Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.Is he ridiculous?Few people besides the actual sufferers can at all conceive or appreciate the intense misery which shy and retiring characters experience when themselves or their conduct are made the subjects of open ridicule, especially in company. Amos was peculiarly sensitive on this point; and Walter knew it, and too often ungenerously availed himself of this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him a grudge, or was displeased or out of temper with him. He would watch his opportunity to drag Amos forward, as it were, when he could present him to his father and his friends in a ridiculous light; and then he would clap his hands, point to his brother’s flushed face, and make some taunting or sarcastic remark about his “rosy cheeks.” Poor Amos, on these occasions, tingling in every nerve, and ready almost to weep tears of vexation, would shrink into himself and retreat into another room at the earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently by an outspoken reproach from his brother, that “he must be a regular muff if he couldn’t bear a joke.” Sometimes Walter’s unfeeling sallies would receive a feeble rebuke from his father; but more often Mr Huntingdon would join in the laugh, and remark to his friends that Amos had no spirit in him, and that all the wit of the family was centred in Walter. Not so Miss Huntingdon. She fully understood the feelings of both her nephews; and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally grieved at the cruel want of love and forbearance in her younger nephew towards his elder brother.Some weeks had passed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester being none the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercise him occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been fully restored to favour. It was on a lovely summer afternoon that the two had trotted briskly along to a greater distance from home than they had at all contemplated reaching when they started. They had now arrived at a part of the country quite unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neat little cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle, when Walter checked his horse, and said, “Dick, it’s full time we turned back, or my father will wonder what has become of us.” So they turned homewards. They had not, however, ridden more than a quarter of a mile, when Walter found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, telling Dick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a few minutes, he returnedto the little cottage, and, having recovered his glove just opposite the gate, was in the act of remounting, when he suddenly exclaimed, “Holloa! what’s that? Well, I never! It can’t be, surely! Yes, it is, and no mistake!”The sight which called forth these words of surprise from Walter was one that might naturally astonish him. At the moment when he was about to spring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened, and out ran a little boy and girl about four or five years of age, followed by Amos Huntingdon, who chased them round the little garden, crying out, “I’ll catch you, George; I’ll catch you, Polly;” laughing loud as he said so, while the children rushed forward shouting at the fun. They had gone thus twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware that he was being observed by some one on horseback. In an instant he made a rush for the house, and, as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman’s head and a portion of her dress became visible in the entrance.Walter paused in utter bewilderment; but the next minute Amos was at his side, and said, in a hoarse, troubled voice, “Not a word of this, Walter, not a word of this to any one at home.” Walter’s only reply to this at first was a hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, “All right, Amos;” and, taking off his hat with affected ceremony, he added, “My best respects to Mrs Amos, and love to the dear children. Good-bye.” Saying which, without stopping to hear another word from his brother, whose appealing look might well have touched his heart, he urged his horse to a canter, and was gone.Amos did not appear among the family that evening. He had returned home just before dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room asking to be excused as he did not feel very well. Miss Huntingdon went up to his room to see what was amiss, and returned with the report that there was nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad sick headache, and that bed was the best thing at present for him. Mr Huntingdon asked no further questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept by similar attacks from joining the family circle. His father sometimes thought and called him fanciful, but for the most part left him to do as he liked, without question or remark. And so it was that Amos had grown up to manhood without settling down to any profession, and was left pretty much to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His father knew that there was no need to be anxious about him on the score of worldly provision. He had seen well to his education, having sent him to a good school, and in due time to the university, and, till he came of age, had made him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer needed, since he had come into a small fortune at his majority, left him by his mother’s father; and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there was no need for concern as to his future prospects, so no effort was made by Mr Huntingdon to draw him out of his natural timidity and reserve, and induce him to enter on any regular professional employment. Perhaps he would take to travelling abroad some day, and that would enlarge his mind and rouse him a bit. At present he really would make nothing of law, physic, or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for, and would turn out some day a useful and worthy man, no doubt; but he was never meant to shine; he must leave that to Walter, who had got it naturally in him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire; and poor Amos pretty much agreed with this view of his father’s; and Walter did so, of course. The Manor-house therefore continued Amos’s home till he should choose to make another for himself.But was he making a new home for himself? This was Walter’s bewildering thought as he cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brother at the cottage. Was it really so? Had this shy, silent brother of his actually taken to himself a wife unknown to any one, just as his poor sister had married clandestinely? It might be so—and why not? Strange people do strange things; and not only so, but Walter’s conscience told him that his brother might well have been excused for seeking loveoutof his home, seeing that he got but little loveinit. And what about the children? No doubt they were hers; he must have married a widow. But what a poky place they were living in. She must have been poor, and have inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was heir to Flixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace! Such were Walter’s thoughts as he rode home from the scene of the strange encounter. But then, again, he felt that this was nothing but conjecture after all. Why might not Amos have just been doing a kind act to some poor cottager and her children, whom he had learned to take an interest in? And yet it was odd that he should be so terribly upset at being found out in doing a little act of kindness. Walter was sure that not a shadow of moral wrong could rest on his brother’s conduct. He might have made a fool of himself, but it could not be anything worse.One thing, however, Walter was resolved upon, he would have a bit of fun out of his discovery. So next day at luncheon, when they were seated at table, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them, but unusually nervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly inquired of his brother across the table if he could lend him a copy of the “Nursery Rhymes.” No reply being given, Walter continued, “Oh, do give us a song, Amos,—‘Ride a Cock Horse,’ or ‘Baby Bunting,’ or ‘Hi, Diddle, Diddle.’ I’m sure you must have been practising these lately to sing to those dear children.”As he said this, Amos turned his eyes on him with a gaze so imploring that Walter was for a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticed that look, and, though she could not tell the cause of it, she was deeply pained that her nephew should have called it forth from his brother. Walter, however, was not to be kept from his joke, though he had noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully at him, and had crossed one hand upon the other. “Ah, well,” he went on, “love in a cottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and I hope these darling little ones, Amos, enjoy the best of health.”“Whatever does the boy mean?” exclaimed the squire, whose attention was now fairly roused.Amos looked at first, when his father put the question, as though he would have sunk into the earth. His colour came and went, and he half rose up, as though he would have left the table; but, after a moment’s pause, he resumed his seat, and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, said in a low, clear voice, “Walter saw me yesterday afternoon playing with some little children in a cottage-garden some miles from this house. This is all about it.”“And what brought you there, Amos?” asked Walter. “Little baby games aren’t much in your line.”“I had my reasons for what I was doing,” replied the other calmly. “I am not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed of in the matter. I can give no other explanation at present. But I must regret that I have not more of the love and confidence of my only brother.”“Oh, nonsense! You make too much of Walter’s foolish fun; it means no harm,” said the squire pettishly.“Perhaps not, dear father,” replied Amos gently; “but some funny words have a very sharp edge to them.”No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired to her room after luncheon than she was joined by Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but, laying hold of her two hands, and then putting them wide apart from one another, he said, still keeping his eyes fixed on them, “Unkind hands of a dear, kind aunt, you had no business to be crossed at luncheon to-day, for poor Walter had done no harm, he had not showed any want of moral courage.”Disengaging her hands from her nephew’s grasp, Miss Huntingdon put one of them on his shoulder, and with the other drew him into a chair. “Is my dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his brother?” she asked.“Ah! that was not the point, Aunt Kate,” was his reply; “the hands were to be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and I have not failed to-day.”“No, Walter, perhaps not; but you told me you should like to be taught moral courage by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to me a very striking example, so I crossed my hands.”“Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it.”“My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter.”“Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?”“Yes, and a very brave one too; indeed, never a braver. When he was a young man, and had not been many years in the army, he was terribly wounded in a battle, and lay on the field unable to raise himself to his feet or move from his place. Thinking that some one might come round to plunder the dead and dying before his friends could find him—as, alas! there were some who were heartless enough to do in those days—and not wishing that his money should be taken from him, as he had several gold pieces about him, he managed to get these pieces out of his pocket, and then to glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood which had collected about one of his wounds. Then he became insensible, and friends at last recovered his body and brought him to consciousness again, and the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp. I mention this merely to show the cool and deliberate courage of the man; his wonderful pluck, as you would call it.”“Very plucky, auntie, very; but please go on.”“Well, many years after, he died in battle, and showed the same marvellous bravery then. It was in the disastrous engagement of Prestonpans, in the year 1745. The Highlanders surprised the English army, turned their position, and seized their cannon. Colonel Gardiner exerted himself to the utmost, but his men quickly fled, and other regiments did the same. He then joined a small body of English foot who remained firm, but they were soon after overpowered by the Highlanders. At the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, Colonel Gardiner received a bullet-wound in his left breast; but he said it was only a flesh-wound, and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in the thigh. Then, seeing a party of the foot bravely fighting near him, who had no officer to head them, he rode up to them and cried aloud, ‘Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing!’ Just then he was cut down by a man with a scythe, and fell. He was dragged off his horse, and received a mortal blow on the back of his head; and yet he managed to wave his hat as a signal to a faithful servant to retreat, crying out at the same time, ‘Take care of yourself.’”“Bravo! auntie, that was true courage if you like; that’s old-fashioned courage such as suits my father and me.”“I know it, Walter. But Colonel Gardiner showed a higher and nobler courage; higher and nobler because it required far more steady self-denial, and arose from true religious principle. I want you to notice the contrast, and that is why I have mentioned these instances of what I may call his animal bravery. I have no wish to rob him of the honour due to him for those acts of courage; but then, after all, he was brave in those constitutionally,—I might say, indeed, because he could not help it. It was very different with his moral courage. When he was living an utterly godless and indeed wicked life, it pleased God to arrest him in his evil career by a wonderful vision of our Saviour hanging on the cross for him. It was the turning-point of his life. He became a truly changed man, and as devoted a Christian as he had formerly been a slave to the world and his own sinful habits. And now he had to show on whose side he was and meant to be. It is always a difficult thing to be outspoken for religion in the army, but it was ten times as difficult then as it is now, seeing that in our day there are so many truly Christian officers and common soldiers in the service. Drunkenness and swearing were dreadfully prevalent; indeed, in those days it was quite a rare thing to find an officer who did not defile his speech continually with profane oaths. But Colonel Gardiner was not a man to do things by halves: he was now enlisted under Christ’s banner as a soldier of the Cross, and he must stand up for his new Master and never be ashamed of him anywhere. But to do this would bring him persecution in a shape peculiarly trying to him,—I mean in the shape of ridicule. He would, he tells us, at first, when the change had only lately taken place in him, rather a thousandfold have marched up to the mouth of a cannon just ready to be fired than stand up to bear the scorn and jests of his ungodly companions; he winced under these, and instinctively shrank back from them. Nevertheless, he braved all, the scorn, the laughter, the jokes, and made it known everywhere that he was not ashamed of confessing his Saviour, cost what it might; and he even managed, by a mixture of firm remonstrance and good-tempered persuasion, to put down all profane swearing whenever he was present, by inducing his brother officers to consent to the payment of a fine by the guilty party for every oath uttered. And so by his consistency he won at length the respect of all who knew him, even of those who most widely differed from him in faith and practice. There, Walter, that is what I call true and grand moral courage and heroism.”“So it was, so it was, dear auntie; but why have you brought forward Colonel Gardiner’s case for my special benefit on the present occasion?”“I will tell you, dear boy. You think it fine fun to play off your jokes on Amos, and nothing seems to please you better than to raise the laugh against him and to bring the hot flush into his cheeks. Ah! but you little know the pain and the misery you are inflicting; you little know the moral courage it requires on your brother’s part to stand up under that ridicule without resenting it, and to go on with any purpose he may have formed in spite of it. I want you to see a reflection of Colonel Gardiner’s noblest courage, his high moral courage, in your own dear brother, and to value him for it, and not to despise him, as I see you now do. You say you want to be free from moral cowardice; then, copy moral courage wherever you can see it.”“Well, auntie,” said her nephew after a minute’s silence, “I daresay you are right. Poor Amos! I’ve been very hard upon him, I believe. It wasn’t right, and I’ll try and do better. But it’s such a funny idea takinghimas a copy. Why, everybody’s always telling me to mark what Amos does, and just do the very opposite.”“Not everybody, Walter; not the aunt who wants to see you truly good and noble. There are a grandeur of character and true nobility in Amos which you little suspect, but which one day you also will admire, though you do not see nor understand them now.”Walter did not reply. He was not best pleased with his aunt’s last remarks, and yet, at the same time, he was not satisfied with himself. So he rose to go, and as he did so he said, “Ah, Aunt Kate, I see you are in Amos’s confidence, and that you know all about the little children and their cottage home.”“Nay, my boy,” replied his aunt, “you are mistaken; Amos has not made me his confidante in the matter. But I have formed my opinion of him and his motives from little things which have presented themselves to my observation from time to time, and I have a firm conviction that my nephew Walter will agree with me in the end about his brother, whatever he may think now. At least I hope so.”“So do I, dear auntie. Good-bye, good-bye.” And, having said these words half playfully and half seriously, Walter vanished from the room with a hop, skip, and jump.

