?"

MY OWN STORY.

"I cannot answer you," she said in a
Boft tone, "and if yon had that confidence
in my love which I liavo in yoiir's, yon
would not ask me sucli a quostlon. 1 have
tokl you that Mr. Gardner is l)\it a friend
of ours, to whom it is my d\ity to be kind
and jiolite, more than that I cannot tell
yon, nur should you desire to know. If
you have not unbounded faith in my love,
Harry, the sooner all this dream is over
the liotter it will be for both. I have told
you all T can tell you. Even with all my
love I must not tell you more."

" Forgive me my own Florence," I said,
stooping down at her side and taking her
hand in mine. " Do not think for an in-
stant that I have doubted the oarnostness
and the truth of your love, or that in
asking you that (jnestion I thought yon
unfaithful. Forgive me if 3 have done-
wrong, I will never speak to j-ou of him
again. Treat him as you see fit, I wil'
question not your moLt'es nor ask your
reasons. I will only remember that 1
love you with my whole soul, and that in
your love I have confidence and faitli un-
bounded."

I stole my '.rm around her, and looked
into her face. She raised her eyes, and I
read lier earnest, faithful love tlierein,
and a kind forgiveness of my foolish
doubts.

"Do you forgive me, my darling ?" I
asked, as I drew her nxoro closely to me.

"Yes, Harry," she ssid softly, "what
could you say that I would not pardon V

"God bless you for your truth and love,
Florence, and make me more worthy of
you," and I clasped her closely to my
heart, and kissed her lips.

"There, there," she said, gently disen-
gaging herself, and trying to hide her
blushes, " we mu't speak no more of this.
Come, let us sin^ that duett you i)ro-
mised ? we have not tried it for nearly a
month."

We did sing, and I was very happy.
Yet in the midst of it all unpleasant
thoughts came, for I could not forget
Gus Gardner.

We spoke no more of him from that
time. His intimacy still continued. He
was, it seemed to me, almost an inmate of
Dorley House, for I seldom went there
but I met him. The world gossiped about
him and Florence at a greater rate than
ever. It pained me to hear the comments
that were made, but I bore it all in silence,
having undying confidence in her love,
and trusting to the future for an explana-
tion of that which now seemed so strange.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CAST UPON THE WORLD ONCE MORE.

Gahhbr and I were seated in onr otKce
one afternoon talking over onr aUairs .nd
wondering why the creditors of the late
firniof Jamby & Jubb had solong neglected
»18, when a gentleman entered and re-
quested a private intjirview with us.

"You, 1 presume," he said, ar so(m as
the office door was chjaed, are Mr. Hardy
and Mr. Adams/"

"Yes," I replied, "this is Mr. Adams,
I am the other menilior of the firm."

He bowed and then i)roceoded.

"You, of course, have long, ere this,
been, informed of the suspension of the
house of Jamby & Jubb, Boston."

I said that we had learned that the un-
fortunate event had happened.

"1, gentlemen," he then sivid, "am
here as the representative of the creditors
of the late firm. I have been de[)uted to
call on yo\i and en([uiro into your affairs.
My name is Dakin, at your service," and
again he bowed.

"We are most happy to sue you, Mr.
Dakin," I said, returning hia siilutation.
We have long being expecting to see some
representative of the creditors of the late
house; and though your piesence cannot
bring us much happiness, it is much better
that some an-angement should be come to
than that we should be left in a state of
suspense and doubt."

He then produced some letters to show
that he was a duly accredited agent with
full power to act in the matter as he saw
fit. After I had glanced over them and
handed them to Gasher, Mr. Dakin re-
sumed.

"When first the books of the late firm
■were taken possession of by tlie creditors
we thought that you were simply debtors
to Messrs. Jamby & Jubb, in the amounts
charged against you therein, as still re-
maining unpaid. On seaching over Mr.
Jamby's papers, however, subsequently,
we discovered that this establishment was,
in fact, part of the same man's house,
you and Mr. Adams being the managers
of this branch. Is it not the case I "

"I presume so," I answered, not know-
ing wall what to say. "Mr. Adams and
I were for several years clerks in the
house of Messrs. .Tamby So Jubb, and, as
a reward fc.ir our Bervices, he gave us this
opening, on the same terms as those on
which employers usually start their young
men in business. We were partners of
theirs."

"Have you the articles of partnership
in your possession?" Mr. Dakin asked.

"Really, I'm not sure that wo have," I
replied. "Some agreement between us

MY OWN STORY.

was uigned before we loft Boston, with
tlio iinderstamliiig that proper articles of
partnership shonkl bo inauu out at an
early day. The matter, however, was
neglected from time to time, and to tell
you the truth, the papers never were made
out at all."

"A very loose way of doing butiiness, I
must say," Mr. Dakin remarked, with a
shake of the head, and a peculiar twinkle
in his ferret-looking eyes.

"I confess it was," I answered; "but
we had every contidence in Mr, Jamby,
and he in us, and tlius the matter was not
paid that attention to which it demanded.
We came on hero from Boston, and liav-
ing never been there since, we had no
opportunity of ratifying the agreement
entered into."

"You have been procuring your goods
entirely f roi» that house f" the stranger
continued.

"Yes."

"Have bought from no other house
whatever ?"

"No."

He looked very thouglitful for a few
moments, and then with an air of assumed
commisseration, resumed :

"I am sorry — very sorry — for you,
young men. Y<m are just starting out in
life, and this may prove all but a death-
blow to you. I may as well tell you the
worst at once. I am hero acting for oth-
ers rather than for myself, and however
■deeply I may regret it, I must perform
my duties faithfully. Business is busi-
ness, you know, and in the transaction of
it we are often called \ipon to do un-
pleasant things, as I fear that I am now."

"Your words, Mr. Dakin," I siiid,
growing alarmed, "would indicate more
than we have feared."

"I have no doubt they do," he saidf
*'and perhaps mean more than you may
imagine ."

"We are aware," I continued, "that
we owe the estate of Jamby and Jubb a
considerable sum, for the full payment of
which Ave fire willing to make the best pos-
sible arrangement that can be come to
between us .and the creditors. All we
require is time, and we feel confident of
oxir ability to clear off the whole amount
honourably."

" We are doing a fair business," Gasher
said, ' ' and it is constantly increasing. A
little forbearance on the part of the cret'i-
tora is the only favour we ask."

"I regret,' gentlemen," Mr. Dakin siiid,
with another tumble of his small eyes,
"that it is my painful duty to correct you.
The fact of the matter is, you do not ap-
pear to understand your position. I have
no doubt of your ability in course time of
to clear oil' the amounts that stand against

you in the books of tho late firm; but that
is not all, and would bo far from satisfy-
ing the demands of tho creditors."

" In tlie name of goodness," I exclaim-
ed, "what more can they re(|uire/"

" Everything," J)akiM calmly answered.

" Everything I" Goshor and I exclaimed
in one breath.

"Yes, i^ontlemen, everything," ho re-
plied, ill tlio same calm way. "Tho fact
of the matter is, this entire establishment,
wo find on invo3ti},'ating affairs, forms part
of the estnte of tho late firm of Jamby
andJubl)."

"Surely you do not ignore our interests
in tho house ?" 1 said.

" I ignore nothin;jC, sir," ho vo|)lied, "the
creditors are tho men, and for them I act."

" B\it they must recognize our claim,"
Gasher remarked, "wo have an interest
hero which we have toiled for and Imilt
up, and that certainly is deserving of re-
cognition."

"Of that I know nothing," Mr. Dakin
continued. "I only know this, that the
creditors say this is part of tho estate of
tho late firm, and that all the evider.ce
goes to show that you wore simply agents,
clerks of the house, sent on hero to man-
age this branch. That, gentlemen, is your
true position. I regret to bo compelled
to make the painful announcement, but
we must always do our duty, no matter
what may be tho sacrifico or cost.

I was thunder-struck. I could scarcely
believe my ears. All tho business pros-
pects of life, upon which our hopes for
the future were centered, about to be
snatched away in an instant, and without
a moment's warning.

" There must be some mistake here," I
said, pacing the floor uneasily, "some
great mistake. "

" So there is, sir," Mr. Dakin answered
in his quiet way, "the mistake is a heavy
one, and you are yourself responsible for
it. If the terms of agreement you speak
of had been properly written out and
signed, all this trouble might have been
avoided. As it is it becomes your duty to
bear it as best you can. This will be a
warning to you. You are both young
men, and can easily recover your lost
ground ; but hereafter have all your agree-
ments in black and white, that you may
know where you stand when trouble
comes."

" Under the circumstances, Mr. Dakin,"
I said, with as much calmness as I could
command, " what do you conceive to be
your duty ? What course do you intend
pursuing ( "

" In the interests of the creditors of
Messrs. Jamby & Jubb," he replied, "I
appear for the purpose of taking formal
possession of tliis portion of the estate."

MY OWN STOUY.

"()f everything /" I askod. I

" Yes ; of everything tliat yon cannot j
prove to he yoiir own perional property."

" And do you think," I said warmly,
"that wo will tamely allow yon to enter
hero and seize that for which we have for I
years toiled and stnigijled ]"

" I do not think anything ahont it," he
replied with a complaisant smile; "l'
know my duty, and intend performing it ]
to the liest of my ability." |

"And what is that duty I" I a.sked.

"To take possession of everything
herein."

"Then, sir," I said, standing directly
in front (jf him, and s[)oaking very firmlyf
"you had better claim tlio assistance o,
the law, for without that you will never
gain possessirm here."

" i)i> not think mo foolish enough to
act on my own rcsponsibilty," he said, "I
am too old a hand at this business to do
things by halves. The law shall give me
possession sooner, perha^js, than will be
pleasant for you."

"This entire transaction is a vile, mean
trick," 1 said, losing my temper and speak-
ing warmly, "you and every one else
■who is interested in this matter know ex-
actly our position. You know as well as
I do, that this is not \)nvt of the house of
Jamby & Jubb ; you know that we simply
owe that estate a certain amount, which
we acknowledge and arc willing to pay iw
Boon as we are able. We only ask that
which every man in trade is compelled to
ask once in a while — an extension of time.
Give us that and wo will pay every cent
of our indebtedness. You know to a
fraction what our indebtedness is, and
you know also that tlie creditors of the
late firm have no other claim upon us, and
have no more right to this establishment
than has a man who never heard of Jamby
& Jubb."

"What I know and what I do not know,
Mr, Hardy, about your ailairi is not the
question," Mr. Dakin said, as if he wished
lo end the discussion, "I have come hei-e
to perform a special duty. If you see fit
to oppose me, very well. There are means
at hand whereby I can enforce my ch.iins,
and you may be sure I shall not be slow
to employ them. It is now only neces-
sary thivt I should inform you officially,
that, in compliance with the authority
oontained in these documents, some of
which you hare read, you must at once
surrender the keys, books and contents of
this establishment, in order that they may
be used as may best be deemed advisable
by their rightful o^vners, the creditors of
the late firm of Jamby »& Jubb. Do you
acceed to my request (

"No, sir, we do not," I answered!
firmly, " we recognize no authority here '

but our iiwn ; and you shall not be allowed
to enter into pr>sBession of one article un-
til you i)rove a claim better than ours,
somthiiig, I fancy, you will experience
much troulilo in doing. Wo will not
submit to being robbed without a struggle
for (uir property."

"Did yo\i say robbed, sir?" the stranger
asked eagerly.

" Yes, sir, I said robbed, and I say it
again," I replied, shaking my fist in hi*
face. "The claim yoti have i>ut in is
simply that of a robber, and it shall be
resisted as strongly as if it were the de-
mand of a highwayman."

" Take care, sir, what words you use,"
he said threateningly, " I am here in an
ofiicial capacity, clothed with authority,
and will not allow yim to stigmatize me^
as a robber and a highwayman."

" They are your proper nnmes, sir," F
answered, "and as this is no phice for
such characters, y<m will bo kind enough
to take yoiir depan ure before I assist you
into the street."

"Oh, you threaten violence do you?"
he exclaimed with a grin as ho moved
towards the dcxjr.

"Remain here a moment longer," I
replieil, "and I will have the pleasure of
putting my threat in execution."

' ' You refuse to recognize my claim '." he
said.

"Yes," I answered, "and if you wish
to preserve a whole skin I advise you not
to repeat that (juestion."

"Very well, my prosperous youth, very
well," he said with a leer as he opened
the ottico door, ' ' we'll try what ettect a
little law will have upon you. In the
meantime ladvise you to keepyour temper
when gentlemen call on you. Good after-
noon, Mr. Hardy, good bye Mr. Adams.
In less than two days your dear friends
will say farewell to the thriving firm of
Hardy & Adams. Thus passeth away,
&c," and with a bow of of mock politeness,
he closed the door and strode away.

I turned around and looked towards
Gasher. He was setting on a chair with
his head bent forward and was coughing
violently, I crossed over to him and laid
my hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

"Ah, Harry, Harry," ho said sadly, m
a deep, husky voice, "here is the wreck
of all our hopes. After all these years of
faithful labour and toil, since that rainy
night when as boys we met, after all the
trials, and troubles we have passed through^
here in a moment everything is snatched
from U3 and we are thrown upon the world,
poor and helpless as ever."

"Nay, nay, old fellow," I replied in a
tone cf assumed cheerfulness, " you take
too dreary a view of affair.s, you look only
at the dark side of the picture. All is not

MY OWN HTORY.

0»

nver yet, niul if thcro ho iiiHtico in tho
land wu sliall not )iu rohbtHl of oiir linril
oaniinjjH. You must not givu way in thin
niunnur, lut \in tight it out liko jiien. It
is at leant too early to nioiini until wu
know thu result. That man's assertions
go for nothing. His words arc onu thing
and tlio law's decision another."

"It is always your kind way, Harry,"
ho said with a sad smile, as he pressed my
hand, " y(ju aro over ready with a cheer-
ful face anil words of hope — you scom
never to tiro of helping me on. But in
this case I am afraid your efforts are all
thrown away. Tlie UKjment that man
entered tho office I knew ho was tho
hearer of had news, and now I feel certain
that ho will succeed in robbing us of all
wo call our own. Oh, it is terrible,
Hardy, after tho struggles we have passed
through, and the efforts wo have put forth
to win for ourselves honourable positions
in tho world, to be thrown back to the
point from which wo started, strong and
hopeful, and happy, so many years ago."

" I cannot hjok at the matter as ytju
do, Gasher," I answered deeply aflectod
by tho i)oor fellow's sorrow, "I am certain
that we shall come out all right. Wo
have justice on our sido, and that is a
tower of strength. Wo will, at least, fight
tho bjvttleto the end, and even should wo
fail wo will have tho proud satisfaction of
knowing tliat no dishonourable dealing on
our part brought about our destruction."

Gasher was firm in his belief that our
career as merchants was about over, and
all tho arguments I could use did not
shako him in that belief.

I at onco took Courtley's advice in the
matter, and engaged him to act for us.
Pooccedincs wei'e innnediately commenced
by Mr. Dakin, and then followed several
weeks of litigation. There were 'writs,
and stays, and executions, and ejectments,
and seizures, and I know not what else
beside. While the case was being heard
we were ejected, and other persons placed
in charge of the establishment, for the
purpose of attending to the business in
the interest of whomsoever tho matter
would be decided in favor of.

Tho case was carried up to one of tho
higher courts, where the costs are in pro-
portion to the amount of fuss and feathers
displayed, and where the rule appears to
be that the less tho quantity of work done
the greater the charges. 'There the case
was argued. Witnesses were examined,
documents road, pai)er3 filed, affidavits
drawn up, and an immense amount of
incomprehensible and mysterious business
done, which nobody appeared to under-
stand, nor cared anything about. Lengthy
speeches wore made by learned counsel, in
a beautifully muddled manner to learned

judges, who showed great attention and
rus])ect by snoozing comfortably in thoir
capacious arm-chaira all tho time. Then
tho learned judges ono day, after about a
week's delay, stipposed to have boon
spent in deep consideration of tho ciuio^
brought in Ungthy documents, which
tlioy road with much yawning and inoro
sniitl'-taking, and the sum and siibstancu-
of which might have been told in ten
words.

Thus tho casD was clusod, and after it
was all over I foamed that wo had been
beaten.

Tho firm of Hardy & Adams ceased to
bo from that moment. Tho sign was
taken down, another appeared in its place
— and all was gone !

Thus the results of our long years of
toil vanished — our hopes of prosperity
sank from view, and wo were cast back
\ipon the world again as poor as we had
beg\in.

CHAPTER XXX.

.MARY MEEKEIl MAKES A ('HAJfliK.

In order to bring up some prominent
p'jrsonages in this, my faithful narrative,
I must retrace my stops. If I neglect
them any longer the reader may f(jrget
them entirely, or charge mo with careless-
ness in writing so many pages without
onco mentioning their names.

Dr. Donlevoy prospered well in his
profession — the charitably expressed opin-
ions of his friends to the contrary
notwithstanding. His practice extended
and increased, and somehow he was
extraordinarily successful with his patients
— in his hands they almost invariably
recovered. He lost ono now and then, to
be sure ; but his average was much smaller
than thatof any other physician in Bayford.
He soon became known as a skillful doctor,
and yet I do not think that his success was
attributable in so great a degree to his skill
as to other matters. His own liidividual
presence at tho bed-side of the sick was,
perhaps, his greatest agent in good. It
was better than skill and more healing
than medicines.

The manner of the doctor, and his ap-
pearance, have much to do with the pa-
tient. They produce a wonderful effect
for either good or evil. Physicians do not
think of this as much as they should, nor
give it that weight which it deserves. If
they see a patient, feel his pulse, look at-
liis tongue, assume a very wise and learn-
ed air, pass an opinion which nobody com-
prehends, and write a prescription in mys-
terious looking hieroglyphics, they seem
to consider that their duty is performed^

100

MY OWN HTORY.

and tlmir foo euriicil. T'luy iicvir think
of tliu I'ti'uct tliuir iqiiKiiiraiicc iiiny linvu on
tho nick Olio lirforo tlujm ; if they tlid,
they would conduct thcuiHclven (uidcr
such ciruunifltnncca, in nn ontiruly ditlurunt
innnnur.

In tliis rusiicct Dick Donluvoy wnn »
model doctor. Ho had an iriesiHtibly
winninu' way about him wliicli ovory one
folt. On his iiatifnts it prfiduccil a good
cfToct. It drew thinn towiirdH hiui. It
created a inynterioim Hynipathy Itetween
]iini and tlieni, and ^Mve hirtli to u feeling
akin to love and friend.shi[i. HiB manner
was clieerful, pleaHant and haiipy, and yet
not Bo in an unseemly degree, such an
would 1)0 improper at tho lied-oide of tho
sick. Ho was gontio as a wonum, over
full of hope, even in the worst eascM, and
with a cheerftd word and a pleasant smile
that mr.do tho i)ationt feel easier and more
ho[ieful. Ho brought no long, solemn
face into tho c.ick room, nor confounded
those around him with learned terms. His
visits were more like those of a kind, sym-
pathizing friend, than of a physician \ipon
whoso drugs life dei)ended. A little ex-
perience convinced him that this was tho
great secret of his success so far, and he
therefore continued to jtractiso it. Ho folt
thatjmannor had|niorc to do with his cures
than medicine, and while ho did not en-
tirely ignore the latter, ho never failed to
treat his patients to largo and pleasant
doses of the former. In nearly every in-
Btaiico tho result was favorable, and thus
ho soon became known as a successful
jjliysician, and liis practice increased ac-
cordingly.

No sooner had he entered upon the prac-
tice of his profession than he undertook
the cure of Mrs. Meeker. Her case was
a very peculiar one. She had been a help-
less invalid for many years, and all the
doctors who had ever treated her, had pro-
nounced her incurable. Nothing daunted
by this painful verdict of others older and
abler in the profession than he, Donlevey
imdeitook tho difticnlt task. Without
informing Mrs. Meeker of his intention,
he quietly studdied her case, observing
all the symptoms, changes and peculiar
features, which from time to time developed
themselves. He drew from her, in odd
scraps of conversation which he carefully
remembered, many facts regarding her
suffering and the nature of it; and in this
way, without her knowledge, acquainted
liimself ivs fully as possible with tho more
marked characteristics of her disease.
Having studdied her case and having,
from the facts thus obtained, formed an
opinion regarding it, he next set about
treating it. Considering herself a hope-
less invalid, she had long] since given up
the use of all medicines, with the excep- 1

tion of Romo simple comjiounda, which,
while they were not t'Xpectod to euro her,
served to give her temporary relief and
to muko her «uffcrin i lighter. Withcmt
(liBcontiniiing thoao ho introduced others
and prevailed on her to take them, moro
M an experiment ho told her, that could
prodnco no injurious results, than as cer-
tain remedies. Though without hope she
acted on his advice and instriictions, and
committed hursolf entirely into his iiands.
At first his treatment seemed to havo a
bad efloct. She became visably reduced
under it, and grew very much weaker and
to all appearances worse than over. Ho
was contident, however, that ho was pur-
suing tho [iroper course; so confident, in
fact, that ho continued in it, notwith-
standing our advice and rccjucst that ho
should abandon it. Though ho did not
attempt to buoy her up with bright hopes,
it was easily seen that ho was not without
such hopes himself. He worked nobly in
the holy cause, and though, at times al-
most tempted to abandon it in despair, ho
Liborcd on, thoughtfully and firmly, as if
his own life depended on its result.

She sank lower and lower, and at last
was so far reduced that wo looked upon
her recovery a."* next to impossible, and
were ready to charge Donlovey with hav-
ing brought about her death . He boro
our complaints and reproaches with friend-
ly calmness, and only told us to trust in
his skill and God's n"iercy. Then, at tho
very time when she seemed on tho verge
of tho grave, ho suddenly changed his
treatment, by prescribing medicines of an
entirely different nature. In several days
no good result was noticeable. She re-
mained at a stand-still, neither growing
better nor worse. Ho watched her close-
ly ; ho was nnromitting in his attentions,
and scarcely left her side for several suc-
cessive days. Then a glorious change
came. By degrees she began to improve.
Day by day she grew stronger and better.
It was very slowly at first, but as time
advanced it became [more marked and
rapid. She folt like another being, like
one awaking from a long, painful dream.
Her entire system seemed new. All her
old pains and suffering were gone, and in
their stead were growing health and
renewed vigor. The noble work of im-
provement went on. Each succeeding
day found her stronger, and the glorious
r^ult of it all was that in the course of a
few months she was on her feet, healthy
and well, and able to move around as she
had not done for many a long, dx'eary
year.

What joy there was in that humble
household! What happiness; what thank-
ful hearts ; and what grateful prayers
went up to heaven for him who had been

MY OWN STORY.

lot

Gud'i inttriment in accomplishing bu ({oud
n work.

How prowl wo all were of Dick'i great
aucueim. Ilii hIcHI liacl triuniphod glo-
rioiiily. He explained it all to us. Ho
had t)uqiosely reduced Mrs. Meeker. Ho
had Drought her down to the lowest pos-
sible obV) of human existence, for the
l)urpogo of removing, to as great an extent
as possible, hur old system, and changing
her entire physical nature. By this means
ho hoped to make her, in a manner, a now
creature. Having torn down the old struc-
ture, by carrying her to the verge of the
grave, ho connnenced to build up again,
with now material. Tho result justified the
desperate means. Sho lived and became
strong, and entered upon a renewed lease
of life, having a health within her to
which she had long been a stranger.

Mrs. Meeker's heart was filled with
gratitude tliat could not bo spoken. She
thanked him earnestly and warmly, but
her words convoyed a very faint idea of
the depth of her feeling. Sho blessed
him, she prayed for him, and asked for
him Heaven's brightest smile and most
precious gifts.

All tliia was very cheerinu and very
pleasant to Dick, and while ho received
it with an unpretentious modesty, his
heart felt gliul that Mrs Meeker had such
reascms for thanking him. He sought
but one reward, however, but one recom-
pense, for all tho time, and labor, and
care ho had so successfully bestowed on
his long-suftcring potient. Thanks, and
gratitude, and praise were very dear to
him, but there was one thing elao dearer
than all these.

"My hanefactor, my preserver," Mrs.
Meeker said, one ovonhig as they sat to-
gether, after sho had fully recovered,
"how can I ever thank you sufficeintly/
How can I ever show that undying grati-
tude witli which my heart is filled ("

"Donottry to thank mo," Dick modest-
ly replied, "if I, through God's mercy,
have been tho instrument of restoring you
to health and strength, be all tho praise
His, not mine."

"I do — oh I do thank and praise Him
with my whole heart every hour of my
life," she said with deep earnestness. "Ho
knows how grateful I am, for ho reads my
thoughts and heai's my prayers. Jiut to
you as his agent, do I not owe gratitude
also! To you should not my heart's
thanksbo poured out, if I could find woi-ds
strong enough and oxpessions earnest
enough to tell you all I feel I"

"Nay, nay," he said, taking her hand,
"I would not have you try to thank me.
I know your heart is full of gratitude ; let
that suttice. There is, however, one re-
quest that I wuld invoke, one favor I

would ask your granting of which would
be tho greatest recompense you cuuld giro
mo."

*' Name it," shu said earnestly. " If
in my power to grant it, I do so now, be-
fore vou tell mo what it is."

" It is a creat request, Mi-s. Meeker,"
ho answered, as he looked tenderly into
her face.

"Tiientho greater will bo my happi-
pinoss in granting it," sho said. " Namu
it, Donlovey."

Ho placed his hand on her shoulder,
and looking at her in an honest, manly
way, lie said, in a low tone,

" It is tliis, Mrs. Meeker. Give me
Mary as my wife."

Sho gazed earnestly at him in silenco
for a moment, and then she asked,

" Y(m love her, Donlovey, '.luly and
well /"

"With my whole life — with my whole
heart!" ho answered.

" God bless you, Donlovey ! (Jod bless
you !" she exclaimed, as tears filled into
her eyes ; " Take her; guard, comfort and
protect her. Sho shall bo to you a wife,
and you shall be to mo a son.'

He stooped down and kissed her all'ec-
tionately, as if she were indeed his mother.

" I havo lived and longed for this hour,"
ho said, " and now that it has come, I cau
scarce believe my happiness, nor tell you
all my thanks."

" 1 was wrong and ungonorouu to you
once, Donlovey," sho answered ; "I did
you a deep injustice in believing what I
heard ; but now I will try to make amends
for that. You are good, and noble, and
true. Dearly as I love my daughter, in
you I fir.d one worthy of her. 1 behove
you love her with a pure and faith-
ful heart. That she loves you I know.
Take her ; make her your wife ; clierish
her. You have my prayers and my bles-
sing. May lieaven smile upon you and
give you prosperity, and mal:o tliis union
a happy and a holy one."

"Oh, I do love her," Dick exclaimed.
" Her influence has made me a better
man than I ever was before we met. I
have tried to make niy.iulf worthy of her,
and dearly as I now love her, I would not
ask her to become my wife if I did not
feel that I can bo to her a true .aiid f;uth-
fnl husband. I will cherish, guard and
protect her, and in the days which are to
come you shall never have reason to
regret that in this moment of your grati-
tude you confided to my keeping the most
darling object of your love."

" I have every faith, every confidence
in you, Donlevey," slie answei-ed, "you
have proved yourself worthy of her.
Whatever misgivings and doubts I have
had are gone now, and I believe you true

109

MY OWN 8T(JRY.

nn»l ({iiod. You know not how iloar iih'b
Ih to thiM inother'N hunrt uf mine— iluarer
thai) lifo it»olf — yet I ^ivo lier to ymi with
hopu and cont'ulonce, tniatin;^ in (iod, nnd
witli full roliaiico upon your lovo and vour
goodneSR. A({ain I Hay, may Hoavuu hU'SH
you and ■inilo upon your union."

Mary's conaunt wan (laitily ohtaincd, and
thou the day was fixod and all tho prepa-
rations wcru entcrt'd \ipon.

Till) matter was kept very (juiet, yut it
«oniiihow luakud out, and goHsi]) soon
gave it wings.

(jiruat was thu surprise among thoso
fashionahlu circles in which Dick Don-
levey had ho long moved, when it became
known that ho was iihout to take \iuto
liimself a wife. He had long been looked
upon as a hopeless bachelor — a sort of
mall! tlirt, whube heart was proof against
idl tho charms of woman. Ho liad been
for so many years a gay rollicking follow,
everywhere a favourite, but taking good
caro to keep himself free from every »us-

Eicion of matrimony. Tlio ladies called
im an incorrigible, and many a fair one
who had set her cap for him, had, after a
abort, fruitless att'jmi>t, given up in
despair, and turned her attentions to other
and more susceptible swains. He was past
redemption, they said, and tho woman
was not supiioHcd to live who could capture
■and secure him in the bonds of wedlock.

S<mio wise old dames, liowever, said,
very knowingly, that it was not all over
with him j'ct, and seemed to take delight
in prophecying that some day, when ho
least expected it, ho would be captivated
by tho wiles of some artful creature, and
caught in the matrimonial nuize almost
before he was aware of it. It was always
tho fate of bucli men, they said, .and Dick
Donlevcy woiild prove no oxcej)tion to the
rule ; than whom, they unanmiously de-
clared, one more fully deserving of such a
■calamity never existed.

Great, therefore, was the surjjrisu of
Dick's fashionable friends when theyhcard
of his approaching marriage, and g. oater
•still when it became known that his in-
tended wife was an obscure girl, whom
none of them knew. It was a nine-days'
•wonder. The city was dreadfully dull at
the time, and tea-table gossijiers were
sadly in want of a sensation. Tliis was a
.splendid one, find they seized it with
avidity. If Dick's oars were not warm, it
•WiVB not their fault. ' He was talked of by
all parties, in all circles, and f)n all ooca-
■fiions. The poor fellow gf)t as thorough
a roasting from his numerous friends, as
any unforttinate b.achelor who ever con-
templated matrimony. He did not mind
it, however. Ho let the world talk, and
prate, and gossip. In his heart he was
happy, and that was iill he wished for.

