Then, potent with the spell of heaven,Go, and thine erring brother gain;Entice him home to be forgiven,Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.—Keble.
Three weeks more passed away; the journey homeward was getting near its end, for the weather had been fine, and except that, on account of a death on board, the vessel stayed a day and a night at St. Helena, there were no interruptions. It was a lovely morning; the wind was hushed, there was scarcely a ripple upon the ocean, the vessel glided on without breaking the stillness, and Hubert sat on deck with his friend, enjoying the genial atmosphere of the temperate zone.
"Captain Goodwin," said the traveller, "I think our journey together is nearly ended."
"Are you not going to England?" immediately inquired Hubert.
"No—at least, not at present. In a few days we shall pass Portugal, and I may say farewell to you off Lisbon. I have a little matter on hand that takes me to that part: when I have finished it I hope to come to England; and I hope to meet you some day again. I trust that what we have seen of each other has not been unprofitable; something I have told you may remain in your memory, for I have told you many things concerning the ways of men in nearly every country that I have been to. Your knowledge has been confined to India, which country I have traversed almost from one end to the other; and yet I have learnt very much from you; and, now that we are about to part, I will tell you how. It may be that, mixing so much amongst Indian idolatry, or, indeed, I hardly know what has been the cause—but of late years I have grown careless of the pure faith of my childhood, and have rather liked than otherwise anything that tended to increase a disbelief in God and a future life. Once let the thought that there is no future fix itself in the mind of a man, and a thousand other thoughts, more wicked than the first, follow, and there is little difficulty in disbelieving altogether;for it is the belief that thereisa future that constitutes the key-stone in religion. Well, I had become sceptical; and, Goodwin, you perhaps little thought it, but it was you with your Bible, and all its precepts so exemplified in your conduct, that struck me, and made me look into my own heart to find how it was that you appeared so much more happy and contented than I was. I have often watched you; and your silent and, as you thought, unseen study of your Bible had a powerful effect upon me, and did more for me than any noisy demonstration would have done. When I first met with you I was in a state of mind to have laughed at you, if you had come and talked about conversion and grace, and prated off a host of Scripture texts. I had too long forsaken religion to be frightened back to it; and that is the mistake many good people make in their endeavours to bring back God's wandering children. When I saw you so consistent and so earnest in your religious duties, I know this, that I longed to be like you, and that longing led me to think of what I had once been, and by degrees things have changed with me. I have wanted to tell you this before, but have always been afraid totrust myself; it is because our journey is so nearly ended that I tell you now. And look here, Goodwin, when I have done what I have to do in Portugal I will come to England, where I shall hope to meet you; and by God's blessing, since there is no secret between us now, we will talk this matter over again. It may be a year before I come, perhaps longer; but remember, if I am spared, Iwillcome, for I shall never forget you."
"Neither shall I you," said Hubert, grasping his hand; but his heart was full, and for some minutes he said no more. At length he continued, "Oh, I am sorry to part with you; I have often wished that some of our time could be spent in reading God's word, and talking of His mercy to us both; the want of our doing so has made me at times sadly miss two friends I left in India; still, I have much enjoyed your society, and have learnt very much from you; for though our conversation has for the most part been upon secular things, you have given me very much to think about, and I thank God that I met with you. When I reach home," and Hubert sighed, "I should like to write to you; and if you will tell me where a letter will find youI will do so. I shall take up my quarters in the north of England."
The traveller gave Hubert an address which he said would find him, at least for the next three months, and then he added—
"The north of England! Ah! I well remember an incident that occurred once as I passed through it on my way from Edinburgh to London. I have never been in that part since, and, as near as I can recollect, it is about four-and-twenty years ago. I was fifty-four years old yesterday, and I was thinking that I passed my thirtieth birthday on the top of that stage-coach. Well, we were some distance north of York—I have forgotten the name of the place, but it was a charming little village—and at the top of a shady lane, at the garden gate of a pretty house, there were several people waiting to bid a young soldier good-bye. Young, indeed! he was only a lad, just fifteen, a fine-hearted, sprightly young fellow, and he was going off to India. Well, he took his seat amongst the passengers, called out good-bye, and off he went. I sat beside the coachman, and as I glanced round at him, I felt sorry for the boy, for, though he appeared cheerful enough,I had an idea that his cheerfulness was a little forced: the passengers began to talk with him, and he really was a fine fellow. I never shall forget him—the very type of a handsome English youth. Excuse me, I was forgetting myself; it's but a simple story, after all: we can find something better to talk about."