Few people besides the actual sufferers can at all conceive or appreciate the intense misery which shy and retiring characters experience when themselves or their conduct are made the subjects of open ridicule, especially in company. Amos was peculiarly sensitive on this point; and Walter knew it, and too often ungenerously availed himself of this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him a grudge, or was displeased or out of temper with him. He would watch his opportunity to drag Amos forward, as it were, when he could present him to his father and his friends in a ridiculous light; and then he would clap his hands, point to his brother’s flushed face, and make some taunting or sarcastic remark about his “rosy cheeks.” Poor Amos, on these occasions, tingling in every nerve, and ready almost to weep tears of vexation, would shrink into himself and retreat into another room at the earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently by an outspoken reproach from his brother, that “he must be a regular muff if he couldn’t bear a joke.” Sometimes Walter’s unfeeling sallies would receive a feeble rebuke from his father; but more often Mr Huntingdon would join in the laugh, and remark to his friends that Amos had no spirit in him, and that all the wit of the family was centred in Walter. Not so Miss Huntingdon. She fully understood the feelings of both her nephews; and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally grieved at the cruel want of love and forbearance in her younger nephew towards his elder brother.

Some weeks had passed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester being none the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercise him occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been fully restored to favour. It was on a lovely summer afternoon that the two had trotted briskly along to a greater distance from home than they had at all contemplated reaching when they started. They had now arrived at a part of the country quite unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neat little cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle, when Walter checked his horse, and said, “Dick, it’s full time we turned back, or my father will wonder what has become of us.” So they turned homewards. They had not, however, ridden more than a quarter of a mile, when Walter found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, telling Dick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a few minutes, he returnedto the little cottage, and, having recovered his glove just opposite the gate, was in the act of remounting, when he suddenly exclaimed, “Holloa! what’s that? Well, I never! It can’t be, surely! Yes, it is, and no mistake!”

The sight which called forth these words of surprise from Walter was one that might naturally astonish him. At the moment when he was about to spring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened, and out ran a little boy and girl about four or five years of age, followed by Amos Huntingdon, who chased them round the little garden, crying out, “I’ll catch you, George; I’ll catch you, Polly;” laughing loud as he said so, while the children rushed forward shouting at the fun. They had gone thus twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware that he was being observed by some one on horseback. In an instant he made a rush for the house, and, as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman’s head and a portion of her dress became visible in the entrance.

Walter paused in utter bewilderment; but the next minute Amos was at his side, and said, in a hoarse, troubled voice, “Not a word of this, Walter, not a word of this to any one at home.” Walter’s only reply to this at first was a hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, “All right, Amos;” and, taking off his hat with affected ceremony, he added, “My best respects to Mrs Amos, and love to the dear children. Good-bye.” Saying which, without stopping to hear another word from his brother, whose appealing look might well have touched his heart, he urged his horse to a canter, and was gone.

Amos did not appear among the family that evening. He had returned home just before dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room asking to be excused as he did not feel very well. Miss Huntingdon went up to his room to see what was amiss, and returned with the report that there was nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad sick headache, and that bed was the best thing at present for him. Mr Huntingdon asked no further questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept by similar attacks from joining the family circle. His father sometimes thought and called him fanciful, but for the most part left him to do as he liked, without question or remark. And so it was that Amos had grown up to manhood without settling down to any profession, and was left pretty much to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His father knew that there was no need to be anxious about him on the score of worldly provision. He had seen well to his education, having sent him to a good school, and in due time to the university, and, till he came of age, had made him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer needed, since he had come into a small fortune at his majority, left him by his mother’s father; and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there was no need for concern as to his future prospects, so no effort was made by Mr Huntingdon to draw him out of his natural timidity and reserve, and induce him to enter on any regular professional employment. Perhaps he would take to travelling abroad some day, and that would enlarge his mind and rouse him a bit. At present he really would make nothing of law, physic, or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for, and would turn out some day a useful and worthy man, no doubt; but he was never meant to shine; he must leave that to Walter, who had got it naturally in him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire; and poor Amos pretty much agreed with this view of his father’s; and Walter did so, of course. The Manor-house therefore continued Amos’s home till he should choose to make another for himself.

But was he making a new home for himself? This was Walter’s bewildering thought as he cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brother at the cottage. Was it really so? Had this shy, silent brother of his actually taken to himself a wife unknown to any one, just as his poor sister had married clandestinely? It might be so—and why not? Strange people do strange things; and not only so, but Walter’s conscience told him that his brother might well have been excused for seeking loveoutof his home, seeing that he got but little loveinit. And what about the children? No doubt they were hers; he must have married a widow. But what a poky place they were living in. She must have been poor, and have inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was heir to Flixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace! Such were Walter’s thoughts as he rode home from the scene of the strange encounter. But then, again, he felt that this was nothing but conjecture after all. Why might not Amos have just been doing a kind act to some poor cottager and her children, whom he had learned to take an interest in? And yet it was odd that he should be so terribly upset at being found out in doing a little act of kindness. Walter was sure that not a shadow of moral wrong could rest on his brother’s conduct. He might have made a fool of himself, but it could not be anything worse.

One thing, however, Walter was resolved upon, he would have a bit of fun out of his discovery. So next day at luncheon, when they were seated at table, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them, but unusually nervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly inquired of his brother across the table if he could lend him a copy of the “Nursery Rhymes.” No reply being given, Walter continued, “Oh, do give us a song, Amos,—‘Ride a Cock Horse,’ or ‘Baby Bunting,’ or ‘Hi, Diddle, Diddle.’ I’m sure you must have been practising these lately to sing to those dear children.”

As he said this, Amos turned his eyes on him with a gaze so imploring that Walter was for a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticed that look, and, though she could not tell the cause of it, she was deeply pained that her nephew should have called it forth from his brother. Walter, however, was not to be kept from his joke, though he had noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully at him, and had crossed one hand upon the other. “Ah, well,” he went on, “love in a cottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and I hope these darling little ones, Amos, enjoy the best of health.”

“Whatever does the boy mean?” exclaimed the squire, whose attention was now fairly roused.

Amos looked at first, when his father put the question, as though he would have sunk into the earth. His colour came and went, and he half rose up, as though he would have left the table; but, after a moment’s pause, he resumed his seat, and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, said in a low, clear voice, “Walter saw me yesterday afternoon playing with some little children in a cottage-garden some miles from this house. This is all about it.”

“And what brought you there, Amos?” asked Walter. “Little baby games aren’t much in your line.”

“I had my reasons for what I was doing,” replied the other calmly. “I am not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed of in the matter. I can give no other explanation at present. But I must regret that I have not more of the love and confidence of my only brother.”

“Oh, nonsense! You make too much of Walter’s foolish fun; it means no harm,” said the squire pettishly.

“Perhaps not, dear father,” replied Amos gently; “but some funny words have a very sharp edge to them.”

No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired to her room after luncheon than she was joined by Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but, laying hold of her two hands, and then putting them wide apart from one another, he said, still keeping his eyes fixed on them, “Unkind hands of a dear, kind aunt, you had no business to be crossed at luncheon to-day, for poor Walter had done no harm, he had not showed any want of moral courage.”

Disengaging her hands from her nephew’s grasp, Miss Huntingdon put one of them on his shoulder, and with the other drew him into a chair. “Is my dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his brother?” she asked.

“Ah! that was not the point, Aunt Kate,” was his reply; “the hands were to be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and I have not failed to-day.”

“No, Walter, perhaps not; but you told me you should like to be taught moral courage by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to me a very striking example, so I crossed my hands.”

“Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it.”

“My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter.”

“Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?”

“Yes, and a very brave one too; indeed, never a braver. When he was a young man, and had not been many years in the army, he was terribly wounded in a battle, and lay on the field unable to raise himself to his feet or move from his place. Thinking that some one might come round to plunder the dead and dying before his friends could find him—as, alas! there were some who were heartless enough to do in those days—and not wishing that his money should be taken from him, as he had several gold pieces about him, he managed to get these pieces out of his pocket, and then to glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood which had collected about one of his wounds. Then he became insensible, and friends at last recovered his body and brought him to consciousness again, and the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp. I mention this merely to show the cool and deliberate courage of the man; his wonderful pluck, as you would call it.”

“Very plucky, auntie, very; but please go on.”

“Well, many years after, he died in battle, and showed the same marvellous bravery then. It was in the disastrous engagement of Prestonpans, in the year 1745. The Highlanders surprised the English army, turned their position, and seized their cannon. Colonel Gardiner exerted himself to the utmost, but his men quickly fled, and other regiments did the same. He then joined a small body of English foot who remained firm, but they were soon after overpowered by the Highlanders. At the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, Colonel Gardiner received a bullet-wound in his left breast; but he said it was only a flesh-wound, and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in the thigh. Then, seeing a party of the foot bravely fighting near him, who had no officer to head them, he rode up to them and cried aloud, ‘Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing!’ Just then he was cut down by a man with a scythe, and fell. He was dragged off his horse, and received a mortal blow on the back of his head; and yet he managed to wave his hat as a signal to a faithful servant to retreat, crying out at the same time, ‘Take care of yourself.’”

“Bravo! auntie, that was true courage if you like; that’s old-fashioned courage such as suits my father and me.”

“I know it, Walter. But Colonel Gardiner showed a higher and nobler courage; higher and nobler because it required far more steady self-denial, and arose from true religious principle. I want you to notice the contrast, and that is why I have mentioned these instances of what I may call his animal bravery. I have no wish to rob him of the honour due to him for those acts of courage; but then, after all, he was brave in those constitutionally,—I might say, indeed, because he could not help it. It was very different with his moral courage. When he was living an utterly godless and indeed wicked life, it pleased God to arrest him in his evil career by a wonderful vision of our Saviour hanging on the cross for him. It was the turning-point of his life. He became a truly changed man, and as devoted a Christian as he had formerly been a slave to the world and his own sinful habits. And now he had to show on whose side he was and meant to be. It is always a difficult thing to be outspoken for religion in the army, but it was ten times as difficult then as it is now, seeing that in our day there are so many truly Christian officers and common soldiers in the service. Drunkenness and swearing were dreadfully prevalent; indeed, in those days it was quite a rare thing to find an officer who did not defile his speech continually with profane oaths. But Colonel Gardiner was not a man to do things by halves: he was now enlisted under Christ’s banner as a soldier of the Cross, and he must stand up for his new Master and never be ashamed of him anywhere. But to do this would bring him persecution in a shape peculiarly trying to him,—I mean in the shape of ridicule. He would, he tells us, at first, when the change had only lately taken place in him, rather a thousandfold have marched up to the mouth of a cannon just ready to be fired than stand up to bear the scorn and jests of his ungodly companions; he winced under these, and instinctively shrank back from them. Nevertheless, he braved all, the scorn, the laughter, the jokes, and made it known everywhere that he was not ashamed of confessing his Saviour, cost what it might; and he even managed, by a mixture of firm remonstrance and good-tempered persuasion, to put down all profane swearing whenever he was present, by inducing his brother officers to consent to the payment of a fine by the guilty party for every oath uttered. And so by his consistency he won at length the respect of all who knew him, even of those who most widely differed from him in faith and practice. There, Walter, that is what I call true and grand moral courage and heroism.”

“So it was, so it was, dear auntie; but why have you brought forward Colonel Gardiner’s case for my special benefit on the present occasion?”

“I will tell you, dear boy. You think it fine fun to play off your jokes on Amos, and nothing seems to please you better than to raise the laugh against him and to bring the hot flush into his cheeks. Ah! but you little know the pain and the misery you are inflicting; you little know the moral courage it requires on your brother’s part to stand up under that ridicule without resenting it, and to go on with any purpose he may have formed in spite of it. I want you to see a reflection of Colonel Gardiner’s noblest courage, his high moral courage, in your own dear brother, and to value him for it, and not to despise him, as I see you now do. You say you want to be free from moral cowardice; then, copy moral courage wherever you can see it.”

“Well, auntie,” said her nephew after a minute’s silence, “I daresay you are right. Poor Amos! I’ve been very hard upon him, I believe. It wasn’t right, and I’ll try and do better. But it’s such a funny idea takinghimas a copy. Why, everybody’s always telling me to mark what Amos does, and just do the very opposite.”

“Not everybody, Walter; not the aunt who wants to see you truly good and noble. There are a grandeur of character and true nobility in Amos which you little suspect, but which one day you also will admire, though you do not see nor understand them now.”

Walter did not reply. He was not best pleased with his aunt’s last remarks, and yet, at the same time, he was not satisfied with himself. So he rose to go, and as he did so he said, “Ah, Aunt Kate, I see you are in Amos’s confidence, and that you know all about the little children and their cottage home.”

“Nay, my boy,” replied his aunt, “you are mistaken; Amos has not made me his confidante in the matter. But I have formed my opinion of him and his motives from little things which have presented themselves to my observation from time to time, and I have a firm conviction that my nephew Walter will agree with me in the end about his brother, whatever he may think now. At least I hope so.”

“So do I, dear auntie. Good-bye, good-bye.” And, having said these words half playfully and half seriously, Walter vanished from the room with a hop, skip, and jump.