The wedding was a quiet, iinustenta-
tious affair, \\ e of thu <iuartotto were, of
coursu. present, together with a fuw other
of Diok's most intinuite friends. In tho
ladv lino, wo had Dick's only sister, who
had come ilown from her homo for tho
r>cc&sion, and a fair allowance of othcttt,
juHt HutKcient to give each of us a partner.

It was a very hapny party, as wedding
I>artie8alwaysshoulal>e. Dick was smiling
andhandsonu'; Mary blushing and boauti
ful; the bridsmaids fair aiul lovely, and tho
gentlemen gallant and courteous. After
tho Ceremony there was tho proper quan-
tity of smiles and tears — those pleasant
sun-showers, without which no wedding
can be com]>leto. Then we had a pleasant
little breakfast party, toasted tho brido
and bridegroom, the bridesmaids, and
everybody else present, and after th,.
we all drove down to tho steamer, and saw
the happy couplo ofl' upon their wedding
trip. A wook or two later thoy returned
and settled down in their own comfortable
home, so happy as to make tho rest of us
mourn over our forlorn condition as dis-
consolate bachelors, and long for the sweet
joys of matrimony.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THK (OLD HHOILDKU AT DORtEY HOL-.SB.

Shortly after Donlevey's marriage Mr.
Dakin and our troubles came, tho result
of which is already known, Tho wreck
that was made of our pro»i)ccts did not
leave us entirely penniless. We had
always miide it a practice to lay by some-
thing (Hit of our hard earnings in case of a
rainy day, and the wisdom of this course
was now evident. Our cajiital did not
amount to a great deal ; still it was sufli-
cient to keeji us in comforta])lo circum-
stances for a while, or luitil some new
field should be opened up for us, whereby
we might get another start in tlie world.
We were thus above inmiediato want, and
though it would perhaps have been better,
had we made another beginning at once,
we did not do so, for tho reason that in
our then frame of mind, and with the re-
membrance of our he.'vyy wrongs still
heavy upon us, we had no taste for busi-
ness and no longing to enter upon it again.
There-fore, we decided to lay upon our oar.s
for a little while, at the same time holding
ourselves in readiness to jiubrace tho first
good opening that offered itself.

In our former employees we folt even
more interest than for ourselves. Somo
of them had been in the establishment
before our coming. They wore tried and
faithful servants, and were anything but
prepared to exist long without employ-

MY (AVN STORY.

103

inunt. I inturcatvd inyMulf in their behalf,
and iirocurud for thciii favors from
jiiTHoiiH of whom I would not have
u»ked IV favor for n»y»ulf. Tho tiiiiei wuro
hard just thun on account uf thu tinancial
panic, and situatioiiH wvrii not to bu had
just then for the siniplt) asking, as issoniu-
tinum tho case. I UMud my exurtions for
thiMu, howuvor, and in thu cr)urso of a few
weeks had tho satisfaction of seeinij thum
all occuiiyiuL; i>ositions nearly as good as
those tfiej had lost through our misfor-
tunes.

My old friend, Nicholas Meeker, fwas
not forgotten. During tho time ho had
been with us he had improved wonder-
fully, and was now (|uitu a business man.
Vet he himself said he had no taste for
mercantile pursuits, and I know ho gave
his attention to them only that ho might
show how grateful ho was for whatever
little interest I had taken in his welfare.
Now, that through our faihxre he was out
of business, he said ho would give it up
forever, and embrace some more cmgenial
means of earning his livelihood. Ho
thought of going back to his old calling —
teaching ; but wo argued him out of that,
and oU'iu-ed him something botler, some-
thing w'lich gave him brighter prospects
for the Kiture. Co\u'tloy had a vacancy
in his ofh.-e, and with a little persuasion
on our part Meeker nccepted it. Tho pay
was not large, yet it was sutticicnt to keep
him even with the world, while the posi-
tion afforded him an opiiortunity, •..'hich
ho embraced, of studyinir for the bar. He
easily passed the primary examinations,
had his name entered on the books of tho
law society, and then commenjed bis race
for those symbols of judicial knowledge —
the bag and gown.

Thus, though misfortunes had come on
nie, I did all in my power to helj) and
save those who went down with me in the
wreck of my property.

While all these troubles were visiting
me, Florence was out of town — away in
some distant part of tho country with
friends. My '■visits, therefore, to Dorley
House had ceased, for tho time being,
and I was not sorry for it, though I felt
her absence heavily. During those days
of stispense and trial I was in no mood
for love-making, and thougli a kind word
* from htr, now and then, would have been
cheering, aud have enabled mo the better
to bear my troubles, it was perhaps as
well that she was away from me.

And now when it was all over, and my
hopes of prosperity gone, I heard of her
return. I had eveiy confidence in the
strength and truth of her love, yet I
trembled at the prospect of meeting her.
I had already received many cuts and
slights from those who, in tne days of my

))ro«perity, had professed to bo my friends,
and it ronuiined to bo seen how slio would
act towards mu in my miafortnnes. AVould
she still bu true to me I Wotdd she re-
ceive mo as bofor* ? Ur would she cast
me off as one luiworthv of even her friend-
ship ) These were the ({Ueitions that 1
asked myself a thousand times each day ;
and now that, on hor return, an oppor-
tunity of answering them had come, I
determined to know tho worst at once.

I went to Dorley Houso one evening
after hearing of her arrival. I must con-
fess that I had forebodings of evil, and
tried to nerve myself up to meet bravely
tho worst that could happen.

I rang tho door bell and tho old servant
eamo.

" Is Miss .larvis at homo I" 1 asked.
"No sir," the servant replied, in a man-
ner that told mo plainly she wiis telling a
fashionable lie—

"She has returned from tho country;
has she not I" I c(mtinucd.

"Yes sir," was tho rejdy, "but she is
not at homo this evening."

Then I handed in my card, and with a

j heavy heart walked away. Could it be

that thus was to end all my dream of

bliss ( Could it be that this was tho woman

I HO madly loved, ami In whoso love 1 so

fondly tnistod ? Could sho cast mo off

: thus I Could sho coldly forsake me, because

j poverty and trouble had crossed my path /

, No, no; I would not, I dare not believe

] hor BO base, so unfaithful. There must

be some mistake, I arguod with myself ;

perhaps sho was indeed from homo, or

perhaps fatiguo from her recent long jour-

\ ney made it necessary that she should not

, see oven me. I built up such hojies in n>y

i heart rath'ir than condemn her until I had

stronger reasons for so doing.

On tho following evening I called again

at Dorley House, and again I received

that dreadful answer — slio was not at

; home — my heart fell within me; all hope

was gone now; 1 was indeed cast off. I

; heard the announcement calmly, and

without asking further cjucstions, was

' about turning away from tho door, when

i the servant looked cautiously around and

then slipped a letter into my hand. I had

1 hardly time to crush it and conceal it in

my pocket when Judge Jarvis appeared.

' "(), how d'ye do, Mr. Hardy?" he said,

, in a cold, condescending way, as he came

1 down the hall, "sorry to hoar of your

. misfortunes; very sorry indeed. These

1 things, however, must be expected by men

in business, especially young ones, who do

not know the world. They are part of

the trade, you know — part of trade," and

he picked up his hat and came out upon

the balcony.

I "I thank you for your sympathy, sir,"

104

MY OWN STORY.

I said. "Whon misfortunes come on« re-
ceives an abundance of such consolation
as you uiTcr. It costs notliing and is,
therefore, readily given."

"Yes, I suppose so," he said, in a tone
apparently careless yet full of meaning.
"Sympathy is about all the world cares
about giving away just now, especially to
people of whom nobody knows any-
thing." '

"We experience no disappointment in
not receiving more, sir," I answered, feel-
ing the sting contained in his woi-ds.
"When mi.ifortiuica come we do not look
for even hypocrital sympathy. We expect
nothing but culd words and colder treat-
ment irom those who in the time of our
prosperity professed to bo our friends."

"It's a consolation to know that you ]
take such a philosophical view of matters,"
he said in an ironical tone. "It is
the only proper one, and will enable you
the better to bear up nianftilly iiuder the
rebuffs you may occasionally receive from
those to wlif>m you formerly extended
your distinguisncd friendship. This is a
di'eadfuUy ungrateful world, Mr. Hardy,
as you will no doubt readilv acknow-
ledge."

"1 have greater proof of its sordid
meanness and hollow friendship at tliis
moment, Mv. Jarvis, than I ever had
before during my whole life," I said, with
as much hitterneas as I could put into my
words. "However," I added, "it is a
satisfaction to know that a mau can live
without jirofe.ssions of a friendship that is
felt not. Misfortune teaches us one good
lesson, at least : It shows us our friends."

"And it also makes it very hard for
you to liud, but very easy to count tliom,"
he added with a hollow laugh.

"Yes," I replied; "especially in the
region of Dorley Hotise. 1 have the
pleafuirc. Judge Jarvis, of wishing you
good evening."

He hfi.d not asked me in. He was
treating mo as a lacquey. Hi.s words
were only intended to cut and wound nie,
and I coiild not trust myself to hear them
longer, even had he shown me common
courteriy.

"Stay!" he exclahned, as I turned
away. "A few words more before we
part. You have dime me the honour of
paying certain attention.? to my daughter
without luy^knowledge or consent. There-
in you proved yourself the gentleman in a
marked manner . Had I been aware of the
di3ting\ii'died honour you were doing, or
intended to do my family, I might have
trespassed upon your valuable time before
this, so far as to inform yon, that, while
feeling deeply, and reeognizing fully, your
condescension and generosity, ' must
most respectfully and humbly deci. e the

honour you would confer on me and
mine."

" Judge Jarvis," I said, with great cahn-
ness, " had you one proper sentiment of
manhood in your heart, you would not
thus seek to wound the feelings of one
who has done you no wrong, and who has
a load of misfortune to bear greater than
you c veam of. Were you other than you
are I \/^ould not speak to you in this way,
but would resent, as they deserve, tho
insinuations your unfeeling words contain.
Even you, great judge that you are, may
learn a lesson from one like mo ; and that
lesson is ; if we cannot help misfortune
in others, we should, at least, respect it."

" Well, well," he said in a bettor tone,
being evidently touched by my mannef , "if
I have said anything to wound your feel-
ings, you nmst forgive me. I did not
mean to do so. I only wish to tell you
that if you have been so foolish as to en-
tertain any feeling of love for Miss Jarviji
you had better abandon it at once, as ut-
terly iiseless and hopeless."

"Is this her decision, sir i" I asked.

" It is mine ; and I am her father," h».
answered, tinnly.

"Until it comes from her own lips.
Judge Jarvis, I will not believe that she
has uttered it," I replied, with equal firm-
ness.

" Yoxi may as well believe and act upon
it first as last," he said. " I tell you, Mr.
Hardy, that your hopes in that respect,
are wild and improper, and the sooneryou
banish them the better. Even had you
all in your favor that I could desire, I
should have to tell you the same, as I
have other and settled views regarding
my daughter's welfare, in which I cannot
be .shaken."

"Does she agree with them!" I asked.

" You have no right to ask such a (ques-
tion ; and tl\erefore I shall not answer it,"
he replied. "My mind has long l)een
made up on this point, and I may tell
you honestly that tlu; recent change in
your circumstanco,shas had nothing what-
ever to do with it. Had I been aware of
your intentions I would have put an end
to your visits to Dorloy House long ago.
They were foolish and improjier, so much
time wasted, and could never bring about
the result j'ou desired."

"In loving your daughter, sir," J ans-
wered, " I but followed out the instincts
of my nat>ire . It was neither fooli.sh nor
improper, and I shall never admit that it
was iiutil from her own lips I hoar that
my love is hopeless."

' ' You may as well consider it so at once,
Mr. Hardy," he said in a tone that was
meant to convey his final and unalterable
decision ; " my mind is fully made up and
cannot be shaken. I have no particular

MY OWN STORY.

lOfr

fault to find with you, any more than I
would hiivo with any other gontlemau
who niiglit appear in my house with simi-
lar intentions. Under those circumstances
you must youraolf seo the folly and impro-
priety of your continuing to bo a visitor
at Dorley House."

"While I am not welcome at Dorley
IIouKo," I answered, "while its doors are
cloHCil against me, you may rest satisfied
that I shall not seek admittance."

"Nor attcmi)t to annoy my daughter
with your fo(jlish love talk ?" he added.

•'On that point, Mr. Jarvirj, I shall
make no promises," I replied, in a low
but dotcriiiinf'd tone.

"Well, pursue your own course, Mr.
Hardy;" ho rejoined, "but remember, I
warn you not to renew this intimacy with
my daughter in any way."

" Your warning shall be duly remem-
bered," I answered, " but that it shall be
heeded is a ({ncHtioii the future alone can
answer. "

"Persist if you are so foolish," ho said,
" but rest assured that j'our oppoi-tunities
.shall be few. Good-bye to you."

"Good-bye, hjv," I replied, as I turned
away. " When next I come to Dorley
House, perliaps, you vill show me more
kindness and ti-eat me more graciously."

We bowed coldly to each other, and
then with hasty strides I left the place.

As 1 parsed down the carriage-way 1
remembered the letter, anddrawing itfrom
my pocket 1 attempted to road the address.
It was too dark, however tor mo to do si,
and replacing it in my pocket I hurried
home. In my own room I sat down
eager'}' to read it. As i had fondly
thought, it was from P'lorence, and ran in
this way • —

DoKi.KY HoL'sr;, , 18 — .

"Mr Dr.AH, Deah Harry :

" Last niglit. yon called and I dared not
see or speak to you. In the hope that
you m.ay call i'gaJn I write this, in ex-
pkuiation of what you must tlnnlc my
cruel and ungenerous conduct. Papa
knows all. Amit induced me to toll her,
and she at on.;e lomiuunicated it to him.
There was a terrilde scene, and the result
of it all i:f, tliat I must see you no more.

"I v/ill obey them ; 1 must obey thorn
for the present, Imt do not think, oil. do
not, tliat J sliall foi-get you, or that any
power on eartli can make ine forget my
love. 1 vi'ill be true, and faithful, and
firm ; an<l though now wo may l)e separ-
ated t will live (m in the bright hope that
some day in the cojuing tium you shr.U
como back to mc, and then we shall never,
never part again. You know, Hany,
that I love you ^^'ith my whole heart ; and
thougli my conduct now seems strange,
trust me, rely on me and all shall yet bo

right. Be true as I shall bo ; hoar with
our present separaticm ; live on in the
sweet thought of a future reunion, and
everything shall bo bright and liaiipy in
the end.

"Whatever rumours you may hear
regarding me believe not. Bo led away
by no idle stories. Rely on my love, for
it is undying, and shall ever bo true. If
wo meet sometimes when others are near
bo careful. Before the world wo are more
acquaintances — nothing more. Only our
own hearts must know what wo aro to-
each other.

" I never longod toboat yoursido more
than now. I have heard of your troubles,
and if 1 could I would be with you, to
comfort, advise, and cheer you. Think
not that the changes which have come
have changed my heart. They have
doubled my love and made j'ou dearer
to me than ever. Be not cast down. Be
hopeful, and happy ; trusting in God and
relying on Him, and the abilities ho has
blessed j'ou with. Lot thoughts of my
love cheer you on, and bo an incentive to
you in all your exertions.

" I cannot write more now. Good-bye.
God bless you. Do not answer this in
any way. It 'ould bo dangerous to both
your happiness and mine. Ever yours.

" Fr.OUENCE."

I read it over and over again. It was a
curious note, I thought, and yet it con-
tained all that I cindd wish for, and even
more than I had h<Ji)ed for. It assured
mo of her love, and of her faithfulness.
What more could my heart wish /

: CHAPTER XXXII.

i (KiSHER's TROUBLE — CJASTING THE DIK.

And so I saw her no more. I acted
: upon her advice by not attempting to an-
j swer her note, though it would have given
j "me a world of pleasure to have written
■ her even half-a-dozcn linos. It was pain-
; fnl, indeed, to be separated from her; to
I spend with her no more, for the present,
1 those happy hours which had given mo so-
I much joy ; to be to her all but a stranger.

If we chanced to moot, as I hoj)ed, 3'et

feared, we often would, I must bo cold

and distant — I must bo a living lie, that
, the world might not know that in my

heart I loved her. All this was very hard^
I yet I made up my mind to bear it with

silent hope. 1 knew, I felt that she loved
! me, and for her sake I was willing to en-
; dure any hardship, any suiiering that fate

might send, ti'usting that tho future would
; carry all tho dark clouds away, and bring

the beams of the sun of happiness acroaa

our pathway once more.

106

MY OWN STORY .

Poor Oaslier. How sadly lie fought
ugainst his luisfortunea. He had not tho
heart to bear up under them that I liad.
God knowH I felt thorn heavily enough,
yot, in conipariaou with his sufferings,
mine were as nothing. There wa3 that
ono great sorrow of hia life, liiMinknown
birth and parentage; tliun there was his
secret, carnent love, which was all but
hopeless ; and now there was the wreck of
all his prosi)oct3. In tho midst of all this
there was his failing health . That failure
of ours, if such it might be called, was the
last groat blow. Beneath its weight ho
sank lower and lower day by day. He
lost heart, and hope and strength; and all
tho words of comfort and advice friends
might offer were lost upon him. While
he thanked us for our kindness, ho would
say, with a melanchoUy smile, that it was
useless to bid him hope and bear up under
the load of sorrows and misfortunes that
pressed upon him. He was without hope.
Ho saw nothing but clouds, thick and
dark, around him, and he could not be-
lieve they had a silver lining.

Donlevey came to him very often, with
manly friendship and medical advice, and
did all in his power to cheer him up and
give 'him health.

"Adams," ho said to him very seriously
one day, "you positively must obey me if
you wish ever to be well again in this
world."

' ' I wish it Donlevey," ho replied, " but
my wishes carry no hope."

"Sly dear fellow, while there's lifo
there's hope," Donlevey said in a half
cheerful way.

"That's what you doctors always say,"
Gaaher answered with a sad smile, "even
while wo are on the verge of tho grave
yon tell 1^9 that."

"And we toll you but the truth, Adams,
yet 3'ou are not on the verge of the grave,
you are very imwell and your constitution
is sulfering gvoatly. but if you will act
upon my advice smd take the medicines I
send you, you will certainly recover, and
become yourself again in a short time."

"These aro only cheering words that
yo\i oifer me, Dick," Gasher answered,
"I feel your kindne.is in speaking as you
do, yet I tell you, honestly, that it is all
of no avail. I am a« certain that I shall
never recover as I am that you at this
moment ait before mo. As for h<)i)0,
Dick, I am entirely without it. My heart
is buried so low beneath tho weight of
woes that have Come upon, mo, that it can
never riso again. My future days are
numbered as surely as my past ones. It
is impossible, utterly impossible, that I
can evergetwell on this side of tho grave;
■of that which is to come on the other side,
when I have passed tho myBterioua boun-

dary which separates this world from the
next, I am most hopeful, most happy.
You aro very kind to me, all of you, very
good, and may God bless you for it. But
to bid mo hope for life is useless. Tell mo
to look fi>rward with hopo to that after-
life which wo feel is ours but cannot un-
derstand, and you will lo my body and
my heart more good, than if you had told
me that a century of time wcro 3'et in store
for mo."

Dick arosa and paced tho room, and as
ho took tho turn at tho further end ho
raised h.is hand and brushed somothing
from his cheek.

"I am daeply sorry, Adams," he said,
after a short silence, "to tind yon take
such a despondent view of your condition.
I will not attemi)t to conceal from j'ou
tlio fact that your health is in a most
precarious state; that your strength is
rapidly failing, and your constitution
growing weaker; yet if you would help
mo I feel sure I could make you strong
and well again. If yon would banish this
grief of yoiu'S, bo more hopeful and cheer-
ful, and give me more of your mind, all
woiild yet be right. As it is, 1 fear for
tho worst, and tell you plainly that your
health is in a most dangerous state."

" I have known that, Dick, for many a
day," Gaaher replied, with ono of his sad
smiles. " I have already told you that 1
feel my case hopeless, and I tell you now
most earnestly, my dear friend, what I
liavo not said before, that under present
circumstances I am satisfied, yea, even
happjr that God should call me away.
What have I to live for? Why should I
longer here exist in hojjeleaa misery and
grief? A half-,a-dozen number all my
friends. I am alone in the v/orld — you
know my history. Not a i-elation, not
even 11 name have I. I am a waif — an
unknown man — a stranger to all my fel-
lowa. Why, Donlevey, should I care to
live ] You ask mo to hopo^for what ]
For a long life of secret sorrov/ / For a
I continuance of tlic miaorj' I have borne ?
For years of care, and trouble, and un-
happiness? Is it for these you would
htiTO me live ? And if I did live, oh my
friend, what other fate could I expect ?
If through the clouda which hare ao long
surrounded me, I could see one ray of
sunshine, one beam of hope, however
small, God knows 1 would loolc upon it
gladly and wish to live. For years I
have hoped and i)rayed and expected,
b\it have known nothing but disappoint-
ment and trouble. That hope deferred
has, indeed, made my heart sick ; that
sickness has brought the body's decline ;
that decline brings death ; and that death
v,rill bring— man cannot say what. No,
no, my friend, leave me to myself, or

\ I

MY OWN STORY.

107

rather, leave me to One who better knowa
what ia right for us than we can ever
know ourselves."'

This was nearly always the strain in
which ho spoke. Occasionally he was more
hoi)eful and cheerful, but it was never for
long. Ho would sit for hours at a time
alone in his own room, reading, orstretched
on a sofa, buried in thought. He was ever
kind and good, and thankful to \\b for all
we did, but ho would seldom accompany
us any place, and seemed always to prefer
being left to his own thoughts.

Tlius the days went by with him, and
even wc, who were ever at his aide, could
see that ho was failing rapidly.

A few days after my last impleasant
visit to Dorley House, I told Courtley of
my cold recej)tion. He was pained, aston-
ished, and surjjriscd to hoar that Judge
Jarvis could act ^in such an inigracious
manner.

"Heat assured," he said, "that that
fellow Gardner is at the bottom of all this.
He has tlie Judge in his i)ower, though in
what manner I am unable to discover, and
that power he is now exercising. Ho holds
a heavy hand of cards, however he became
possessed of them, and is playing for a
high stake. You need not fear him. Ho
is a fool with luck on his side, but skill
will beat liim in the long ran. The hand
of Florence Jarvia is the prize he seeks.
The follow is wise enorgh to know its.wcn-th,
though he has not sense or skill enough to
win it."

' ' ifos, but he has her father on his
side," I said, "I'm afraid therein ho has
an all}' of groat strength."

"Be not alarmed, my dear fellow,"
Courtley said with a pleasant laugh,
"Miss Jarvis is a match for both of them.
It is a difKcult task to out-manijuuvre a
woman ia love, especially such a woman
as she. You have every coniidencc in lier;
let that be your prop and mainstay. l>e
true and constant to lier. Show her tliat
you are acting upon lar advice, in patient-
ly awaiting the coiu-ae of events, and rest
assured you will thereby win more favour
in lior eyes, and a deeper place in her
heart, than if you vvere on your knees at
her side every day in the week. She ia
no foolish, giddy, love-sick girl, to be led
away by the whims of a father or the
posses.sions of a monied fool ; but a sen-
sible, earnest, true woman, with a mind of
her own and a heart that wiU f-uide her
aright."

"I have tliat conlidonce, Chavloy," I
replied, "Tliougli cast out now, and de-
prived of tlie hap])ineHS of even sjioaking
to her, I feel sure that it will all come
riglit in tlie end. If 1 did not think so,
mj' days in this(\'iarterof the world would
not be long. Tins conlidence in her, with

hopes of future happiness and the friend-
ship of you and others, is all that keeps
mo here."

"That's right, old boy," he said, cheer-
fully ; ' ' keep up a good heart, and live in
hope. By-the-by, that reminds mo of
something else. Living in hope is a caj)-
ital thing so far as it goes, but unless wo
had something else to live on, I'm afraid
wo would starve to death. Suice that
robbery was ])erpetrated on you — for I
can call it by no other name — you have
done nothing in tho way of business.
This idleness is a bad thing, Harry, and
the sooner you put an end to it the better."

" I'm aware of that," I answered, "and
am every day on the look out for a good
opening. Times are very dull, you know,
and business of all kinds in an unsettled
state, on account of the panic which is
yet hardly over. Therefore I am, per-
haps, as well out of business as in it. I
am watching for a good thing, hov-ever,
and you may be sure shall seize the first
that offers."

' ' No doubt you are right, " he answered,
"you know more of such matters than I,
and have worked your own way in tho
world so well thus far, that j'ou cannot
but succeed in the future. Did you save
much out of the wreck I"

" Enough to gi'e me a fair start again,"
I replied.

" Ytm see no prospects for an immediate
opening, I suppose i" he asked.

"No; though cf course I cannot say
how soon one may occur," I replied. "I
am in Mr. Micawber's position, ' waiting
for something to turn up. ' "

"Allow me to make a suggestion. What
say you to a run up to Sebl} /"

" To Sebly /" I exclaimed.

"Yes; you have not been there since
you were a boy, and now that you are
doingnothing, I think you should pay your
old home a visit."

"I would like to go," I replied, "and
j indeed have thought of doing so for some
time. iJut I do not see that any good can
I come out of it."

"It is long since I have spoken to you
on tills subject, Harry," he said, assuming
. a more earnest tone, "and you must par-
don me now for referring to it. I must
repeat wli;it I have often said before, and
that i;i, that 3-ou are acting very foolishly
and improperly regarding that jiroperty
of yours, now held by your step-fatlier."

"You kuow my views," I said, in reply,
"and though you deem them foolish, 1
see no reason why I should alter them."

"But I do, my dear fellow, I see many
reasons, and those reasons were never
stronger than at this proseut moment.
Will you listen to me while I explain
them ; "

108

MY OWN STORY.

' ' Certainly ; though, I must toU yon
before hand tliat tlio reault will bo aa it
alwaya han been, usulcas ao far aa changing
my mind ia concerned."

" Perhaps so, yet I will explain now.
Within +,ho last few weeka a wonderful
change haa taken place in your circum-
Btancea. Y<ju were a little while .ago a
prospcroua merchant. What you are now
I need not say. You are poor in com-
parison to what you were. You must ad-
mit that your prospects are not brilliant.
Now in addition to this you ai*e in lovo ;
that lovo ia full of hope ; you wish to
make Florence Jarvis your wife ; yet
would you marry unleas you saw your
way clearly tlirough the world ? Under
y' ivir present circumstances how long do
you think it would bo before you would
feel justified in marrying one who has all
her life been accustomed to comforts and
even luxuries i Looking at the matter in
this light — and it is the correct one — do
you not see that it would be years before
you could honestly and honourably ask
any woman to be your wife I Now what
1, as your friend, old and yrell-tried, I
hi:)pe, would suggeat. is this : that you go
up to Sebly, call on your step-father, and
make a demand upon him for at least a
jiortion of your property. Nobody need
know anything about it. Your interview
can be private, and if he refuse to do you
justice yon can go to law with him or not
as you see fit. In justice to yoiirself,
Harry, and to the woman you love, you
should do this."

At first I opposed the proposition
.itvongly, as I had all along done, but he
argued earnestly against all my objections
and feelings in the matter. He even said
that under the circumstances, it would be
next to criminal on my part to neglect
doing myself justice. We had a long dis-
cussion, and the reaidt of it all v.'as, that
I promised to go to Sebly, an make an
oft'ovt to recover my rightful possessions,
which had so long been in the hands of
another.

CHAPTER XXXIIl.

SEBLY.

It was much easier to reach Sebly in
those days than when I was a boy. Rail-
ways had just been introduced, and though
none of them ran to the tovm, there Wiis
one that passed within about forty miles
of it, and tlius greatly shortejied the dis-
tance between it and Bayford. At the
present time you can go all the way bj
rail, and a very pleasant journey it is,
for the line connecting the two towns
passes thro\igh the finest portion of the

Province, and gives the traveller a good
impression of the agricultural wealth and
general prosperity of our young Dominion,
of whoso future wo are all so hopeful, and
whoso prospects now seem so brilliant.

I took Gasher with mo. Ho gladly
accepted of my invitation. I thought
tho journey would df) the poor follow
good, while ho on his part was delighted
at tho prosi)ect of seeing my early homo,
of which he had ho often heard mo apeak.

It was the time of Indian amnmer —
that delightful season of mellow loveli-
ness, which even fair Italy, with all her
beauties, cannot surpaaa. The charms of
all the year aro gathered together and
blenaod into one in those few short weeks.
The opening life of spring, the rich beauty
of smnmer, the rijie loveliness of autmnn,
and the dying blushes of tho fall, linger
around us in a soft nuldness that is felt,
and seen, and breathed. The glorious
sun that rises and sets in a halo of scarlet
brilliancy ; the mellow moon, tkat rides in
splendour, and is soft in its . rays ; the
twinkling stars, that sparkle in tho blue
roof of our earth, tho bright floor of our
heaven ; the stately forests with their
many-coloured foliage ; the "sear and
yellow leaves," which silently drop from
the parent stem, and clothe the earth in
a carpet of rustling beauty ; tho last sweet
songs of tho birds of simimer, who ai;e
warbling their parting good-bye, and
pluming his wings for a flight to simimer
climes ; these all come with our lovely
Indian summer, clothe nature in a gar-
ment of beauty, and cast around us an
influence, soft, tender and mild, which
fills our hearts with bettor feelings, and
our minds with holier thoughts. Poets
may sing of the ber.uties of other lands,
Avith summer skies, and greener fields,
and loftier hills, and fairer valleys than
we have ; but no country upon which the
sun sheds his bright rays can furnish a
theme more v.-orthy of their i)en than is
our glorious Canadian Indian smnmer.