"Oh, no, pray finish it; I am interested in your story. What became of the young soldier?"
"Well, it was rather curious that I was going south on purpose to bid my brother good-bye, and I found that this young soldier was going to India in my brother's ship."
"That was curious enough," said Hubert.
"It was; and when we alighted, after a long and tedious journey, in London, we went off to the ship together. How very often I have thought of that lad! He had evidently been well cared for by good religious parents, but perhaps from his school training, or I cannot tell what, he was certainly forgetting the instructions they had given him. Oh, how thoughtless and reckless he was! I watched him, for he had told us a little of his history; and as I was leaving the ship, I ventured to give him a word ofadvice, and tried to persuade him never to forget his duty to his parents: but I cannot tell you more about him. Poor lad! I never saw him again, nor ever heard of him after he reached India. I fear he died, for, soon after his regiment landed, many of the soldiers died of fever, and from what I can remember, I saw amongst the deaths in an Indian paper a soldier of his name; so, never hearing anything more of him, I concluded the poor fellow had succumbed to the climate."
"Why were you so anxious to hear something more of that lad in particular?" inquired Hubert.
"Ah! were I to tell you it would be a long story. I don't know, though, that I need tell all. I think I once told you some of my early history. Well, I married at an early age, and three years after my marriage I buried my wife: the sorrow, however, was greatly alleviated by a little son I had—he was two years old when his mother died, and just able to dissipate my grief by his innocent prattle. Years passed away: wherever I went I took my boy. I travelled through Germany and Prussia with him, and it has often occurred to me that the many people who have been charmed by the works thatthese travels helped to produce, little thought under what circumstances they were accomplished. Many a long journey, where conveyances could not go, have I taken, with my staff in hand, a little satchel at my side, and that boy on my back. At other times he has trotted by my side; and very often—most nights, indeed—with him sleeping in my arms, or seated beside his bed, I have penned most of my daily wanderings, for I never left him. For eight years after his mother died I never allowed him to go from my sight; but then he left me for ever."
"Not for ever," said Hubert; "you mean, he died? Well, you will go to him, though he will not return to you."
"Why do you say so?"
"Because I believe it, and so do you."
"Yes, I do: but now, tell me how it is that I cannot always think so. I believe it all as well as you do, and yet, when I sit alone and think, my thoughts are not the same as when we sit and talk together—how is it?"
There was an earnestness in the stranger's manner, and also in his eye, as he put this question toHubert, who, after sitting unmoved for a minute or two, at last said—
"I have felt the same many, many times; indeed, there is scarcely a truth in the Bible that I have read, which, though I believed it at one time, I have been led to doubt it another. Many a time have I gone out into the court-yard of my quarters in India, that I might see some fresh object, because upon everything in my room there seemed to stand out in large gilded letters the word 'Unbelief.' Turn where I would sometimes, the very objects and things I wished to forget were always before my eyes; indeed, blasphemy has been upon my tongue when my heart has dictated prayers. Terrible hours they have been to me. And sometimes the falling of a piece of paper, the opening of a door, or the smallest possible sound you could conceive, has so alarmed me that I have actually been afraid of myself. No one but myself can know what I endured. But I don't feel anything of the sort now.Prayerwas the effectual remedy for me, and it will be so for you. I believe that such doubts and fears are extra mercies sent by God to bring us nearer to Him; so, when you feel anything of the kind, trywhat prayer will do. There is a great deal of seeming prayer that isn't prayer; but when the heart can feel itself going out upwards,—I mean, when it utters the words, 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief,' depend upon it, that upon the other side of that petition, written in words of fire, is the command to the tempter, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'"
The stranger sighed, but then, thrusting his hands deeply into his coat pockets, as was his usual custom when in a thoughtful mood, he sat still looking over upon the broad blue sea. Hubert sat still beside him, and as the sailors moved about attending to their various duties, they gave many a glance at the two friends as they sat together. Ben had told them all something about these friends, and, though they were not all of the same way of thinking as Ben was, they imbibed from him an extra amount of respect for the Captain and the stranger; and had the part of the deck where they were accustomed to sit been a sacred part, it could not have been more free from intrusion than it was when they were there; so Hubert sat and thought; so did his friend, who was the first to speak.