Chapter Six.Misapprehension.Miss Huntingdon was not the only person in the family at Flixworth Manor who entertained a deep affection for Amos Huntingdon, and highly valued him. Harry the butler loved him as if he had been his own son. The old man had been inherited with the estate by its present owner, who remembered him almost as long as he could remember anything, and had a sincere regard for him, knowing him to be one of those old-fashioned domestics who look upon their employer’s interests as their own. Harry’s hair was now snowy-white, but he retained much of his vigour unimpaired, the winter of his old age being “frosty, but kindly.” So he had never gone by any other name than “Harry,” nor wished to do so, with his master and his master’s friends. However, in the kitchen he expected to be called “Mr. Frazer,” and would answer to no other name when addressed by boys and strangers of his own rank. When the first child was born Harry took to her with all his might. He knew that his master was disappointed because she was not a boy, but that made no difference to Harry. Nothing pleased him better than to act now and then as nurse to Miss Julia when she was still in long clothes; and many a peal of hearty and innocent mirth resounded from the kitchen premises as the servants gazed, with tears of amusement running down their faces, atMr. Frazer, by the nurse’s permission, pacing up and down a sunny walk in the kitchen garden, with steps slow and grotesquely dignified, holding the infant warily and tenderly, affirming, when he gave her back to the nurse, in a self-congratulatory tone, that “little miss” would be quiet with him when she would be so with no one else; which certainly might be cause for some wonder, seeing that he would usually accompany his nursings with such extraordinarily guttural attempts at singing as were far better calculated to scare any ordinary baby into temporary convulsions than to soothe it to rest when its slumbers had once been broken. And how the old man did rejoice when the little thing could toddle into his pantry! And no wonder that she was very ready to do so, for Harry had an inexhaustible store of plums, and bonbons, and such like enticements, which were always forthcoming when little miss gladdened his heart with a visit. So they were fast friends, and thoroughly understood each other.When, however, a son and heir was born, and there was in consequence a perfect delirium of bell-ringing in the village church-tower, Harry by no means entered heart and soul into the rejoicings. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s no help for it, I suppose. It’s all right, no doubt; but Miss Julia’s my pet, and so she shall be as long as my name’s Harry.” The new infant, therefore, received none of the attention at his hands which its predecessor had enjoyed. When pressed by the housekeeper, with an arch smile on her good-natured face, to take “baby” out for an airing, he shook his head very gravely and declined the employment, affirming that his nursing days were over. The name also of the new baby was a sore subject to Harry. “‘Amos,’ indeed! Well, what next? Who ever heard of an ‘Amos’ in the family? You might go as far back as Noah and you’d never find one. Mr Sutterby might be a very good gentleman, but his Christian name was none the better for that.” And, for a while, the old man’s heart got more and more firmly closed against the young heir; while Amos, on his part, in his boyish days, made no advances towards being on friendly terms with the old servant, who yet could not help being sometimes sorry for his young master, when he marked how the sunshine of love and favour, which was poured out abundantly on Miss Julia, came but in cold and scattered rays to her desolate-hearted brother.This kindly feeling was deepened in Harry’s heart, and began to show itself in many little attentions, after the death of Mr Sutterby. He could not avoid seeing how the father’s and mother’s affections were more and more drawn away from their little son, while he keenly felt that the poor child had done nothing to deserve it; so in a plain and homely way he tried to draw him out of himself, and made him as free of his pantry as his sister was. And when Walter came, a few years before Mr Sutterby’s death, putting Amos into almost total eclipse, Harry would have none of this third baby. “He’d got notice enough and to spare,” he said, “and didn’t want none from him.” And now a new cord was winding itself year by year round the old butler’s heart—a cord woven by the character of the timid child he had learned to love. He could not but notice how Amos, while yet a boy, controlled himself when cruelly taunted or ridiculed by his younger brother; how he returned good for evil; and how, spite of sorrow and a wounded spirit, there was peace on the brow and in the heart of that despised and neglected one. For he had discovered that, in his visits to his aunt, Amos had found the pearl of great price, and the old man’s heart leapt for joy, for he himself was a true though unpretending follower of his Saviour.So Harry’s attachment to his young master grew stronger and stronger, and all the more so as he came to see through the more attractive but shallower character of Walter, whose praises were being constantly sounded in his ears by Mr Huntingdon. And there was one thing above all others which tended to deepen his attachment to Amos, which was Amos’s treatment of his sister, who was still the darling of Harry’s heart. Walter loved his sister after a fashion. He could do a generous thing on the impulse of the moment, and would conform himself to her wishes when it was not too much trouble. But as for denying himself, or putting himself out of the way to please her, it never entered into his head. Nevertheless, any little attention on his part, spite of his being so much younger than herself, was specially pleasing to Julia, who was never so happy as when she and he could carry out by themselves some little scheme of private amusement. Harry noticed this, and was far from feeling satisfied, observing to the housekeeper that “Master Walter was a nasty, stuck-up little monkey; and he only wondered how Miss Julia could be so fond of him.” On the other hand, Amos always treated his sister, even from his earliest boyhood, with a courtesy and consideration which showed that she was really precious to him. And, as she grew up towards womanhood and he towards mature boyhood, the beauty and depth of his respectful and unselfish love made themselves felt by all who could value and understand them, and among these was Harry. He could appreciate, though he could not explain, the contrast between a mere sentiment of affection, such as that which prompted Walter to occasional acts of kindness to his sister which cost him nothing, and the abiding, deep-seated principle of love in Amos which exhibited itself in a constant thoughtful care and watchfulness to promote the happiness of its object, his beloved sister.So Harry’s heart warmed towards his young master more and more, especially when he could not help noticing that, while Amos never relaxed his endeavours to make his sister happy, she on her part either resented his kindness, or at the best took it as a matter of course, preferring—and not caring to conceal her preference—a smile or word or two from Walter to the most patient and self-denying study of her tastes and wishes on the part of her elder brother. The old man grieved over this conduct in his darling Miss Julia, and gave her a hint on the subject in his own simple way, which to his surprise and mortification she resented most bitterly, and visited her displeasure also on Amos by carefully avoiding him as much as possible, and being specially demonstrative in her affection to Walter. Amos of course felt it deeply, but it made no alteration in his own watchful love to his sister. As for Harry, all he could do was to wait in hopes of brighter times, and to console himself for his young mistress’s coldness by taking every opportunity of promoting the happiness and winning the fuller confidence of the brother whom she so cruelly despised.But then came the crash; and this well-nigh broke the faithful old servant’s heart. She whom he still loved as though she were his own, following her own unrestrained fancies, left her father’s house to unite herself to a heartless adventurer before she had reached full womanhood, and thus closed the door of her old home against her. Then followed a frightful blank. An allusion by the old butler to “Miss Julia,” when the squire and he were alone together, was met by a burst of violence on his master’s part, and a threat that Harry must leave if he ever again mentioned his old favourite’s name to her father. So his lips were closed, but not his heart; for he waited, watched, and prayed for better times, even after a still heavier cloud had gathered over the family in the removal of poor Mrs Huntingdon, and all the love he had to spare was given to his poor desolate young master, whose spirit had been crushed to the very dust by the sad withdrawal of his mother and sister from his earthly home.Walter too was, of course, grieved at the loss of his sister and mother, but the blow was far lighter to him than to his brother, partly from his being of a more lively and elastic temperament, and partly because he did not, being so young a boy when the sad events took place, so fully understand as did his elder brother the shame and disgrace which hung over the family through his sister’s heartless and selfish conduct. His aunt soon came to supply his mother’s place, and completely won the impulsive boy’s heart by her untiring and thoughtful affection. And one lesson he was learning from her, which was at first the strangest and hardest of lessons to one brought up as he had been, and that was, to respect the feelings and appreciate, though by very slow degrees, the character of his brother. His own superiority to Amos he had hitherto taken as a matter of course and beyond dispute. Everybody allowed it, except perhaps old Harry; but that, in Walter’s eyes, was nothing. Amos was the eldest son, and heir to the family estate, and therefore the old butler took to him naturally, and would have done so if he had been a cow without any brains instead of a human being. So said Walter, and was quite content that a poor, ignorant fellow like Harry, who could have no knowledge or understanding of character, should set his regards on the elder son, and not notice the otherwise universally acknowledged bodily and intellectual superiority of his more worthy self. No wonder, then, that pity more than love was the abiding feeling in Walter’s heart towards his less popular and less outwardly attractive brother. And it was a very strange discovery, and as unwelcome as strange, which his aunt was now leading him gradually to make spite of himself, that in real sterling excellence and beauty of character the weight, which he had hitherto considered to lie wholly in his own scale, was in truth to be found in the opposite scale on his brother’s side of the balance. Very slowly and reluctantly indeed was he brought to admit this at all, and, even when he was constrained to do so, he by no means surrendered at discretion to his aunt’s view of the matter, but fought against it most vigorously, even when his conscience reproved him most loudly. And thus it was that a day or two after his conversation with Miss Huntingdon on the moral courage exhibited by Colonel Gardiner, he was rather glad of an opportunity that presented itself of exhibiting his brother in an unamiable light, and “trotting him out with his shabby old horsecloth on,” as he expressed it, for the amusement of himself and friends. It was on a summer evening, and very hot, so that Miss Huntingdon, her two nephews, and two young men, friends of Walter, were enjoying tea and strawberries in a large summer-house which faced a sloping lawn enamelled with flower-beds glowing with masses of richly tinted flowers. Mr Huntingdon was not with them, as this was Bench day, and he was dining after business hours with a brother magistrate. Walter, full of life and spirits, rattled away to his heart’s content, laughing boisterously at his own jokes, which he poured forth the more continuously because he saw that Amos was more than usually indisposed to merriment.“By-the-by, Tom,” he said suddenly to one of his companions, “what about the boat-race? When is it to come off?”“In September,” replied his friend. “But we are in a little difficulty. You know Sir James has lent us the Park for the occasion, and a capital thing it will be; for we can make a good two miles of it by rowing round the ornamental water twice. It is to be a four-oared match; four Cambridge against four Oxford men, old or young, it doesn’t matter. It is to be part of the fun on the coming of age of Sir James’s eldest son. I rather think he was born on the eighth. Young James is a Cambridge man and a capital oar, and I’m of the same college, and so is Harrison here, as you know, and we shall have no difficulty in finding a fourth; but we are rather puzzled about the Oxford men. We can calculate upon three, but don’t know where to look for the fourth. I wish, Walter, you’d been old enough, and a member of the university.”“Ay, Tom, I wish I had been. But, by-the-by, there’s no difficulty after all. Here’s Amos, an Oxford man, and a very good oar too—he’s just the very man you want.”It was quite true, as Walter said, that Amos had been a good rower at the university. Rowing was one of the few amusements in which he had indulged himself, but he had never joined a racing boat though often solicited to do so.“What do you say, Amos?” asked his young companion. “Will you join us, and make up the Oxford four complete? We shall be really much obliged if you will; and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”“Thank you,” replied Amos; “it’s very kind of you to ask me, I’m sure. I should have liked it had I been able to undertake it, but I am sorry to say that it cannot be.”“Cannot be!” exclaimed Walter. “Why, what’s to hinder you?”“I cannot spare the time just now,” said his brother quietly.“Not spare the time!—not spare half-an-hour one fine afternoon in September! Dear me! you must be oppressed with business. What is it? It isn’t farming, I know. Is it legal business? Have you got so many appointments with the Lord Chancellor that he can’t spare you even for one day?”“It will not be only for one day,” replied Amos quietly. “If the race is to be a real trial of skill and strength we must train for it, and have many practices, and I cannot promise to find time for these.”“Oh, nonsense! Why not? You’ve nothing to do.”“I have something to do, Walter, and something too that I cannot give up for these practisings.”“What! I suppose you think such vanities as these waste of precious time.”“I never said nor thought so, Walter; but I have a work in hand which will prevent my having the pleasure of taking a part in this race, for it really would have been a pleasure to me.”“Ah! it must be a precious important work, no doubt,” said his brother satirically. “Just tell us what it is, and we shall be able to judge.”Amos made no reply to these last words, but turned first very red and then very pale.“Humph!” said Walter; “I guess what it is. It’s a new scheme for paying off the national debt, by turning radishes into sovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes; and it’ll take a deal of time and pains to do it.” He laughed furiously at his own wit, but, to his mortification, he laughed alone. There was a rather painful silence, which was broken by the gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon.“I think, dear Walter,” she said, “that you are a little hard on your brother. Surely he may have an important work on hand without being engaged in such a hopeless task as attempting to turn radishes into sovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes. And does it follow that he despises your boat-race because he prefers duty to pleasure?”“Ah! that’s just it,” cried Walter, in a tone of mingled excitement and displeasure. “Who’s to know that itisduty? I think one duty is very plain, and I should have thought you would have agreed with me here, and that is to give up your own way and pleasure sometimes, when by doing so you may help to make other people happy.”“I quite agree with you in that, Walter,” said his aunt. “It may be and often does become a duty to surrender our own pleasure, but never surely to surrender our duty.”“True, aunt, if it’s really duty; but some people’s duty means merely their own fancy, and it’s very convenient to callthatduty when you don’t want to be obliging.”“It may be so, Walter; but, on the other hand, if we have seen cause even to impose upon ourselves something as a duty, we are bound to carry it out, although others may not see it to be a duty and may call it fancy; and certainly we should at least respect those who thus follow what they firmly believe theyoughtto do, even though we cannot exactly understand or agree with their views of duty. So you must bear with Amos; for I am certain that he would not say ‘No’ to you about the race if he were not persuaded that duty stands in the way of his taking a part in it.”“Ah, well! happy Amos to have such a champion,” cried Walter, laughing, for he had now recovered his good-humour. “I suppose you are right, and I must allow brother Amos to have his duty and his mystery all to himself. But it’s odd, and that’s all I can say about it. Such short-sighted mortals as I am can’t see those duties which are up in the clouds, but only those which lie straight before our eyes.”“And yet, Walter, there may be the truest and noblest heroism in sacrificing everything to these self-imposed duties, whichyoucall duties up in the clouds.”“O aunt, aunt!” exclaimed Walter, laughing, “are you going to be down upon me again about moral courage? You have not crossed your hands this time, and yet I daresay it will do us all good, my friends here as well as myself, to have a lesson on moral courage from you; so listen all to my dear aunt. She is teaching me moral courage by examples. Who is your hero, dear auntie, this time?”“Shall I go on?” said Miss Huntingdon, looking round on her hearers; then seeing an expression of interest on every countenance, she continued, “Well, I will, if you wish it. My hero to-day is John Howard.”“Not a soldier this time, Aunt Kate.”“Not in your sense, Walter, but one of the truest and bravest in mine.”“Pray, then, let us hear all about his exploits, dear aunt.”“You shall, Walter. His exploits just consisted in this, that he imposed a great duty on himself as the one object of his life, and never let anything turn him from it, though obstacles met him in every direction such as nothing but the highest sense of duty could have nerved him to break through. In the first place, he was of a weakly constitution, and might therefore well have excused himself from any unnecessary labours, and might have indulged in luxuries which might almost have been considered as necessaries to one whose appetite was not strong. He could well have afforded such innocent indulgence, for he was a man of good fortune. He was, however, remarkable for his abstemious habits; and having been led, when high sheriff of his county, to look into the state of Bedford jail, he was so shocked with the miserable condition of the prisoners and their being crowded together in a place filthy, damp, and ill-ventilated, that he set himself to make a tour of inspection of all the county jails in England, and soon completed it, and was examined before the House of Commons on the state of our prisons. And here he had to suffer from that misrepresentation and misunderstanding which are too often the lot of those who have set themselves to some great and noble work. It seemed so extraordinary to some members of Parliament that a gentleman, out of pure benevolence, should devote himself to such a painful work, and run the risk of contagion, that they could hardly understand it; and one gentleman asked ‘at whose expense he travelled,’—a question which Howard could scarcely answer without some indignant emotion. You see, they could not appreciate such exalted heroism; and surely it required no little moral courage to persevere. But he did persevere, and his work grew upon him.“From England he went abroad, and visited the prisons on the Continent, devoting his time and fortune to the great work of discovering, and, as far as might be, remedying, the abuses he found in these sad places of misery and often cruelty; and though he was introduced to the noble and the great wherever he went, he paid no visits of mere ceremony, but spoke out most fearlessly, even to the most exalted in rank, about the abuses he found in the prisons under their control. He had set himself one great work to do, and he did it. Suffering, toil, hardship were endured without a murmur. Ah! was not this true heroism?“And now I come to a point which I want you, dear Walter, specially to notice. Howard might have spent a portion at least of his time when abroad in visiting the beautiful picture-galleries and other works of art in the towns to which his great work led him, but he never suffered himself to do so. He would not even read a newspaper, lest it should divert his thoughts from the one great purpose he had in view. I am not saying for a moment that he would have been wrong to indulge himself with relaxation in the shape of sight-seeing and reading the news; but surely when he made everything bend to his one grand self-imposed duty, we are constrained to admire and not to blame, far less to ridicule, his magnificent heroism. Yes; he never swerved, he never drew back; and, best of all, he did his work as a humble and earnest Christian, carrying it on by that strength and wisdom which he sought and obtained by prayer.“I cannot give you a better summing up of my hero’s character than in the words of the great Edmund Burke. I have them here.” Saying which she opened a small manuscript book containing extracts from various authors in her own handwriting, which she kept in her work-basket, and read as follows:—“‘He has visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosities of ancient art; not to collect medals, nor to collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons, and to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare the distresses of men in all countries. His plan is original, and it is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery—a circumnavigation, of charity.’ Such was Burke’s true estimate of my hero. And surely never was a nobler heroism—it was so pure, so unselfish; for when they would have erected a monument to him in his lifetime, and had gathered large sums for that purpose during his absence abroad, he at once put a stop to the project on his return home.—Am I wrong, dear Walter, in taking John Howard for one of my special moral heroes?”“Not a bit of it, dear aunt. I confess myself beaten; I give in; I hand over the laurel crown to Amos: for I see that Howard’s greatness of character was shown especially in this, that he imposed upon himself a work which he might have left undone without blame, and carried it out through thick and thin as a matter of duty. Bravo, Howard! and bravo, Amos, with your duty-work!—three cheers for you both! and one cheer more for Aunt Kate and moral courage.” So saying, with a low bow, half in fun and half in earnest, to Miss Huntingdon and his brother, with a request to the latter to learn the Canadian boat-song, “Row, Brothers, Row,” at his earliest convenience, he left the summer-house, taking his two friends with him.Amos, who had been silent during the latter part of the discussion, lingered behind for a moment, and rising from his seat, took his aunt’s hand between his own, pressing it warmly as he said, in a voice subdued and trembling with emotion,—“Thank you, dearest aunt; I see you partly understand me now. Some day, I hope, you may understand me more fully.”