It was such a time as this when I went
back to Sebly — back to my old home,
after long years of absence. Years which
had brought their changes, their sorrows,
their pleasures and their troubles. Years
which had not passed lightly over my head.
Years which had made the hopeful, castle-
building boy, the plodding, wt)rldly man.

We left IJayford by rail, and after
several hour's ride got out at a small way-
station, where we procured a carriage and
drove across the comitry to Sebly, about
forty miles distant.

It was a lovely drive, — over the (|uiet
country roads, past pleasant fields and com-
fortable-looking farmhouses, through little
patches of forest, and across babbling
brooks. Gasher enjoyed it heartily, and

M^ OWN STORY.

109

hocivnie briu'itor and iiiore cheerful tlian
1 liivd seon him for iruiny a day. Ho had
sehloiii been in tlio countrj', and in his
present delicate Btato all its charms were
donbly beautiful to him, and its sweet air
reviving and invigoratini,'.

"Harry," ho asked, "do you like coun-
try life?"

"Yes," 1 answered, "and why should
I not / In such a scene as this which is
now around us I was born, and passed my
boyhood days. For years I know n(j other
life. The country was my home. I loved
it well then, I love it still; ami yet I do
not think it would suit mo now. The
years of city life which I have known since
those days have luifitted me for the (luiet
pleasures and the peace which hero wo
.see, H.ad I my choice to-day I would
take the city, witli all its bustle, activity
and business."

" I'erhaps I would do the same, HaiTy,"
ho replied, "and yet this seems inoro like
the proper sphere of man. In the begin-
ning Adam was told to till the ground,
and to this day the more innocent, the
]iai)piest and the best of his descendants
are those who follow his calling. . The
city is a union of good and evil, with the
latter predominating. The country is the
same, with tlie former in the ascendancy.
As somebody observes, 'man made the
city, God the country.' In our great
towns wo have beauty, and grandeur, and
education; but they are the productions
of mind and money. Here we have love-
liness, simplicity and sublimity, coming
from nature's hand direct, and scattered
all around us with a bounty that is from
God alone, and tells us of Him. Can all
the art of man, great as it is, equal, or even
approach, that field, yonder forest, this
brook, those hills and dales, or even the
most simple creature of nature's make
that meets the eye ? No, no, Harry; all
our skill, all our knowledge, all our learn-
ing are as nothing Avhen wo contemplate
these things. To mo the country is a life
unknown, txnd rural ways a mystery; yet
I feel that here is man's i:)roprer home,
this his rightful sphere, and the one for
which his Maker intended him. If I could
live my short life over again, and have
my own way in the world, a dwelling place
in the country would be my choice."

It was late in the evening when we
reached Sobly. AVo drove to an hotel
and put up for the night.

Sebly was very much changed, so much so
in fact, that but for a few old land marks,
and the general plan of the x^laco, I could
not have recognized it. I remembered it
only as an insignificant country village,
now it was a prosperous, flourishing
town, with its mayor and corporation, its
public buildings and fine private houses,

and its pretensions even to the manners
and customs of a city. A wonderful
cliango those few years had nroduced.
Yet in this respect Sebly was n )t unlike
all other Canadian towns. The store at
the cross roads soon gathers around it the
way-sido inn, the blacksmith shoj), and
the school house. Thou a post office in
opened, other stores are started, buildings
spring up, and in course of time a village
is formed and named. The improvement
still goes on ; factories of various kinds
begin to appear, streets are laid out ;
Works of a public nature are demanded and
pcrform(Ml ; the one store becomes twentyj;
the one inn half-a-dozen ; the old school
house proves too small, and a larger one
is built. Then the inhabitants feel am-
bitious ; they have be^n villagers long
enough. Their niunbers give them im-
, portance and demand recognition. The
census is tiiken, and the result is that an
act of incorporation is applied for and
procured; and. thus the one little store on
the cross roads becomes a town, is known
over the land, and is even deemed worthy
of a dot on tho maps of the country. This
is tho story of an himdred places in Can-
ada. One need not live long to see it all
occur in his own time. Such was the
history of Sebly, as 1 myseli knew, and
Sebly was but one instance out of many.

There were few in Sebly who could
know or remember me, yet I deemed it
advisable to conceal my name for tho
present. The hotel keeper I well knew,
but he did not recognize me ; and after
we had partaken of a good, wholesome
supper, I proceeded to extract from him
all I could regarding Sobly matters in
general, and my step-father's aflairs in
particular.

" This appears to be a fine flourishing
town landlord," I commenced, introduc-
ing the subject in such a way as I knew
Would flatter liis feelings and make him
talkative.

" Indeed it is sir," he replied, " it has
got along wonderfully, and is a pi-omising
town for its age."

" How old is it ?"

"Thirty years ago, or thereabouts, all
this coimtry was, you might say, little
better than a wilderness."

" Indeed, then it certainly has grown
most remarkably."

" I can remember, sir, when the place
was first settled. It was somewhat wild,
hereabouts, then, I can tell you. There
was an Ingen camp a littlo further up the
stream yonder, but there wasn't a white
man within ten miles of it. Why, sir,
on this very spot I've shot deer and
trapped otter, just about the time, I
should judge, when you were in your
cradle."

110

MY OWN STOIIY.

"Most oxtmoi'iUnary 1" I excliviiiieil.
"I aujjposo the country is sultl'jd for
miles ivrouml now I"

"Yes; for Inindvoils of niiluH for tlio
niatterof thiit," ho .'ei)lio(l. "(Jooil roads
— iino farms, and prospennm viiliigos, in
evrry diruction."

"Thore cannot bo many oldor sottlers
than you huro I" I said.

"Very fow, sir; very few," h'j replied,
with a shako of the luiad. "They're
nearly all gone, sir. Some of them moved
farther back — some went away to other
parts, but most of them sleeji over thei'o
on that hill, where you see the steeple
shininy in the moonlight. It cannot be
long now before I am with them."

"Wore there any men of wealth and
l)osition among you in those days?" I
asked after a sliort silence.

"Wealth and position were not much in
those times," ho an.swercd, with a smile.
" Every man was as good as his neighbour,
and UKmey was an article wo did not see
nrach of; yet, of course, there were some
better off than others. The chief man —
the ruler, I might say — of the .settlement,
was Major Hardy, and a nolder or bettor
man never breathed the air of Heaven."

I turned away and paced up and down
ill silence for a fow moments. It was long
since I had heard my dear father's name
mentioned, and those kind words to his
memory touched a chord in my lieart
which for years had been silent.

" Is Major Hardy dead ?" I asked, after
I had rectivered.

" Long years ago the good man died,"
ho answered in a softened tone, " his
death was a public loss which every ojio
in the settlement felt. Even to this day
his name is mentioned with reverence."

"Did ho leave any family ?"

"He did, sir, but sad trouble came
upon them. The family was small, only
the wife and one son. Mrs. Major, as wo
used to call her, was a good, kind, sweet
woman. But a fow years after the
Major's death she married a gentleman
named WinstanUiy. He, it was said, did
not treat her or the boy properly, and the
result of it all was that shu died of a bro-
]>'en heart, while the boy ran away from
school and never returned. I heard re-
cently, however, that ho is living some
place in Canada and domg well. I do
not believe the story, for if he w ere in the
country he would surely como here and
claim the property which is his and his
alone."

"Then Major Hardy left some pro-
l>erty."

"Lord bless you, sir, yes. It was val-
uable then, but it is ten times more so
now. It is worth a mint of monej'. It
consists of several fanna right on the bor-

ders of the town, and a gi'oat dea 1 of pro-
perty in the very eontro oi Sebly. Jt has
constantly increased in value witli tho
prosperity of the town and is now one of
the tinost estates in Upper Canada."

" It is singular that young Hardy has
never returuod to claim it," I said.
I " So wo all tliinlc, sir," he answered,
I "and there's not a man, wonuin or child
i in Sobly whc) would not rojoico to seo him
come buck and take poasossion. Mr.
Winstanley, his step-father, has held tho
j pr(jperty all these years, and haa used it
I Avell to his own account. He h a most
j impopnlar man, iind it would bo a glorious
I thing if ho wore deprived of that which
I he has so long imjiroiJcrly held."
" Has ho married again ;"
" No; and, notwithstanding hi.i v.^ealth,
he would experience great dii'iculty in
; ihiding a wife in those parts."

"Ho must indeed bo unpopxdar."
' "He is detested," tho old man naid,
I with much vehemence, "he has run for
I Parliament two or three times, but has
always been defeated, as he deserved to
I be. Evei-yono looks down upon him ; and
j though his position entitles him to a cer-
I tain amount of renpect, it win-i for him no
I love."

Tlio old man was almost fierce in his
denunciations of Mr. Winstanley, and I
must confess that it gave mo a siocret
pleasure to knovr that tho world had dis-
covered his real character. I had often
asked myself if I were not wrong in
thinking him a bad man, fearing that I
might have been led away l.>y the innna-
i ture judgment of j-outh, and have held
I prejudiced views on account of tho pecu-
j liar circumstances by wliich wo had been
I thrown together. But I now found my
I opinion of him, bad as it was, confirmed
I by tho.so wdio were even better judges,
I and had more opportunities of knowing
: him than I. It was, perhaps, improper
I that I should derive pleasure from such
' knowledge, and yet I could not conceal
1 from myself the fact that it did give me a
j certain amount of peculiar joy.

Early on the following morning I was

j astir. Tho bright red sun of Indian sum-

! mer was rising in glory from behind tho

' eastern hills, as I strolled through the

quiet streets of Sebly, and passed down

tho road leading to nij' old homo. Evoiy-

thing around was greatly changed since

last I had gone along that road. Years

had rolled awa}' since then, and yet every

foot of it was as familiar to mo as if I had

never been absent.

Leaving the highway and entering the
fields, I took the same directi(m as t had
taken that sad day when I came homo
from school, and saw all that was mortal
of my dear mother being carried to its

MY OWN STORY.

Ill

! n

last rostiiij; iilaco boaiilo tlio villago church. |
Thinkiii;,' oi Hioso lonfj-past tinioa and of '
that heavy rditow, 1 crossed tho Rcldfl, i
hnisliin;,' tho light fivist away witli slow !
and mt'ivsiired Hte[iH. Then 1 canio tr) tlio ',
grovo. Tho truofi were older and larger !
now, yet they aecnied to mo tho Hanio i
as then, and I looked up.»n thcni as old '
conipaniouH, old friondn, of other and
hapiiier d:\v9. I T)aHsed beneath their
Icinuly shade, when, as a boy, I had often
sported, and there my old liDmo st.iod ))e- '
fore mo. Tiiuo had left hi? tr,■lce^^ on the |
dear old place. It was weather-beaten
and decayed. Along tho e.avea tho moason
yrow; B'nno of tho steps were gono from
the diiorway; the windows were broken;
tho fihuttjra were oii'; and around it all
there v.via an air of deaolation and ruin,
wliich sliowed that it had long been ne-
glected and wa!) now nnocciipiod. I crosr.ed
'o lawn and pasiied in through tho broken
panes. Tlie rooms were empty, and tiuie-
staincd, and dreary looking. I thouglit
about foreing an entrance, but in a little
while I clianged my mind, and after wan-
dering iironnd tho dear oUl place for nearly
an hour, I turned my back upon it again
and walked away.

And tlien I thought of another duly —
a h(dy one, uhich my conscience amoto
nio for having ho long neglected. Full of
sad nieinories I crossed the iiehU once more,
and stole with reverence along the slope
that led ma to the villu,go clu:vch. There
I had prayed when a boy, innocent and
good; and now I came back to it as a man,
IJO-ssesain:;, a'as, in my heart, only too
few of the fiwect and holy iniprossions of
those liirmless times. The building had
been enlarged and improved, but tho same
bright f>piro pointed upward to heaven
and to G(xl, and the same broad d>or-v.ay
was there to let the repentant sinner in.
On the hill-side around it were tho gr.vssy
mounds beneath which "tho rude fore-
I'atlier.^ of the hamlet slept." They were
more of them now, many, many jnoro; and
tl'.eir nund)or told mo that death had not
been idle during ivU those years.

I knew only too v.'ell where to look for
that which I sought. Even without the
weatlier-beateu stono that mai'kod them
I would li;iv>) found those niound.s. Love
alone v.(;uld have guided n^e to that quiet,
lioly spot, where those whose memories 1
so dearly loved, slept that "long sleep
v.'hich knovrs no waking."

Tho sun was high in tho heavens that
bright morning bel^oro I crept av.'ay from
tho "^gravc-j'ard, and retraced riiy steps
along the hill that led me from the village
cliurcli .

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A .M O N (J T H K 11 U C K I- E a .

On returning to tho hotel I found
Oaslier patiently waiting for nie. Wo
breakfasted, and then, while enjoying my
morning pipe, I proceeded to extract
further infornnition from my frieml, tho
landlord.

" Have you a fau'ily named linokle
residing in fiebly ]" I asked.

" Ruckle / Of course we have, rir," ho
replied elieorily. " IJill Buckle, m 1 still
call him, is one of the old ^itocit— none of
your now comers, v.'ho only s.dtlo;! hero
after all tho hard work had been done.
lie used to be tho village blacksmith,
long years ago, and a .^ood, hono.st, hard-
working fellow ho always was. His exer-
tions have brought their proper reward."

'• Indeed. I'm most hapj>y to hear it."
I exclaimed, almost forgetting myself ;
and, perhaps, speaking a little too earn-
estly for a sti'anger.

"Do you k\u)w him, sir ?" tlio landlord
a.'I.'od, as ho eyed me more closuly than
before.

"I have heard of him," I replied, in a
caridess way, "and in fai^t have some
little business to transact with him before
I leave Sebly."

"Yon will find him an honeat, upright
man," he answered, "he's a plain, un-
learned fellow, like myself, for schooling
in these parts didn't amoinit to nnich
when ho and I were young ; but he'.s
sound and reliable."

" I liave iilv.-ays heard him spoken of in
such tjrms," I said.

" He has an extensive oarri.i^.ie and
■waggon factory now," the old man con-
tinued, "you will llud it up the river,
near the second bridge. lie lives in that
direction," he added, jxnnting to tho
west, "ho lias a oomfort.able house there,
just beyond tho limits of the town."

" Ha^ he anj' family /'' I aske<l.

" Indeed he has," tho landlm'd an-
swero<l, with a laugh. "Bill has kejit up
tho rejaitation of the old stoek well. Ho
has a house full of children ; .and fine,
healthy youngsters they are. That re-
minda me that his wife was for many
years a s jrvant in the hou.'jo of Tilajor
Hardy, of whom wo were s'peaking last
night. A go id, kind woman she is ; and
a more faithi'ul creature than she was to
the Major and his family I never knev;-.
fehc deserves all the jirosperity and happi-
ness she has been blessed with since she
became Bill Buckle's wife."

"I am delighted to hear that one so
deserving of prospoi'ity has experienced
it," I said, "I suppose I may find Mr.
Buckle at his shop at this hour ?"

113

MY OWN STORY.

" Yc'u ; Iio'm lUwftyn iittciuliiix; to liia
l>\iniii(!H!<. Any mie will mIihw ynu wlioro
Couiicilldr Hncklo'H hIkiji iri,"

" ('(iimcillor liii ■kid r' I uxiliiinicd.

" Yes; dill I not, tell yuii tlnvt lie is u
maiiihur of the tmvri council /" Iio m'uX.
"He's reeve nf Sebly this year, and the
chiincn;* are, that one of these (hiys ho will
1)0 iiiiiyor. He'll hettcr fitted for the \nm-
tic)ij than one half the men w ho occupy it.
Ho hii.H not much uduciitiou, to he .sure,
but he hiw honesty, and that'a ii bettor
reconiin'jndiition furoflice tJiun oven book-
leavnin,:,-." >

Thou I left the hnjuaciouH old man, and
with (litaher iit my side, HtroUed uway
towardsi Mr. ihicklo's Inmso. I had no
difliciilty iu tindini^ it. It vas a comfort-
able looking tv.-o Htory brick houf.e, stand-
ing alone, jntit beyond the limits cpf the
town. Tlure wa.« an air of hajiiiiness and
comfijrt around it that could not bo mis-
takoTi, and even had I ntjt lieini directed
carefully to it, 1 think I should have

tjicked it out, without heiiitation, aa Polly's
lome.

I ])a3Hed through tho gatu, nj) the
gravelled ])athway, and knocked at tho
door. A buxoni-iooking girl answered
my knock.

" Does Mr. Buckle live lioro/" I aisked.

" Y'es, si:-,"' fhc replied ; "but ho'fi not
at homo just now — he's down at tho
ahop."

"Is Mrs. Buoklo within!" I continued.

"(J, yea, sir," bhe answered cheerfully;
"if yon wish to see her,- ijloase walk in/"

IMj' heart beat violently as I crossed the
threshold and entered the comfortably
furnished parlour into which wo wore
sh(jwn. I 8to(jd back in a dark corner,
and in a few moments Polly — my dear
old Polly — came in.

She was older-looking, and a few streaks
of gray were mingled with her black hair ;
but she looked like a contented and happy
woman — and notwithstanding the changes
wlflch years had pi'oduced, 1 knew her at
the first glance.

I longed to rush into her arms, where I
had so often nestled when a child, for she
had been a second mother to me, and I
loved her dearly; but I restrained my
feelings, and remained in the dark corner.

"Good morning, gontlemen," kIio said,
in a kindly voice, which fell sweetly on
my ear, and awakened hajipy memories of
other days.

We returned her friendly greeting, and
then I said :

"Wo called for tho pur[)o80 of seeing
Mr. Buckle ; but finding that ho was from
home we took the liberty of trespassing on
your time for a few minutes."

She was in the act of sitting down as I
spoke, b\it the moment she heard my

vtiicu her face bjcamo weiy pale, and hUo
lookeil wondoringly towardti mo. I ad-
vanced slowly from the daric coiner, and
iih file light from tin; window foil iijioii iiiy
fcaturcf), .hIio (icanncd thoin earnestly for
an instant. Iliir loviii!.' t^yca did not
ih'ceive her. She I'ushod aluioat frantic-
ally into my anuH, and burst into tears.

"Master Harry ! Manter Ilany !" hho
cried, with wild joy, "TliiMik (Jod he hau
como back at hist."

There were lear.-i in my own eyes as I
8too]ped over and gave lier ;i long, loving
kifi:i, such an one il". I laij^ht have placed
on tho lips of my own mother.

A.i tho tears rolled down her clieeki*
she stood arms length aw^iy from me, and
lookiul tenderly and earnestly at me,
smiling as she wept.

" It is ; oh, it is my dear boy," she ex-
claimed, "(jod bless yoii for your lovo in
coming back to your old nurse after all
these long, long year.i. I knew you c.nild
not foi'get me ; I knew llraven would an-
swer my many, many prayers, and let mo
l(.ok on you again."

" Vou could not think, my dear, dear
friend," I said, " thut 1 could ever forget
ycmC

"Ah! no. Master Harry," kIio replied,
>vith a blight smile, " f did not think so.
You have too good a heart for tliut. I
always saiil you would ciime back some-
timo. You have ymir angel mother's
face, and her loving soul within you, and
could not forget one who for years and
years has longed to see you.''

"God bless you I" I earnestly said,
touched to tho heart by her deep ati'ection.
"I have never, never forgotten yim. In
all my wanderings— in all my troubles iind
joys — in all my up.i and downs .since, as a
boj', I left 3'ou, you have been remembered.
This, with you — my second mothar — be-
fore me, is the hajjpiest moment 1 have
known for years and years."

She kissed me again, and then I. turned
aroimd that I might introduce G.isher to
her, but he was gone. Vv'e found him out
in the hall playing wi'ili a cat. With
manly delicacy, he had .stolon away that
ho might not be witness i<i my meeting
with my old nurse.

PoUyrecoived him kindly, and welcomed
him w.'irmly to her home. Then we all
sat down in the parlour. She could not
take her loving eyes olf me. She made
mo sit near her at the wuulow that she
might see me the better, and there she
talked to me of the old days before ; and
every little while, would say, as if speak-
ing to herself — "Tho im.age of my angel !
How like his darling mother !"

Then she despatched the servant girl ofl'
to the shop for Mr. Buckle, and while she
was away, with all a uiother's pride, she

MY OAVN STORY.

113

showed nil' throe littlo diics— a lial)y in
anus, !vii<l twii otlaTs ; tolling iul-, ;it t!io
iiiUiK' time, tliit tlii'i WHS only i» l»>vti(iii of
tlm I'.iicklu f:iiiiily, as tlioi'u were four
older oiuM Jiway iit ftcliool, the eidunt of
wlioiii will* a lioy, callo'l after iiiyHcIf,
Harry Ifanly.

" Tli'iugli tlicy have iiovor Heou you,"
nhe Bald, "your iiaiuo is well known to
tluiiii. (.Utei) and often tlicy have haard
UH ni)eak (if yoii."

Thou Jlr. lUiekle einno lioiuo. His
<lcliglit und astipni«hinuut at Hueini; mo
were inteUHe. He wna an honest, .".en-
5il)U>, coniumn-phiou hioking man ; and
the i)ru(j])ority whioli had ci'owned his
oflort."., showed that he Iiad more in liiiu
than [ liad ouuo ,t;iven hiui credit tor.
He Hliook lao warndy hy tho luind, and
Haid tliat ho could not fail to reiiiunilier
nie with kindness, us I was intiuialcly
connected willi a haiipy period of hit; life,
naniely, the time when ho uaod to niako
love to Pollj-, in his curious way, hy
playln;j; with eats, and telling her period-
ically that tile cottajje was ready, anil the
old woman waitint^ for her. He still re-
tained liis aliection for cata, and iiroudly
shewed nie the descendants of tlio felines
with which he had pl.'iyed when I was a
boy. Ho had never allowed tho hreed to
die out ; and, in order to convince nio of
the genuineness of his present stock, laid
before nie a complete geneoloj^ical record
of all tho tabhies from my boyliood down.

It was a curious document, and so
lengthy tliat it covered several sheets of
paper. It showed the innocent, harudess
nature of tlie man, and yet, had the peo-
I»le of Sobly known of it, I'm afraid his
civic honors would have ceased, and ho
w<mld ii.ivo been uncharitably called a
fool.

During tho afternoon tho children
came home from scliool. Tliey were a
line, laugliing, romping, ro.sj^-cheeked lot.
The eldest hoy, luy namesake, wna a
manly, intelligent littlo fellow, and I was
proud to have such a lad called after mo.

"I am glad yon have come, sir," he
said, " as ho stood near me."

"Why?" I asked.

" JJecauso, manuna has often told us you
would ciime, " he answered, "and wo have
for sucli a long time wished to see you."

" Your mamma is very kind," I said.

"Sho loves you, sir, ever so much," lie
continued, " and she has made us all love
yon too, though we did not know you."

"God bless the good soul," I said to
myself, as these words of tho innocent
child sank into my heart.

"And do you all love mo?" I asked him
iifter a short pause.

"Indeed we do, sir, more than lean
tell you,'" he replied. " ^Ve conld not

help loving Maater Harry after all niannnii
ha.i told us of him."

A little nuiirtture crept into niy eyes,
anil I turned my face away and brushoil
it oil".

"You will stay with us now, wont you?"
ho a>;ked.

" No my boy," 1 answered, "I cannot,
however much I might wisli to."

" () but you must," he oxclaimod, as ho
looked curioufdy into my face, " Your
room is all ready for you nj) stairs."

" My room," I repeated, with some
astonishment."

" Vos, uir ; come and I will show it to
j'iMi." And putting his hand in mine ho
led nu! upstairs into a bod-room, where
everythuig was neat and clean und com-
fortable.

"This," he said, "is Master Harry's
roctm."

" Who 8leep.=! hero ?" I asked.

"Why, nobody," he answered, opening
wide his eyes, a.i if astonisilud at the
ipiestiou. "No one ever sleej)s here. Wo
call it Master Harry's room, and over
since I can remember manuna has kept it
ready for yon, tliinking you would come.
You will stay and sloop in it now, won't
you, IMaster Harry '!"

It was indeed true. Long years agt),
when I was a boy at Dr. Baker's academy,
sho wrote nio that letter, which the reader
has read, and in it she said that come
when I would Master Harry's room would
be found ready.

Forgetting the presence of tho lad, I
sat down and buried my face in my hands,
and thought of all this honest woman's
earnest, noble love and devotiiDi, and in
my heart asked God to bless horand make
her happv. I was overcome with cnujtion,
and wondered what I could do to show
how deep was my gratitude.

After a little while I looked up, and
there stood the boy, gazing wonderingly
at me with his large dark eyes. Arousing
myself 1 took his hand and we quietly
came down stairs again. No one, except-
ing him, know I had been in Master
Harry's room.

We remained for dinner, and were very
pleasant and happy in talking over old
times. In accordance with Mr. Buckle's
advice, 1 postponed my visit to Mr. Win-
staidoy until the following day, and in
tho meantime no one was to know I was
in Sebly.

" Yon must make our homo your liome
while you remain," Polly said, when we
were alone. "It is a happiness I have
long looked for, and yon must not now
deprive mo of it."

"If it will not inconvenience you too
much," I replied, " I shall be most happy
to accept of j'our kind hospitality. "

114

MY OWN .STOPwY.

" rnconvonionoo iis? u,,," MhoDXcIiiiinod,
" n.) indood ; but ovon it' it .lid, you iitill
»lii>uld ruiimiii. Tliii u h luri/o Iioumd,
not liko tho cottaijo wo lirst iivtul in, nud
wo hiivj iiliMity of room for liotli yoii nij(i
Mr, Ailinii'i. I Iii'.vo nnartiiii'iits ovoii iiow
prepared 'for yf.ii, mid Williiun has tuiit
to tho liottil fur your purtiiiaatoaui, S'j
you noo you must roiimiu,"

"My dcnr, kind friend." I aivid, takiii;?
hor ImskI ill inin.!, "ymi hiivo long hoou
propiirod for iny coniin;,'. I know all— I
havo been in MaHtur ILvrry'n room."

Hho colored up a:i if adiainod o! being
dcteotod in hor kindnosn,

"I do oonfoas," hIio s.Ud after a short
silonco, "that I luvo always I)oeii [ireparod
and liiokiii;,' for you. Jn a lott-r [ wroto
you long ayo I told you thoro wan a room
ready for ^you wluiuovur y.ui uhould oonio 1
back to Suhly. In tho littlo cottage wo
had one, and hero in tJii-i hoiiso, wluch wo
built cjurselves, there is Ma'iter Harry'd
room, as* wo eaU it, in whii.'h no one yot
haB over ide[)t. Wo have k»;pt it for yo\i
in expectation of you:- coniiii;,'. Audtliou,,di
that coinin'; ha.'i l)(:iin h'li;; delavod, yon
Bhall rest tliero to-iii_!,'ht, and bo t!iu iir^t
to sleeii thorein."

"God blona you for all your lovoof nio,'"
I Raid earnestly, "there ii ov.o in lioaven
who will look down iipini you v.'itli joy
and hapi)inoM9, beoausu of yywv Iviuiinosu
mid your hjve. In my early days you
were more than a mother to mo; andno.v,
after tho lapse of years, I cumo back and
find } oil faithful and true ag ever. I can
not tell you all i feel, but you must know
that there are in my heart thanks and
gratitude that cannot bo sp.ikon."

That evening I told them all my liiatory,
and then asked Air. Bucklo'a advice as to
what I .should do re::arding Mr. V/instan-
ley. Ho recommended mo to ajjuly to
hiju at once for tho restoration of my
proportj', and to institute le^'al proceed- |
ings ngainat him without delay, if ho did j
not peaceably resign idl claim to it. Of my I
right, ho .said there cuild, of couvfio, bo no !
doubt ; and it would recpiiru very littlo lit- i
igation to jilace me in possession. Tlujugh ■
1 did not agree with his viov/s fully, I
thanked him for his advice, and promiaod ;
to act upon it ai far .as I conscientiously i
could. I

That night I had another proof of ray i
old nurse's love. Mrs. iVacklo had left
the room for a few minutes, Gaslier wan '
strolling up and dov>'n in front of the ;
houao, and thus I was left alone. Polly |
■was in a b.aok room preparing the children i
for bed, and at her knee, those who v.'oro
old enough knelt down to say their even-
ing prayer. I heard them lisp their
supplications for God's graco and blessings,
and each innocent tonscuo said — "God

hlcdH papa and nmnuna, and all my broth-
crM and HiNtorit ; au<I (>od ble 'i MaHtur
Ifnrry whoiuver ho may lie." For yuar>
tho ni!{hfly i>rayi)r/i of tlumo littlo ones
hail aiceiided to Iloavou ou behalf of ono
whom they had never seen. Thoy had
boeu taught to pray for mo as thev had
boon icdd to lovo. No Wonder (toil had
(luiiled u[)ou ino and spread blessiniji in
my path.

Wo sponfc a happy ovoning in talking
over ohl times, aiul it was lato when wo
separated for 1ho night. Thougli Ga»hor
could not t;il.ii much part in the conver-
sati(jn ho liitoned attontivoly,' and ap-
peared to enjoy it us well as we did our-
selves.

Thou wo h.ido each other good ni^dlt,
and aft'jr years of waiting, and looking,
and eKpoctatioii, I slept at la'it in "Masti-T
Hivn'y'fl room."

CHAPTER XXXV.

TJiS INTERVU'.W.

Next moniing I proceeded to call on
Mr. Winstanley. Ganher accomp;i,niod
mo. Ho had a curioaity to see tho man
of wlioiii ho had heard so much from mo,
Sir. Winstanley lived at the diatanoo of
about two miles fr(u I tho towji. Ho had
long sinco, Polly informed me, mored
from my old home, and that accounted for
its present dilapidated and de.iertod ap-
pearance. Ho lived on a plaoo of his own
just adjoining it.