"Yes, it is so," he said; "I know it is all true; I shall go tothem. And now let me finish my story. I had returned from the Continent, and it was in Scotland that I buried my son; he lies beside his mother in the kirk-yard at Dunkeld; it is a pretty, quiet place, at the foot of the Grampian mountains, and there they lie—I hope to be buried there too some day. I did not think at one time that I should have lived thus long after them, but time has fled on, and it has worked its change in me. I remember that it was on my first journey after my loss that that lad rode with us to London. I shall never forget how startled I was when I first saw him: older, of course, he was, but such an exact resemblance did he bear to the one I had lost, that—it may have been a delusion—some of my affection for the dead seemed to centre in him."
"What was his name?" inquired Hubert.
"I cannot tell now, I had forgotten it long ago; indeed, I had forgotten the incident until you brought it back to my memory, it happened so long ago."
"I wonder you forgot his name, though," saidHubert; "but time works upon the memory, and makes it less retentive."
"True; especially one that has been tried like mine has. I am not an old man—I am only a little over fifty, yet see how grey I am. I attribute it to my memory being overtasked."
"And to early and deep sorrow, perhaps," replied Hubert.
"Well, the philosophy of that I neither argue nor dispute: what do you say to it?"
Hubert smiled, and, taking from his pocket his "torn Bible," he said, "Here we have a high authority for the fact that suffering purifies the heart. Now, whatever effect it may have upon the outward appearance, it most certainly leaves its impress within—leaves many a deep scar upon the heart: and we know that it leaves furrows on the brow; yet what a blessing suffering is!—it is often the last effort that God makes to reclaim the reckless sinner. When all other efforts have failed, and nothing seems effectual in bringing down man's proud heart, the Almighty smites that He may bless. I know it, for I have experienced it all; I have felt both the scourge and the blessing."
Hubert added this latter part because he feared lest his friend should think him presumptuous; but the stranger added, "Captain Goodwin, I am sure you must have felt a good deal of what you have often talked about, and I would give much to be always as thoroughly settled in these matters as you are. What you say, I feel to be all perfectly true. Here," he said, placing his hand upon his heart, "it is all right But here," and he touched his forehead, "there are other thoughts. But if God spare me, I will come to you again when my business in Portugal is done, and then we will talk over these matters more fully. The world has been a wide one to me, but I have only a few friends in it, and am tired of rambling about it, so I shall return to England and come near to you."
"Do," said Hubert; "and may God spare you, and me too. I shall be glad indeed to see you; the heart grows better by communion, and I think somehow that there is many a kindred feeling between us; at any rate, our voyage has been rendered pleasant by our having met, and it will be a source of pleasure to me, in many a sad hour that I feel will yet befall me, to look forward to our meeting again."
This, and much more, formed the matter for conversation between Hubert and his friend; and when the day had closed, and night drew on, they passed an hour together by Hubert's lamp; for the heart which had unburdened itself seemed to have twined its tendrils more firmly round the wounded soldier.
Lead, kindly light, amid the evening gloom,Lead thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home;Lead thou me on!—Keble.
Nearer and nearer drew the vessel homeward. Hubert and his friend had that morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon the deck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailors were evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer could not have perceived that anything unusual was going on. Many, nearly all in the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse they were having of Europe; and as the coast of Portugal became more distinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home.