Miss Huntingdon was not the only person in the family at Flixworth Manor who entertained a deep affection for Amos Huntingdon, and highly valued him. Harry the butler loved him as if he had been his own son. The old man had been inherited with the estate by its present owner, who remembered him almost as long as he could remember anything, and had a sincere regard for him, knowing him to be one of those old-fashioned domestics who look upon their employer’s interests as their own. Harry’s hair was now snowy-white, but he retained much of his vigour unimpaired, the winter of his old age being “frosty, but kindly.” So he had never gone by any other name than “Harry,” nor wished to do so, with his master and his master’s friends. However, in the kitchen he expected to be called “Mr. Frazer,” and would answer to no other name when addressed by boys and strangers of his own rank. When the first child was born Harry took to her with all his might. He knew that his master was disappointed because she was not a boy, but that made no difference to Harry. Nothing pleased him better than to act now and then as nurse to Miss Julia when she was still in long clothes; and many a peal of hearty and innocent mirth resounded from the kitchen premises as the servants gazed, with tears of amusement running down their faces, atMr. Frazer, by the nurse’s permission, pacing up and down a sunny walk in the kitchen garden, with steps slow and grotesquely dignified, holding the infant warily and tenderly, affirming, when he gave her back to the nurse, in a self-congratulatory tone, that “little miss” would be quiet with him when she would be so with no one else; which certainly might be cause for some wonder, seeing that he would usually accompany his nursings with such extraordinarily guttural attempts at singing as were far better calculated to scare any ordinary baby into temporary convulsions than to soothe it to rest when its slumbers had once been broken. And how the old man did rejoice when the little thing could toddle into his pantry! And no wonder that she was very ready to do so, for Harry had an inexhaustible store of plums, and bonbons, and such like enticements, which were always forthcoming when little miss gladdened his heart with a visit. So they were fast friends, and thoroughly understood each other.

When, however, a son and heir was born, and there was in consequence a perfect delirium of bell-ringing in the village church-tower, Harry by no means entered heart and soul into the rejoicings. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “there’s no help for it, I suppose. It’s all right, no doubt; but Miss Julia’s my pet, and so she shall be as long as my name’s Harry.” The new infant, therefore, received none of the attention at his hands which its predecessor had enjoyed. When pressed by the housekeeper, with an arch smile on her good-natured face, to take “baby” out for an airing, he shook his head very gravely and declined the employment, affirming that his nursing days were over. The name also of the new baby was a sore subject to Harry. “‘Amos,’ indeed! Well, what next? Who ever heard of an ‘Amos’ in the family? You might go as far back as Noah and you’d never find one. Mr Sutterby might be a very good gentleman, but his Christian name was none the better for that.” And, for a while, the old man’s heart got more and more firmly closed against the young heir; while Amos, on his part, in his boyish days, made no advances towards being on friendly terms with the old servant, who yet could not help being sometimes sorry for his young master, when he marked how the sunshine of love and favour, which was poured out abundantly on Miss Julia, came but in cold and scattered rays to her desolate-hearted brother.

This kindly feeling was deepened in Harry’s heart, and began to show itself in many little attentions, after the death of Mr Sutterby. He could not avoid seeing how the father’s and mother’s affections were more and more drawn away from their little son, while he keenly felt that the poor child had done nothing to deserve it; so in a plain and homely way he tried to draw him out of himself, and made him as free of his pantry as his sister was. And when Walter came, a few years before Mr Sutterby’s death, putting Amos into almost total eclipse, Harry would have none of this third baby. “He’d got notice enough and to spare,” he said, “and didn’t want none from him.” And now a new cord was winding itself year by year round the old butler’s heart—a cord woven by the character of the timid child he had learned to love. He could not but notice how Amos, while yet a boy, controlled himself when cruelly taunted or ridiculed by his younger brother; how he returned good for evil; and how, spite of sorrow and a wounded spirit, there was peace on the brow and in the heart of that despised and neglected one. For he had discovered that, in his visits to his aunt, Amos had found the pearl of great price, and the old man’s heart leapt for joy, for he himself was a true though unpretending follower of his Saviour.

So Harry’s attachment to his young master grew stronger and stronger, and all the more so as he came to see through the more attractive but shallower character of Walter, whose praises were being constantly sounded in his ears by Mr Huntingdon. And there was one thing above all others which tended to deepen his attachment to Amos, which was Amos’s treatment of his sister, who was still the darling of Harry’s heart. Walter loved his sister after a fashion. He could do a generous thing on the impulse of the moment, and would conform himself to her wishes when it was not too much trouble. But as for denying himself, or putting himself out of the way to please her, it never entered into his head. Nevertheless, any little attention on his part, spite of his being so much younger than herself, was specially pleasing to Julia, who was never so happy as when she and he could carry out by themselves some little scheme of private amusement. Harry noticed this, and was far from feeling satisfied, observing to the housekeeper that “Master Walter was a nasty, stuck-up little monkey; and he only wondered how Miss Julia could be so fond of him.” On the other hand, Amos always treated his sister, even from his earliest boyhood, with a courtesy and consideration which showed that she was really precious to him. And, as she grew up towards womanhood and he towards mature boyhood, the beauty and depth of his respectful and unselfish love made themselves felt by all who could value and understand them, and among these was Harry. He could appreciate, though he could not explain, the contrast between a mere sentiment of affection, such as that which prompted Walter to occasional acts of kindness to his sister which cost him nothing, and the abiding, deep-seated principle of love in Amos which exhibited itself in a constant thoughtful care and watchfulness to promote the happiness of its object, his beloved sister.

So Harry’s heart warmed towards his young master more and more, especially when he could not help noticing that, while Amos never relaxed his endeavours to make his sister happy, she on her part either resented his kindness, or at the best took it as a matter of course, preferring—and not caring to conceal her preference—a smile or word or two from Walter to the most patient and self-denying study of her tastes and wishes on the part of her elder brother. The old man grieved over this conduct in his darling Miss Julia, and gave her a hint on the subject in his own simple way, which to his surprise and mortification she resented most bitterly, and visited her displeasure also on Amos by carefully avoiding him as much as possible, and being specially demonstrative in her affection to Walter. Amos of course felt it deeply, but it made no alteration in his own watchful love to his sister. As for Harry, all he could do was to wait in hopes of brighter times, and to console himself for his young mistress’s coldness by taking every opportunity of promoting the happiness and winning the fuller confidence of the brother whom she so cruelly despised.

But then came the crash; and this well-nigh broke the faithful old servant’s heart. She whom he still loved as though she were his own, following her own unrestrained fancies, left her father’s house to unite herself to a heartless adventurer before she had reached full womanhood, and thus closed the door of her old home against her. Then followed a frightful blank. An allusion by the old butler to “Miss Julia,” when the squire and he were alone together, was met by a burst of violence on his master’s part, and a threat that Harry must leave if he ever again mentioned his old favourite’s name to her father. So his lips were closed, but not his heart; for he waited, watched, and prayed for better times, even after a still heavier cloud had gathered over the family in the removal of poor Mrs Huntingdon, and all the love he had to spare was given to his poor desolate young master, whose spirit had been crushed to the very dust by the sad withdrawal of his mother and sister from his earthly home.