Though I would have enjoyed tho v.'alk,
it was too much for Ga.sher, and I, there-
fore, had our horses and carriage brought
over from the hotel, and wo drove out.

It was about eleven o'clock v/i.jn wo
drew up at Mr. Winstanley's door. Hi.i
house vaa a l.irgo and comfovtablo looking
one, liaving all tho appearance of the resi-
dence of a well-to-do country gentleman ;
yet it v.'anted that home-like, jdaaaant,
he^yty look which in the chief charm of
such plicea, and which indicates comfort
and contentment.

A servant, who had seen us driving
down the caiiiage-way, approached as wo
fltoppc!l in front of the door.

" Can you toll mo if Mr. Winstanley i^
at home V I asked, as he advanced to hold
our. hordes.

'■ r tliink ho is, sir," he replied. "If
you will wait a moment, I will see."

Ho ran up the steps and entered the
liouse, and in a few moments returned
and informed ustliat Mr. Win.stanley wa.s
\vitian.

We .alighted, and were met at tho dooa
by an old fomalo servant, who nhov/ed U3

MY OWN STOUY.

lis

into a Willi fltocked librnrv, whicti {lookuil
ni if it liclcitigol to Mi iiiitidy haclielur.

" \Vlmt iittiiio uliiill 1 May, uir f" the old
daiiio iinhod.

"Tlio iiaiiio is of no con«oqunnci)," I
ru]diiHl ; " inv thiit tliuru uw siinply a
cuu]ilui>f goiitluinuu liuru ivhodusire to sou
him (!*' IxiHiiitJOS.'

Hhu witlulri'w.

" 'riiii iiioiiient of trial luw coino, Uoah-
or," I laid, aH I folt my lioart l)catiiit{ vio-
lently. I trind toiiorvo mydoii \i[t (dv tho
inui'ting, which 1 folt huio would bo n
ti*ying onu.

" IJear up like a niun, Harry," my com-
panion rufjliiid, "you havo jiihtico on yoiu'
Hide, and with such a hol])er ivh that wo
can ovur bo bold."

staidoy showed hia auporior cooIiicrh by
bruakuig tlio NJlunco.

"My iicrvant,"ho iiaid, "told mo Home-
thini^ about biiiiinosii. Will you bo lo
kiml aH to inform nio why yuu honor niu
witii this visit I"

"Do you not know mo I" I a«ked.

" Vou must pardon mo when 1 say that
I rually do not roniond)or over having; had
tho pfoasuro of sooinjj you boforo," ho
answered with i^roat coolnusn and T)olito-
nosH, " I havo a wretched mouiory of facen,
Bir, and though, I doubt not, wo havo mot
before, I do not recollect when, whoro, or
under what circumstancea."

" J rememl>er them all moat distinctly,
Sir. Winstanley," I said wi*;h considerablo
emphasis, and fooling my prido wounded

Tho next moment the door opened, and at his coolness and di.i:iimulution
a gontleman in slippers and morning gown I "Ah; ncjw, I've no doubt yo\i do," ho
entered. At the first glance I did not i ansv.-ered, in tho same tautali/.injj manner,

recognize him, but a second convinced mo
that it was indeed Winstanley who stood
before mo.

Ho wan wonderfully changed. Ho was
still a eoui]iaratively young man, and
nhould have been in lii-i very prime. Hut
inatead of that ho Ijoked at least sixty
years of age. His hair was almoKt white.

therein the superiority of your memory
j in shown, and tlio weakness of thi:i troach-
] orouii ono of mine displayed in a ivav that
I makis mo ashaiiied of myself. It ia a
I mo.st ainioying thing, sir, to havo a bad
I memory, excessively annoying. I would
I give half of my estate to know where and
I how wo met bofore, but even wore I to

ids form waa thin and much stooped, and give my life I could not recall you to my

mind. Y(;u should bo thankful, Dir, that
you are not afflicted in sueh a w.i> ."

^Vlia' gall, what cutting sarcasm there
waa iu his words. Had ho boon another
I could have utnick him down at my foot,
Bii deeply did lie wound mo.

"It is uuelu.ss todi.ssumble,"' I ainworedj
"all you say ia idle t:vlk, you know mo as
we'll as 1 knov/- you, and you may as well
acknowlcdgo it first a^i l:ist."

Really, air," ho said, with i\ sarcastic

there were lines in his face which indicate<l
Bull'ering and sorrow. Hia black eyes i
wore bright and piercing as ever ; and, j
notwithstanding t!io many changes which I
time had produc^nl, there were still some |
remiuiiitM left of that singular beiiuty
whieli had characterized him iii his |
younger years.

Those piercing eyes n^cognizcd mo in
an instant, but ho ttliowed no signs of tho
recognitiiiu other than a slightly increased
pallor on hia cheek. Though decrej)it in
body, his mind had not failed, and ho
had not lout the ]jower of coiitroling and
smothering hia feelings. From me his
ej'os wandered to my c'.>mpanion, and as

smile, "yon havo a moat oingnlar way of
stating a case. You innist upon my know-
ing you whether I d(j or do not. Now, it
AV(ndd oidy be charitable uu your part to
all(jw a nuvu to have an (ijiinion of hia

they fell up(jn him he gave a perceptible I own, even if that opinion did not accord
start. He looked at him long and earn- | with yours, and e3])ecially about sueh a
estly, and with a curioiis light in those I trilling matter as this."'
sharp eyes, which astonished and alarmed ; ''Do you think it trifling, sir?" I asked.

me. Quickly recovering himself, however,
and apparently making an etl'ort to shako
of .'joiue luiplcasant feeling, ho bowed
with dignified composure and said.

" Oood morning gentlemen. Will you
do me tho honour of being seated /"

with some .show of anger.

"I certainly do," ho anaworod, with a
quiet sneer, "I have no doubt it is a great
honor to meet and know you, and even if
I have already enjoyed that distinguished
privilege, a.s you tsay, it is still a eompara-

Wo returned hia salutation with as tively trifling m.atter. If thia troiauherous
good a grace as passible, and after wo had I meinory of mine fails to recall yuu, pray
seated ourselves, ho placed himself in .in do not be angry with me. It ia notlung
arm-chair, in such a position that his face unconnnon. 1 often fail to recognize the
was partially hidden in a shadowy corner ' features of my most intimate friends. You
of tho room. ■ must, therefore, generously pardon my

There was an xmpleasant silence in tho | failings in tho present instance."
room fo'u few moments. I knew not j " Mr. Winstanley," I answered, firmly,
how to begin, and each word I attempted | "I know that all thia ignorance is aa-
to litter stuck in my throat. Mr. Win- 1 sumod. You know who 1 am perfectly

Il)i

MY OWN HTOIIY.

well ; yvt, in drdc-rto put tin t'ii<l to thiit inform inu what ilofiinct iivnioniiyH your
Kcoru', mill til priviiil ymir tdliuK fiiitlu'i' i nniipuiiioii ri'iuoHt^iitM/"

faUoh»(i(li«, let iiiu inronii ymi tliiit I uiii
Himy Hiinly."

'• Yriii lire wliii /" hu iwI<o<l, Iuanin{{ fi»r-
wiinl in hii chair.

" Harry i{ur(ly,youriitup-ion," I calmly
ropliivl.

"l>, iivlot'il," ho nald with an ironiual
smile, "do you am Mr. Huny Hardj", my
Htup-»(in."

"I huvu uaid it, and yini know it," I
answirt'il.

" Wull sir," ho cnntinuod, " I would l>o
most liappy to Kivu ovt-ry crodrnoo toyour
woi'd, and would, in fact, Im ro(juireil to

llti \H one who haH known mo iiinoo
youniuclty drovo mii from my honio," I
unNWcrud. "(fo known nothing of you
(iryouri« iixi«'j>tiuK Huchan ri.'Kard« mywlf.
Hi* namo in Mr. AdaniH."

"And Mr. .Vdamn, I pruiumu iH huru tu
aHitiMt you in vmu' work of impoHition."

" Hu ill licre an my fritiiid in tho pruaonco
of onu who has wronged and robliud me,"
I Hnid.

"Youhavoun uncoinmouly pluamiut way
of I'XpriiHsiii}^ yourMulf, my yoim;? froiiid, '
ho rujoiuod, with an iiir of ax.Humed »o-
riousuii.sH. "It in uanily to \m noon that

look upon yf)U ivh my Htup-son, worotlu'ro you no not know tho world as well iw you

not an nnploaflant circuniNtancu in thu way. will Homo day if yon live. Am a frcind
of my <liiiiig HO with any gatisfaction to i who in j<ruatly your Honior, allow nui to

myui'lf. 'I'liat circnmutiinco i.s that Hurry ailvisoyou not to uHoyourtonguouofrooly.

Hardy, my linpcful Htop-»on, han liecn It i'l a moHt unruly niomhor of your anat-

duad for sovoral yearn." omy, and will nurely brin^you into troublo

" It is faliol you know it is falHo," I if you nru not moro careful how you uho

exclaimed, "yi»i aro as well Bati»fie<l tliiH
moment that I am ho as you are of your
own Lxi.stenco."

"I am natisfiod about nothiii}^ of tho

it. W'itli mo of couriio itflocs not matter;
Itut there aro men more uiij^enerou^, who
mii,dit not admiro your little ploaHantrieH."
Do not tempt me," 1 »aid in a threat-

kind," ho replic<l, with unbroken compo- oniiiL; tone, "or 1 may bo inclinod to nny

sure, "1 know this, that Harry Hardy ' more unpleaHant words than 1 have yet

shuttled oir this mortal coil, and a usolssa ' spoken."

one it was to him, a very long time ai^o, "That would bo very inikind to your

to prove which, if it were necessary, I i dear Htei)-fathor,"lio replied.

have documents in my poBsossion." "Tho truth is not always agreeable, Mr.

"Mr. Winstanley," I said, with great i Winstanley," 1 answered, "and though it
earnestness, "bad as I have always had | is a ijuality in which yon a])|iear to be do-
reason to consider you, I did not think j ficient, you might not enjoy a lesson in it
yon capable of such mean, low, narrow- ' from otliers, least of all from me."
souled condjict as yo\i now display, I " I must confess I would bo a most un-
gave you credit for bein>» moro manly in willing scholar," ho replied, "for tho
your wickedness. Hut these falsehoods ! simple reason that 1 would have a woeful
and subterfuges will not avail you. I can ; want of confidence in tho capabilities of
bring abundant proof of my identity if it \ my instructor."

is necessary. My old nurse, Mrs. Buckle, His words cut me to the quick, and I
her husband, and many other persons who felt that with such weapons 1 was no match
knew me in my childhood know mo now for him. I therefore smothered my feel-
and have recognised me witliot the slight- ings as well as I could, aiul determined to
est difKc(dty. But, though such evidence bring him to tho ])oint at once,
might be required in a court of l;iw, it is "Oncoforall," 1 asked, "do you refuse
not necessary here. You know, perfectly ^ to recognize me?"

well, that 1 am Harry Hardy, and you "Not having tho most remote idea as
may, therefore, at once, abandon your to who you are," he answered, "you must
transparent falsehoods, recognise me, and . acknowledge my inability to recognize
be manly enough to confess that you were you. I woidd be most hapjiy to do so if
lying." I could; but I must confess that it is im-

" It 'appears to mo, young man, that possible."
you nso very sti'ong language," he said. "Do yon wish me to expose yim and

"I'm glad yon think so," I answered, prove my identity in a court of lawf" I
" I intended my words to bo strong, as asked.

the circumstances of tho case require, and "I have no wish, whatever, in the mat-
it is a satisfaction to know that you have ter, I can assure yon," he said, Avith an

not misunderstood mo.'

air of carelessness, "if you arj desirous

We were silent for a few moments, and ; of exposing yourself as au impostor, and
then waving his hand carelessly towards i earning a place in tho jienitentiary, of

Oasher, he said,

"As you appear here in tho character of
one who is dead, will you bo so kind as to

which distinction you apjiear to be fully
deserving, yoii are at perfect liberty to do
so, as far as I am concerned. I will even

MY OWN HTOHY.

lUMiitt V)y ovory nioanH in n>y power in your
pruiMuworthv (tll'ortfi to ()l)tiiii) a perina-
iiutit iilaco ill thu land, to wliich you nru
uvidontly vntitiod."

(iiiHhtir wan iiniiblo to contnd liiit futd-
inga unv I<in({i<r, and riHin({ liaNtily liu mvid,
"yon liavo aiwiiyM told nu*, flarry, that
tliifl wan a liad man; but liad yon paintud
hint ten thonniind tinicn Mackur than y<>«i
did yon wnidd havudono liiui no injunticu.
Takti my advice and loavt) him to bo dealt
with by thu law."

*'l'ni afraid HoniothiiiK uIno than tlui
law will 1)0 ditalin^ with yon, one of tluiHo
days, my ({vavoyard friond," Winntanlcy
Raid, iw liiH uyuH ran oviT poor (jianher's
wasiod form and nunkon chuukH.

It waH a dreadful, cruel aaying; and i\n |
my dear friend turnc-d hi« faco away to i
hide hi.M woundetl ft)ulin};H, I felt my Idood |
boil, and it was with dilliciilty that I rii- j
straineil iiiVHelf from foiling Winntuidey i
at mvfoot. I P.i-oso ami wont c'.oHcr to him.

"WiuMtaidey," I iiaid, ii "v tone an<l
maiuier that ooidd not bo miHtakon, "old
a» you are and ixunnl to mu and mine rh
yon onco wi re, if you dare to breathe snch
words again, yon Hhall dearly HUtFur for it
in tiio flesh. Say what yon like to or of
nic; but uttor another nyllablo that can
wound my friend's feelings, and you shall
surely repent it." |

"Don't lose your temper, Mr, Whats- :
yonr-nanio," h(! said with the utmost cool-
ness, "its i)ad frjr your ai)i)etito, and will
certainly brinj^ on indigestion. When 1
was your hi;o I. was somewhat hot-headed,
inul whenever J got into a i)aHsion I was
sure to Hiioil my apjietite. In addition to
this, your iieroics are entirely wasted, and
wert! much better omitted. 1 advise yon,
therefore, iudiilL;o in them nt. mnro for the
present. And now, fir, as you have come
hero ill the eharacter of a dcadyoiitli, will
yon be land enough to toll me your
object ("

"To claim tliat whiuh rightfully belongs
to 1110," 1 said, "the property that was
left at the death of my mother in your
haiida."

"Your demand is an extremely modest
one, Mr. Impoater," he said in a cutting
way, "and of course I shall immediately
comply with it. Would yon like me to
make an eilbrt to ])rocure you the entire
town of Sebly in addition!"

"I ask but my own," I said, "yon have
long held improper possession of my prop-
erty, and have used it for your own ben-
efit — of that I care not — you are welcome
to all the good it has done you. But I
now demand that you hand over to me
all the property left by my father and
mother. You know it is mine and that
the law will give it to me, if you make an
appeal to that source necessary."

"Even if yon wore the person you pre-
tend to bu," ho answered, "you shoiiUl
remember that |iosHesnion is nino-puint«
of thu law. With those point* in my favor
I would be woll jireixired to fight a legal
battle with Mr. Ilarry Hardy. However,
as you cannot be that worthy youth, thero
is no earthly use in our disenssing the
question further."

"Then you refuse to makojrestitntion!"
1 Raid.

"No; but I most decidedly refuse to bo
taken in by you or any other sharper who
attempts to swindle me," hi> answered.

"I'erhaps a small dose of law will teach
you to respect mo and my claim," I said,

" If you think so, you better administer
it immediately," he replied, "I am wjji
prepared for such physio, ami have alrea ly
hud an extensive exneriunco in the Uko
and iim)licatioii <i it.'

"Then you positively refuse (" I said
again, as 1 turned to leave.

"Under the cireumstancea, my kind
friend, I regret to say that I do," lie an-
swered.

"Very well," f said, "tlioconso(|ncnco:i
bo niion your heiul."

"Thank you; I fancy it is well aide to
bear the burden. A kind good morning
to you, and more' success in your next
venture."

" My next venture," 1 replied, lu I
walked from the room, "will touch you iv
leisoii in honesty, that you will not bo
likely soon to forgot."

Without further words wo parted, and
a few ' loiiients later (Jasher and I were
rattling along tho road to Seldy.

When Air. Buck' j heard tho result of
our visit, ho was by no means astonished.
It was, he said, only what ho had expected.
fie advised me to go to law at once, as by
no other means woulil I over get possession
of my property.

"We remained at Sobly that night, being
still the guests of Mr. and .Mra. Buckle,
and on the following m<n'ning staitod liack
to Bavford.

oiiArTpni XXXVI.

THK DONLKVEY UEUNlO.V.

On tho evening of our return to the
city, thero was a pleasant littlo reunion at
Dr. Donlevey's in our honor. The cdhi-
pany consisted of Mrs. Meeker, Nicholas,
Courtley, Gasher and my.^elf, who with
Dick and his gocjd wife, made up a happy
party. Tho objects of thu gathering were
to welcome us back to town, and to hoar
the result of our mission.

Mrs. Meeker was now hearty and strong,
and was over tho must cheerful and happy

118

MY OWN STORY.

at all our little festivals. NicholaB was
progressing favorably in Courtley's office,
and promised to hecomo a sound, if not a
brilliant lawyer, in duo time. Dick was
still prospering in his profession, and as
he ought to be, with such a true and
faithful wifo at his side, was one of the
happiest fellows in the world. His for-
mer wildness was no longer remembered
against him. TJioso who had onco been
so ready to censure him were now the
first to praise ; and though he was occasion-
ally spoken of as the " lloUicking Dick"
of other days, tlie world gave him credit
for liis present prosperity, and acknow-
ledged the success which his skill had won.

As we sat around the table after dinner,
I rehitcd a histoiy of my adventures at
Sebly. ]My affairs were well known to
all present, and therefore I did not desire
to conceal anything.

' ' What a dreadful bad man tliat step-
father of .yours must be," Mrs. Meeker
exclaimed, as soon as I had concluded my
story .

"A perfect wretch," her daugl-.ter
added.

"If I were you Karry, I'd disown him,"
Dick laughingly remarked.

"I've done that long since," I auHwcr-
ed ; "and now he turns the tables bydii-
owningme."

"Ho must be a cool fellow, at all
events," Dick said; "and one is almost
forced to admire him for his supreme
impudence in telling yon to your face that
you were dead."

"Such a self-pogaosscd villian I never
looked upon," Gaslier added. "His con-
duct during that interview was really a
splendid piece of acting from first to last.
It surpassed anytk.ing 1 ever saw, even on
the boards of Bt)8ton theatre."

"He cuuld not help knowing J'ou,"
Courtltiy said. "Jlrs. Meeker, Mrs.
Donlevey — all of us, in fact, who knew
3'ou when a boy — recognized you ,at once ;
and lie, therefore, must have done tlie
same, for lie knew you in those times even
better tiiou we did."

"My old mu'se kiieiv my voice the
moment fihe ]i.card it," I said ; "and that
Winstanley know me also, was clear
enuugli, uotwithstriuding his tine acting
and ■'.te'l-assumed ignorance."

"And hin condiuit only stamps him the
greater villian," Courtloy rejilicd' "T
have all ahnig told you, Hi-.rry, that he
was a rogue and a scoundrel ; and surelj'
you will no longer doubt my words, after
what you have j-ourself seen and heard."

"I have never doubted them," I
answci'ed. "Since my childhood I have
considered him a bad man, and I find
that time has not improved him." j

"And notwithstanding all this, you I

have spared him," Donlevey remarked,
"and have for years allowed liim to im-
properly hold possession of, and be bene-
fitted by that which belongs to you and
you ahme. Do you not acknowledge that
you have done wrong V

"It was not through any respect or
love for him that I have spared liim," I
answered. "Vim all know my reasons as
wol) as I do myself."

"They .'re n)anly and noble, and do
honoiM' to yciur heart," Dick continued;
"yet, after what has passed, do you not
think that they were wrong /"

"No," I answered; "the ties which
connected that man with mo were too
holy, bad as he was, and is, to admit of
my proceeding against him as you, my
friends, have all along advised. What
those ties are you well know, and I think
that any one of you, placed in my position,
would do just as I have done."

"Perhaps wo would," Courtley said.
"For myself, I freely confess that for a
time, at least, I would have spared him
as you have; but at a certain point,
Harry, fiu'bearance ceases to be a virtue.
If, af t(;r passing that point, you neglect to
do yourself justice, you place a premium
upon wrong-doing, and allow crime to go
unpunislied."

"Most correctly spoken, Courtley,"
Donlevey said." Hardy has acted more
than honour.ably in leaving Winstanley in
undisturbed possession of that property
for so many years. He has allowed him-
self to suiter rather than, in a court of
law, bring up old family matters, and
have tlie sacred names of the dead ban-
tered around lightly by unfeeling men.
After what h;is happened during the last
few days I think, as one, Hardy, wlio has
some right to call himself your friend,
that it woidd not only be wrong, but
actually dislionost were you to spare that
man any longer. Look at his heartlesness,
his cruelty, his wickedness, and tlien ask
yotn-self if it would be proper in you to
any longer refuse to as'iert your rights,
and to claim that which belongs to none
but you ?"

" £ have thought over the matter my
friends," I aiiswered, "but have not yet
made up niy mind. In leaving Winstanley
the otlier day, I threatened him with tho
law ; yet it was only done in the heat of
passion, and in my coolei' mom mts I can-
liot see wliethor or not it would be right
to enforce those threats."

"t)f the right, Hardy, you surely can-
not hold two opinions," Donlevey re-
marked, "that your caiise is a most just
one is beyond the possibility of a doubt.
Every friend yon have tells yon that, and
certainly they would not give you im-
proper advice."

I I

ct or
m." I

y can-
3y re-
st just
:loubt.
,t, c-vnd
u ira-

MY OWN STORy.

119

"Wiat do the ladies say?" Gasher
aakod, turning towards Mrs. Meokor.
"After all they are our best guides, oven
in such matters as this."

"I, for one, fully a;;roo with the advice
vou liave all given Jlr. Hardy," the old
lady replied, "this bad man should bo
punished, and made to resign all claim to
what docs n(ji/ belong to him."

' ' And you my little wife, what is your
opinio;! f" Donlevcy asked.

"That Mr. Hardy should commence
proceedings at once," Mrs. Donlovey an-
swered. "I have always said that he was
doing wrong, though guided by the niofit
lionorablo motives, in neglecting this mat-
tor. A continuance of the leinency ho has
shown would bo unjust to himself, and a
reward to that man for all the wicked-
ness with which his life seems to have been
filled.

this important matter," Courtley said, as
wo sat together that evening, in Sinawick
Cottage, enjoying our last pipe for tho
night, "you have neglected it too long
already, and tho longer you do so the
greater will bo your difticulty in proving
your claim and gaining your point."

" Something whicii 1 can hardly make
up my mind to do," I answered, "it would
bo a dreadful humiliation, Charley, wero
I compelled to carry this thing into a
court. Just think of all my family history
being rakod over, and publinlied in half
the papers of the country. What food it
would furnish tho scandal-mongers and
goasippers) How they would gloat over

How the\

Avould delight in it ! At
in tho bar-room, every

it!

the tea-table,

place it would be talked of and commented

on. and my name, with the names of thoso

who are dead and gone, would be in every

"There," Gasher exclaimed, "surely ] mouth. It would bo dreadful, Courtley,

with such advico you will no longer hesi
tate."

Yet I still did hesitate, and it wa.< not
until after wo had discussed the subject
for a long time that I agreed to allow
Courtley to write a lawyer's letter to Mr.
Winstanley, threatening procecdhigs if ho
did not, at once, resign all claim to tlie
property. Though I agreed to this much.

and I tell you honestly that, with tho
j fear of these things before me, I do not
, think I can ever consent to allow this
j case to go into a public court."

" My dear fellow, such things occur
I every day in tho week" Courtley rejoined.
j " There can be nothing discreditable or
I dishonorablo in your pursuing such a

course. If there was, Harry, you may

[ did not bind myself to my friends to , be sure we, who are your friends, would
c'M'cy out the threat in case lie refused I ' ■■ "
comj)liance with niy request. I would not
say positively that I would drag the natter
into a court of law. I still had doubts as
to tlie propriety of doing so, and left my-
self at liberty to be guided by the course
of eventsor byfutureopinions. Myfriends,
however, seemed delighted that I had
given in to such an extent. They were
tirm in the belief that rather than bring
about an exposure of his past life, and
malce public all tlie injustice I l>;ul sufieretl
at his h;i.nd'4, Winstanley would at once
give way and make full and complete res-
titution. I must confess that I was hardly
so sanguine. I knew the man better than
they. lie had little or no character to
lose. He v/as hated and despised bytliose
who knew him best, and for tho world's
opinion ho cared nothing. In addition to
that, he hated me with his w!ii)le heart.
He had disliked me in my childhood, and

not advise you to do so."

"lamawaro of that, Charley," I an-
s« Tod, " I kno-.y my cause is honest and
just, but 1 dread tho dragging in of tho
names of my dear father and mother, tho
unholy disturbance of tho memories of
the dead. Could these things be avoided
I,would not hesitate one moment. Respect
for those who have long since passed
away, and a reverence for their memory,
arc all that have restrained mo tlius far,
and are all tliat m:ike me dread acting on
your advice now."

"After all, Hardy," he replied, "pro-
ceedings in court may not bo necessary.
If Winstanley !ias any res[)uct for his own
honor, and any idea of justice in his
heart, he will avoid all exposure by (luietly
handing your property over to y(ju."

"I have not a good enough opinion of
him to thiiik that he will do so," I said.
"It is hard to say v/liat ho may do
years seemed to have only added to tlie ■ until we get him cornered up," Courtley
strength of that feeling. 1 felt suro that, ; replied. " 8ueli men r^s lie are generallj'
rather than enrich me by giving up the i cowards at heart, an<i if I am not vciy
prciperty, he would allow Ids hatred to | nmch mistaken, he v.ill give in wiien he

" finds that we are iiriu and detorniiued."

"i hope so, though I must say that I

do not think lie will prove so weak a foe,"

I said. "Ho ^v-ill hold out to tho verj^

end, and will lake delight in putting us to

spjnd all ho i all the expense and trouble j)o.isible. He

• will make a tJerc.i fight, lie cares nothing

' ii..r exjioKure a'ld less for justice."

carry him to the most extreme ends of
opposition, blind and foolish though it
might be. He was a wicked, determined,
stubljorn man, and though ho v.'ell knew
the justness of my claim, he would never
acknowledge it, and would
-was worth in opposing it.

" I am glad you have gone tluis far

120

MY OWN STORY.

"\Vc will try tlio threatening procoss
nt nil events, Hardy, and if that does not
jiroduce the desired effect, we -will havo
to bring the law to bear u])on him. How-
ever," ho added, "I think we havo
discusst d this matter sufticiently for one
night. I wish to speak of something else
of no less inii)ortanue to you. Have yon
heard anything regarding Mis."! Jarvis
since yonr return/"

" No," I answered ; " I have only been a
few hours in town, as you are aware, and
have spoken to none but tho friends we
were with to-niglit."

"Have you got that note you recoived
from Miss Jarvis a little time ago?"

"Yes."

"Does it not say that if y(ju hear any
any rumours about her you must not be-
lieve them i"

"Yes; why do you ask?"

"Hecausu certain rumours are now in
circulation, Harry, and they are no doubt
thoRj which she anticipated and wai-ned
you of."

"What !ire tliey ?" I eagerly asked.

"You iiiight easily guess them, (dd fel-
low. Unfounded they undoul)tedly are ;
yet for some unknown reason they are put
in circulation, and no one takes tho trouble
to deny them. They are to the eJicot
that Gus. Gardner and Florence Jarvis
are lo become man and wife before they
grow many months older."

"Tiiey are as lia-se as thej' are r.ntiuo 1"
I exclaimed pa.ssifinately.

"I know tliey are, old fellow." Hutting
aside her love for j'ou, P'lorence Jarvis is
too sensible a girl, and has too good a
heart to cvor sacritice herself by marrying
that monitd fool. Even were her ho;irt
not given to another, she could never
mate with such a man as Gardner."

"Courtley," I said, "the.=!e rumours are
pain.ful to me, though, of courtia, I do not
believe them, blio is incapable of deceit.
1 know — I feel — I am positive that she
loves me with all the devotion iind truth
with which. J lovelier. She has proved it
in a thousand ways. That note of her;< is
of itself all tlie ]iroof I reciuire. T];ere
may be women who could write in such a
way without feeling its truth ; but slie is
not of them. 1 could stake my life on her
faithfulness."

"I am rejoiced to find you so iirm in
your belief in her love," Courtley said,
"and it was with every confidence in uoiir
confidence that 1 told you of these rum ciur.--.
1 knew yon would hear them before Ion?,'
from others, and therefor.^ I thought it
best to tell you of them at <mce. Kost
assured they are unfounded, though spread
for some purpose. Judge Jarvis himself
does not contradict them, and Gardner,
the acs, speaks of them as if they were

perfectly true. At Rugby's i)arty the
other night, he amused himself by an-
nouncing that his career as a bachelor was
almost over, and that before .another
spring comes, he will have broken innu-
merable soft hearts, by taking unto him-
self a wife."

': "Just like the fool," I replied. "It will
, be glorious satisfaction to make a laughing"
I stock of him some of those days. 1 hoi)e
j this rumour will olitain wide circulation,
! in order that his humiliation may bo tho
; greater when the hour of his dissapoint-
' ment comes. Do not think that I will
I mind it, Charley. J have a C(mfidence in
'. Florence Jarvis that cannot bo shaken,
I and a faith that cannot be broken."