Hubert and his friend at length came on deck: Lisbon, with its noble bay and high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was lowered toconvey the passengers to the small vessel that would take them up the river to the town. "Farewell!" it was the last word from Hubert's lips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over the billows that rolled upon the shores of Portugal; "Farewell!" echoed back upon the air, and Hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feel lonely: he had made no other friend in the ship, and he returned to his cabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had had with his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself was not indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won the sympathies of the noble heart which had now won his. So many incidents in that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at last nothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then how sorry he felt that he had not told his friend more about himself; and, less at ease than he had felt for many months, he closed the door of his cabin, and buried his face in his hands.
Poor Hubert! His heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, and recent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the many visionsof that youth-time which now came so vividly before him.
"God grant that I may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then his memory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperings which had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his reckless course, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. It came like a deep sorrow to Hubert, like a mighty wave throwing back every torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contend with grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grew dark, he sat and read the much-treasured portion of his mother's Bible. He gained comfort as he read page after page, and it may have been that the lamp grew brighter; at any rate, Hubert's face wore a happier beam, and when the sailor came into the cabin, he said, "Good evening, your honour; glad to see your honour looking better and cheerful like."
"Better, Ben! have I looked ill to-day?"
"Not ill, exactly, your honour," said Ben, "but a little landsman-like, just about the time the passengers for Portugal got adrift, when Mr. Collinton, yer honour's friend, left."
"Well, Ben, I was sorry to lose him; but how late it is! why, I have been reading two hours."
With the assistance of the sailor, Hubert retired to rest, but, just as Ben was leaving the cabin, Hubert requested that he would reach him the Bible that lay upon the table.
"I have a better Bible than this, yer honour," said Ben, as he handed the book; "I mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, if yer honour likes, I'll fetch it, though it's not to every one I'd lend it."
"Why do you offer to lend it to me, then?"
"Because, yer honour, I'm sure you think a great deal of the Bible, and it's a pity you haven't one with all in; this has been bad enough used, at any rate, but some folks don't care how they destroy the Bible. I'm glad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan of mine, I shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it was the last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and I have used it now over twenty years."
"Thank you, Ben, I do not wish it; mine istorn, I know, but it will do for me. Thank you all the same. Good night."
Hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit of talking with Ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quite agreeable to him now. Poor untaught fellow! how nobly he appeared to rise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and his mother, yet how rich in affection! Hubert thought many times of that sailor's Bible; like his own, it was a mother's gift, but it hadallin, while his had been ruthlessly destroyed. Memory brought back many a long-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against the silent admonitions which the sight of that book was ever wont to give; and, as he grasped all that was left to him now, a deep and heartfelt prayer from his penitent heart ascended to the throne of God.
The vessel in which Hubert sailed had made a quick run to England, and, in a few days after the passengers left for Portugal, Hubert landed upon the shores of his native country; and never before had he felt so lonely. He was home without a home; however, being still under orders from theEast India Company, he referred to his papers, and then immediately proceeded to London. Lame, without friends, and amongst strangers, Hubert longed to be making his way to his own native village, but he was compelled to tarry some time in London; at length, however, he received his discharge with a handsome pension, and was at liberty to go where he pleased.
Now Hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. At one time he thought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whom could he write? Then he thought of taking the coach at once home, but another thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yet schooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured.
Hesitating what to do, another week passed by, and his conscience, at length, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about his luggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferred should for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk, and commenced his journey northward. So many years had passed since Hubert had come along the road by whichhe was returning, that he might have been In a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought the country beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from the coach, and stayed for the night at a small town. The journey had been rather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so, when the coach passed through the town on the following day, he proceeded some distance further. Four days had passed. Hubert, by short stages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, the more anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much to have known which of his family remained. Once, years ago, while in a frenzied mood, when rage and passion overcame him, he was suddenly called back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it may have been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that which startled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him, and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in his father's household.
Another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon the parlour table in thelittle village inn where Hubert, tired and weary, intended staying for the night. Many of the villagers had seen him leave the coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walked lame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been a whisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance of a good evening for the landlord of the King George.
One by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles were brought in; a log too—for it was the month of October—found its way to the fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for he was going to join the company in the parlour.
Hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he would gladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they were unwilling to let pass unobserved, and they gathered round him with so much kindness and sympathy, that Hubert felt constrained to stay with them.
The old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to two purposes—namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, the vicar sat in it inthe tent to partake of the roast beef, which was bountifully provided for those good old observers of ancient customs; and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manor occupied it again. Duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, and not even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. This evening, that honoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed in it, and there the tired soldier rested.
They saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for his wounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetic hearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, what could Hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidents that make up the soldier's life in India? He had much to tell, and they listened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and Hubert felt that a soldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth had not died out. They felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the constant reference that Hubert made to the God who had preserved him. They parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and many of them wondered, as they walked homeward,where he was going, and why he was travelling alone—questions they had not yet ventured to ask; but they promised each other before they parted that they would come again to the inn on the morrow.
My father's house once more,In its own moonlight beauty! yet aroundSomething amidst the dewy calm profoundBroods, never marked before.
* * * *
My soul grows faint with fear,Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod;I tremble when I move—the voice of GodIs in the foliage here.
Hubert was not much refreshed when the morrow came; the weather had changed during the night, and the rain fell heavily, and his wounded leg was so painful that he determined upon not proceeding on his journey, but requested permission to walk in the well-kept secluded garden at the back of the house, if the rain cleared off.
It was a dreary morning, but about noon the sun shone out, and Hubert, leaning upon his staff, bent his steps to the snug little summer-house in thegarden. It was a quiet spot, and Hubert was glad to be there alone. The storm was over, the few remaining autumn flowers were fading, and the leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and Hubert, as he looked upon the scene around him, drew a deep sigh, and taking from his pocket his "torn Bible," began to read.
Absorbed in what he was doing, he did not see a little boy approach the summer-house, and it was not until a small spade fell accidentally from the child's hand that he noticed him.
"Ah! do you live here?" inquired Hubert
"No, sir, but grandfather does, and he told me you were here."
"Did he send you to me?"
"No, sir, but he told me you had fought a great many battles, and I wanted to see you because I am going to be a soldier—when I'm a man, I mean."
"How old are you now?"
"I'm eight, sir; but, you know, I shall be older soon, and perhaps as big as you are."
"Perhaps so," said Hubert, with a smile; "and what's your name?"
"Frank, sir—Frank Lyons—the same as father'sand grandfather's; but they are not soldiers, you know. I am going to be a soldier." And then, fixing his eyes upon a medal which Hubert wore upon his breast, he eagerly asked all about it. Hubert was amused at the little fellow, and answered many an inquiry that he made, and as he was listening to something Hubert was saying, all at once he caught sight of the "torn Bible," and taking it in his hand, he said—
"Is this a Bible, sir? Oh, how it's torn! Did It get torn like this in the battles?"
"No, child; but," pointing to the hole in the cover, "it got that in the last battle I was in."
Frank looked for some time at the hole the bullet had made; then looking up into Hubert's face, he said, thoughtfully—
"Sir, don't you think God was very good to take care of you in the battles?"
"He was, child; He has always been good to me."
"Then why did you let any one be so wicked as to tear this Bible so?"
Hubert kissed the boy's cheek: he could not answer the home-thrust, but taking the Bible from his hand, said—
"Good bye, Frank; now run away home."
The child went away as he was desired, but Hubert's heart reproached him in a moment; he thought he had been harsh, so, bending forward, he called the little fellow back.
There was a tear in the boy's eye when he returned, and stood gazing up again into Hubert's face, which convinced Hubert that he had disappointed him; so, taking his little hand, he said—
"Frank, do you wish to ask me anything more?"
"Yes, sir, I want to ask all about being a soldier."
Hubert could not resist, nor refuse to listen to the inquiries of that little heart. And there they sat—the once disobedient, sinning, reckless son, and the little artless child. It relieved the older bosom to talk of the past, and Hubert told into that little ear more than he had told any one before. It was a strange sympathy; but the boy drew closer to him, leant his little arms upon the veteran's knee as he gazed earnestly into his face, while Hubert told him something of his own youth-time, and about being a soldier.