Walter too was, of course, grieved at the loss of his sister and mother, but the blow was far lighter to him than to his brother, partly from his being of a more lively and elastic temperament, and partly because he did not, being so young a boy when the sad events took place, so fully understand as did his elder brother the shame and disgrace which hung over the family through his sister’s heartless and selfish conduct. His aunt soon came to supply his mother’s place, and completely won the impulsive boy’s heart by her untiring and thoughtful affection. And one lesson he was learning from her, which was at first the strangest and hardest of lessons to one brought up as he had been, and that was, to respect the feelings and appreciate, though by very slow degrees, the character of his brother. His own superiority to Amos he had hitherto taken as a matter of course and beyond dispute. Everybody allowed it, except perhaps old Harry; but that, in Walter’s eyes, was nothing. Amos was the eldest son, and heir to the family estate, and therefore the old butler took to him naturally, and would have done so if he had been a cow without any brains instead of a human being. So said Walter, and was quite content that a poor, ignorant fellow like Harry, who could have no knowledge or understanding of character, should set his regards on the elder son, and not notice the otherwise universally acknowledged bodily and intellectual superiority of his more worthy self. No wonder, then, that pity more than love was the abiding feeling in Walter’s heart towards his less popular and less outwardly attractive brother. And it was a very strange discovery, and as unwelcome as strange, which his aunt was now leading him gradually to make spite of himself, that in real sterling excellence and beauty of character the weight, which he had hitherto considered to lie wholly in his own scale, was in truth to be found in the opposite scale on his brother’s side of the balance. Very slowly and reluctantly indeed was he brought to admit this at all, and, even when he was constrained to do so, he by no means surrendered at discretion to his aunt’s view of the matter, but fought against it most vigorously, even when his conscience reproved him most loudly. And thus it was that a day or two after his conversation with Miss Huntingdon on the moral courage exhibited by Colonel Gardiner, he was rather glad of an opportunity that presented itself of exhibiting his brother in an unamiable light, and “trotting him out with his shabby old horsecloth on,” as he expressed it, for the amusement of himself and friends. It was on a summer evening, and very hot, so that Miss Huntingdon, her two nephews, and two young men, friends of Walter, were enjoying tea and strawberries in a large summer-house which faced a sloping lawn enamelled with flower-beds glowing with masses of richly tinted flowers. Mr Huntingdon was not with them, as this was Bench day, and he was dining after business hours with a brother magistrate. Walter, full of life and spirits, rattled away to his heart’s content, laughing boisterously at his own jokes, which he poured forth the more continuously because he saw that Amos was more than usually indisposed to merriment.

“By-the-by, Tom,” he said suddenly to one of his companions, “what about the boat-race? When is it to come off?”

“In September,” replied his friend. “But we are in a little difficulty. You know Sir James has lent us the Park for the occasion, and a capital thing it will be; for we can make a good two miles of it by rowing round the ornamental water twice. It is to be a four-oared match; four Cambridge against four Oxford men, old or young, it doesn’t matter. It is to be part of the fun on the coming of age of Sir James’s eldest son. I rather think he was born on the eighth. Young James is a Cambridge man and a capital oar, and I’m of the same college, and so is Harrison here, as you know, and we shall have no difficulty in finding a fourth; but we are rather puzzled about the Oxford men. We can calculate upon three, but don’t know where to look for the fourth. I wish, Walter, you’d been old enough, and a member of the university.”

“Ay, Tom, I wish I had been. But, by-the-by, there’s no difficulty after all. Here’s Amos, an Oxford man, and a very good oar too—he’s just the very man you want.”

It was quite true, as Walter said, that Amos had been a good rower at the university. Rowing was one of the few amusements in which he had indulged himself, but he had never joined a racing boat though often solicited to do so.

“What do you say, Amos?” asked his young companion. “Will you join us, and make up the Oxford four complete? We shall be really much obliged if you will; and I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” replied Amos; “it’s very kind of you to ask me, I’m sure. I should have liked it had I been able to undertake it, but I am sorry to say that it cannot be.”

“Cannot be!” exclaimed Walter. “Why, what’s to hinder you?”

“I cannot spare the time just now,” said his brother quietly.

“Not spare the time!—not spare half-an-hour one fine afternoon in September! Dear me! you must be oppressed with business. What is it? It isn’t farming, I know. Is it legal business? Have you got so many appointments with the Lord Chancellor that he can’t spare you even for one day?”

“It will not be only for one day,” replied Amos quietly. “If the race is to be a real trial of skill and strength we must train for it, and have many practices, and I cannot promise to find time for these.”

“Oh, nonsense! Why not? You’ve nothing to do.”

“I have something to do, Walter, and something too that I cannot give up for these practisings.”

“What! I suppose you think such vanities as these waste of precious time.”

“I never said nor thought so, Walter; but I have a work in hand which will prevent my having the pleasure of taking a part in this race, for it really would have been a pleasure to me.”

“Ah! it must be a precious important work, no doubt,” said his brother satirically. “Just tell us what it is, and we shall be able to judge.”

Amos made no reply to these last words, but turned first very red and then very pale.

“Humph!” said Walter; “I guess what it is. It’s a new scheme for paying off the national debt, by turning radishes into sovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes; and it’ll take a deal of time and pains to do it.” He laughed furiously at his own wit, but, to his mortification, he laughed alone. There was a rather painful silence, which was broken by the gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon.

“I think, dear Walter,” she said, “that you are a little hard on your brother. Surely he may have an important work on hand without being engaged in such a hopeless task as attempting to turn radishes into sovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes. And does it follow that he despises your boat-race because he prefers duty to pleasure?”

“Ah! that’s just it,” cried Walter, in a tone of mingled excitement and displeasure. “Who’s to know that itisduty? I think one duty is very plain, and I should have thought you would have agreed with me here, and that is to give up your own way and pleasure sometimes, when by doing so you may help to make other people happy.”

“I quite agree with you in that, Walter,” said his aunt. “It may be and often does become a duty to surrender our own pleasure, but never surely to surrender our duty.”

“True, aunt, if it’s really duty; but some people’s duty means merely their own fancy, and it’s very convenient to callthatduty when you don’t want to be obliging.”

“It may be so, Walter; but, on the other hand, if we have seen cause even to impose upon ourselves something as a duty, we are bound to carry it out, although others may not see it to be a duty and may call it fancy; and certainly we should at least respect those who thus follow what they firmly believe theyoughtto do, even though we cannot exactly understand or agree with their views of duty. So you must bear with Amos; for I am certain that he would not say ‘No’ to you about the race if he were not persuaded that duty stands in the way of his taking a part in it.”

“Ah, well! happy Amos to have such a champion,” cried Walter, laughing, for he had now recovered his good-humour. “I suppose you are right, and I must allow brother Amos to have his duty and his mystery all to himself. But it’s odd, and that’s all I can say about it. Such short-sighted mortals as I am can’t see those duties which are up in the clouds, but only those which lie straight before our eyes.”

“And yet, Walter, there may be the truest and noblest heroism in sacrificing everything to these self-imposed duties, whichyoucall duties up in the clouds.”

“O aunt, aunt!” exclaimed Walter, laughing, “are you going to be down upon me again about moral courage? You have not crossed your hands this time, and yet I daresay it will do us all good, my friends here as well as myself, to have a lesson on moral courage from you; so listen all to my dear aunt. She is teaching me moral courage by examples. Who is your hero, dear auntie, this time?”

“Shall I go on?” said Miss Huntingdon, looking round on her hearers; then seeing an expression of interest on every countenance, she continued, “Well, I will, if you wish it. My hero to-day is John Howard.”

“Not a soldier this time, Aunt Kate.”

“Not in your sense, Walter, but one of the truest and bravest in mine.”

“Pray, then, let us hear all about his exploits, dear aunt.”

“You shall, Walter. His exploits just consisted in this, that he imposed a great duty on himself as the one object of his life, and never let anything turn him from it, though obstacles met him in every direction such as nothing but the highest sense of duty could have nerved him to break through. In the first place, he was of a weakly constitution, and might therefore well have excused himself from any unnecessary labours, and might have indulged in luxuries which might almost have been considered as necessaries to one whose appetite was not strong. He could well have afforded such innocent indulgence, for he was a man of good fortune. He was, however, remarkable for his abstemious habits; and having been led, when high sheriff of his county, to look into the state of Bedford jail, he was so shocked with the miserable condition of the prisoners and their being crowded together in a place filthy, damp, and ill-ventilated, that he set himself to make a tour of inspection of all the county jails in England, and soon completed it, and was examined before the House of Commons on the state of our prisons. And here he had to suffer from that misrepresentation and misunderstanding which are too often the lot of those who have set themselves to some great and noble work. It seemed so extraordinary to some members of Parliament that a gentleman, out of pure benevolence, should devote himself to such a painful work, and run the risk of contagion, that they could hardly understand it; and one gentleman asked ‘at whose expense he travelled,’—a question which Howard could scarcely answer without some indignant emotion. You see, they could not appreciate such exalted heroism; and surely it required no little moral courage to persevere. But he did persevere, and his work grew upon him.

“From England he went abroad, and visited the prisons on the Continent, devoting his time and fortune to the great work of discovering, and, as far as might be, remedying, the abuses he found in these sad places of misery and often cruelty; and though he was introduced to the noble and the great wherever he went, he paid no visits of mere ceremony, but spoke out most fearlessly, even to the most exalted in rank, about the abuses he found in the prisons under their control. He had set himself one great work to do, and he did it. Suffering, toil, hardship were endured without a murmur. Ah! was not this true heroism?

“And now I come to a point which I want you, dear Walter, specially to notice. Howard might have spent a portion at least of his time when abroad in visiting the beautiful picture-galleries and other works of art in the towns to which his great work led him, but he never suffered himself to do so. He would not even read a newspaper, lest it should divert his thoughts from the one great purpose he had in view. I am not saying for a moment that he would have been wrong to indulge himself with relaxation in the shape of sight-seeing and reading the news; but surely when he made everything bend to his one grand self-imposed duty, we are constrained to admire and not to blame, far less to ridicule, his magnificent heroism. Yes; he never swerved, he never drew back; and, best of all, he did his work as a humble and earnest Christian, carrying it on by that strength and wisdom which he sought and obtained by prayer.

“I cannot give you a better summing up of my hero’s character than in the words of the great Edmund Burke. I have them here.” Saying which she opened a small manuscript book containing extracts from various authors in her own handwriting, which she kept in her work-basket, and read as follows:—“‘He has visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosities of ancient art; not to collect medals, nor to collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons, and to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare the distresses of men in all countries. His plan is original, and it is as full of genius as it is of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery—a circumnavigation, of charity.’ Such was Burke’s true estimate of my hero. And surely never was a nobler heroism—it was so pure, so unselfish; for when they would have erected a monument to him in his lifetime, and had gathered large sums for that purpose during his absence abroad, he at once put a stop to the project on his return home.—Am I wrong, dear Walter, in taking John Howard for one of my special moral heroes?”

“Not a bit of it, dear aunt. I confess myself beaten; I give in; I hand over the laurel crown to Amos: for I see that Howard’s greatness of character was shown especially in this, that he imposed upon himself a work which he might have left undone without blame, and carried it out through thick and thin as a matter of duty. Bravo, Howard! and bravo, Amos, with your duty-work!—three cheers for you both! and one cheer more for Aunt Kate and moral courage.” So saying, with a low bow, half in fun and half in earnest, to Miss Huntingdon and his brother, with a request to the latter to learn the Canadian boat-song, “Row, Brothers, Row,” at his earliest convenience, he left the summer-house, taking his two friends with him.

Amos, who had been silent during the latter part of the discussion, lingered behind for a moment, and rising from his seat, took his aunt’s hand between his own, pressing it warmly as he said, in a voice subdued and trembling with emotion,—“Thank you, dearest aunt; I see you partly understand me now. Some day, I hope, you may understand me more fully.”