"H(dd to that contidcnce and faith,
Harry, and all will bo well. There is a
! glorious reward in store for you, and the
; day which makes Florence Jarvis your
; wife, makes you the happiest fellow alive."
"And so it v.ill, Courtley. My affairs
are dark and clouded just now; but some-
' thing tells me that in a little v.hile all this
will will clear away, and in its jilaco will
come a bliss of which I long havo dreamed,
and which will then be mine for over-
more."

CHAPTER XXX VI!.

TIIK S I. E I (5 H I N (i PA it TV.

In accr)rdaneo w ith the deci:3ion come to,
Courtley wrote til Mr. Winstanley, mak-
ing, in my behalf, a fornuil demand for
the pr(.>porty, and threatening kgal pro-
ceedings if the demand were not complied
with. The leply was such as I had ex-
pected. He (lid not acknuv.ledga my
claim. He looked upon me as an hnpos-
ter, with whom he would have no dealings
whatever. The genuine Harry Hardy, he
a;iid, died in hi.s cliildhdod, siiortly after
running away from ach<iol, a fact whiuh
he was well prepared io prove i.i a court
of h'.w if it were neceasary. If we wished
to go to lav.' about the matter, he was
quire ]>repared for us ; and, as he had no
time to attend to the demand.s of impos-
ters and .swindlers, he hinted that if we
addressed any further letters to him he
. woulil be compelled to seek the aid of
th.c law in protecting himself. Notwith-
standing thi.T throat, we wrote to him
again, even more strongly than at first,
and received an answer directing us to
comnuinicatu witli his lawyer if wo in-
tended going on with our swindling
ojierafion.
i The lawyer was not unknown to Court-
j le_v, and he seemed well fitted, from hia
I reputation, to occupy the pu.sition of
i legal adviser to such a man as Winstanley.

MY OWN STORY.

121

I I

Ho was simply a professional shark ; a
keen, slirewd, cunning fellow, wlio had
grown wealthy by indulging in all sorts of
sharp practices, without involving himself
in any operation that could bring punish-
ment |upon him. Many men, however,
have sei'ved lengthened terms of justifiable
imprisonment for doing much leas then ho
often did. Mr. Crabb was too great a
schemer, and know all the ins and outs of
the law too well, ever to get himself into
so tight a comer that ho could not easily
wriggle out of it. He was Winstanley's
riglit-hand man, and had assisted him
lis I now learned, in many a \ iece of
villiany.

To this Mr. Crabb we wrote, and in
duo time received an answer to the etfect
that, so far as he and his client were con-
cerned, we were at perfect liberty to pro-
ceed at once with our case, and that it
would afford them tlie greatest possible
jileasiire to expose me as a scoundrel and
an imposter.

Thus all my efforts at a peaceable
aettlement of tlie matter failed, and I
hesitated before taking any further steps.
Oourtley, Donlevey and the rest of them,
advised me to institute legal proceedings
at once, l)ut ihat old dread of raking up
family matters and creating scandal was
lieavy upon mc, and I could not shake it
ofT. I argued with them and with myself,
and still 1 could not make up my mind to
face the t; ial.

Weeks and months rolled by and I still
liesitated. The snows of winter came,
Christmas and New Years passed away,
and my mind was not yet made xip. My
friends lost all patience with me, and
even a sort of coldness sprang uj) between
Courtley and myself, through the diflerent
views we held on this matter. '

While 1 WAS thus living in doubt,
(Jftsherwas growing weaker day by day.
Shortly after our visit to Scbly he began
to fail rapidly, and in less than a nionth
he was in such a delicate state that he
could not leave the cottage at all. They
were all most kind to him, and nxu'sed
and cared for him as if he hiid been a
brother. Donlevey was unremitting in
his attentions, though ho knew that all
Ilia labour was for naught, and that re-
covery nov/ could only be brought about
by a miracle. That stealthy enemy, con-
sumption, liad laid its hands upon liim,
and tlie days of my dear friend were
numbered. He was aware of it ; he had
long known it. With a bright smile he
told me one day that he was not sorry
that death was so near.

"I have nothing to tie me to the
world, ' he said, "you and one or two
others are all the friends I have. It
pains mo to have to leave you Harry.

Wo have been friends for a long time —
ever since that rainy night — when wo mot
in the dark streets of old Boston. You
have been very kind, and you are very,
very dear to me. You are the first and
best friend I have ever known. Without
the love of a father, a mother, or any re-
lation, your love has been all and all to
me. You have been friend, brother,
It is very sad to leave you
all the kindness y(ni have
but it will not be for long,
live the honourable life you

far lived, you will have no

everything,
now, after
shown mo ;
While you
have thus

more fear of death when it aiJproaches
than I have now ; and after it has como
to you we shall, through God's mercy,
meet again, where parting never comes."
He often spoke like this. He was happy
and resigned, and had apparently lost all
desire for life. He would sometimes
refer to his singular history, and would
say that the only regret ho experienced in
parting from the world, was that ho could
not even leave behind him a name that
was his own to mark his grave. That was
the sorrow which had brought him sickness
and suflering, and had made his whole life
unhappy.

On the first of January, I procured a
small interest in an establishment in Bay-
ford, and once more entered upon active
business pursuits. I was thus compelled
to be absent from home during the greater
j portion of each day ; and in order that
j pi)or (Jaslier might receive proper atten-
I tion, I thought it well to eini)loy some
j one to nurse him. I spoke to Mrs. Sins-
wick on the subject, and she recommended
I a professional nurse, named Mrs. Taylor,
I who was highly .spoken of as a good, kind
! and careful woman, in every way fitted
! for the position. Mrs. Taylor was sic-
I cordingly engaged, and at once entered
I upon the performance of lior duties. She
I was not an old woman, probably close
! upon fifty, though she at first sight looked
j much older than that. Her appearance
I would lead one to boiicve that in her
' younger days she must have been a
.strikingly beautiful woinaii. Traces (»f
that beauty still remained, notwithstand-
ing the heavier traces of sorrow and grief
which mai'kcd lier every feature. Her
manner and Linguago also were superior
to her positi)ii, and indicated that she
had not always moved in the low sphere

of life which she n )ccupied. She was

kind and gentk in ler manuer, and a
short trial was lii .ont to convince mo
that at her hands ...y poor, dying friend
w<mM receive nothing but tender, womanly
treatment.

On St. Valentine's Day, the /((/M)f Bay-
ford wore to have a grand, sleighing-party,
—one of thosj genuine, old-fashioned

122

MY OWN STORY.

merry gathorinRS, which were known
amongst iis long before opera-houses or
theatre* were built, and which carried in
them mora social happpiness and true
pleasure than all the amusements put
together, which havo since those old days
been imported into our country. They
were grand old meetings, and those who
Icnew them as wo used to have them
about forty, or oven twenty years ago,
look back upon them now as among the
happiest incidents of their liycu.

Though in no way instrumental in
getting up the sleighing party, Courtley
and I received invitations. I had not
participated in such pleasures of late.
My own troubles, and poor Gasher's ill-
ness had unfitted me for them. My heart
was too heavy for enjoyment ; and until
some change for tho better came, I felt
that my own quiet, bachelor home, was
tlio best place for mc.

dasher heard of tho proposed party,
and while lying on tho sofa one evening
spoke of it.

" Are you going Harry ? " he asked.

"Going/ of course not," I replied.
" You know I havo kept away from all
fluch affairs of late, and I have neither
the intention nor tho desire to participate
in them at present."

"It is very kind, very good of you to
do this, " lie said, in a soft tone. " It is
all on my acccmnt, and is only another
proof of your love and friendship."

"I havo no heart for such pleasures,
Gaahev," I answered, " and would rather
not force myself into an attempt to enjoy
them."

After a short silence ho turned to me
and said, earnestly, '* Harry, i want you
to attend this sleighing party."

"You want mo to?" 1 exclaimed,
thinking his request a very singular one.

" Yes, for y<ur own sake and mine.
They will both be there. You wish to
Boe one, and 1 wisli to hear from the
other, just this once, before — before the
end comes. Will you not go, Harry 1"

It was agiiinst tlio feelings of my own
heart tl*at 1 promised, yet I could not
refuse him. The request was tenderly
and earnestly made. That hopeless love
of his was still alive. He had not spoken
of it for a long time ; but now when the
end was near, he could remain silent no
longer. His heart still clung to her, his
soul yciirned for her, and even to hear
me tell of having seen <ind spoken to her,
was a happiness for which he longed.
Poor fellow; even with death at his side,
that hopeless, honest love remained faith-
ful and undimmed.

His heart seemed set upon my going,
and therefore, for his sake, I changed my
mind and j>romised to attend.

It was 'a, clear, frosty night when tho
happy party dashed through the streets of
liayford and went out over the snow-clad
coimtry. There wan a long procession,
made up of all sorts of sleighs, large and
small, old and new, filled with merry
peo]>le, who laughed, and sang, and were
boisterous in their glee. Staid maimera
and fashionable stiflness were lost sight of
at those old-fashioned sleighing parties.
Everybody went into them heartily, en-
joyed them fully, and did everything
jiossiblo to make everybody else enjoy
them too. Ball-room etiquette, and tho
tedious conventionalities of more recent
times, were out of place at such gatherings.
Each one pienent knew everybody else,
and thus the party was like the meetuig
of (10 many friends.

It was, in fact, as if one immense, but
very happy family, were out for a trip of
pleasure. Though fashionable restrictions
were removed, it must not bo supposed
that coarseness or vulgarity was allowed.
On tho contrary, everything — though
perhaps not so refined — was, at least,
more proper than nmchthat (me witnesses
in fashionable circles at the present time.
The merry people were simply at their
ease. They treated each other in a warm,
friendly manner, and their conduct was a
striking contrast to the stiff formality and
studied politeness that obtain now. The
latter m.ay bo more suitable in these
advanced days ; but certainly the former
wtui more genuhie and more natural, and
carried with it infinitely more happiness.
Remember, the party of which I am now
speaking was something luicommon. —
There were a great many old settlers in
liayford, who, in a measure, kejjt up tho
amusements of their j'ounger years, and
this was ono of them. Though a very
happy gathering, it was but a parody on
the aleighing-parties of a few years before.

We dashed along over the crisp snow
at a rattling pace. All was white and
still, .ind beautiful around us, and over
head the full moon was riding in all her
glory, surrounded by millions of bright
stars, which .seemed to bo winking down
at us as wo dashed .along. Above the
nijvry jingle of the sleigh bells were to be
heard the sweet song, the loud laugh, and
tho glad shout of innocent glee. Occa-
sionally some mischievous driver would
dexterously deposit his entire caigo in the
midst of a huge snow drift, to tlie great
delight of everybody, and none would
laugh hnuler than the victims of the so-
called " accident."

As we dashed along our shouts would
bring the C(mntry people to their doors,
and the farm dogs to our horses' heels ;
while, as wo passed each way-side inn, a
OToup of lazy-lookinir fellows would ex-

{

1 \

t i^

MY OWN HTORY.

12S

hibit more activity than thoir apnoaranco
indicated, by sending after each sleigh
load a vigorous volley of snow-ball.s, which
wore received with as much good nature
a.1 they were given.

With Huch incidents as those, we flow
over this country, . and after a splendid
drive of about twenty miles, drew up at
a large comfortable-looking hotel, in a
small country village. The landlord
having been warned of our coming several
days before, everything was prepared for
ns. The house was in aVblaze of light,
and warm as toast, linxom, rosy-cheeked,
roiind-armod country girls wore running
around hero and there and everywhere.
The air froi.i the kitchen indicated that
good things were to come. The landlady
bustled around .xnd hurried up everyone
in her department, and the landlord
bustled around and hurried up every one
in hit department, including even the
landlady herself. The ball-room was all
in readiness. We had, a band of music
■wit'i us, and in loss than half an hour
shawls, and oipcs, and bonnets, and furs,
and overcoats and caps, and mufflers,
"wei'e laid aside and tlio happy party were
tripping away in the merry dance, with
light hearts and nimble heels.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THK ADVJCE OF LOVE.

"AVf.li., old fellow, arc you going to
dance?" tJouvtley lunkud, as v.e strolled
into the ball-room.

"I did not intend dcjing so wlien I left
home," I ans-.vercd; "but 1 suppose I
nnist, or run the risk of being set down as
a striingo fi'ih. Who all are here?"

"Oh, everybody! This is decidedly
the best thing of the rjoason. I never saw
such a l»a])])y party in my life. Hero
they arc riittling .away before tliijse unfor-
tunate musicians have had time to heat
their tiddlo-striiigs and tune up."

"The ladies and gentlemen are about
e(iual in numbiM-," I said, as I surveyed {
the room. "We mu.st all dance, there-'
fore, whether v.c like it or not. Wo can- ,
not have 'wall-flovicrs' while there's a I
gentleman disengaged. " |

"All rigid, old boy," Courtley said |
gaily. "A(.-t uiion that, and sail in at ;
once. Yi)u know everybody here, and i
everybody knov.'s you. Do your duty |
like a man. Here goes for the 'cold |
duck,'" and tiu'ning away from me, he |
staiied in seareh of a partner.

])r. Donlesey and his wife, and others
of my more intimate friends, were present,
and had I been in the proper hnmoiir and
condition for it, I could havv> enjoyed

myself thoroughly. I had come on n
spacial duty, however, aTid my only do-
sire was to perform it cfSciontly. Miss
Jar\i8 and Miss Montcruiff wore both in
the room. With one I had a duty ti>
jierform for myself; with tho other, a
mission to carry out for my poor, sick
friond.

I had not seen Florence for along time.
She had been away from homo during the
greater portion of the winter, and had
only recently rotumod. I could not tell
why, but I had expected to seo some
change in her appearance — 1 had almost
hoped so ; but there was none. I scaimed
her features closoly, but there were no
signs of sufTering or sorrow there. She
wore tho same stately, ([ueenly air, and
easy, graceful carriage, which had caught
my eyo and enchained my attention on
that night, many nionths before, when
first wo m«t. And now, too, as (m that
occasion, (jrardner stood at lier side, and
deigned to glance towards mo with a look
of triumph, which I felt in .spito of myself.
As I thought of my position, I could not
but feel humiliated. Everyone present
looked upon mo as a rejected suitor — cast
oft" on account of my poverty for a fool
with wealth. My rejection was an old
stoiy now with tho scandal-mongers ; yet
they occasionally took it uj) when newer
sensations were scarce. They joked, and
conjectured, and gossiped over my mis-
fortunes, and unsuccessful suit ; yet I
bore it all with patience. 1 had the
assurance of her own word* that Florence
loved mc, and with that knov/ledgu in my
heart, I carod not what tlie world nught
say. I kneviT they would call me a mean,
Rliiritless fellow if T showed any attention
to her now, after wliat had j,>as3ed between
us, and still I must do so, for her .sake as
well as my own.

As soon as the dance was over I strolled
down the room, and approached her as
she took her seat. Knowing that half the
eyes in tho room were upon nia, I was
most careful not t;) betray myself by v.-ord
or action ; but I succeeded very poorly.
She had more connuand over herself than
1, for she received nie in an ordinarily
friendly way ; yet hor c'lecks iiushed u])
sliglitly, and her hand trembled just a
little as she placed it in mine. Tlie first
moment of our meeting over, I regained
command of niyself, and .".poke with aji-
parent froeness, though not without an
eflbrt that I felt, but which nono around
could notice. There was an inw.ird hap-
piness arising from the consciousness of
being in hor presence, that brought back
to me something of my old air and feel-
ing, and aided me wonderfully in conceal-
ing the emotions I really felt.

The next dance was a waltz; fortunately

194

MY OWN STORY.

ahe wiis (lisuiig&gcd. The miiBiu had not
yot commencetl, but wo took our place
auioug tho proinonailers, and nauntcred
around tho room.

" I am happy, so happy that you are
hero to-night ; Harry," Hho eaid in a Hoft,
oarnost tone, as sho U^aned confadingly on
my arm.

" Not uioro happy than I am, Florence,"
I whispered,

" I was afraid you would not como,"
sho continued, "and had you not it would
have been a terrible disaiipoiutment to
me."

"Would it, darlinj,' ?"
" Indeed, indeed it would, Harry," sho
replied, in the same low tone, "I had no
wish, no desire, and only one object, and
that was that I niiyht meet you, even if
it were only for a few minutes."

"God blehs you for your love and kind-
ness, my own darling," I whispered.
"Hush, they will hear you," sho said.
"My object, Florence, in coming hero,
was the same as yours," 1 continued, " 1
have avoided such scenes <if late ; plea-
sures have no attractions f(jr me unless
you share them with me, .ind I would not
now bo here among these merry-makers
were it not that I had hoped ycm would
be hero also."

"Why do you avoid such places, Hardy?"
she asked, after a short pause.

"Because I have no heart for them."
"But why/ surely you do not doubtniy
truth?"

"Oh, no, Florence," I stiid, earnestly,
"my contidence, my faith in your love are
luibounded. The idlu rumors that iUiat
around cannot shake my faith. Nothing
but your own words can ever do that."

"I did not think you would believe
them," she said, glancing up fondly, "yet
I wished with my own lips to tell you that
they are untrue. 1 cannot tell you more
now. All shall be explained and made
clear some day; but for the present let the
world believe those stories and comment
on them as they will. While you know
me to be faithful and true to the promises
I have given, I care not v.hat others may
think or say."

"Even were I not conlident that I have
your love, Florence," T said,- "think you
that 1, knowing you as f do, could for one
moment believe that you would ever be-
come the wife of such ainan a'5 Gardner?"
"Then having this confidence in me,
Harry," she answered, "why have you
given up those pleasures you once enjoyed?
Why are you unhappy ? You have not told
me so, yet I see by your looks and actions
that y(ju are unhajiijy.'

" I have troubles and sorrows, darling,
of which you know not."

" Should you not tell them to me ?"

she asked, " Who has more right to know
all your secrets than 1 1"

" No one, Florence," I answered, "and
you should have known them long ere
this, had I seen you. Let mo speak of
them now, while the opportunity oflfers,
and ask yo\u' advice in a matter, in which
I have declined tho advice of many of
my best friends."

"And shall you act upon mine, if I
give it you ?" sho asked.
"I shall."

" I am but a poor advi.ser, Harrj'," she
laughingly said, "1 would not have you
guided by my words, however, honestly
spoken they might be."

"Yon cannot err, Florence, dear, your
judgment is better than mine, and what-
ever you tell mo to d<j shall be done. But
first I must tell you some sad news. You
"know Mr. Adams 1"
"Yes, what of him?"
" Ho is very, very ill, so ill that I fear
ho will never recover."
"Never."

" Never, darling ; unless God should
work a miracle."

' ' Poor fellow, poor fellow. I heard
he was ill, but I did not think it was so
sei'ious."

' ' He is a dear friend of mine, Florence,
and while he lies suffering at home, I have
no heart for such pleasure as these. He
knows all my secrets, and pressed mo
strongly to come here to-night that I
might meet you. Pardon 'me for having
introduced so sad a subject, but it leada
to another. I have told you the story of
my life, Florence, from my childhood
up. Do you remember my step-fathei-'s
name?"

"Yes; Winstanley. I have heard of
him from others. If all accounts be true,
he is a bad, wicked mau."

"And so he is. I went up to my old
home last fall and saw him."

"Did you? How were you received?"
"As a stranger — an impostor. He re-
fused to recognize mc, and even called ma
a swindler."

" Wliat a dreadful man he must be."
"Indeed he is, Florence. It is with
pain 1 say it, but ho is a much worse man
than I ever thought him. 1 made a de-
mand for my property, oi which he has
for so many years held possession ; bat, of
course, he refused to give it up."
"And what did you do then?"
"I threatened him with legal proceed-
ings."

"Have you i)ut your threat into exe-
cution?"

"No ; I have done nothing. My friends
have advised mo strongly to go to law,
but I have not done so. You already
know my reasoiu for sparing him. Am

MY OWN STORY.

125

you ndviae me, Florence, bo shall I pro-
ceed."

"Motives of interest might guide mo,"
•ho said with a smile.

"Tho world might say so, but not 1," I
roplifid. "Knowing all tho facts, I ask
your advico as one whoso judgment and
opinions I value more highly than thoso of
•nyone elso on earth. Say to mo what I
shall do in this matter and it shall bo done.
Shall I go to law with Winstanloy, or shall
I leave him alone, allowing events t(» take
their own course J"

She was silent for a fow minutes, and
then she said :

"If Mr. Winstanloy wore a good man,
Harry, I would say leave him Jilone, but
«f cour.so no good man could do as he has
done. Aside from this matter of yours,
he has a bad reputation. Evoiyone
speaks ill of him. Your motives for
sparing him so long are good and noble ;
and even were you a stranger to me, I
would honour you for them. Under other
circumstances I would not advise you in
tho affair at all, but as you have asked
my opinion, and as, in a measure, it all
rests upon what I may say, I will tell you
honestly that, woman as I am, if I occupied
tho position you do, Mr. Winstanley
should be made to feel the weight of law
and justice."

"Is that your real opinion?" I asked.

"Itia."

"Then, Florence, I shall hesitate no
longer. You have dispelled all doubts.
Ishall askthelawtogive mebackmyown."

As I 3i)oke, the music struck up, and
tho merry dancers went whirling aroiuid
us. Further conversation was, for the
time, impossible — so encircling her waist
with my arm, we joined in the jdeasuves
of tho giddy throng.

Later in tho evening I danced with Miss
Montcrciff. She was not at all like her
former self. She was as beautiful as ever,
but there was a cast of sadness on her
lovely face which told of some hidden
sorrow. I saw at a glance that she did
not enter into the pleasures of the ball
room with that heartiness for which she
had once been remarkable.

" Ycm are a great stranger, Mr. Hardy,"
she said as we took our places in the set.
"Have you been away from town'/"

"No; not since last fall," I replied,
"but I have been living a very quiet life
of late. 1 have gone out very little dur-
ing tlie winter. Wo bachelors are some-
times ungallant enough to tire even of
Buch pleasures as these. It has been a
very gay season, I believe."

"Yes; very," she answered in an
absent-minded way.

"Then I have missed much pleasure
through my seclusion," I said.

"I'm sure I do not think yoti have,"
she replied, "it has boon tho ftamo old
thing over and over again ; one tires of
these constant rejutitions. I know I do.
I Avish tho dreary winter were over, and
tho pleasant summer come again. These
balls and parties are so dreadfully tire-
some."

"You did not always think so," I said,
"a little while ago, Miss Montcreiff was
the ga}''est and happiest at all such gath-
erings as this."

'Tho change is easily accounted for,"
she replied with a faint smile, "wo maid-
ens like you bachelors, grow tired of such
affairs, and luad wo the same means as yo>i
have of si>eking and linding other recrea-
ations, I'm afraid tho ball-room would
often be empty. But, dear me, look at
our vis-a-vis couple waiting for us. l*eo-
ple will say we are talking of love if we
neglect tho dance in this dreadful manner."

I had purposely arranged it, so that the
set I danced with her was tho last before
suj)per, in order that I might have a better
opportunity of speaking to her. When
tho set was finished I conducted her to
the supper-room. I picked out as (piiot
a 8i)ot as 1 could find, still there were
others near us, and I could not say what
I wished to. I therefore delayed until
nearly all the rest had left the room and
we were alone at our end of tho table.

"I wish it was time to return home,"
she said, "I am very tired of this place,
though everyone seems so happy in it."

"I fear you have, like myself, lost your
taste for pleasure," 1 rejoined.

"In a measure I have," she answered,
"too much of it is, I believe, worse than
none at all."

"Wo soimer or later grow wear}' of this
sort of thing," I said, attempting to lead
the conversation into tho desired chan-
nel," look at the particularparty to which
I belong — the Siuswick (piartette, as we
used to be called. What a pleasure-hunt-
ing set we were a year or two ago; and
now we suldom attend even a private
party. "Rollicking Dick Donlevey," the
merriest fellow in the province, has taken
unto himself a wife, and become a staid,
solemn phj-sician. C!liarley Courtley is
learned in the law, and talks wisdom to
boxes full of stupid jurors. I have become
a quiet nobody, of whom my former friends
seldom hear, and still more seldom meet.
And the last, though not the least of the
(juartette, poor Adams, is weary of the
world and all its pleasures."

I watched her closely, and as I spoke
his name the color rushed to her cheeks,
but in a few moments it stole away again
and left her face paler than before. Her
heart was evidently moved, though she
made an eflort to conceal it.

126

MV (JWN STORY.

" Hiw Mr. AcliiniH Viccu r.hdcnt finm tlio
city'/" she :i«kcMl, iiftcr a Hliort Hileiicc,
"I do not think I hnvc euun him this
winter."

"Hf liiiH )>vcn in Hiiyforil nil the time,"
I aiiswiTrd. "l)iit, imliajiiiily, tlio iioor
fclli>w is very, very ill, mul dares not vun-
tiirc to luavo liniiii'."

"I did nut know ho wan ho ill as that,"
hIio fiaid, in a low voice, ami growing Btill
paler.

"Ho ha.s failed greatlj'," 1 an«wcrod,
"you would scarcely know liiui, ho in ho
wasted and no changed."

" Wliea the fmo days of 8])rtng con<c,
ho will rtx'ovor," Hho rei'lied, tiiriiinj^ her
pale, he.aiitiful faco towards me an if to
luk if tliero were not some hope that her
words might prove tnie.

"Perhaps so," Inaid, " perhaps no, JIlss
Montcreifr. Wo nnist all hope for the
best."

" Lot 118 return to tho l)all-rooni," nho
said, ri.ning <]uickly. " Thin room is very
close."

I had scar(!ely iiiao (o get oil" my seat
when filio fell into my arms iuseiiKihlo.

Thei'o were several other persona in tho
room, v,ho ran to my assistance, and in
complianco with their advice 1 carried her
into an adjoining aiiartmeiit. Seeing
that she was slowly recovering, I left her
to tho caro of several of her own sex.
She did not return to tl'v ball-room during
tho evening ; but as we were pre|)aring to
go home an hour or two later, I met her
in the hall.

"Mr. Hardy," .she whispered, "1 shall
write you a n(jto to-moiTow. You aro a
man of honor. Let what I will tell you
be sacred, and what 1 ask be done. Good
night."

The next moment I lost sight of her in
tho crowd.

In a few minutes we were all dashing
back towards IJayford, in the clear moon-
light of tlu) oright winter's morning.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

WHAT KLLEN MONTCHEiyF's NOTE SAID.

Ellen Montcreiff kept her word faith-
fully. Late in the following afternocm I
received her note. As I write, it lies on
the table before me, ol;l and time stained.
At this time it is no breach of honor to
embody it in my storj*. Here ifi a copy
of it :—

BAYFORn, February J 5, 18 —

"My Deau Fkiend — What I intend
saying herein, perhaps should not be said,
but I cannot remain silent longer. You
have read my heart and divined its
(secrets. T know I can trust you. I place

every secret in your keeping, feeling suro

that it will bo as sacred as those of your

own heart. .\ few hours ago 1 thought

that none wo\ild over know tliis but m;, -

suif. I hoped that in the deepest recess

^ of my heart it would Ho hidden forever;

but you last night disooverod it. In my

! weakness you saw it all. In words 1 may

I as well toll you what my actions have

j already betrayed. You have suspoctod it

I i>.ll along, I know, and had it been right

1 or womanly, I t.houM have confirmeil

I your suspicions. Could I have done so,

I his life iii';,dit havu been saved, and my

j sorrow averted. 1 was a blind follower

of tho foolish customs of tho world, and

I could not dejiart from them. Hail I fol-

I lowed tho dictates of my own heart, I

would havo done iliflerently. Mow, when

it is too late, when all the terribh' re.'^ultK

I of my folly liavo como, 1 do that which I

should have done long, long ago.

1 " I love your ilying friend — iiv/ dying

life. 1 will not rave us a school-girl, anil

! say I lovo him wildly, madly, yet God

I aiul my own heart know what my lovo is.

" 1 could lay this worthless life of mine

I down to save his. I could go into tho

I grave this very hoiu", if by that a^ t could

' induce He.avon to s])are him. hiw long

I havo I loved him, you will ask. 1 do not

j know, F cannot toll you. It seems to mo

I IIS if I had known and loved him all my

- life. I remember when first we met, but

my heart says I loved him long years bo-

I fore that. This is very strange, you will

say, yet it is very true. I can no moi-e

I tell you when I first loved him, than tell

I you when it shall please God to f ako me.

I This lovo for him is a part of my being,

I and seems to havo boon with mo during

my whole life.

"Had I not been blind and foolish, all
; might have been well. i5ut it is too late
j now for regi'et. i nuist leain to bear my
I sorrow as best I can, looking to Heaven
: for happiness and to God for hope.
. "Do you remember that night lonjj

j ago, at Mrs. 's ])arty ? Wo had

a strange conversation on the balcony.
You spoko of the strength and endurance
[ of Woman's love, and wondered if it W(mld
remain true over and always. Y'ou asked
if a wonuvn would remain faithful in her
allcction, even did she discover that the
man she loved was of lowly and perhaps
dishonourable birth. I thought all this
very strange, very singular at tho time.
How blind I was, how miserably blind !
I should have seen that it was for his
sake that you spoke so singularly — that it
was on his behalf you came — that for him
you were trying my heart and testing my
love. Oh had I known it — had I thought
of it, how diiiereut would everything now
be.

MY OWN STORY.

127

" When it wiiH too lato T Haw it all — I
•iliscovercd overythinj;. Somo Ncrii])* of
his lifo'H luHtfiry liavo been wliiHnered to
1110. How the world has lonrnod them I
know not ; hut I have heard tlioni, and
they have opened my eyoH. They are
only rnmoiu'H, vngiio and nnreliablo, yet
that converHiition of yonis convinced nie
of their tniMi, and tills up all that is
wantini^ to make tlio sad Htory com-
plete .