"Then you have been a soldier longer than I've been born," said Frank. "How glad your motherwill be to see you! I think I should run all the way; I would not stop at all till I got home."
"But could you run, Frank, if you were as lame as I am?"
"No, sir, I could not; but then I would ride—I would never stop anywhere until I got home."
"But if you were in pain what would you do?"
"Oh, I would not mind it at all; soldiers ought never to mind pain. When Charley wheeled the big barrow over my feet I did not cry, though he hurt me dreadfully, because I am going to be a soldier. But that is grandfather calling me. Good bye, sir."
In an instant the boy was gone; and Hubert, bending forward, looked out along the side pathway down which he had run. He watched him until he was out of sight, and then his thoughts turned upon himself. Why was he contented in tarrying there? How was it that he felt no spirit to hurry onward? He looked up at the sky; the clouds were breaking, and the sun shone brightly.
"Oh that I were at home," he uttered, "and all the past forgiven! How can I face it?" But no good thought came into his mind to help him in hisdifficulty; and he sat for some time gazing vacantly into the garden.
"Yes, little Frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "they will be glad to see me; I'll not stay here." And taking his stick in his hand, he drew his cloak around him, and went into the house. The good people were somewhat unwilling to part with their visitor, but Hubert was determined to go; and, as he parted with the kind people, they were astonished to see him kiss little Frank, and then to hear him say—
"Good bye, Frank. I'm not going to stop any more till I get home. Learn to read your Bible; and I hope you will make a good soldier."
The old landlord felt honoured at the notice Hubert had taken of his grandson, and as he removed his own little old black hat from his head, he turned to the child, and said—
"Your bow, Franky; make a bow to his honour—it may be he's a general."
General or not, it mattered but little to Frank, for, taking Hubert's hand, he said—
"Good bye, sir; Iwilltry and be a good soldier."
Many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell Hubert as he journeyed homeward;and, though he was long upon the way, he might have been longer, had not little Frank's words—"How glad your mother will be to see you!"—so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to go on; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, his heart began to beat as he thought he recognized some old places. Ah, yes! there was the old white toll-gate—he knew it was just one mile from his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving his luggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way.
The day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, and Hubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he could recognize any of them. He did not in his heart quite wish to be known, but the incentive to find some friend of other years was powerful, and there was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no one that he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. Hubert knew the place well; often in his boyish days that lane had been his play-place—it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down upon the same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past still hovered. From thatlarge stone seat nearly every house in the village could be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calm beauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay down beneath the sultry skies of India; there, too, was the cottage, with its white walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will—the same garden, not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-painted gate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye to them; everything, indeed, looked the same—there appeared no change, save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighter than usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon his early home. He knew the way well—he saw the narrow pathway that would lead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had not courage to go there.
Night drew on, and still Hubert sat upon the stone; many persons passed him, and more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was not familiar to them; and he heard them whisper as they passed, "Who is he?" A few, more curious than the others, returned to take another look at him, but he was gone. "I am a coward," he hadwhispered to himself, and in the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, and reached the white gate of his home. The walk down the hill-side had wearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before he entered. He may have stayed longer than he intended, for an aged man, leaning also upon a staff, startled him by saying—
"You appear tired, sir; pray, have you far to go?"
"Not far; I hope to lodge in the village to-night. Does Mrs. Bird keep the White Swan now?"
"Mrs. Bird? Nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since she died. You may have been here before, but it must be long since."
"Very long," said Hubert, with a sigh. "It is more than twenty years. Since then I have been fighting in the wars in India. Sir, I am a soldier."
"A soldier!" said the old man. "Ah! and from India—come in and rest a bit. From India, did you say? I once had a son there—come in, talk with me, if only for an hour. It may be that I may hear something of my boy. He went away nearly twenty-four years ago, and I never heard from himafterwards. Sometimes I think he is dead, and then sometimes I don't. The neighbours feel sure he is dead, but sometimes I have an idea that I shall yet hear from him—I scarcely dare to hope it, though. Come, soldier, don't stand here, the evening is cold: walk up to the house; my little Richard will know where you can lodge for the night. He knows every one in the village."