Chapter Seven.Harry in the Secret.A week or more had passed since the conversation in the summer-house, and all the family were seated at luncheon in the dining-room of Flixworth Manor, when a shabby and dirty-looking note was handed to Amos by the butler. Having hastily read it, Amos exclaimed in an agitated voice, “Who brought this? where is he?”“It’s no one as I ever seed afore,” replied Harry. “He said there was no answer, but I was to take it in straight; and I doubt he’s gone now far enough away, for he was nothing but a rough-looking lad, and he ran off when he had given me the note as fast as his legs would carry him.”“Nothing amiss, I hope?” said Miss Huntingdon kindly.“I hope not,” replied her nephew. He was evidently, however, greatly troubled and confused, and looked nervously towards his father, whose attention at the time was being given to a noble-looking dog which was receiving a piece of meat from his hand.“What’s up now?” cried Walter, who, although he was learning to treat his brother with more respect and consideration, was still rather on the look-out for opportunities to play off his fun upon him. “Why, surely there’s something amiss. What’s the good, Amos, of putting a spoonful of salt into your gooseberry tart?”Mr Huntingdon now looked round and stared at his elder son, who had by this time partly recovered his self-possession. “Nothing serious, my boy, I hope?” he said.“I hope not, dear father. It’s only about a little child that I take an interest in; he seems to have got away from home, and his friends can’t find him.”“Is it one of my tenants’ children?”“No; it’s a child that lives in a cottage on the Gavelby estate. We have struck up a friendship. I ride up there sometimes, so they have sent to me about him; and I will ride over after luncheon and see what can be done.”Nothing more passed on the subject during the meal; but Miss Huntingdon’s watchful care of her nephew made her notice the deep lines of anxiety which had gathered on the forehead of Amos, and her heart ached for him, for she was sure that he was burdened with some unexpected trouble connected with the work he had set himself to accomplish. Dinner-time came, but Amos did not make his appearance. Ten o’clock struck, but he still lingered. Never before had he been absent for a night except when at school or college, or on a visit to some friend; for his habits were most regular, and he always rose and retired to rest early, his custom in this respect having been often the subject of remark and merriment to Walter, who would say to his friends that, “although Amos would never join in a lark, he had no objection to rise with one; nor to lie down with a lamb, though he hadn’t it in him to skip like one.” So when the family met next morning at breakfast, and nothing had been seen or heard of Amos, there was a shade of anxiety on every one’s face.“Where can the boy have been?” exclaimed Mr Huntingdon; “we never knew him go off like this before.—Hasn’t he sent any message of any kind, Harry?”“Not a word, sir, as far as I know.”“What’s best to be done, then?—What do you say, Kate?” asked the squire.“Perhaps Walter can make inquiries,” suggested his sister.“Well,” replied her nephew, “I wouldn’t mind, but really I don’t know where to look exactly. I may be riding about all day, for he’s gone after the missing child, I suppose, so it will be no use looking for him at the child’s home. And, besides, I’ve an engagement to play lawn-tennis and go to luncheon at the Worthingtons’, and I can’t disappoint them.”“Not in such a case as this?” asked his aunt reproachfully. “Can’t you send a note of apology to the Worthingtons? Suppose something serious has happened to your brother!”“Oh, nonsense, Aunt Kate,” cried Walter, who was not prepared to give up his engagement of pleasure; “don’t be afraid about Amos; he’ll turn up all right. He’s on his way home, you may depend upon it; only perhaps he has been trying to solve some wonderful problem, and has forgotten all about such commonplace things as time and space, and has fallen asleep under a hedge.”“I will go myself, then,” said Miss Huntingdon, “and see if I can hear anything of him from the neighbours.”“Indeed, Kate,” said her brother, “you must do nothing of the sort. Set your mind at rest. I will go myself and make inquiries; and if the boy does not make his appearance by luncheon time, we must take further steps to find him.”“CanIbe of any use, sir, in the matter?” asked Harry.“Ah, that’s just the thing!” cried Walter. “If you can spare Harry, father, Jane can wait at luncheon; and I’ll just put Harry myself on what I think will be the right scent.”“Well, my boy, it can be so, and you can do as you say,” replied his father. “I know we can trust Harry to do his best; he can take the old mare, and we shall do very well with Jane till he comes back.”Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and the trust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare, accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons’. Harry would have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which would have been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having no choice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter. So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight of the cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with the little children.“There, Harry,” said Walter, “you see that cottage? just you call in there, and you will either find my brother there, if I am not mistaken, or, at any rate, you will find somebody who will tell you where to look for him.” Then he turned and put spurs to his horse, and was soon out of sight, leaving the old servant to jog along at his leisure to the little dwelling pointed out to him, the roof of which he could just see distinctly in the distance.“Humph!” said Harry half out loud, as he rather reluctantly made his way towards the cottage; “you might have gone yourself, Master Walter, I think, and saved an old man like me such a shaking as I’ve had on the old mare’s back. But I suppose that ‘lawn tens,’ as they call it, is a mighty taking thing to young people; it seems all the go now; all the young gents and young ladies has gone mad after it. Knocking them balls back’ards and for’ards used to be called ‘fives’ when I were a boy, but they calls it ‘tens’ now; I suppose ’cos they does everything in these days twice as fast as they used to do. Well, it don’t matter; but if it had been Master Amos, and t’other road about, he’d never have let ‘tens,’ or ‘twenties,’ or ‘fifties’ stand between him and looking arter a lost brother. But then people don’t know Master Amos and Master Walter as I do. Their aunt, Miss Huntingdon, does a bit, and p’raps master will himself some day.”By the time he had finished this soliloquy Harry had neared the cottage. Then he quickened his pace, and having reached the little garden gate, hung his horse’s bridle over a rail, with the full knowledge that the animal would be well content to stand at ease an unlimited time where she was left. Then he made his way up to the cottage door and knocked. His summons was immediately answered by a respectably dressed middle-aged woman, who opened the door somewhat slowly and cautiously, and then asked him civilly what was his business with her. “Well, if you please, ma’am,” said the butler, “I’m just come to know if you can tell me anything about my young master, Mr Amos. He ought to have come home last night, and none of us has set eyes on him up to the time when I left home, about an hour since.”The person whom he addressed was evidently in a difficulty what to answer. She hesitated, and looked this way and that, still holding the door ajar, but not inviting Harry into the house. The old man waited a few moments, and then he said, “If you please, ma’am, am I to understand as you don’t know nothing about my young master, Mr Amos, and where he’s gone?”Still the other made no reply, but only looked more and more uneasy. It was quite clear to Harry now that she could give him the information he wanted, if only she were willing to do so. He waited therefore another minute, and then said, “You’ve no cause, ma’am, to fear as I shall get Master Amos into trouble by anything you may tell me. I love him too well for that; and I can be as close as wax when I like. You may trust me, ma’am, and he’d tell you the same if he was here.”“And what may your name be, friend?” asked the woman.“Well,” he replied, “the quality calls me ‘Harry;’ but every one else calls me Mr Frazer,—at least when they behaves as they ought to do. I am butler at Flixworth Manor, that’s Mr Amos Huntingdon’s home; and I’ve been in the family’s service more nor fifty years come next Christmas, so it ain’t likely as I’d wish to do any on ’em any harm.”“Well, Mr Frazer,” said the woman, opening the door, “come in then; the fact is, I am almost as puzzled to know where Mr Amos is as you are. Ihave been expecting him all the morning, and he may be here any minute. But pray come in and wait a bit.”Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour, prettily but not expensively furnished. Over the chimney-piece was a large drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on either side of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon. What could it mean? But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment by his attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age, who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with one finger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much as to hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. A neat and beautifully white pinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion of glossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders. The old man started at the sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with open mouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the side of the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in her apron. “It’s herself, her very own self,” said Harry half out loud, and with quivering voice; “tell me, ma’am, oh, pray tell me what’s this child’s name!”“Well, Mr Frazer,” replied his companion, though evidently with some hesitation, “I understand that I may trust you. This dear child’s names are Julia Mary, and I am her nurse, employed by Mr Amos to look after her for him.”“I begin to see it all now,” said Harry half to himself. “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am; I don’t need to ask no more questions. I don’t want any one to tell me who Miss Julia’s mother is; there can be no doubt about that, they’re as like as two peas; and I begin to see a bit what Mr Amos has been a-doing. God bless his dear, unselfish heart! Come here to me, my child,” he added with a pleasant smile. The little Julia looked hard at him from behind the shelter of her nurse’s gown for a moment, but soon lost all fear, for there was something attractive to her in the old man’s snow-white hair and venerable face, as, surely, there is commonly a sweet sympathy between the guileless childhood of infancy and the holy childhood of God—fearing old age. So she shyly drew towards him, and let him place her on his knee; and then she looked up wonderingly at him, as his tears fell fast on her brown hair, and his voice was choked with sobs. “Yes,” he said, “my precious Miss Julia, you’re the very image of what your blessed mother was at your age. I’ve had her like this on my knee scores of times. Ah! well, perhaps a brighter day’s coming for us all.”We must now leave the old man happy over his gentle charge, and go back to the previous day when Amos, at luncheon time, received the little note which so greatly disturbed him. That note was as follows:—“Respected Sir,—About ten o’clock this morning, as Master George and Miss Mary were playing in the garden, a strange man looked over the hedge and called Master George by name. He held out something to him in his hand, which Master George went out of the gate to look at. Then the man took him up into his arms, whispered something into his ear, and walked away with him. I was in the house at the time, and was told this by Miss Mary. What am I to do? Please, sir, do come over at once if you can.—Your obedient servant, Sarah Williams.”Amos, as we have seen, left home after luncheon, and did not return. He made his way as quickly as he could to the little cottage, and found Mrs Williams in great distress. The poor little girl also was crying for her brother, declaring that a wicked man had come and stolen him away. What was to be done? The cottage where the nurse and children dwelt together was in rather a retired situation, the nearest house to it being a farm-house, which, though only a few hundred yards distant, was built in a hollow, so that what was going on outside the cottage would not be visible to persons about the farm premises. Mrs Williams was the wife of a respectable farm labourer, of better education and more intelligence than the generality of his class. They had no children of their own, so that Mrs Williams, who was a truly godly woman, was glad to give a home for a time and a motherly care to the two little ones committed to her charge by Amos. The husband was, of course, absent from home during the working hours, so that his wife could not call him to her help when she missed the little boy; indeed, on the day of her loss her husband had gone with his master, the farmer, to the neighbouring market-town, some six miles off, so that she could have no assistance from him in the search for the missing child till late in the evening. As far as Amos could gather from the little girl’s description, the man who had stolen away her brother was tall, had a long beard, and very black eyes. He was not on horseback, and there was no one else with him. But this was very meagre information at the best on which to build for tracking the fugitives. So Amos called Mrs Williams into the little parlour, and spread the matter out in prayer before God, whose “eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.” Then wishing the nurse good-bye, with a heart less burdened than before, but still anxious, he remounted his pony, and turned him in the direction of the neighbouring farm-yard.Having ascertained at the farm-house that no one had seen a man with a boy in his arms or walking by him pass that way, he proceeded down a long and not much frequented grassy lane at a jog-trot, but with small expectation of finding any clew that might guide him to the discovery of the lost child. He had ridden on thus about half a mile, when he paused at a place where another grassy lane crossed at right angles the one down which he had been riding. It was a lonely spot, but yet was a thoroughfare from which the roads diverged to one or two large villages, and led in one direction ultimately to the market-town. Close to the ditch opposite the road down which Amos had come was a white finger-post, informing those who were capable of deciphering its bleared inscriptions whither they were going or might go. Amos hesitated; he had never been on this exact spot before, and he therefore rode close up to the sign-post to read the names, which were illegible at a little distance off. To his great surprise, and even dismay, he noticed, dangling from one of the post’s outstretched wooden arms, a silk handkerchief of a rather marked pattern. Could it really be? Yes, he could not doubt it; it belonged to little George: it was a present to the child from himself only a few days before. Amos’s blood ran cold at the sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart to lay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarce dared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless body there. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped him for his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, why hang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could not have got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had been manifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling in every limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There was something stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope disclosed itself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, “Amos Huntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay.”Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope and read the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat and thoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:—“You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boy George. Comealoneto-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood, and you shall be duly informed. Mind, comealone: if you attempt to bring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for then there will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to any harm to your own person, or interference with your liberty.”There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amos was sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Of course it was plain that the writer could put him in the way of recovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood? and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if he did not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child might be lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. The nearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; and should he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood with success, it would be difficult for him to return home the same evening by any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart to abandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to the little town of Redbury.As he was giving up his pony to the care of the hostler at the Wheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man—tall, with long beard, and very dark eyes—stepping down into the inn-yard, who, as soon as he saw Amos, immediately retreated into the house. Had Amos seen him before? Never, as far as he knew; and yet a strange suspicion came over him that this was the man who had enticed little George away, and was also the writer of the pencilled letter. Still, it might not be so; he had no proof of it; and how was he to ascertain if it was the case or no? He lingered about the yard for a time, but the stranger did not again make his appearance; so he strolled out into the town, and ascertained that Brendon wood was about two miles from Redbury, and had an old oak in the centre of it. Turning matters over in his mind, he at last came to the not very comfortable conclusion that, as the evening was now far advanced, his best course was to put up for the night in the little town, and betake himself to the wood at an early hour next day. Grieved as he was to give his friends at home anxiety by not returning that night, he felt that, if his object was to be attained, he had better remain where he was; and he was sure that his aunt would believe that he would not absent himself without good reason, and would do her best to allay in his father any undue anxiety on his account. Having come to this conclusion, he returned to the Wheatsheaf and secured a bed, and then passed the rest of the evening in the coffee-room, watching very carefully to see if he could catch anywhere another glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but to no purpose.After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commending himself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hasty breakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place of appointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly along the country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirted on either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think how man’s sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which might otherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight, and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roads intersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, and in a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking the venerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering high above the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amos was no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he had patiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the school of chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yet it was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw a man approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himself had come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground on all sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not a creature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Little time, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute more he was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted his attention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf.The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On the present occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head a high-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make him out;—what was he? As they came close up to one another, the stranger saluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motioned him to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, still holding Prince’s bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy mound near the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few paces from him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke the silence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise than pleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and a spice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on the sensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that the stranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whom he was addressing.“I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon,” he began, “how I came to communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that I have reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can help to the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by the hand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, and might have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient. I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would be searching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silk handkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the note tied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally on the scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; and no one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This is as it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, do you guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, before yesterday evening.”“I do not know your name,” replied Amos sadly; “but I cannot say that I have no suspicion as to who you are.”“Exactly so,” replied the other; “I am, in fact, none other than your brother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia’s husband.”“I have feared so,” replied Amos.“Feared!” exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. “Well, be it so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of the Huntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much as possible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even known the name of his daughter’s husband, but simply the fact of her marriage.”“I believe so,” said Amos; “at any rate, all that has been known by the family generally has been that she married”—here he hesitated; but the other immediately added,—“Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as well know my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience’ sake. It is, at your service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?”“If you please.”“You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it is called, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriage that our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that we should be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime you stepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge of my two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks.”There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, “Is it your intention to take the children from me?”“Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, at present, unless you yourself wish it.”“And the boy?” asked Amos.“Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him,” was the reply. “It may be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my own profession.”“And what may that profession be?” asked the other.“The stage,” was the reply.“What!” exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, “bring up the poor child to be an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!”“And if so, Mr Huntingdon,” said the other sternly and bitterly, and with his dark eyes glaring fiercely, “I suppose I, as his father, have a right to bring him up as I please. The father’s profession is, I imagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for the son.”Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then he looked his companion steadily in the face, and said, “And is there no other course open?”“Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The fact is, I want money, and—not an uncommon thing in this not over agreeable or accommodating world—don’t know where to get it. I have, therefore, just this to say,—if you will pledge me your word to send me a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You may think what you please of me, but such is my proposal.”These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self-possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazing effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out that Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present, had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, as a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging up the little boy’s handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for the missing child; and thus the writer’s purpose would be answered without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered and brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos. And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish and unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew in his father’s hands, to be brought up to the stage—or, in other words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.While these things were passing through his mind, his companion looked about him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at his feet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he broke silence. “Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?” he asked. “Am I to keep little George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know the conditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the trouble to meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind.”Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, “And can you really, Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feel really happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let me persuade you—for my poor sister’s sake, for your own sake—to leave your present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only path which God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could—”But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fierce malignant anger glaring from his eyes. “Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon! enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer-meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed. You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leave matters as they are.”“No,” said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; “it shall not be so. I promise that you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placed little George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge your word, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested.”“Exactly so,” replied the other; “and now, as a little matter of business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to ‘John Smith or Bearer,’—that, certainly, will tell no tales.”“And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?”“To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spot where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place well. I will be there at five o’clock to-morrow morning, before the general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion would be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further, should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon my removingbothmy children from your cottage at the earliest opportunity.”“I understand you,” said Amos, “and will send my father’s old butler to take you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old man will ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him, neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy-white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine.”“So far so good,” said the other; “I have no doubt you will keep your word. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post on which his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o’clock this afternoon; that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually.” Then he rose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with a bow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soon hidden from view by the trees of the wood.Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, his thoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. What was to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. He was satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he had made. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost the opportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He had no doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the same heavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. So having waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-day meal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the day before, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of the child who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in his lap, till, roused by the sound of the pony’s feet, he looked up, and with a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos had sprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child to his heart.“O dear, dear Uncle Amos!” cried the little boy; “how good it is of God to send you for me. Oh, don’t let the tall, ugly, cruel man take me away again.”“Not if I can help it, dear child,” said his uncle. “There now, jump up, Georgie,” he added; “we shall soon be at home again.”As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the front of the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind the post, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the trees beyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time, having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, and received a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whose presence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered that his brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek for him there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, in a measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into another room soon after his return, and told him of the old servant’s emotion at the sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child of his master’s daughter.Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man’s having made this discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him that this very discovery might be an important step in the direction of carrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had been permitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper to him in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered over the matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden for some half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him into his confidence.“Harry,” he began, “can you keep a secret?”“Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, and who tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybody knows, so that they’re gone afore you gets ’em. But ifyou’vegot a secret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it from me.”“Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me—or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should like to tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in an important matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shall just leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the matter till the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you will have no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in the family, nor of idle gossip out of it.”“You’re right there, sir,” was the old butler’s hearty reply; “you may trust me. I’ve too much respect for the family to go about like a sieve, shaking such things as I’ve a notion you’re a-going to speak to me about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, and child to be wagging their tongues about them.”“Well then, Harry,” continued his young master, “I shall count upon your discretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use to me.”“They’re both at your service, Mr Amos.”“Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I need hardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You will remember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretly a man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father was cut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home against Miss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him nor excusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knew till to-day who or what my poor sister’s husband was. I never dared mention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had to leave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on my heart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again. I know it can be done, and I believe, with God’s help, it will be done. I have found out to-day that my poor sister’s husband is an actor, evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him from one place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before the children were old enough to know him as their father; and about a year ago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserable lodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helped her. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of her husband’s stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to free herself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from want till her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have her two children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and who would soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother as she then was, and with such people about her as friends or acquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them under the charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and since then I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord would guide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at a time. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the children enticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning some miles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took him away that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met this morning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to send him a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then he said he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That I would not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me back the little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddle with either of the children again. And now I want you to take the money for me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above the Manor-house at five o’clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him a cheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help in the matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?—they are black enough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker.”The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood still and looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three big tears rolled down his cheeks.“And so you’ve been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sister and her dear children,” he said. “I see it all; but shouldn’t I just like to have fast hold of that rascal’s neck with one hand, and a good stout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it’s no use wishing for such things. Well, I’m your man, sir, as far as I can be of any service. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why, he’ll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lying for a month in a dust-pan. He’ll never keep his word, not he, while there’s a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn’t have done different for the sake of the poor children, bless their little hearts. And I’m to take the money to him? Yes; and a policeman or two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you’ve promised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it’s a shocking bad business altogether; but when a man’s been and tackled it as you’ve done, Master Amos, it’ll come right in the end, there’s no doubt of it.”“Thank you, Harry, a thousand times,” said the other; “and I am sure you shall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of the family.”“You’re safe there with me, Master Amos,” was the old man’s reply.So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young man explained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom he was interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he had been unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search for the child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town. Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning and carrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with this explanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family. On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, through Harry, to his brother-in-law.