" How noble, how good, how honoura-
ble of him. He loved me. I tiaw it in
his every action, yet he never spoke of it.
His silence pained and astonished nie,
but now I can account for it. There was
some stain on his name, some mystery
about his birth, and for that rcanon his
noble nature said it would bo dishonoura-
ble in him to talk of love to me. How
, noble ! When njy eyes were opened and
I saw that, 1 worshipped him. No luai-
ter what hit) hint(>ry, his heart was good
and pure ; and had ho spoken but one
word of Ilia lf)vc uiy whole .soul would
have j;ono imt to him. Ifad he done so !
Had he done so !

"The world would blame nio for writing
in this way, but for its opinion I no lon-
ger care. My heart tells nio I am ri;^ht,
and that is Rnfticient.

" Mr. Hardy, you are his best and dear-
est friend ; you must tell him everything.
It may give some happiness to his closing
hours. I myself shall see him. Do not
say it would be wrong and improper. I
know it would not. I luust see him.
He is suffering. Ho is dying, and 1 am
not near him. I must, I shall go to him.
1 care not what friends or the world may
say. It is my duty — my heart's desire ;
and I shall perform it, no matter who
opposes. Ciuiie to me as soon as you
can, that I may go with you to him. Lose
not a moment. If you do not come, I
■shall go myself. But you will come for
me. You have a good heart — you love
him — you will take me to him. God will
bless you if you do this thing, and I shall
pray for you always while I live. Do this,
now, for his sake, for mine, and for your
own. 1 shall wait and watch.

Ellen Moktcreiff.

What a strange epistle. I read it over
several times, so singidarly did it interest
me. I could hardly believe that it was
really from Ellen Jlontcreiff. It was so
unlike her. She was si most faithful fol-
lower of the customs of society, and about
the last woman whom I would expect to
write in such a way ; so contrary to eti-
■ <|nette, and, the world would say, contrary
even to propriety. Deeply, sincerely, fer-
vently must she love poor Gasher, when
she could allow lierself to so far outstep
the beaten track.

And what wai I to do ? How was I to
proceed tinder the circumstances ? Theae
questions I asked myself many times, and
at last I came to the conclusion, that, no
matter what the world might say, I would
do as she wished. There would bo no
harm in her seeing him, and it would bo
a happiness to them both. His days wero
numbered, his life was ebbing fast, and
an interview with her might make his
e.tit more easy, and his heart more hai)j)y
in its dying moments. I had not yet
rel.itiid to him tho incidents which had
occurred at tho ball on the previous night,
and while doing so I could easily intro-
duce this other matter, which, indeed,
was part of tho chain.

Ho was sitting in an easy chair, when I
got home, looking very weak and death-
like.

" You see T am waiting for you," he
said, with a faint smile, as T shook his
thin, transparent hand, "Mrs. Taylor has
been trying to get mo to bed this hour or
more, but I could not go until I had soon
you. Tho kind creature is terribly wor-
ried on account of my oi)position."

"I am sorry to have kept you up so
long," I said, " 1 was detained in tho
store this evening longer than usual."

"I know you were," he answered, "or
you would have been hero before. Now
sit down and tell mo all about the ball and
then I shall go to bed. Did you enjoy
yourself /"

" As well as I could under the circum*
stances," I replied, " I was in no humour
for merry-making. "

"Was Florence there."

"Yes."

" Then you nnist have had some hai)pi-
ness. It is a long time since you met her
last. Is she still the same to you?"

"God bless her, yes. Time and ab-
scence have not changed her love."

"She is a noble girl, Harry, a noble
girl. How happy you should bo in tho
possession of her heart. I always felt
confident that she loved you, notwith-
standing the idle stories that have been
spread, regarding her and that fellow
Gardner. Was he there I"

"Yes."

"How did she treat him?"

"In the same manner as she has always
treated him. The world would say she
was very kind to him, and was trying to
win him. Her conduct is very singular,
yet I have full confidence in her. She
told me all the stories in circulation about
him and her were untrue, and asked mo
only to have faith in her. In the eud,
she said, all would be right and every-
thing would be explained."

"And of course you have that faith in
her, Harry?"

MY OWNIH'IOHY.

"I linvo, 0(1(1 knowa I Iikvo."

"Du not IiiRo it thuii. licut aitauroil
■ha ii not ducoiving yoii. Slui in no co-
quettu, nu ilirtinggirl, who takcH priilu in
oountinx licr coni|ueHtfi. S)>u is ii tnio,
loving, Uithful vvuiniiii. Huvu liopu tiiul
you will Bomo day havo tho Imnpintiw of
enjoying with hvr tho ruward of ull your
devotion."

" F^oar not, Ailanis; nothing but Iter
own words can ever niaku ino (loul)t lior
truth. All thuiu ruianurs nru painful and
annoying to my fuuliiigs, yi't I do not hu-
liovo thcni, and will livu on in tliu liopu
of which you 8j)eak."

Thoro wan a short pauHo in tho cunvur-
flatiun, and then, with a slight troniour in
his voicu, hu askud :

"Was — was she tlioro, Harry/"

"MissMontcreiir* Ytis."

"As merry, as volatile, as gay as ever,
I suppose ("

"No; I cannot say that she was. I
danced with her once. She was paler,
and looked more serious than I ever before
Buw Iitr."

"Has she boon ill i" ho eagerly askod.

"No; but she oxpres.sod a distaste for
thoso pleasures of which she was once ho
fond, as you and I know. Halls and

i)artios, she said, had grown tiresome to
ler, and she no longer found that enjoy-
ment in them which they gave her a little
while acfo."

"Did she really say that/"

"Indeed she did, and apparently with
all her heart, too."

Ho smilod faintly, as if my words had
given him some little pleasure.

"Why should such amusements have
grown distasteful to her ?" ho asked.

"She did not toll mo that," I replied;
"she only said that such was tho case, and
her languid, indifferent manner convinced
mo that she spoke the truth."

"It is very singular," lio said, in an
absent way. ' ' What a merry, light-hearted
girl she -was a little while ago, and now
you tell me she is so changed."

"Changed she indeed is," I continued;
"not alone in manner, Gasher, but in
appearance also. She is pale, and thought-
ful, and retired, rather tlian rosy-cheeked,
merry and volatile, as formerly. "

"Did you speak much to her/"

" I had the pleasure of conducting lier
to tho supper-table,"I replied ; "and thoro
wo said a great deal to each other."

"Of what?"

" Of old times and its pleasures."

" Was it a subject that seemed pleasing
to her?"

" Yes ; she did not care to speak of
other things. I tried to turn the conver-
sation several times, but it always came
back to old times."

"How 1 wish I could have hoard yuu.
Of what all did you speak f "

"The pluasuies wo havo all known
together. Kven tho tirst time wo met was
not forgotten. You remendior it / tho
Uachelors' Hall."

" Can I over forget it," ho exclaimed,
warudy. "It was there I hrst saw her,
Harry ; thei'o we first spoke."

"She remembers it, my dear A<lams, as
vividly, as clearly as you. She spoke of
it wit!) pleivsiiro, and evidently looks back
ujion it with hapiiiness."

His face UuHhed up liko a girl's, and
then his eyes foil to tho Hoor in a thought-
ful way.

"That wai the happiest incident of my
life," he said, after a short silence, " tho
most delightful hour I havo ever known."

"And to her it was tho same, (iaslier,"
1 said, " If I am not uroutly mistaken."

" Do you think so 7" he eagerly .-iskod.

" 1 do indeed. She spoko of it as a
very happy time, and would, I believe,
give much to live it, and all tho timu
jinco tiien, (jver again."

" (.Jod bless her, Harry," ho said, for-
vcintly, "and what would not I give for
tho same priceless boon '! "

1 hesitated for a moment and then J
said, "It is useless, (Jasher, to try to con-
ceal the truth from you any longer. Ellen
Montcrietl" loves yon, fondly, truly and
well, and she ever has loved you since
that tiuu) when first you met."

"Ifowdoyou know tliat /" ho exclaimed
with ahnost wild e.irnestness, "Oh, my
friend, my true friend, do not tritlo witli
my feelings. You know how I W(jr3liip
her — how I woidd die for her. Do not
then, in these, my last days, build wp
false hopes in my heart."

" (»od forbid, drasher, that 1 should
speak to you untruly," I answered, deeply
moved by his words, " 1 havo always told
you that I thought sho loved you, and
now I know it."

" How / How / Surely sho did not
tell you so herself I"

"Hear me patiently my dear friend,
while I relate everything. Last night wo
spoko of you. I told her of your sickness
and your sufiering, and of all the trouble
that had como upon you. I saw at a
glance that my words pained her, and yet
that she wished to hear more. She asked
kindly, tenderly after you ; and though
sho tried to conceal it, there was that
in her words and manner which told of
the love I have long suai>ected. There
V7ero no persons near us, and therefore I
felt that 1 coidd speak without fear of in-
terruption. I went on, and when I told
her that you Avero very, very ill, she aroso
hastily, aa if to return to tho ball-room.
I looked into her face ; it was of a deathly

MY OWN RTORY.

1»

palonoM. I Rjirang to her aido and tlio
uext niuiiient RhofuU into my arnia iuaun-
aible."

"Oil, Ood! Oh, God!" ho exclnimod
with ngoiiy, an hu buriud liis facu in Itia
handw. "Go on -go on, Hiiny; toll mo
veryt)iinK, tuil mo t)voryt)un;|. I can
bear it all now."

"It iit all Booii told, my doar frioud," I
continued. "Iler Hucrut was botraycd ;
aho had concealed it long and well, but
now it was in my keeping. She recovered
in a little while, but she entered tho ball-
room no more. She ia well again to-day,
for I have hoard from her."

"How?" ho exclaimed, looking up
again. " tlas alio written to you V

"She haH."

"Give me tho note; oh! give it to mo,"
he Raid, stretching his hand towards me
with an imploring look.

"Bojiatient, my dearfollow, bo patient,"
I Raid. "You sluill read it in time. Slie
wishes to know how you are. Sho spoaks
of whai happened fast night, and she
confeaaea everything."

"God bloBi her! (Jod blesa her!" ho
exclaimed.

"Would you like to see hor,JGashorr'
I asked.

"Like toRooher/" ho rapliod. "Ah!
that's mure happinesa than I dare hope
for."

"Perhaps not; perhaps not," I said.
"Hear mo now, while I read hor note to
you."

Then I road it all to liim. It was a
task tilled with both pleasure and sadness.
While 1 road, his face wa.s buried in his
hands, and tho heavy sobs which every
little while burst forth, told how each

word fell

iiipon

his heart When I had

r I 1 1 linishe<l, ho begged tho letter of me, and

I gave it to him. How happy ho seemed
as he took it in his hands, and with what
fondness ho pressed it to his lips. It was
growing late now, and after promiaing
him that I would call on Miss Montcreitf
in tho morning, I prevailed on him to
retire for the night. He was more hapjjy
and cheerful than I had seen him for i
many a day. As I assisted him to his
room, he spoke of the bliss tho morrow
was to bring, and seemed very hopeful.
He held her letter in his hands, and would
raise it fondly to his lips every little
while. He asked nio to jlct him keep it
always, and smiled his thanks when 1
told him that it was his forever. Poor
follow ! I could have given half my life
for him, if, by so doing, I could have
made him happy.

CHAPTER XL.

TDK HTOHY OF OAHIIRIi'M NUWIR.

"Ho Roonii bettor to-night, sir," Mm.
Taylor Haid, as we sat down together ftftor
Gasher had retired.

"Yes; happier at leant," I annworod, "if
not better. Do you think ho will over ba
bettor. Mrs. Taylor I"

"Alas, sir, I'm afraid not," she replied
fcadly. "Ilu'ntoo far gone now ever to
recover. His hap]iinenn will all coiue
after duath."

"How ])atient ho is," I said, "how un-
complaining, ill) never murniors at liin
fate — never lindn fault."

"Never, sir, never," nho continued.
"Men of his ago generally long for life,
and health, and strength, and hope for
many years of earthly hapuiness. Hut
ho does not, sir. Kinco I have been
nursing him 1 have not heard him utter
one regret, nor express tho desire that
God might spare him. He is perfectly re-
signed, and looks at death a approach
with tho calmnosn of a Christian.

"He has long considered that hia dayn
were numbered," I sjiid. "Even before
wo, hin friends, thought his cane nerious, he
knew it was hopeless, and freely told us bo ;
not complainingly, but with resignation."
"I have stood at tho bed-side of nniny
sick (Jiies," Mrs. Taylor said, after a short
silence, "but to see him wasting away,
day by day, gives me more pain than I
can tell you of. Ho is so jjatient, so good,
so enduring. I cannot tell why, but I
feel Some singular intluenco drawing mo
towards him. I do not wait on Mm mere-
ly as tho paid nurse. It is a labour of love.
Everything I do for him is done with my
whole heart, and were he my own flesh
and blood I could not feel n(jro kindly
towards him nor a greater interest in his
welfare."

" Your actions tell me that your words
are true," 1 replied. " You have been
very kind to him since you came here,
and, as hia best friend, I cannot tind lan-
guage to thank you."

' ' Indeed, sir, I feel very grateful to
you, and my (jnly regret is that I cannot
do more for him. 1 try to make him
easy and comfortable, and if it were in
my power to rescue him from death, 1
would do so with my whole heart, and
thank God for His mercy."

Sho spoko with a deep earnestness,
which showed that her words were sin-
cerely felt and honestly uttered.

"Ho is past all human aid," I said,
" and all we can do for him is to make his
few remaining daj's as happy and as easy
as possible. You are aiding us nobly in
this good work, and heavon will reward
you for all your kindness."

I 1

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' il

190

MY OWN HTOUY.

" Mi(.;)it I lihU, iiir,"iiliuiiai<l, aftui- iifuw
liiuiiiuiit'ii itiliiiieo, if tliitro in nut, noiiio
Muorut ■oriDW nroyin^f on liin miiitl / "

" Wliiit iiiakoo yoti tliink mi I" I luikeil.

"rfiniiiiiilmt, Hir,"iih<) naiil. "Ho often
•IivukH Ut liiinnulf in n [icculiivr way, ami
■Puni* (M if 111' wiiro tliinkiii;' over nomo
myntory wliich lio could not fathom."

" Tluirc ia nmh a niyBtdry, Mpm. Taylor,"
1 anHWtivd. " It haa bci-ii tiio troiiblo of
hill wliolu life, anil tlio coiiHtnnt workinij
of liiH iiiirul (.11 that iiiilij<u:t liroti({|it on
tlio t<!rril)lo disoaHu whiih i.i now carrying
him to tlui j,'ravo.''

" Ho ii of a kind, noimitivii nature,"
•ho Huid, ''nnd just tho nort of jiorHoii to
whom any ])ainful n tloction would hriug
I)iiinful ri':t\ilt'i. May 1 ntk, air, if ho haa
over bi'ou in lovo ?"

"With tho Hlu'owduL'88 of >o>ir box, 1
nujij^oHo you havo diHCovcrcd that hohiw,"
I naid.

" I havo tljought BO, Mir," Hho roidiod.

"Then you woro not niiHtakcn, I cou-
tinuod, "Afair^'irl won hia heart nol.
very lonj< ago, but for certain reasons,
ho connidored himsolf unworthy of her,
and rn'hur than H|ioak his lovo lio allowed
it to remain hidden away. Thin, witli
Ilia Bocret Borrow, ju't^ed iqion, and
brought all tho HulFering ho is now ko
patiently enduring, and tlio death which
is BO surely aiijiroaching."

"What a noble heart ho must havo,"
aho said, with nnich emotion, " It could
not bo unworthy of any woman's luve, and
though I know nothing of tho cane, but
what yon havo just now told mo, I feel
suro that tho lady loved him dearly,
though iio knew it not. The lovo of one
HO gof)d and kind a.s he could not bo lost
on any woman who had a true heart."

"You are right, MrH. Taylor; tho lady
did, and even now, lovoa him. When it
is too hito this di.scovcry ha.s been made."

"How aad, how very sad," she said,
with a sorrowful shako of tho liead, "if
this had been known a littlo while ago all
might have been well ; but now it is too
lato— too late. Even tho healing influence
of woman's lovo cannot save him. A
miracle worked by God's hand alone co\ild
alone restore him to life and health."

She spoke very sadly, and raising her
apron brushed away a tear that glistened
on her clieok.

" It seems to me, Mrs. Taylor," I aaid
after a littlo while, " that you, yourself,
have been no stranger to grief. "

"I havo had my tri.als, sir, like all
other people," she said with a sigh, " and
I thank tied that he haa given me strength
to bear up under every affliction."

"There are traces of sorrow and suffer-
ing ill your face, Mrs. Taylor, auch as few
of us know," I continued, "do not think

m<( impnrtinuiit or curiouN, hut T think I
can read grief in your very look."

"My lot haa been a hard om», air," ^ho
ropliod, in a aad ione, "but not hanlor
than I dcaerved. If I h.ivo been luado to
fuel aorrow and iillliction, it waa nil juatly
aont. I do not complain. (Mir mitidoeda
are punished hero, aa well aa iu'roaftor.
Wu cannot all mIoi!|i uiion a bed of roaea,
least of all tlioso w ho tranagreai nuil go
oatray."

"Hinco tho time when you (li-at camo
horo your appearance and manner havo
oxcite<l an intoreat and innocent curioaity
in mo," I remarked, "and this has boon
increased bytliekindnoHsanil the motherly
caro you havo boNtowed upon myHulforing
friend. Your langtiago and manntir aliow
that you havo not always occupieil tho
po'^ition I now find you in. F trust you
will not blame me for saying ao, but you

' evidently h.ive not always moved in yom*

, present sphere."'

j Sho hesitated for a moment, as if do-

: bating within herself what answer to make,

I liud then looking kindly toward.s mo she

i aaid -

"It is many years, Mr. Hardy, since any

j one luis fli)okcn tome ir. this way, or oues-
tioned mo on tho story of my life. Tliink
not I blame you for it. I know you apeak
in all kindness, and do not seek, through
any idlo curiosity, to peiietrato wliatovor
mystery thoi'o may be in my history. You
aro right, 1 havo not always been what 1
now am; I have not always boon a poor
friendless woman; nor have all my days
been Bpcnt in tho humblo capacity of a
nurse to the sick. T was once surrounded
by hapi)ines.n, conifoi't, friends and plenty
of tlioso blessings which make life pleasant.
Hut that was years, many years ago; and
since then, (iod knows, 1 have oxpurionced
sufl'ering, and sorrow enough to havo
broken stronger hearts than mine. Yet,
for some good purpose he has spared my
life, nnd preserved mo througli all my
troubles. 1 do not repine, 1 havo become
accustomed to pain and distress, and am
resigned to my fate. Having endured ao
much mj'self, 1 know how to feel for those
who aro afflicted, and therefore it is that
people s!vy I am kind at the bod-sido of
tho sick. I am never so happy a.i when
trying to relievo and comfort others."

"I am sure of that," I said. "You
have boon very, very kind to Mr. Adams.
Had ho been your own son you could not
have done more for him."

"My own son ! — my own son !" she ex-
claimed, covering her face with hcrh.anda.
"Oh, (lod ! if he were — if ho were 1"

' ' Tlien you hiive a son I" I said, aa ten-
derly as 1 could, for my heart was pained
at her emotion.

"No," she replied aadly. "I had one

I I

/ i

■.

MV OWN HTORY.

131

/ i

l)iit I liiHt liiiii. (i(i(l (loiiriv(>i| iiiu iif him,
ami NJiHu tlu^ti my iiuitliPi-'it luurt Iiiim
iiiniirtK.'il, OtliiT iniiiiH, liiiil MitrriiwH, luiil
troiiliU'it, iiiid alllictiiiiiM, I liiivo known ;
lint thiit - thiit \va% thu hi'uvirst of ul|,
Iliid my iiiily cliiM \ivvu r'|iiiri'il tn me, [
wtxilil liHVd Ix'cii lia|>|iy I wiiilil liiivu
■milud ii)i')ii nil 'itlic.r (>rii'f. M(!miHtli
Miivli lui atflictiiin, Mr. (titnly, n iimtlifiV
lii'iirt novor ci ubch to mumii. Tluiio n n
void tlu't'itin which only ((''d'H iiand, and
lli'iivca's MiKM, c.in till."

Sliopannt'd ;u;ain,aiid th'.'n.rvfU'r inakin^
an ollurt to cnlm lu r frulinj<n,»lio ivHiiiiiod.

" It in lon/^ Hinco I lnuo Hiiokcn of my
|iaHt life, Mr. Hardy," xho naiil, in ii niorii
i-oilucted way. "I hfvvc! been nili-nt rcyard-
in{i it, licciinno a rchil-iou of my Mtory v, ill

?;ivo nio no hr\[)|iim'un, iior hrinj,' nympatliy
rum most of tlio.io wlio mi{,'ht ln-iir it.
Ar 1 havo H.'iid «o nuioh, lot mu Kofnrtliir,
and till you cvcrytiiiii';. Aftur all thoMo
yearn of itiloiica, I may find itomu smnll
vt'Iiof in Hi)eakin;,' of it to ono for whom it
will, iiorliaip.s, contain somo littlo intcri'Ht.
Ah 1 jiavo alroady hintud, [ wan n^ari'd in
circiimstanccfi not only of comfort, Imt of
aIHuoucu. My family occupit'd a good
poF.ition in life, and iiossusacd a wcialtli
which is over tho best, iiainoly, that which
tliey, thronjjh their own olloria, earned
jin(i made. My jmrontM diiul whoii I was
very young, and f waa left to tho caro of
H brother, ho and I bciii'' tho only sur-
yivors of the family. lIis was ii yood,
kind, Kcnerouaman, whohjved mo dearly,
and did all in his power to mako mo haj)-
py. l$y liini 1 wai educated and tenderly
broujfht up, ho Hjiarinij no meau.'J nor jiaina
that I might l>o fitted to occujiyany ordi-
nary position in lifo. I wa;4 a wild, roman-
tic Rort of a 1,'irl, and <li<l not np[)ri'ciatc, as
fully aa tlicy deserved, the love, ami kind-
ness, and caro of my brother. At the
usual ago I left i;cliool and made my
enttfc into society, full of hope and hiiji-
pinoss, and those romantic notions of love
and marriage which, I Ruppose, every girl
feels when sho leaves scliool and enters
»iI)on wliat is termed life. 1 had not been
out in the world long wlien some bad
angel throw a certain person — a gentle-
man, r ."mpposo T must call him — across
iny path. IIo v/as handsome, of jieculi-
arly facinating manners, and re)mtod to
be wealthy. He paiil marked attention
to me, and the result waa that 1 loved
him, not with an unstable, transient pas-
eiou, but with my whole heart and soul.
My hap])iness was made comploto when,
at my feet, he told me of lii^ love, and
.'isked hie to beconio his for life. For
Bome unknown reason, my brother waa
strongly opposed to him, and vn discover-
ing that we were becoming more than

uiuni ai:(|Uaintiuicua, h« ordered him from
tho )iou«u, and t(dd ma tlukt I tnuht novar
Ni'd him again, iinleim I withud to iiuMir his
high (liHpleaMuro. Had myMirother known
woman'ri In.'art buttor, hu would have Hoen
that Mucli opponitioit could only havo
had tho otloctof making mo lovn tho man
the more. Such, at IcUHt, was tlm reiiult.
My love bocumu a pasnion ; I folt that I
L'oidd not live without him ; and for hit
sako I wan willing to nacriUoo anvthing —

very thing. NotwithBtandingmybrothcr't
watchfuineiia and op[ioHition, v,'o managed
to moet very often, fie vowoil, ho I'woro
that ho lovrd mo with his wholo h' ^irt,
that he oidy livi'd to mako me happy, antl
thitttliii World would bo a blank to him if

1 wore not liix. With such prote,-*tationii
as tlieso ho workiMl ui)on me, ami tho
dreadful roMidt of it all was that, in an
ovil hour 1 left home, frionils, everything,
and tied with him. Theio wai a mirricd
murriago, — for ovon bliml r.u 1 was, l
could not bo criminal, — and then wo went
away to a cpiiet countrv town and nuido
our homo in a dear littlo cottage, which,
with him at my side, secmoJ a perfect
palaco of happincj.H. Several months
rolled away, ami wo wore very, very
happy. The bliss of thogo delightful dayH
was enough to over-balance a whole lifo of
sorrow. It was hai)piues8, perfect, coni-
plo'i,e, full ; such au I had dreamed of in
my Hchool-girl days, but such us I had
never hojjod to onjoy. My hrsband w;i8
kind, loving, gentle, good. His only do-
siro ai>peared to bo to mako mo hapi>y,
and to prove that ho loved mo with his
whole Houl. It was a sweet, delightful
dream, but, alas, it brought a bittor
waking. A son was born unto us. Iliad
looked forward to itsjcoming as some-
thing that would biiul our liearts and
lives more closely than over, and mako
our litttlo homo more pleiuiant. Btit no ;
thu moment that littlo cuo c.ime, my hus-
band's manner changed. Ho grew cold,
careless and neglectful — often left mo for
days at a time, and even when at home ho
was tho very o[iposite of hia former self.
Hut I cannot dwell on this painful subject.
The dreadful result was that he desened
nu'. My heart was nearly broken ; b\it for
tho sake of my child I boro up, and askod
(iod for comfort and strength. My littlo
stock of money was soon all gone, and thou
I was driven from tho cottago vrhero I had
been so hajipy, and with ui}' innocent babo
clasped to my breast, I was thrown upon
the cold charity of the world. God only
knows how my heart kopt up. ^loro than
once I paused on tho brink of tho river,
whoso v/aterG, I thought, would make a
hapijy hiding-place for mo and all my
shame. lUit in those awful moments
some good angel watched over mo, and

MY OWN STORY.

drove the evil thoughts from my heart.
And then I atartod back to my old homo,
to crave the shcltur 1 had deserted, tmA
the love 1 had cast away. I travelled
homeward many days, being helped on by
kind people who gave nio food, and a place
to rest in by night, and occasionally u
clioering word of comfort and advice.
But all this was more than I could bear.
My strength failed nie one day, and at the
borders of a largo town I sank down to
die. I was found there in a state of un-
conscionsneSHjWith my babe clasped to my
heart. Tliey took me uj) and carried mo
to an hospital, whore I lay for days, and
■weeks, and montlia, wavering between
life and death. At last I recovered, and
then I asked for my child. Oh ! the ter-
rible answer they gave me. It was gone,
no one knew where. When iny recovery
was looked upon as all but impossible, it
had been given to some people, whose
names and .address were unknown. No
doctor's care was rotjuired by mo now.
My boy must be f i >nnd, and I grew strong
rapidly that I might search for him.
Strangers could not — muse not have him,
while I — his mother — was alive. In a
little while I was discharged from the
liospital, and then I went forth on my
search of love and duty. For weeks and
montha I wandered over the country —
liere and there, and everywhere, but
without success. My boy was gone from
me forever- forever — forever!"

She paused and burying her face in her
hands sobbed bitterly for a few minutes.

"After that," she resumed, when she
had calmed herself once more, "I have
wandered over the land in a restless way,
staying a little while in each place, until
a few years ago when 1 came to this city,
and here I have ever since remained,
toiling and struggling, and living on in the
hope that in the end God will bring me
comfort and happiness and rest. If not
here, then hereafter. This is my story,
Mr. Hardy. You are the first who ev er
lieai'd it. It is a relief to me to speak of
these things after all these yen^-s of silence.
I have done wrong in my time, and have
suffered accordingly. God has puni'^lunl
me as I deserved, and though my lotid
has been very, very heavy, I have tried
to bear it with meekness and resignation.
.Tf my painful story has been tedious to
you, sir, you must pardon me. At your
own request I have narrated it. Had
jou not asked me, I would have been as
silent to you as I have been to all others."

Again she bowed her head forward and
hid Iter face in her apron. Her story was
so painful and so singular that I knew not
what to say to her, though in my heart I
pitied her, in all her trouble and sorrow
and pain.

CHAPTER XLI.

KEVELATIONS.

" Your story is indeed a painful ono.
Mrs. Taylor," I said, after a silence of
several minutes. " You may well say
that Heaven has been pleased to afflict
yo)i."

" Not more than I have deserved, sir,
not more than I have deserved."

"Did you never return to your home,
nor seek the assistance of your friends /"

"Had my child not been stolen from
me," she ai.swered, " I would, for his
sake, have begged from them a shelter.
But when he was gone from mo I had no
object in seeking their assistance. While
God gave me health and strength I knew
r could provide for myself, and keep star-
vation from my door."

"You have not told mo where your
homo was, before all your troubles camo
upon you," I said.

"Iimrjiosely omitted all names," she
replied, "but as you desire to know I may
us well tell you that my old homo was iu
Boston."

"Jiostcml" I exclaimed, with wonder-
ment, as a sudden light flashed upon my
mind.

"Yes," she answered calndy, "there 1
was born and reared."

"Great heavens," I said to myself, "if
this should be true, how strange, how
wonderful," and then I added ah)ud,
"Mrs. Taylor, will you aiiswer mo a ques-
tion! Was your brother a merchant in
Boston?"

"Ho was," .sho replied, with a look of
astonishment.

"And his name — hisname," I exclaimed,,
"quickly — quickly, his name!"

"John Quincy Jamby."

"Great heavens, how wonderfiU — how
mysterious," I cried, rising and pacing the
floor excitedly, "'low strange — how very
strange."

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Hardy, what
does this mean ? " she asked in a tremulous
voice.

■' Tt means this," I said in as calm a way
as I i,)uld, "your brother was my bene-
^'acior — my best friend."

"jVIv brother I" she cried, starting up
in her eliair and gazing at me as if she
doubted her ears, "mv brother your
friend!"