Without uttering a single word, Hubert followed the old man. Richard saw them coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair to the fire for the stranger.
The old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stool before the fire, turned his face to Hubert, as he said—
"There was a time when the very name of a soldier was hateful to me, but circumstances change one. I had a care for all my lads, but for that one that went into the army I had the most care, and it was better, perhaps, that he should be taken from me. For more than twenty years, though, I refused to be comforted for his loss, but I now do feel that it was God's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too much of him until he rebelledagainst us. He often stood between us and our Maker—I mean he had our first and best thoughts. It will not do, soldier, for the heart to worship more than one, and that one must be God. Our poor lad, God forgive him! paid us ill for our care—he was ungrateful—he forgot us. Bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of the proverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'" And the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger's face, he added, "Did you ever hear of a Hubert Goodwin in India?"
"Hubert Goodwin?" repeated Hubert, with a husky voice. "Goodwin?—but why should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? He may have written, or something may have prevented him. His letters may have been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regretted the silence as much as you have."
"Is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor lad ever thought I had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head.
Before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the part he was playing smote Hubert's heart; he had never intended offeringany excuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at the sight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up the old man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "No, father! father, I had forgotten—not you."
"What, Hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazing at him. "Hubert! my Hubert! No!" Then he laughed, and then, pointing upward, he added: "Perhaps he's up in heaven with the others, poor lad. I'll tell him there that I never forgot him: poor lad, he'll forgive me; I never forgot him."
While the old man was speaking, young Richard whispered something to Hubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair.
"Grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do you cry?"
"I don't know, boy. Oh, yes, just some thoughts of your uncle Hubert! but—" and he stared about, "where is the soldier? where is he, Richard? Was I dreaming? Was it Hubert?—has he returned?—where, where is he? Fetch him, Richard."
"I'm here, father;" and Hubert, as well as he was able, knelt before the old man.
"Oh, Hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognition in one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon the bosom of his son, and Hubert wept too; young Richard cried, perhaps because his dear old grandfather did; but Martha, the faithful servant of forty years, knew all the sorrows of her good old master—knew, too, all about the wandering sheep that had come home. She remembered when he was a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of her heart with the others; then she went and closed all the casement shutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting to themselves. The prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighbours must not come and make merry yet—the fatted calf must not be killed till to-morrow.
No one intruded upon the scenes of Hubert's home on the evening of his return. The joy of once again seeing him—the answer to so many prayers—came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; he would have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it was enough that the wanderer had returned; and itwasmorethan enough; it was a joy that he had often prayed for, though his hope of knowing it had long since died, that Hubert might become a child of God. Poor old man! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to his bosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or the bitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for Hubert to endure as the tender affection of his deeply-injured father.
Night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than he had done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with his hopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; he joined in the evening hymn with a voice less tremulous than the others, and he walked without his staff to his bed.
Poor bereaved heart! nearly all had been taken from him; none save the little orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters of affliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecrated to heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bitter cup of his life had been filled with joy. "Thy will be done," was the old man's closing prayer, as he lay down upon hispillow that night, and there was a holy calmness upon his brow, for peace and gratitude filled his heart.
Different, indeed, were the feelings Hubert endured; and, as he shut himself in his bed-room—the bed-room of his boyhood—there was a deep struggle in his heart. More vividly than ever came the sins of his past life before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the long years of woe he had caused. How he longed to tell all his repentance to his father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not, however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance was like an inward fire—burning and burning continually. There was One, however, whowouldlisten to his woe; and Hubert, on bended knee, poured it out from his swelling heart; no eloquence, no effort was needed; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance passed on, Hubert drew nearer and nearer to his Father in heaven, and the chastened heart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his father had done.
I stand on the brink of a river,The river of life to me,Where the billows of memory quiver,And rise and fall like the sea.I read in their tremulous motionThe records of many a year,And like voices that come from the oceanAre the muffled words I hear.—Anon.