A week or more had passed since the conversation in the summer-house, and all the family were seated at luncheon in the dining-room of Flixworth Manor, when a shabby and dirty-looking note was handed to Amos by the butler. Having hastily read it, Amos exclaimed in an agitated voice, “Who brought this? where is he?”

“It’s no one as I ever seed afore,” replied Harry. “He said there was no answer, but I was to take it in straight; and I doubt he’s gone now far enough away, for he was nothing but a rough-looking lad, and he ran off when he had given me the note as fast as his legs would carry him.”

“Nothing amiss, I hope?” said Miss Huntingdon kindly.

“I hope not,” replied her nephew. He was evidently, however, greatly troubled and confused, and looked nervously towards his father, whose attention at the time was being given to a noble-looking dog which was receiving a piece of meat from his hand.

“What’s up now?” cried Walter, who, although he was learning to treat his brother with more respect and consideration, was still rather on the look-out for opportunities to play off his fun upon him. “Why, surely there’s something amiss. What’s the good, Amos, of putting a spoonful of salt into your gooseberry tart?”

Mr Huntingdon now looked round and stared at his elder son, who had by this time partly recovered his self-possession. “Nothing serious, my boy, I hope?” he said.

“I hope not, dear father. It’s only about a little child that I take an interest in; he seems to have got away from home, and his friends can’t find him.”

“Is it one of my tenants’ children?”

“No; it’s a child that lives in a cottage on the Gavelby estate. We have struck up a friendship. I ride up there sometimes, so they have sent to me about him; and I will ride over after luncheon and see what can be done.”

Nothing more passed on the subject during the meal; but Miss Huntingdon’s watchful care of her nephew made her notice the deep lines of anxiety which had gathered on the forehead of Amos, and her heart ached for him, for she was sure that he was burdened with some unexpected trouble connected with the work he had set himself to accomplish. Dinner-time came, but Amos did not make his appearance. Ten o’clock struck, but he still lingered. Never before had he been absent for a night except when at school or college, or on a visit to some friend; for his habits were most regular, and he always rose and retired to rest early, his custom in this respect having been often the subject of remark and merriment to Walter, who would say to his friends that, “although Amos would never join in a lark, he had no objection to rise with one; nor to lie down with a lamb, though he hadn’t it in him to skip like one.” So when the family met next morning at breakfast, and nothing had been seen or heard of Amos, there was a shade of anxiety on every one’s face.

“Where can the boy have been?” exclaimed Mr Huntingdon; “we never knew him go off like this before.—Hasn’t he sent any message of any kind, Harry?”

“Not a word, sir, as far as I know.”

“What’s best to be done, then?—What do you say, Kate?” asked the squire.

“Perhaps Walter can make inquiries,” suggested his sister.

“Well,” replied her nephew, “I wouldn’t mind, but really I don’t know where to look exactly. I may be riding about all day, for he’s gone after the missing child, I suppose, so it will be no use looking for him at the child’s home. And, besides, I’ve an engagement to play lawn-tennis and go to luncheon at the Worthingtons’, and I can’t disappoint them.”

“Not in such a case as this?” asked his aunt reproachfully. “Can’t you send a note of apology to the Worthingtons? Suppose something serious has happened to your brother!”

“Oh, nonsense, Aunt Kate,” cried Walter, who was not prepared to give up his engagement of pleasure; “don’t be afraid about Amos; he’ll turn up all right. He’s on his way home, you may depend upon it; only perhaps he has been trying to solve some wonderful problem, and has forgotten all about such commonplace things as time and space, and has fallen asleep under a hedge.”

“I will go myself, then,” said Miss Huntingdon, “and see if I can hear anything of him from the neighbours.”

“Indeed, Kate,” said her brother, “you must do nothing of the sort. Set your mind at rest. I will go myself and make inquiries; and if the boy does not make his appearance by luncheon time, we must take further steps to find him.”

“CanIbe of any use, sir, in the matter?” asked Harry.

“Ah, that’s just the thing!” cried Walter. “If you can spare Harry, father, Jane can wait at luncheon; and I’ll just put Harry myself on what I think will be the right scent.”

“Well, my boy, it can be so, and you can do as you say,” replied his father. “I know we can trust Harry to do his best; he can take the old mare, and we shall do very well with Jane till he comes back.”

Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and the trust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare, accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons’. Harry would have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which would have been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having no choice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter. So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight of the cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with the little children.

“There, Harry,” said Walter, “you see that cottage? just you call in there, and you will either find my brother there, if I am not mistaken, or, at any rate, you will find somebody who will tell you where to look for him.” Then he turned and put spurs to his horse, and was soon out of sight, leaving the old servant to jog along at his leisure to the little dwelling pointed out to him, the roof of which he could just see distinctly in the distance.

“Humph!” said Harry half out loud, as he rather reluctantly made his way towards the cottage; “you might have gone yourself, Master Walter, I think, and saved an old man like me such a shaking as I’ve had on the old mare’s back. But I suppose that ‘lawn tens,’ as they call it, is a mighty taking thing to young people; it seems all the go now; all the young gents and young ladies has gone mad after it. Knocking them balls back’ards and for’ards used to be called ‘fives’ when I were a boy, but they calls it ‘tens’ now; I suppose ’cos they does everything in these days twice as fast as they used to do. Well, it don’t matter; but if it had been Master Amos, and t’other road about, he’d never have let ‘tens,’ or ‘twenties,’ or ‘fifties’ stand between him and looking arter a lost brother. But then people don’t know Master Amos and Master Walter as I do. Their aunt, Miss Huntingdon, does a bit, and p’raps master will himself some day.”

By the time he had finished this soliloquy Harry had neared the cottage. Then he quickened his pace, and having reached the little garden gate, hung his horse’s bridle over a rail, with the full knowledge that the animal would be well content to stand at ease an unlimited time where she was left. Then he made his way up to the cottage door and knocked. His summons was immediately answered by a respectably dressed middle-aged woman, who opened the door somewhat slowly and cautiously, and then asked him civilly what was his business with her. “Well, if you please, ma’am,” said the butler, “I’m just come to know if you can tell me anything about my young master, Mr Amos. He ought to have come home last night, and none of us has set eyes on him up to the time when I left home, about an hour since.”

The person whom he addressed was evidently in a difficulty what to answer. She hesitated, and looked this way and that, still holding the door ajar, but not inviting Harry into the house. The old man waited a few moments, and then he said, “If you please, ma’am, am I to understand as you don’t know nothing about my young master, Mr Amos, and where he’s gone?”

Still the other made no reply, but only looked more and more uneasy. It was quite clear to Harry now that she could give him the information he wanted, if only she were willing to do so. He waited therefore another minute, and then said, “You’ve no cause, ma’am, to fear as I shall get Master Amos into trouble by anything you may tell me. I love him too well for that; and I can be as close as wax when I like. You may trust me, ma’am, and he’d tell you the same if he was here.”

“And what may your name be, friend?” asked the woman.

“Well,” he replied, “the quality calls me ‘Harry;’ but every one else calls me Mr Frazer,—at least when they behaves as they ought to do. I am butler at Flixworth Manor, that’s Mr Amos Huntingdon’s home; and I’ve been in the family’s service more nor fifty years come next Christmas, so it ain’t likely as I’d wish to do any on ’em any harm.”

“Well, Mr Frazer,” said the woman, opening the door, “come in then; the fact is, I am almost as puzzled to know where Mr Amos is as you are. Ihave been expecting him all the morning, and he may be here any minute. But pray come in and wait a bit.”

Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour, prettily but not expensively furnished. Over the chimney-piece was a large drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on either side of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon. What could it mean? But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment by his attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age, who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with one finger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much as to hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. A neat and beautifully white pinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion of glossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders. The old man started at the sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with open mouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the side of the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in her apron. “It’s herself, her very own self,” said Harry half out loud, and with quivering voice; “tell me, ma’am, oh, pray tell me what’s this child’s name!”

“Well, Mr Frazer,” replied his companion, though evidently with some hesitation, “I understand that I may trust you. This dear child’s names are Julia Mary, and I am her nurse, employed by Mr Amos to look after her for him.”

“I begin to see it all now,” said Harry half to himself. “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am; I don’t need to ask no more questions. I don’t want any one to tell me who Miss Julia’s mother is; there can be no doubt about that, they’re as like as two peas; and I begin to see a bit what Mr Amos has been a-doing. God bless his dear, unselfish heart! Come here to me, my child,” he added with a pleasant smile. The little Julia looked hard at him from behind the shelter of her nurse’s gown for a moment, but soon lost all fear, for there was something attractive to her in the old man’s snow-white hair and venerable face, as, surely, there is commonly a sweet sympathy between the guileless childhood of infancy and the holy childhood of God—fearing old age. So she shyly drew towards him, and let him place her on his knee; and then she looked up wonderingly at him, as his tears fell fast on her brown hair, and his voice was choked with sobs. “Yes,” he said, “my precious Miss Julia, you’re the very image of what your blessed mother was at your age. I’ve had her like this on my knee scores of times. Ah! well, perhaps a brighter day’s coming for us all.”

We must now leave the old man happy over his gentle charge, and go back to the previous day when Amos, at luncheon time, received the little note which so greatly disturbed him. That note was as follows:—

“Respected Sir,—About ten o’clock this morning, as Master George and Miss Mary were playing in the garden, a strange man looked over the hedge and called Master George by name. He held out something to him in his hand, which Master George went out of the gate to look at. Then the man took him up into his arms, whispered something into his ear, and walked away with him. I was in the house at the time, and was told this by Miss Mary. What am I to do? Please, sir, do come over at once if you can.—Your obedient servant, Sarah Williams.”

Amos, as we have seen, left home after luncheon, and did not return. He made his way as quickly as he could to the little cottage, and found Mrs Williams in great distress. The poor little girl also was crying for her brother, declaring that a wicked man had come and stolen him away. What was to be done? The cottage where the nurse and children dwelt together was in rather a retired situation, the nearest house to it being a farm-house, which, though only a few hundred yards distant, was built in a hollow, so that what was going on outside the cottage would not be visible to persons about the farm premises. Mrs Williams was the wife of a respectable farm labourer, of better education and more intelligence than the generality of his class. They had no children of their own, so that Mrs Williams, who was a truly godly woman, was glad to give a home for a time and a motherly care to the two little ones committed to her charge by Amos. The husband was, of course, absent from home during the working hours, so that his wife could not call him to her help when she missed the little boy; indeed, on the day of her loss her husband had gone with his master, the farmer, to the neighbouring market-town, some six miles off, so that she could have no assistance from him in the search for the missing child till late in the evening. As far as Amos could gather from the little girl’s description, the man who had stolen away her brother was tall, had a long beard, and very black eyes. He was not on horseback, and there was no one else with him. But this was very meagre information at the best on which to build for tracking the fugitives. So Amos called Mrs Williams into the little parlour, and spread the matter out in prayer before God, whose “eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.” Then wishing the nurse good-bye, with a heart less burdened than before, but still anxious, he remounted his pony, and turned him in the direction of the neighbouring farm-yard.

Having ascertained at the farm-house that no one had seen a man with a boy in his arms or walking by him pass that way, he proceeded down a long and not much frequented grassy lane at a jog-trot, but with small expectation of finding any clew that might guide him to the discovery of the lost child. He had ridden on thus about half a mile, when he paused at a place where another grassy lane crossed at right angles the one down which he had been riding. It was a lonely spot, but yet was a thoroughfare from which the roads diverged to one or two large villages, and led in one direction ultimately to the market-town. Close to the ditch opposite the road down which Amos had come was a white finger-post, informing those who were capable of deciphering its bleared inscriptions whither they were going or might go. Amos hesitated; he had never been on this exact spot before, and he therefore rode close up to the sign-post to read the names, which were illegible at a little distance off. To his great surprise, and even dismay, he noticed, dangling from one of the post’s outstretched wooden arms, a silk handkerchief of a rather marked pattern. Could it really be? Yes, he could not doubt it; it belonged to little George: it was a present to the child from himself only a few days before. Amos’s blood ran cold at the sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart to lay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarce dared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless body there. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped him for his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, why hang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could not have got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had been manifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling in every limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There was something stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope disclosed itself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, “Amos Huntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay.”

Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope and read the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat and thoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:—

“You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boy George. Comealoneto-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood, and you shall be duly informed. Mind, comealone: if you attempt to bring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for then there will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to any harm to your own person, or interference with your liberty.”

There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amos was sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Of course it was plain that the writer could put him in the way of recovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood? and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if he did not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child might be lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. The nearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; and should he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood with success, it would be difficult for him to return home the same evening by any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart to abandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to the little town of Redbury.

As he was giving up his pony to the care of the hostler at the Wheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man—tall, with long beard, and very dark eyes—stepping down into the inn-yard, who, as soon as he saw Amos, immediately retreated into the house. Had Amos seen him before? Never, as far as he knew; and yet a strange suspicion came over him that this was the man who had enticed little George away, and was also the writer of the pencilled letter. Still, it might not be so; he had no proof of it; and how was he to ascertain if it was the case or no? He lingered about the yard for a time, but the stranger did not again make his appearance; so he strolled out into the town, and ascertained that Brendon wood was about two miles from Redbury, and had an old oak in the centre of it. Turning matters over in his mind, he at last came to the not very comfortable conclusion that, as the evening was now far advanced, his best course was to put up for the night in the little town, and betake himself to the wood at an early hour next day. Grieved as he was to give his friends at home anxiety by not returning that night, he felt that, if his object was to be attained, he had better remain where he was; and he was sure that his aunt would believe that he would not absent himself without good reason, and would do her best to allay in his father any undue anxiety on his account. Having come to this conclusion, he returned to the Wheatsheaf and secured a bed, and then passed the rest of the evening in the coffee-room, watching very carefully to see if he could catch anywhere another glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but to no purpose.

After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commending himself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hasty breakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place of appointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly along the country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirted on either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think how man’s sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which might otherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight, and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roads intersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, and in a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking the venerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering high above the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amos was no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he had patiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the school of chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yet it was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw a man approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himself had come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground on all sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not a creature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Little time, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute more he was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted his attention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf.

The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On the present occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head a high-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make him out;—what was he? As they came close up to one another, the stranger saluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motioned him to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, still holding Prince’s bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy mound near the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few paces from him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke the silence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise than pleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and a spice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on the sensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that the stranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whom he was addressing.

“I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon,” he began, “how I came to communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that I have reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can help to the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by the hand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, and might have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient. I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would be searching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silk handkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the note tied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally on the scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; and no one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This is as it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, do you guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, before yesterday evening.”

“I do not know your name,” replied Amos sadly; “but I cannot say that I have no suspicion as to who you are.”

“Exactly so,” replied the other; “I am, in fact, none other than your brother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia’s husband.”

“I have feared so,” replied Amos.

“Feared!” exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. “Well, be it so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of the Huntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much as possible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even known the name of his daughter’s husband, but simply the fact of her marriage.”

“I believe so,” said Amos; “at any rate, all that has been known by the family generally has been that she married”—here he hesitated; but the other immediately added,—

“Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as well know my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience’ sake. It is, at your service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?”

“If you please.”

“You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it is called, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriage that our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that we should be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime you stepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge of my two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks.”

There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, “Is it your intention to take the children from me?”

“Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, at present, unless you yourself wish it.”

“And the boy?” asked Amos.

“Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him,” was the reply. “It may be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my own profession.”

“And what may that profession be?” asked the other.

“The stage,” was the reply.

“What!” exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, “bring up the poor child to be an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!”

“And if so, Mr Huntingdon,” said the other sternly and bitterly, and with his dark eyes glaring fiercely, “I suppose I, as his father, have a right to bring him up as I please. The father’s profession is, I imagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for the son.”

Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then he looked his companion steadily in the face, and said, “And is there no other course open?”

“Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The fact is, I want money, and—not an uncommon thing in this not over agreeable or accommodating world—don’t know where to get it. I have, therefore, just this to say,—if you will pledge me your word to send me a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You may think what you please of me, but such is my proposal.”

These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self-possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazing effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out that Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present, had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, as a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging up the little boy’s handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for the missing child; and thus the writer’s purpose would be answered without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered and brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos. And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish and unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew in his father’s hands, to be brought up to the stage—or, in other words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.

While these things were passing through his mind, his companion looked about him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at his feet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he broke silence. “Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?” he asked. “Am I to keep little George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know the conditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the trouble to meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind.”

Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, “And can you really, Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feel really happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let me persuade you—for my poor sister’s sake, for your own sake—to leave your present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only path which God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could—”

But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fierce malignant anger glaring from his eyes. “Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon! enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer-meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed. You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leave matters as they are.”

“No,” said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; “it shall not be so. I promise that you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placed little George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge your word, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested.”

“Exactly so,” replied the other; “and now, as a little matter of business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to ‘John Smith or Bearer,’—that, certainly, will tell no tales.”

“And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?”

“To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spot where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place well. I will be there at five o’clock to-morrow morning, before the general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion would be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further, should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon my removingbothmy children from your cottage at the earliest opportunity.”

“I understand you,” said Amos, “and will send my father’s old butler to take you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old man will ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him, neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy-white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine.”

“So far so good,” said the other; “I have no doubt you will keep your word. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post on which his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o’clock this afternoon; that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually.” Then he rose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with a bow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soon hidden from view by the trees of the wood.

Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, his thoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. What was to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. He was satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he had made. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost the opportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He had no doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the same heavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. So having waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-day meal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the day before, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of the child who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in his lap, till, roused by the sound of the pony’s feet, he looked up, and with a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos had sprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child to his heart.

“O dear, dear Uncle Amos!” cried the little boy; “how good it is of God to send you for me. Oh, don’t let the tall, ugly, cruel man take me away again.”

“Not if I can help it, dear child,” said his uncle. “There now, jump up, Georgie,” he added; “we shall soon be at home again.”

As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the front of the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind the post, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the trees beyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time, having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, and received a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whose presence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered that his brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek for him there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, in a measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into another room soon after his return, and told him of the old servant’s emotion at the sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child of his master’s daughter.

Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man’s having made this discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him that this very discovery might be an important step in the direction of carrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had been permitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper to him in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered over the matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden for some half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him into his confidence.

“Harry,” he began, “can you keep a secret?”

“Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, and who tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybody knows, so that they’re gone afore you gets ’em. But ifyou’vegot a secret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it from me.”

“Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me—or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should like to tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in an important matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shall just leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the matter till the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you will have no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in the family, nor of idle gossip out of it.”

“You’re right there, sir,” was the old butler’s hearty reply; “you may trust me. I’ve too much respect for the family to go about like a sieve, shaking such things as I’ve a notion you’re a-going to speak to me about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, and child to be wagging their tongues about them.”

“Well then, Harry,” continued his young master, “I shall count upon your discretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use to me.”

“They’re both at your service, Mr Amos.”

“Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I need hardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You will remember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretly a man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father was cut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home against Miss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him nor excusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knew till to-day who or what my poor sister’s husband was. I never dared mention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had to leave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on my heart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again. I know it can be done, and I believe, with God’s help, it will be done. I have found out to-day that my poor sister’s husband is an actor, evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him from one place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before the children were old enough to know him as their father; and about a year ago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserable lodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helped her. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of her husband’s stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to free herself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from want till her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have her two children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and who would soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother as she then was, and with such people about her as friends or acquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them under the charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and since then I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord would guide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at a time. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the children enticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning some miles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took him away that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met this morning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to send him a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then he said he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That I would not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me back the little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddle with either of the children again. And now I want you to take the money for me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above the Manor-house at five o’clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him a cheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help in the matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?—they are black enough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker.”

The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood still and looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three big tears rolled down his cheeks.

“And so you’ve been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sister and her dear children,” he said. “I see it all; but shouldn’t I just like to have fast hold of that rascal’s neck with one hand, and a good stout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it’s no use wishing for such things. Well, I’m your man, sir, as far as I can be of any service. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why, he’ll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lying for a month in a dust-pan. He’ll never keep his word, not he, while there’s a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn’t have done different for the sake of the poor children, bless their little hearts. And I’m to take the money to him? Yes; and a policeman or two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you’ve promised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it’s a shocking bad business altogether; but when a man’s been and tackled it as you’ve done, Master Amos, it’ll come right in the end, there’s no doubt of it.”

“Thank you, Harry, a thousand times,” said the other; “and I am sure you shall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of the family.”

“You’re safe there with me, Master Amos,” was the old man’s reply.

So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young man explained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom he was interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he had been unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search for the child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town. Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning and carrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with this explanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family. On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, through Harry, to his brother-in-law.

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