"Yes," I answered, "after my mother,
the best fiiend I ever had. He aided me,
helped me, and made me what I am. To
him 1 am indebted for everything."

Before 1 could say more she sprang for-
ward, and, hurrying her face on my heart,
burst into a flood of tears.

Now, when I know everj'thing, I could
trace a resemblance to her brother in her

MY OWN STORY.

133

face, and I wondered how 1 had been so
Wind as not to have seen it before. She
was very like him, and that fact, of itself,
was suflicient to dispel any doubts I. might
have as to her identity.

'•Tell me, oh, tell mo of him," she
cried, looking pitooualy up into my face.

"Have you heard nothing fi-om him of
late 1" I asked.

"No; for years 1 liavo not heard his
name mentioned," she said, " How could
J, hero in this strange land, hundreds of
miles away from him, hear anything of
liim I For many years wo have been
strangers to each other, and ho can have
heard no more of mo tlian I of him. Oh,
tell mo all, everything about him, Mr.
Hardy. Yon are Im friend, and I am
his erring, wicked sister."

"Sit down here beside me, Mrs. Tay-
lor," I said, as I led her to the sofiv, " sit
«lown and I shall tf>ll yon everything I
can. It is years, you must know, since I
left Boston, and many strange things have
happened in that time, but if you will be
patient T shall tell you all I know of your
brother."

" Did he ever speak of me ! Did ho
ever mention my name!" she asked
eagerly.

"Some months ago," I answered, "he
wrote me a letter, in which ho told me
your history, or at least, as much of it as
ho know."

" And cursed me for my mad folly !''
she exclaimed.

'• No, no ; not that," ^ said, " Ho spoke
of you with love, and tondemess, and
tiorrow; and blamed himfielf greatly for
his iirmness and unkindness to you."

"Ho was not unkind," she cried, "he
was good, and generous, and loving. Ho
was too good to me. Ho was more than
a brother. It was I who was unkind — it
was I who was to blame. Ho did not err,
ho did not do wrong ; he did not desert
me. It was I who ofl'onded ; it was I who
fell; I alone am guilty. Oh, that ho
should be so good a brother, and I so bad
a sister."

I calmed her as well as 1 could, by
speaking kindly and tenderly to hor.
Then, at her urgent request, 1 told her of
my connection with Mr. Jambj', and of
his noble friendship for me. 1 spoke of
his many good (jualities, and of how he
had helped mo in the worbl, and aided
me, as if 1 had been his own son. Then,
with as much care and caution as I could
command, I broke to her the sad story of
his failure and death. She wept bitterly,
wept as if her heart would break ; and
yet, on the whole, she heard the sad news
with more calmness than I had exi)ected.
She had been so accustomed to sorrow
<luriTig all her life, that she received each

new grief as if she had all along been
looking for it, and as if it were the only
gift heaven could give hor.

After her feelings had somewhat sub-
sided, and she had become calm again,
she said, " since that unhappy hour of my
weakness, in which I left my homo, sor-
row has been my only lot. Yet it was all
deserved — all deserved. Ood has been
only too kind to me, in giving mo life
and health so long."

"You are not alone weighed down by
tho weight of gi'iof, Mrs. Taylor," 1 said.
Eacli heart knows its own sorrows."

"Yes — yes ; I know that," she said,
' ' I do nf)t complain ; yet, how few suffer
as I havo hulfcredl Do wives lose their
husbands, and mothers their sons as 1
havo lost mine ? Lost !■ — but not dead."

"God's waj^s are past finding out," I
answered. "Even yet — almost impossible
as it may seem — cannot He restore your
son to your arms, and make you again
happy!"

"Ho can, I know he can," she ex-
claimed, " but oh, how few ai-e the chances.
When I lost my boy ho was an infant —
a babe in my arms. If ho still be alive,
ho is as old as you. How could I recog-
nize him, or ho me! I might pass him on
the street ; I might speak to him ; I might
know him, and still not know ho was my
son, for wherever he be he lius not even a
name to call his own."

I started in my seat. Thoso wore the
very words that Ga^iher had so often used,
"I havo not even a name to call my own."
A terrible suspicion Hashed across my
nund ; so terrible tliivt 1 could fool my
heart beat as I thought of it, and my
blood rush through my veins with increased
speed. I smothered my feeling3, however,
and calming my suspicions as well as I
could, I said :

"More unusual things than tho recoverj'
of your sun havo ha[)i)ened, Mrs. Taylor.
Why might it not liappon also?"

"It is all l)ut impossible," alio said,
"do not try to buildup false hojios in my
heart, Mr. Hardy. 5Iy son is lost to me
forever. This is an old sorrow now that
I am reconciled to; I do not look for
relief from it."

"We have often read and lior.nl of such
things iic the fniding of cliildren lost in
infancy, after years of absence," I con-
tinued, with as much calmness as I could
command, while inwardly 1 was terribly
excited. "Somo mark, some trinket,
some article of clothing, has often bnmght
about such a hapiiy result. Had your
lo.st child none of these !"

"There was no mark by which ho could
be known," she said. " His clothes were
not remarkable in any way, and the only
unusual tiling ho wore wa« a locket con-

18i

MY OWN STOUrY.

taining my own likcnesri, which I had
fastened with a small gold chain around
Lis neck. It was a valuable trinket, and
was in all probability disposed of by those
into whose hands it fell, when ho was
taken from mo."

"15y that, seemly, you could identify
him," I said.

"Yes," she answered, but pray do not
talk of this, Mr. Hardy. The recovery of
my child i:i impossible — inipossiblo," and
she bowed her head forward and covered
her face with her hands.

1 wished to escape from the room for a
moment, but I did not know how to do
80 without creating a suspicion in her mind.
I thouglit of various subterfuges, and at
last foinid one to suit.

"You do not object to tobacco smoke,
Mrs. Taylor, pray excuse mo for a mo-
ment while I go to my room for a cigar.
I always indulge in one the last thing bo-
fore retiring, iuid it in getting close upon
bed-time now."

She bowed without speaking, and then
leaving the room I liurried np stairs, my
heart beating audibly and my whole frauio
trembling with emotion that T could not
BuppresB.

As ciiutiously as possible I opened the
door of Gaslier's room and entered. His
heavy breathing told mo that ho slept.
Taking up a night-lamp that stood on the
table, J apprtjached his bed-side. How
pale, yet how peaceful and happ}' ho
seemed, in his deep, heavy sleep. Poor
fellow; ho was sov/astcd and ghostly look-
ing that but for his broathing one might
say it was a corpse. I turned down the
bed clothes witli a gentle hand, and tlion
opened his night aliirt. Ujion his breast
a snirJl lockut lay, it was t'a;itoned by a
cord around hi:i nock. This I quickly cut
in two, and lilting the locket from oil" his
hollow, heaving breast, 1 carefully covored
him up again ;'.nd stole away, just a.i no
smiled sweetly in his droam.s, and softly
murmured "Ellen! Ellon 1"

I hastened to my ovrn room, and open-
ing the locket examined it by tlio light of
the lamp. It contained, as 1 have said
many chapter.^ ago, the portrait of a young
and very beautiful woman. .1 examined
it closely, point by point, feature by fea-
ture. IJy degrees tlio resemblance stolu
before me. It was true— it Avas beyond
a doubt. Such must have been the face
of Mrs. Taylor thirtj' years before!

In that moment of joy 1 wildly pressed
the portrait to my lips, and then sank on
my knees, and thanked God, with all my
heart, for the wonderful discovery I had
niiide. Then I arose .and came down
stairs again, wondering within myself,
how I should tell her the joj-ful news.

"Mrs. Taylor," I said, after a fow

trifling remarks, "yon liave boon kind
enough to tell mo your story. Some day
I shall tell you mine. At present I fool
that it is only right that I should tell you
something of Mr. Adams, to whom you
have boon so kind, and so motherly since
you camo into this house. You said a
little while ago that you thought that
thero was some heavy grief at his lieart.
You wore correct. During all his life he
has carried a sorrow such as few men
know — a sorrow even such an y(ju have
borne. Listen ; I havo known him since
his childhood. Ho is an orphan. He
has never known a mother's love or a
father's care. His early lifo is all a blank
to him. His mother is supposed to have
died when ho was an infant, and tlio only
legacy sho left him was her picture. Ever
since ho can romamber, that picture has
loon around his nock. Just now, when
1 was up stairs, I stolo into his room.
Ho was sleeping sweetly, and on his breast
lay liis mother's portrait. I havo often
seen it. It is that of a singularly beauti-
ful woman. In hearing his story I thought
you might lilio to seo his mother's pic-
ture. \Vould you ?"

" Jilr. Hardy," sho said, with a calm-
noss tliat almcjst frightened mo, "for
God's sake, for tlio .sake of tlie mother
who bore yon, do not trifle with my feel-
ings! Show what your words mean. Do not
keeji me in this awful suspense. Show
mo the picture ! For the lovo of Heaven
show mo the picture !"

"?dra. Taylor," I said, "you have
divined my moaning sooner than I had
int'^iudod. For God'fi sa!;o be iv>t too
hopvful. I may bo wrong — 1 may be
mistaken. Prepace yourself for a dls-
appointment. Hero— hero is t)ie pic-
ture."

[ held it out to her. Sho grasped it
wildly; lool^od at it an instant with an
intense oarJiOKtucss that was painful to
witness, and then, without uttering a
word, fell back on the sofa insensible.

At that iijoment Conrtley entered tho
room, and ran to my asaist.anee. We
dashed some water on lior face and chafed
hor hands, and in a few moments con-
sciousness slowly returned. Sho looked
vaea7itly around the room, and then
rested her eyes upon me as if trying to
remember wiio I was.

" Ah, Mr. Hardy," she said sadly, as if
re])roving m?, "that was a cruel joke you
played uiion me."

'J'lieu she felt the locket, which was
still clasped in her hand, and raising it
she gazed at it a moment."

" Great God, it's true— it's all true,"
she exclaimed. "This, this is my own
picture! He is my son! My lost child!
My darling boy 1 Let mo go to him ; oii^

I .'

MY OWN STORY.

135-

)

for the lovo of Heaven let mo go to my
son, my own son."

" Bo calm, Mrs. Taylor, pray be calm,"
I said, "you must not venture in upon
him in this hasty way. You know hovr
weak he is ; the shock would kill him."

" No, no, no," she exclaimed wildly.
"Let mo go ! Lot mo go ! I shall see him !
I must SCO him ! Is he not my son ? Am I
not his mother? Why do you hold me?
I will be very careful ; I will be very
cautious. Can you tell a mother what
she should do ?"

" 15ut the shock, Mrs. Taylor; the sud-
den shock might kill him."

" Fear not. It is his mother who goes
to him. Does not sho know how to meet
her sou ? Let me go. I will bo careful.
Sorrow has not killed him, then why do
you fear the joy his mother brings? Let
me go ; oh, for heaven's sake, lot me go !"

Her appeal was most piteous. I could
no longer resist, i again cautioned her,
and then released her. In a moment she
was in her son's room. We did not follow
her. That union of mother and son, after
all those years of separation, was too holy,
too sacred a scene for other eyes to gaze
upon.

I told Courtley everything as soon as I
could collect my thoughts sufHciently to
speak. His astonishment was no less than
mine had Ijeen, nor was his happiness less
sincere.

Mrs. Taylor remained with her son all
night. On the following morning I saw
her. There was a sad smile on her lip,
and a look of melancholy happiness in
her eye. There vras the sweet joy of
having found her long-lost child, mingled
with the deep sorrow of losing him again
for ever.

And poor G.isher. Oh, in my heart of
hearts how I pitied him. He wished for
life now. All the mystery was cleared
up. His parentage was honorable and
honest. She Avhoiii he loved was true to :
him. Everything was bright, and pleas- !
ant, and hapjjy. Yet he must die — -he :
must go to the grave, and leave all these ;
joys just tasted, those pleasures just felt, i
behind him forever and ever. It was a '
sad, sad fate, and 1 almost regretted that
he had not died before all these things
were made known to him.

"Mr. Hardy," MrvS. Taylor said to me
when we met that morning, " I have
something else to tell you, and from what
my dear son says, I know it will surprise
you more than anything v(ju have yet
heard."

"Indeed," I exclaimed, "that 1 think
is hardly possible."

"Listen," sho said, "last night I did
not tell you everything. In coming to
Caiuida, after all the troubles I have

spoken of, I had an object to carry out —
a duty to perform. That duty was this :
my husband for whom I had sacrificed*
everything, lived in this country. I did
not know in what part, but I was deter-
mined to travel the country over, or find
him. I did not wish his charity or his
aid. My only desire was to tell him of
the grief ho had brought upon me, and
fill his heart with remorso and sliame."

"And did you find him," I asked.

"No," sho replied, "I searched for
him in many places, and then at last I
gave up in despair, and made for myself a
lonely home hero. Not very long ago I
heard fiiin name mentioned, and by that
means found out his placo of abode. It
was too late then to carry out my purijose.
Years, though they had not lightened,
had softened my sorrow, and my heart
told me to leave the man to his God. I
have done so. I would not now cross the
street to upbraid him. Lot Heaven be
his judge and give hiui his punishment.
Mr. Hardy, you know that man. His
name is Richard Wiiistanley !"

" My step-father V I cried.

" Yes, your step-father," she replied^
" my son has told mo everything. His
father who wronged and deserted mo and
him, and your step-father, who wronged
and ill-used you, are one and the same.
Richard Winstanloy is the caiwe of all our
trouble."

"la this — can this indeed lie true >" I
wonderingly asked.

"Alas, my dear friend, it is only too
true," she answered. "Lot Richard Win-
stanley deny it if ho dares, liud I, hi.n
wronged, de.iertad wife, v.'ill ajipear in
evidence against liiai. "

I waited to hear no more. Full t)f
strange thoughts, and painful doubts, I
hurried from the hmise, sciircL' kiiowin"
whither I went, or what I \vas dohit;.

CHAPTER XL!!.

LAST Al'PEAItAXOK 01' ItlCUAKi) WIN-
STAM.Kr.

In such a frame of mind as I was tlien
in, I had neither taste nor desire for busi-
ness. The strange revelations that had
been made had completely iipset me, and
I knew it would be folly to attempt to
perform ni}' ordinary duties.

Pondering over tJio singular events of
the last few hours, I sauntered through
the streets until I found myself in front
of the residence of Dr. Doulevey. Re-
covering myself iis well as I could, I
entered. The doctor and his wife were at
breakfast. They wore surprised to see me
at such an liour, and their .surprise was

136

MY OWN STORY.

;t I

greatly increased when, in a hurried way,
1 rehited all that had happened, and asked
their advice and guidance.

Dick was equal to the emergency. Ho
was greatly astonished, yet, after making
the remark that "many strange tilings
hai)pen during the course of a man's life,"
ho gave mo the counsel I asked. Ho ad-
vised mo to at once proceed to Sehly, con-
front nty r,t'\n-father, make known to him
the seciets I '.lad learned, and forco him
into ackuo'.vledging his wife and child,
and doing justice to them and myself. It
would he all done, he said, in a (^uiet way,
and without the world being aware of the
facts. I felt more like shooting Winstan-
ley than pursuing this peaceful course ;
but, fortunately, I was guided by the bet-
ter judgment of my friend. I was about
taking iny departure, when I remembered
Ellen Montcreiff, and the promise I made
regarding her and Gasher. They must
see each other. They both desired it, and
I felt it my duty to assist them. 1 told
Donlevey and his wife my pt)sition in the
matter, and they kindly consented to as-
sist me. As my departure for Sebly was
fixed up(jn, they would not hear of my
postponing it on any account ; and, in
order that this affair might not interfere,
they undertook to act for nie with Miss
Montcreiff. They knew her intimately,
and could very easily perform for me all
1 had undertaken. Tlie doctor's wife
agreed to call on her, and, if she were
lirm in her determination to visit Gasher,
she would accompany her. This, on the
whole, was a much better plan than if I
had undertaken the duty myself, as Mrs.
Donlevey's presence wo'dd, in a measure,
soften the tongue of scandal, and give
the world less reason for finding fault witli
Miss Montcreiff, should the fact of her
visit to her dying lover become knov/n.
I accordingly wrote the following note :
"My Dear Miss Montcreiff,

"Our mutual friend, Mrs. Dunlevej',
knows everything. For reasons which
she will explain, 1 cannot be with you at
present. Strange things have happened,
of whicli she will tell you. If j-ou are
fixed in your iluteruunation to see Mr.
Adams, let Mrs. Donlevey be your com-
])anion and friend. She can assitit and
advise yoti bettor than I, and with much
more proprietj'. You know her so well, that
I need not tell you to confide in her fully;
your own judgment will direct you what
to do. 1 hope to have the plcasui'o of
meeting )'ou again in tha course of a few
days, when I will tell you nmch that it
were not safe to write. Yours truly,

" Harry Hardy."

1 left this note in the hands of Mrs.
Donlevey, and then, after getting a pro-
nuse from Dick that he would call at Sins-

wick Cottage and explain the cause of my
absence, I bade them good-bye, and started
onco more for Sebly, where, in due time,
I arrived.

It was a clear, cold, wintry morning
when Mr. Buckle and I drove over to Mr.
Winstaidey's home. I took my old friend
along in order that he might be a witness
to whatever passed, were it necessary.
After a brisk drive wo stopped in front of
tho house. The servant, with some hosi-
tatifm, said Mr. Winstanley was at home,
though she did not know whether or not
he was well enough to receive us. We
were showni into the library, however, to
await tho result of her enquiries, and in
a few minutes sho returned, closely fol-
lowed by her master.

It was only a few months since my
former interview with him, and yet ho
was gi'catly changed. His face was thin
and sallow, his form much stooped, and
he carried in his hand a heavy stick to
assist him as ho moved around. Those
black eyes, however, had not lost their
lustre ; they were as bright and piercing
as ever.

"Oh it's you again, Mr. Impostor," he
exclaimed, with a sarcastic smile, as he
entered the room.

"Yes, sir," I replied, "probably my
recent silence made you hope that I had
forgotten yoii ; but you see I have not."

* ' I have not troubled myself by thinking
about you at all," ha said, "a gentleman
would have little else to do if he troubled
his mind about all the strange people ho
meets in his time. Good morning Mr.
buckle," he added, turning to my com-
panion. "I am suqu'ised at finding a man
of j'our standing in such bad company."

" It is company that you were not
ashamed of in your time, sir," Mr.
Buckle answered. "Iv/ould be forgetful
of my duty if I ever turned my back on
the son of Major Hardy."

"I'.ah ! I gave you credit for more dis-
cei'nment," ho exclaimed, in a half angry
impatient way, " I thought you too much
a man of the world to be deceived by an
imposter."

" The wi.sest of U8 are sometimes mis-
taken, sir," ]\Ir. Buckle ([uietly replied.
"I have thought men good and kind, who
afterwards turned out to be bad and
wicked. In the present instance, how-
ever, I am not deceived. This gentleman
is cei-tainly Major Hardy's son."

Winstanley winced, and moved uneasily
in his chair.

"Are you blind enough to be lead away
by the representations of a stranger 1 " he
asked.

"No," the old man answered firmly,
" I only believe my own eyes and ears.
If I had met him on the street, and heard

M\ OWN STORY.

137

r I

his voice, I would have rocogniKed him.
His voice and appearance are sufficient to
convince any one that he is really Master
Harry Hardy. You know it, Mr. Win-
stanley, as well as I, and it is folly to
deny it."

" Why «l()n't you say at once that I am
ft liar / " Winstanley exclaimed.

"Because that is an unpleasant word,
sir, that I never use," Mr. Buckle replied.
" Your own heart knows, howevei', whether
or not it C(juld bo appropriately used in
the present instance. I do not wish to
discuss the (piesioii . Mr. Hardy camo to
speak to you, not 1."

He arose and went out into the hall,
closing the door after him.

"Mr. Winstanley," I commenced, as
soon as wo were alone, "v*hat Mr. Buckle
.says is very true. You know that I am
no impostor, though your wicked, stub-
born heart will not allow you to acknow-
ledge it."

" You are pleased to use most compli-
mentary torrn.s, sir," he said.

"Because 1 am justified in doing so,"
I answered. " I know you better now
than I ever did before, and if I were to
call you a black hearted scoundrel, and a
miserable, mean wretch, I would be doing
you no injustice."

He turned pale, and while trembling
Avitli supjireased raye, knit his brows and
looked terribly at lue witli those piercing
black ej'ea, which so often in my duldhood
had made me tremble.

"Do you think that I will tamely sub-
mit to be brow beaten in this manner, in
my own hou.se, by a Hclieming swindler t "
he asked iierccly.

"I tliink you will," 1 calmly answered.
"You have neither tlie jimver uorthe will
to object. Vv'hen I was here before,
liichard Winstanley, 1 hesitated as to what
course I should pursue, and you were
sharp enough to notice that hesitation.
Now I pause no longer. You know who
and what 1 am, and you may as well
acknowledge it at once, and do one act of
justice bufore vou die."

"Die! 13iuV' he ci'ied with a look of
terror. " Wiio'n ginng to die f

"You," 1 answered.

"Liar: Cursed— base- d d liar!"

he hissed througii hi.? teeth, while liis
whole frame .shook with his passion.
"How dare you tell mo 1 am dying!
How diU'e yo\i utter so black a lie!"

"It is nolle," I answered. "At this
moment the hand of death is surely on
you. For your own good I tell you so,
that you may make fionie preparation to
meet your G(h1, and those you have so
fearfully wronged."

He hid his face in his handkerchief for
a moment, and then wiping the perspira-

tion from his brow, made an ciTort to
recover liimself.

"Cease your croaking," ho said with
more calmness. "It is time enough to

f)reivch when you are asked. You came
lero for some special purpose. Go on
with it at once, or leave me. "

"Do you still deny that lam Horiy
Hardy!" I asked.

"It matters little whether I door not,"
he answered. "When you were hero
before you threatened legal proceedings ;
go on with them. If you are he, surely
you can prove it in that way."

"You well know, Wr. Winstanley," I

continued, "that reverence forthe memory

of the dead is iiU that has restrained me."

j "I have nothing to do with either the

[dead or the living," ho answered. "If

you have a claim make it ; if you have

[ any right to my propei-ty, prove it in a

court of law. As a man of the world you

nuist know that that is your only proper

couree. "

" You refuse to resign possession !"

"I do."

"You refuse to acknowledge me as your
step-son !"

"I do."

"Even here, botv^eeu ourselves, do you
say that I am not he !"

"Here, between ourselves, I say I be-
lieve you are ho, if that is any satisfaction
to you. But 1 hato you, Harry Hardy !
I have always hated you, since you were a
bawling infant in your mother's arms. I
did all I could to make ycmr life miser-
able. All the torture!) you received at
scluiol were intlicted at my instance. All
the trouble that came upon you was from
my hand. You wore in my way ; I wished
to get rid of you, and your death would
liavt! been to me a houvco of happiness. I
hated you then ; 1 hate you now, and
while I live I shall hato you."

He fairly hisised the words through his
teeth, and gazeil at me with a look of in-
tense hatred, tliat was tieiidish in its
fiereenes.H.

"All this is not new to me,'" 1 answered ;
" [ have always kiKjwn t!iat you hated
me ; your whole cituduct has proved it.
As iav us that is concerned, I care not ; I
nuvwr sought your love. Jt would be
less welcome than your h.-^te. But now,
after all that has happened, I a.sk you,
cut of respect for the memory of the dead,
to i)erform an act <>f justice, without let-
ting all the world know the past."

"I want the world to know it," he said
with a fiendish smile. " Everything shall
be made public from first to last. Wiiat
a delicious nutrsel it will be for the
gosaii)pers of the country ! The hiitory
of the Hardys shall be in every nio.ith,
gloriously embeiliahed and added to as it

138

MY OWN STORY.

passes from one to another, and constant- 1
\y growing in interesting features. It will j
bo the finest «canJal of the ago. No, no, ,
Master Harry, tlie world must not bo de- |
prived of this good thing. It would be j
wrong and improper to rol> tho tea-tables
of such an interesting topic. The news- |
papers must have it ; it will bo a splendid i
sensation for them in these dull times."

" Shall everything be made public?" I j
asked.

'• Yes, everytliing," he answered, " wo
conceal nothing from the beginning to tlie \
end."

"Very well," I said, "I am glad you
acknowledge the propriety of doing so, j
as I have some interesting features to add i
to the curious history."

" I suppose youhave," ho replied ; " the '
Arab life you have led during the last few j
years must contain many attractive inci- I
dents which would read well in print." ]

" Yes," I said ; " listen and 1 will tell \
you one : A few days ago I met a woman j
in IJayford, wlio told me a singular story,
which was to this effect : When she was |
young ;ind beautiful, many years ago,
she had numerous auitor.s. Among them
was a young man whoso attentions were
not pleasing to her friends, though, as in
very often tho ease, he was tho very one
to whom she had given htr young heart.
She was ordered to cast him off ; but, in-
stead of doing so, she listened to his
lioneyed words, and in an evil hour desert-
ed homo, friends, everything for him.
She was very happy for a while, for she
loved him with her whole heart, and
thought him good, true and noble. But
he proved liimself a scoundrel. A child
was born luito them, and then, with a
baseness n^ost devili.sh, he deserted lior,
and left her and that little (mo to
live upon the charity of strangers, or to
die in misery and in want. Do you think
this dreadful story would roail well in i
print, Jlr. Wnistanley ! And as tho cen-
suring world discussed it, what words
would bo deemed strong enough to con- |
demn an action so base, so njean, at > j
wickedly heartless ?" [

"Why do you aak mo '. Wh;tt interest j
have I in the matter?" he said turning!
pale as he a])oke.

"Not much, perhaps," 1 said, and then
loaning over towards him, I whispered.
' ' People might say you h.ul some interest
in it, if they knew that the name of that
confiding girl was Louisa Jamby, and tho
name of her deceiver Richard Winstauley. "
He looked at me with a wild, vacant
stare, but was evidently too much sur-
prised to speak.

"Liste:i further," I continued, "and
see how wonderfully Providence works.
The brother of the woman you deceived

I became my friend and benefactor. Your
wronged wife lost yo\ir deserted child,
but lutt by death. Your child became
my constant comjtanion, my brother ; and
n<jw, after years of separation, tho mother
and son are unite<l, and at his bed-sido
she at this moment kneels, bringing him
ease and comfort in liis dying hour.

"Oh God! oh (Jod! Is this all true?"
he exclaimed, hurrying his face in hi»
Jiands and groaning aloud in his ".gcmy.

"Yes; and listen further, Richard Win-
stanley," I oontiiniod, in a deep whisper,
"yo\i remend^er the pale, sickly young
man whom you cut to the quick by your
mifeeling words when I was hero before.
Do yon know who he was? That was your
own son. The child whom you made an
out-cast upon the world! The child whom
you deserted! Tho child wliom you left to
starve! And tho only words ho ever heard
from your lips were those of hearties."*
cruelty, and unfeeling rebuke! After all
this Avill yon say there is no God? la tho
pathway of crime all strewai with roses, or
are there no thorns along its course ? You
have broken tho laws of both (Jod and
man. You have wronged me; Imt how
triHing are my wrongs in comparison with
those awful crimes you have connnittcd
ujiou others! Shall I go to law now,
Richard Winstanley, and make your his-
tory known to the world i Yours is a crime
that man as well as G()d punishes; shall
I bring that punishment upon you / Can 1
forget my mother's dishonor, wliich, thank
heaven, slio did not live to know? Shall
1 place you in a dungeon for )'(nir crimes,
or shall I slay you at my feet as one unfit
to breathe the same air with honest men !
No; you have wronged uie; you have dis-
hon(jred me andmine; you havecommitted
crimes I will not name, — but go im
in your course. The evil is not far olf.
Your own conscience is the most dreadful
accuser; heaven the most righteous judge.
Farewell to j'ou nf)W. In life we shall
never meet again, for even shoidd you live
for years, I will avoid you as 1 would a
pestilence. Even to such as j^ou (Jod is
merciful, and though you have done all
tliose tilings, 1 will pray that He may for-
give you."

1 could not bear to remain longer. The
scene was too painful, and too trying. I
hastened from the room, leaving him
doubled up in his chair, tho ])icture of re-
nior.se and mental torture, anil groaning
aloud in liis agony.

/ i! ^

MY OWN STORY.

1»

CHAPTER XLIII.

n-n

DKATH.

I had (Ictoi'inincd to stivrt for Hayford
imiiiodiatuly, but Mr. liucklc and Polly
proviiilod on iiio to romaiu until tlui fol-
lowiiifi day. It was fcniunato that I did
8o, Lato tliat night, as wo wore stuitud
around the coinfortablo firo, a i)i(;»i)enj,'(;r
canio thundering at the door, with the
<lreadfnl new.s that Mr. Win.stanley was
<lyinii ami wished to see nie iinniediatc^ly.
In a few niiinite.i a horse and eiitter were
in readiness and Mr. IJucklo and 1 Htartod.
A brisk drive over the eriapiiij,' Hnow
brought us to the house. The servants,
in whispers, told us that ho was still alive
and asking impatiently after mo. I was
at once conducted to his room, and a look
of satisfaeliun over-spread his »leath-like
face as 1 entered. Ho motioned uio to
his bed-sido, and aji I gave him my hand,
he pressed it with uU his remaining
strength. Ho smiled faintly, and was
wonderfully cool and collected, for one
wlio stood on tho threshold of eternity,

" I'm glad yoii'vo eonie, Harry, veiy
glad," he whispered, " I have done you
many fearful wrongs, but thank («od that
in this, my dying ho\ir, you aro at my
side tliat 1 may ask you to forgive me.''

" T do so with all my heart, "1 answered,
"and my prayer is that God will forgive
you as freely as I do."

There were two physicians in the room,
one of whom said that he positively must
not speak. Ho had burst a blood vessel, I
afterwards learned, and the utmost ([uiet
was tliercforo necessary.

"It is \iseles3 to tell mo that I must
not talk," lie answered, " I am dying, and
1 have that to say which must bo said be-
fore I grow too weak. Raise me up for a
moment, 1 mu-it speak while 1 have
strength."

We pillowed him up in a sitting posture.
He then asked if Mr. Buckle had accom-
panied mo, and learning that he had, he
requested him to be brought into the room.
The servants then withdrew, and tho two
doctors, Mr. liiickle and myself stood
around the bed.

"My life is fast ebbing aw.ay," he com-
menced "'1 feel tho hand of (loath upon
me, and in my last moments I wish you
all to hoar what I have to say. This
young man is Harry Hardy — my step-son.
1 have wronged him dreadfully — fearfully;
bxit I thank God that 1 have strength to
confess it, and i>.ak his forgiveness. He
was with me this morning, and after he
left 1 sent for a lawyer and made my will,
leaving hint everything of which 1 am
possessed. He is my absolute and sole
heir. There are others whom I should

and do romomber, but I have not named
thom, for the reason that 1 know ho will
do them justice and place them above
want.

"On account of tho hasto with which
my will was made, there may bo somo
errors or informalities in it, and in order
that you all may know its puri>ort, if any
doubt regarding it should hereafter bo
raised, I wish you all to bear witness that
this young man, Harry Hardy, is mado
my solo heir, without any reservation or
j)rovi8o of any kiml whatsoever. I have
done you many wrongs, Harry, and if I
could set them all right now, God knows
1 would do so with my whole heart. You
have forgiven me, for which may Heaven
bless you. 1 have been a bad, wicked man,
all my days; but it is asati8facti<in to know
that in my last moments I am able to do
something I should have done long ago.
There^ — there — that will do; you can all
leave mo now but Harry. Remember
what I have said. If the will should ever
be (luestioned, bear witness to the fact,
that he is my sole heir."

Tho others then withdrew and lie and 1
were left together.

"Harry," he contimied, "you know
the history of mj' past life. Do yoii think
she— she forgives me /"

"I know she does," I answered, "in her
name, and in the name of your son I for-
give you for tho wrongs they have suffered
at your hands. If they could be hero at
your bedside they would forgive y(m as
freely aa I do."

"Do yon really think so!" ho asked.
"Remember, Harry, how awfully I
wronged thom."

' ' Were those wrongs ten times as groat,
they would still forgive you," I replied.

"God bless you for those words Harry.
They take a fearful load off my heart,"
he whispered with a faint smile, while his
bright eyes shone with a look of happi-
ness.

"Will you take these pillows from under
me, my boy," he continued, "I'm growing
very, very weak . Thore, there ; thank
you. How good cand kind you are ; just
like your dear mother, just like her.
Oh God, how I wronged her — how J
wronged her ! May she and God forgivo
mo. It is wrong for such a wretch as I
am to ask for mercy or to expect for-
giveness. I am afriid to pray. Harry,
you aro good — God will hear j'ou — kneel,
oh, kneel down at my bedside and ask
heaven to be merciful to me, miserable
sinner that I am. Pray for me — pray for
me. Oh plead with that merciful God for
my pardon !"

I knelt down at the bedside and prayed
with all my heart and with all earnestness.
Before I had finished my supplications,

140

MY OWN STORY.

the ar

room

wit'

loath Bto]o into tho silent
.t out again buariii); a spirit

;'l

arose to my foot Richard Win-
vas (load !
.0 days later we placed him in his
gi...o, and tlicn I hastened back to Hay-
ford, after instnicting a prominent Sebly
lawyer to look ivfter my interests dnring
my absence.

It was mid-day when 1 arrived in IJay-
ford, and instead of goin^ direct to tho
cottage, 1 drove to (Jourtlcy's ofHco and
was fortunate enough to lind him thci'e.

" I do not know wlietliur to offer gratn-
lation.i or condolence, Harry," ho said,
after our first greetings were over, "but
at least allow mo to say that 1 am very
glad this business has been brought to a
close, without any unpleasant exposure.
Yonr stop-father has gone now, and I sup-
pose charity will uuvko us follow out the
teaching of the old Latin proverb, which
say.i that of tho dead avo sIkjuM speak
nothing but good."

'• My feeling in tho matter precisely."
I answered, ' ' ho died thoroughly penitent,
1 believe. Ho asked my forgiveness and
God's, and my heart-felt hope is that he
obtained the latter as fully and freely as
ho did the former. For the ])resent let
us speak of him no more. Tell mo all
that hivs happened during my absence. But
first, how is poor Gaeher?"

"Much tho same as when you left,
though 1 fear ho is fading away rajiidly."

"And his mother?"

"Well — Aery well; she bears up won-
derfully, fdio is at his bed-side night and
day, yet she never appears tired. Noth-
ing but a mother's lovo would sustain her
through these trying hours. I often won-
der that both mind and body do not give
•way"

" Has Ellon been there ?"

' ' Yes, several times. Her friends know
all, and have come to the conclusion tliat
tho wiaest ooiirae to pursue is to let her
see him as often as she wishes. She
Bjicnds the greater portion of each day
with him. Her presence seemed to revive
him at first ; but a relapse has come, and
he is now sinking more .surely than ever.
She is a noblo girl, HaiTy. Love such as
hers is seldom witnessed in these seltish
times. I could give tho world, were it
mine, to win tho heart of such a girl. It
is a rich priceless treasure, and that he
must soon lose jit, adds terribly to poor
Gaslier's sorrow. You must go to him at
once ; ho is constantly asking for you."

" Does he know what has happened?"

"Yes; we deemed it best to tell him
everything. He wept when ho heard of
hifl father's death, yet was very happy at
your good fortune. His attachment to

you is tho most fei'vont bond of friendship
man ever oxperioncod. 1 firmly boliovo
that tho ho])(5 of seeing you again is alt
that has kept life in him during tho lost
few days."

" Poor follow, if it wore in my power
to do so, (iod knows I would give half my
life to save him. Can nothing bo don»
for him."

"Alas, no. Hairy, Ho is far beycmtl
tho power of nmn's skill. (Jod alone
could restore him to health now, and such
a restoration would bo a miracle. It i«
utterly useless to hope. A few days
nu)ro and all his troubles will bo over,
(jro to him at once: I will follow you aa.
soon as I can."

My dear friend was indeed sinking
rapidly. He had changed greatly during
those few days of my absence, and it
required no practical eye to tell that ho
had but a few hours to live.

His eyes sparkled brightly, and he
smiled hapi)ily as 1 entered tho room and
took his hand in min(<.

" I was afraid you would bo too lato,
Harry," ho said, in a faint, low whisper,
" I have prayed that I might bo spareil to
see you onco more, that 1 might tell you
how 1 love you ; that 1 might thank you
again for all your kindness to me, and
that I might say to you tho last good-
bye."

"And God has heai'd your prayer, my
brother," I said.

" lie hears all my prayers now, Harry,"
he answered, with a sweet smile. " There
was a time when it Avas hard to pi'ay, and
I used to think that God did not hear mo ;
but that is al past now. When I pray,
as I very often do, while lying here alone,
I feel that His sweet messengers are pre-
sent, to bear away to His home in tho
skies each word that I utter, and to cai'ry
back to my heart His holy answers of
mercy and of love. A little while ago I
use to think it was dreadful to die ; but I
do iu)t think so now, Han-y. (Jod, in his
loving-kindness, can soften all our sor-
rows, and teach us even to smile as wo
approach the dark valley and shadow of
death." Ho paused for a few moments,
and then resumed : "They have told me
everything, Harry, that has happened
since you wont away. And so my poor
father, whom 1 scarcely knew, is dead?"

"As I knelt at his bod-side ho breathed
his last,'' I said, softly.

" That was very good of you," he whis-
pered. " You forgave him everything ?"

"Yes, freely; not only for myself, but
in yo\ir name also."

"Thank you, oh thank you," ho said,
with deep earnestness. " May God bless
you for your goodness. I hoj)o I nuvy
moot him in heaven, and know him there,

(

MY OWN STORY.

14(

M I <li(l lint know him mi uiutli. Do you
think I shiill ?"

'•(Jod is good ivnd inorciful, my brother.
[ hopo yi»i Hhall. Mirt uiui >fHH peaceful.
Ho prayed for piirdon, and if his pruyeiH
were lieiird, lio is now awaiting you in
heaven."

"Oh, I hojio lie is • I hope ho is," and
then lie udd(al after a short puuHO : " Do
you think my lot a hard one, Harry, to
die at bucIi a time as thix I"

" The world, no doubt, woiililsay it was
very hard," 1 answered, "but only your
own heart can tell whether it is or not."

"Well, it is liard — very, very hard,"
ho said in a imd way ; "yet I do not
murmur. (!od in His merey has so or-
dained it ; His will — not mine — be done.
A little while aijo I courted death — I
lonf^ed for it. I did not care to live — the
world was such a dreary place to me, full
of strangers and troubles, and misery.
What had I to live for i I was alone in
the world. You, my brother, were the
only friend 1 had. Father, mother — all-
relations were unknown to me. The very
name I bore was not mine own."

"Did I not always tell you, (xasher, to
live ill the hope that uvorythinj^ would
some day come riwliti"

" You did, my best of friends, you did :
and could I liave hoped as you hoped, 1
Avould now bo well and happy. Bnt I
cuiild not. That dreadful sorrow was too
great for me. I could iKjt forget it; and
while 1 brooded over it, this fearful
disease stole silently upon me, and carried
my very life awuy. If 1 could have had
some fore-kuowledgo of this, how well
would everything now be."

Ho covered his face with his thin hands
and sighed deeply.

"I am thankful to God for all his good-
ness to me," ho continued after a little
while. "lie has been very kind, and very
merciful. After all these years of doubt
and ignorance, he has told iiio who and
what I am. It is verj' good of Him, to
one so unwortliy as I. Yet it is more
l)ainful to die now, Harrj', than it would
have been a little while ago. I have found
a mother; I know who was my father. I
am blessed with the knowledge that my
birth was honourable, and that I am not
the otl'spring of crime, as I often feared 1
was. To know all this is a happiness I
never dreamed of enjoying, and coining
with it is the sweet knowle«ige that Ellen
loves me, and clung to mo in secret,
even when she knew of iny misfortunes.
These things, my brother, mako death
more iinwelconie than it would have been
had 1 never known them. I would like
to live now, if God would will it so, that
I might be happy with my dear mother,
with you, and with her I have so long

lorod with my whole lieart, in Huurot and
in silence. Oh such bliss as it would bo,
Harry, to live with ynu now; to inuko
lier my wife, to have my mother over
near me, and to havo those dear friends
around, who have all been so kind and
true, and good to nie. I have dreamed of
such hai)pineHfl sometinios, anu now, when
those sweet dreams Hcein bo near being
real, tho grave opens up to rocoivo
me, and death comes liovoring at my
couch. It is very liard, my own brotlier,
very, very hard. Hut I must not think
of these things. It is unkind, unjust, and
wr«ng. I should rather thank God, !u» 1
earnestly do, for all the mercy he hivs
shown me. Ho wills that I should die; 1
must not murmur. His holy will bo done.
Poor frail mortals should not comi>lain,
for Ho aloiio knows what is good and
right. I am ecmtent ; I am satistied ; 1 am
happy. If I sometimes do wish for a longer
life, may (Jod forgive me, and till my
heart with better thoughts. I am jirepar-
ed for death, Harry ; his coming rtlls me
with no fear ; his terrors have all vanish-
ed. There is a peace in my heart, which
is the gift (jf Christianity, and it teaches
mo of hoi)o and happiness above. Oh, my
friend, after all, the christian alone knows
j how ti lie bravely!"

He sixdco like this for a long time, and
] his words wank deeply into my heart.
! There wan a briglit beam of liai)piiios»
j resting on his pale face, which told of
! other than earthly bli.-is, and he looked
I on the approach of death as calmly and
j as resignedly as if it had been l)ut a long,
I sweet sleep.

I It was a great effort to him to speak,
and fearing that it would exhaust him too
muoli, 1 begged of him to bo silent, and
then, kissing his white forehead, I stole
quietly from the room.

That afternoon Donlevey t(dd mo that
he could not last more than a few houi-s
longer, and thercjfore we looked for his
death as likely to happen any moment.
Ellen remained with him all that evening,
and the doctor's kind wife stood near to
comfort and support her.

As the silent midnight hour a])proac]i-
ed, ho called us all to his bed-side, and
with heavy hearba and moistened eyes we
stood ciround, to see our dear friend die.
"It is nearly over — nearly over," he
whispered, "I feel that cold hand upon
mo, and away there in the distance, hid-
ilen in a bright cloud of glory, I see the
angels, and they beckon me to come.
They are God's angels, and O, so beauti-
ful, and bright, and happy. You must
not weep, my friends, I am very, veiy
happy. Did you see the bright vision
which my eyes see you would rejoice as I
rejoice. My mother, God bless you. After

143

MY OWN STORY.

!:i

•\ i

: I

1 t

lon!{, \'>n<i wditinrj I hnvu fminil yi>u, mily
to luHi) yoii iij^ain, hut not forovor. In a
litllo while yiiii Khali oinin iiftur iiii;, iiml
thon in Unit hright liuid which I hi-o hc-
foro iii<), v.'ii Hliall iiiiict ii^iiiii, iiiul ho
[lartofl ii'-'vcrniore. Vhii will ho viiry
KDi'il ti> luT, Harry, uhcii I am K'""'-
You havci hcKU a hroihcr, n friend to nio ;
ho to liLT a Hon -n]w in (ianhor'u mother.
Do nr)t weep ho, Klleii, darlins,' ; I ain
Roiii'^ from 3 on now, hut in lloavcii 1
Khali love you, and look down upon you,
and, if (iod will it so, I nhall often ho at
vonr Hiilo, and ho a^niardiari ovi^r all yo.ir
life. I''iir my Hake, love and cliui,' to my
mother, renu mheriiij,' over, that hIio is
tlie mother of him who ha;* j,'ouo heforo
you, and awaits your coming. Wluui the
HHows have all t;one, and the hrii,'ht sweet
dayn of ni)rin;.; have returned, yon will
come to my (,'i'ave, HomutituoH, won't you,
Ellen / You and my inother and Harry (
IJrin<,' Rome iluw(!r.^ with you. I shall he
there, and shall look iqiou you as you
place the roscH, and the lillics and the
l>anHie8 on my yrave. Yon shall feel my
presoice near, and 1 Khali he ha])pier that
you have not forgotten me. It in grow-
ing very dark hero now. is tluH the
death I ve haen taught to fear? How
hapi>y ! How happy I Howhapj)y! Mo-
ther ! — Ellen ! — Harrj' ! — kiss me -kiss
me ! tJod hlcss you ! (Jod hless my
darling ! Happy ! Happy 1 Hapiiy ! "

Just then the midnight hour marked
the (hiath of another day, and with it
jiassed away the npirit of fond and faith-
ful Oasher.

Theyhorehia poor inother and his Ellen
from the room, and then one hy one they
silently cre])t away, and I was left alone
kneeling at the hedsido of the deail. My
heart was heavy ■with the sorrow that was
upon it ; yet there was a joy therein that
I could not speak when 1 remenihercd how
happily he had died. 1 arose and looked
athis cold faco--that face which had looked
so kindly on me, long years before, when
as l)03's we met, in the wet, cheerless
streets, houseless and liomeless hy night.
It was very calm and peaceful looking now,
with the impress of death's C(ddhaTid upon
it, and around the lips there lingered a
sweet smile, which told how hapjiy the
parting had hcen. 1 tenderly kissed
the white, icy l)row, with all the love of a
hrother in my heart, and then crept away
fi'oni the room, raid v/ith reverence left the
liallowed presence of the dead.

A few days passed, and then wo b')re
him to his long, long home. In the grave-
yard, at Bayford, he sleeps. If yon ever
visit that sacred spot, dear reader, "tread
softly and speak low," for therein he
slumbers— that darling friend wliom T
have lost.

CHAFTKU XldV.

ri,oHKNCK RXTLAIN.M.

It whh n fort\inate thing that durin]t{
tho next few weekii, my mind and tiino
were fully occupied hy husiiuf^n.'i. Thin
served, in a )^rei>.t meaKure, to make nio
forgel my grief. In taking po.^Hos.sion of
my property, ami finding oute.vactly how
it stood, I had all Icoidil do. I was busy
with lawyt)r.i, and tenantH, and servants,
and was constantly running backwards and
forwards between JIayford and Sebly.
Tho estate turned out to bo even more
valuable than 1 hail expected; u'ld thus,
after all my poverty and Htruggling, I
suddenly found myself in jiossession of
greater wealth than i had ever dreamed
Would be mine.

.\nd how about Florence Jarvis, all thi.'i
timt! f Her name wat ntill mentionoil in
fashionable circles in ronnoction with
(iardiier's, in a way anything but pleasing
to nw, as her accepted lover. While I
did not doubt her love for an instant 1
could not help f(!eling annoyed at tho
rumours that were so industriously circu-
late. During all my troubles she had been
kind, and had cheered me on witii many
a word of comfort and hope. Y^et the old
restraint remained, and in no way could I
fathom the cause of hijr peculiar conduct.
Hut now that I was independent of tho
world, 1 made up my mind to have every
doubt cleared uji at once.

Accordinglj', one jileasant afternoon, I
walked over to Dorley House. Fortu-
nately, Florence was at homo and alone.
She looked so charming as I entered that
for a moment I hesitated, fearing that I
might say something which would rob mo
of her forever. Then, as I remend)cred
her love and my own, all hesitatution
vanished, and 1 determined to speak.

" .\nd so all your business matters are
settled, Harry," she said, after the usual
greetings.

"No, Florence, not <(//," I replied.

"Not all?" she asked with .surprise,
" Why your last letter told mo that every-
thim; had been concluded. Ifa-i some new
trouble arisen t"

"No, darling; but an (;ld one still
hangs over me." I said, " one which is
w<jrse than all the others init together,
and one which has brought me much
mental anguish and doubt.''

"My ])Oor Harry," she said, as she
placed her hand on my shoidder and
looked fondly uji into my face, "Cannot
yo\ir Florence aid you in removing this
old trouble?"

" She can," I answered, " and it is for
that i)urpo30 that I am here to-day. Sit
down hero with me, darling, while I tell
you all about it."

•

MY OWN «TOUT.

143

P* [ I(mI livr to a Rofnun I njioko, iiii*I wlicn
shn was Huutud nt my niilo 1 ruaiiiniMl

" 1 liiivu come, my Florpiiiu, to luik an
exiiluiiiition. Your lovo I doubt not. I
hoiiuvo in itn tnitli an firmly aH in my own
oxiiitcncc'. Vut you muiit ncknowledgu
that 1 hiivo not all your conlidcnco — that
voii do not trust mu as fully na I nhould
bo tnisti'd."

"Not trust yo\i, Harry i" nlio oxclainied,
"Ah, tliero you vvroni,' nui."

" I'ardon nic, darlini;, if I Hiioke ]ilain-
ly," I continuod, " I um liuri' to-ilay in
ordur that wu ini){ht fully undorHtand
each other ; and if in Hooking to arrivu at
such an luidorHtaiuliny I hhoidd Hay any-
thing? uniileaKant, j)ray overlook it until I
have «aid nil 1 wish to Hay. That you
have not I'onfnled in mu fully you muRt
yourself acknowledge when I rominil yon
that you have never yet o.^idainod your
reason for itnpoHing He(!reHy niion me res-
pecting our engagement."

"Tlio reason is a family one, Harry,"
alio answered.

" No matti'r ; I, who hojjo to liavo the
happiness of iiiakinL;you my wife ero long,
should know it," 1 eontiniied, "Surely
tmder such circumstances I have [a right
to such an e-xjilanation. 1 have been
silent long, because you wished it. IJut
I think the time has now arrived wh'm
the secret should be made known lo ine.
Trust nie, Florence, darling ; trust mo as
1 have trusted you. 1 um no longer the
man I Avas. Will you not trust me,
Florence / Will you not explain the mys-
btery to me i" As I spoke 1 took her
hand in mine. It trendiled as I held it.
For a moment she looked dov<n hesitat-
ingly, and then turning to me, she said,

" I know, Harry, you would not ask
nie to tell you all, nidess yim were satis-
tied tliat it was right for nie to do so.
Therefore, I shall hesit;ito no li>nger. It
is very little I have to tell, yet is sufHcient
to bring disgrace on one whose name 1
bear, and whose honor is as dear to me
as my own. You have of toned wondered,
Harry, why JMv. (.Jardner was so well
received at Dorley Houfie, and why my
fatlier treated him with such marked
favor. Others have wondered at thin as
well as you. The reason is this : my poor
father is in that man's power."

"Your father in (jtardner's power!" I
e.\claimed.

"Yes," she continued, "he is bound
to him in a way which is terrible to think
of— terrible," and she hid her face in her
liands as if afraiil to go on with her
story.

"I cannot understand this, darling,"
I said, '' It is inconceivable how a fellow
like Gardner would accomplish such a
thing. Why the world would laugh to

hear that .ludgu •larviti wore in tlio (lowor
of a noodle liko that."

" Kut the world doeii not know that,
noodle tliougli Mr. (Jardiicr, in in Homu
thin((a, he is nhrewd enough in othen,"
hIio replied.

"Namu thoni," I mid, " Ho in cunning
I know ; but Hhrewdness or clovomoHit 1
never gave him credit for."

"Then you are mislaken, Harry, for ut

ono thing he is oidy too clever," she said.

"And pray what is that/" I asked.

She hesitatiKl for a moment, ami then,

looking up at no sho said, "Ho is only too

clever at l)lay."

" At play /" I repeated, "Do you nioaii
to tell mo that ho is a gambler V

"That is what the world would cull
him," she rejilied.

" I see it all now," I said, "Your father
is his victim."

"My father is his victim," and us she
uttered tho words she burst into tears.

I consoled her as best I ciMild and then
by degrees I gathered all tho facts from lior.
.Imlge Jarvis, it appeared, though
cho world did not know it, was ])a8-
si(mately fond of gand)ling in a <piiot
way. For several years he had been in
with Gardner. The result was that Mr.
.larvis wa;t a heavy loser. (Jardnerheld
his notes for a large amo\uit, and with
nothing but his salary to live n|M)i), it
was utterly imiio.isible for him to redeoni
his paper, especially as ho continued to
play and was thus constantly incre.asinjf
his indebtedness. He well knew that, oc-
cupying the position of a judge of tho land,
an exposure of these practices would bring
ni>on him ruin an<l disgrace. He was thus
' completely in (iardner's power, and tho
I latter well knew how to use him. His
i i)rize was tho hand of Florence, which tho
I unhai)py father pr('mised him, in order to
avoid the disgrace of an exposure. T he faith-
i ful girl gave a seemingly willing consent,
I that her father might be saved, though,
I with woman'.s tact, she succeeded in jxjst-
! poning the \\-edding from time to time, in
the fond hope that .some meaiia of refuge
would appear. This was tho whole story,
this was all the secret which had so long
puzzled and annoyed me.

As (toon ars I had heard it, without ac-
quainting Florence of my intentions, I
called on . I udge Jarvis. He received me
very kindly, and congratul.ited mo on my
recent good fortune. Without pausing to
ask myself whether I was doing right or
wrong, I told him of the love wliich liad
HO long existed between Florence and my-
self, and tliat, if he would give his con-
sent to (^ur union, I would gladly lay my
entire fortune at her feet. Ho liositr.ted
for a moment, and tlion I told him that
the secret of his gandjling and his in-

144

MY OWN HTOIIY.

<£•••

(lelituiInoRii to Oftnlncr wwro in my koo|)- ! Htamliii); nil thi«|iri>iperity nnd i^runtneiw,
iii(;, iiiiil tliiit if hu would do ino thn favour liu Iium nuvur tnkitii unto liininulf a wife. 1
of nc(.'L-i)tin|( li ionii, )io nuKiit tako up { know wliuru hiw huart it, l)Ut I'lu afraitl
vvurv n<)U\ nud IImih uiciinu from tliut I ho will not win tliu lovo hu Huokn. Kilon
niiku H clutchim. Ill) wiuihixnly indif^nant, Montcriotr huriuil liur liourt, lon^ yuam
nnd roiuidly iiliuiicd my uudacity in iiiak- | mfn in (iaiiliur'M ){ravo. Hlio lovon (Jliarloy
iny tliu |iro]Miiiition ; for )iu waH n tii}{li- 1 ii* n brother, and, porhapR, if Hho vrer
■pirit4)d old fullnw, and looked U[)on my ! wuru to marry, hu would ho hur, chiiico.
ofFur iiH III! iiiMult. I, howovor, caliud { Hut I do not think thin will over bu. We
Florouuu iinil hor Htiituly aunt to my m- j aru all woll up in lifu now, and aftur all tho
HUitanuo, and tho rimult of our condiintd vcarH that havo paMmMl ovur thuir lioadR,
on'orts wiiM, tliat iho old iudi;u Kavu way, it ia hardly lik(d> that Ellon ur Charley
and auociiti'd my oiler. \\y a nice litthi ' will uTtir luarry.

Mchciuc, ho Hueccodcd in Kuttin;^ iiack all SiuHwick ('ottauu woarH itant(u woll, and
Ilia notes fi'om (iarduvr, without |^ivin{< iMitiU a homnfor t)achuliirH. Mr. HinHwick
that (;ontl('inau any idoa of tho ultimate I wont oil' in a fit, a fowyoarx a({u, hut MrH.

result ; ainl whun fairly nut of hitt power,
}io anvo him tho coldott of cold HhouldurH.
Laily in tho succeeding fall wo wuro
manied— Florence and 1 — and if thero in
a }i!'.])piur couplu on earth, 1 havu yut to
find tnetri.

OHAFfEtt XLV

rONtXl'HION.

HiuKwick Ih Hlill in tho land of thu living,
and lioIdH a higher opinion than over of
hur Irihli ancvHtorn, the famous DcUour-
coy'a. ftlr. and MrH. J\imper aro doing
well, if one may airivo at that conclusion,
jud(.;in|jfroni thu number of juvunile Jum-

iiers that ajipcar on the lastcuUHua roturnn.
Svcr Kincu that mvmorablo morning on
wliicli Dick Donlcvey acttd tho part of
father, and gave thu blushing Dobby Sins-
, wick into the keeping of tho bashful J um-
A few wordw nioro, respecting Hi>mo of jitr, ho has ))eon called in, in his profeu-
thosu mentioned in tJu'He pa;,'OH, mid m- .MJuiial capacity, on an average of, at least,
task will be done. 1 ,,iice a veur, by the energetic Mrs. .Jumper.

Mr. (Jiirdner's future was not a hapiiy | In fact, young .Jiuiipcrs fiooni to popup
one. His gold proomeil him a wife, but | li|<o nnMlirooms.

it did not k.)ei> bur to him. One day slie j Mr. lUickU's ambition has been satia-
ran oil' witii an olliccr, and since then lie | tied. Ho has served for three years a«
has not scon her. Ho spends his smamurs | mayor of Se'nly. Ho was strongly pressed
at the \vaterii!g-i>hiceR i'.nd his winters in l„ run for Piirliamont ; but, thou:,'li his

election w.i:i a certainly, ho respectfully
I declineil the honour. In his old ago

tho cities, au iincioni rmiv
care for vah\ fewer reu]M)ct

will

fe\i'

I'oor (iiitiher's mother died a fow vears | hu iluvotes more attoiitioii than ever

after liiiii. While she lived I did all in
my power to make her ]iap[>y, and in
death I pla;'.ed lier at tho side of her dar-
ling son

jilace ill tho (I'liet giaveyard, and eveii
our little onus liavo been tiught that it is
a holy duty to place their roses, and lili»\",,
and iiaiisic-t oa " Unclo Gashers grave."
Mrs. Muuker is still alive, and a hale,
hearty <ild lady hho is. Nieholai is now

to his tabbies, and takes groat delight in
i tracing their generations back to thoso
! happy «lays when, while I was yot in pet-
Veiy often we goto thoir rusting j ticoiits, hu courted Polly Ann.

My kind old nurse has not gone to her

! accomit yet, though sho looks very old

I now, and siiyii it cannot bo long boforo

I she lays down lier load, and goes to "tho

sweet angel "-'iiy mother.

" iviaster Harrv's room" is still kept ill
.a prominent and prosj>eroii8 lawyer. You j roadiness f(.r nie" iu her kind home, and
never heiir of him as a pleivihjr at thu ■ ,.„ce in a while [ cheer her old heart by
bar. That i,j not in Ids line. IJiit liis ; (Iro)ipii'.g in upon her, and sleeping there,
opinion on i.oiuts of law is as hi;^'iily val- ^ And now, kind reader, 1. am .almost
lied :'.s th:it of a.iy geutleinau of tlio h/iig , done. You have followed me with pati-
vobu in the rroviucu. ills i)raoace is j eiice tiiio.igh u!l this sfory of my life,
large, and hi; lives in eoiTcspondiiigly com- ' and for that 1 thank y„u. Should you
fovtablo circmiistauces— ijtill a b.ichelor. | ov(t cdiuu to my dear Sebly homo, yon
Dr. Donlcvey and his wife are our mo.st ' shall be most vreLuinC. Florence is with
intimate friends. The dear old ties wliich me. She sits at my side these merry Uhrist-
biiid us together aro too wicrod to ])e mas times, and says,— "Tell them all to
broken by anything but death. May that gome, Harry, that they may see our dar-
long bo averted. ' linglittleonos, and, be hapypwithns hero."

Charley (Joiirtley has tho title of lion- This ia Florence's invitation. With what
orablo before his name now. He has won | better words can I dose " My Own Stohy. "
high political honors, and his name is Farewell !
well known in tho Province. Notwith- ; i ■ , :