A bright morning beamed upon Hubert as he awoke from his slumber in his childhood's home. He looked round the room; somehow there were many things in it that he could recollect. There was the dark oak chest, with curious figures carved upon the front, which had often been a source of terror to him in early days, because on one occasion he was told that they were the likenesses of certain naughty boys, whose remains he verily believed were within that black chest, and though for many years he had forgotten all about it, the story, and the nurse who told it, came allback fresh into his memory. Then there was the old-fashioned furniture upon the bed. "Why!" and he looked at it again, "it is the same, the very same that covered me when last I slept here." And that large arm-chair behind the door, he knewthat; he remembered that it was taken up there when his grandfather died, and he also remembered that it was where he always put his clothes when he went to bed. Many other things there were that he remembered: very little, indeed, seemed changed; and, as he looked round, his eyes lighted upon a stick, a bow, and a kite, tied together, hanging on the wall. He arose from his bed, and began to dress himself, scanning as he did so the various objects in his room. Presently he saw a small picture over the mantel-shelf, and went to look at it. He started back—it was intended for himself. Whether it had been a good likeness he was not able to judge, but it represented him as a young soldier just going from home, and beneath it was written, "Our Hubert." It had been drawn from memory, and placed there in remembrance of the lost one. Beneath it, on the mantel-shelf, was a little box, and Hubert raised the lid. Something more! Yes, something more.In that box lay a pair of slippers; they were little ones—a child of eight years old might have worn them; and Hubert, as he was just closing the lid, saw written inside it, "Our Hubert's." "Mine, mine!" he said, as he took them out. "Not mine!" But then some flash of memory lighted up the past, and he thought he could remember when they were his. Over these little slippers the soldier sat down and wept; for the truth had suddenly come to him, and he pictured his parents, gathering up every little thing that he had owned, remembering all about him, except that he had gone away and forgotten them; placing from the heart upon canvas the features of the rebellious one, and loving him fondly to the last. Perhaps over these little slippers they had shed many a tear; since they had covered the little feet, those feet had gone astray. What a dear relic they were of the past! how they reminded him of a time when he was pure and innocent! And he said, as he brushed away the tears from his cheeks—
"Oh! If I had only died then, I should have caused no sorrow, nor felt any, but been in heaven with the angels."
"Yes, Hubert, you would have caused sorrow," some spirit near him might have whispered; "first-born of that dwelling, they could not spare thee. He who gave thee as a blessing at the first, means thee to be a blessing still."
Hubert replaced the slippers, and went downstairs to meet his father.
The old man was there first. Years had passed since he had risen so early; but new life seemed to have been given to him; and, as he met his long-lost son at the door, he forgot that he was no longer the little child of his love; he forgot, too, all the sorrow he had been to him; forgot the long years he had mourned him; and clasped him fondly to his heart.
"Hubert," said his father, "it is thirty-nine years this very day since I received you, my first-born child; a second time you have been born to me, and we shall do well to rejoice. Your mother, dear sainted one, I would that she were here with us; but we will not wish her back—she is happier in heaven, and we will not sorrow because she's gone; it would seem like reproaching that good God who, in His mercy, has restored you to me. Yes, boy, I knowwell that she bitterly wept your loss—your absence, I mean; but she wept the death of other dear ones, and God took her to them: we shall, I hope, join them soon. Heaven bless you!"
It was a happy day, sanctified by a holy joy. Many friends, including the good minister of the parish, who, thirty-nine years before, received Hubert at the font, and prayed to Heaven to bless him, brought their meed of welcome to the wanderer, and that faithful servant of his heavenly Master spoke comfort to his aged fellow-pilgrim's heart.
"Master Goodwin," he said, "I told you, years ago, that if ye pray and do indeed believe, that ye shall receive—it shall be as ye ask; it is the prayer without faith that wins no blessing. God does not give us all we ask, because we are sinning creatures, and know not what we ask; but then, how many of us pray for things that we never want! and if we had only ourselves to judge what is best for us, instead of receiving a blessing, we should often receive a curse. When the heart asks God to teach it to pray, and then asks a blessing, believing that if it is God's will that prayer will be granted, dependupon that, that prayerisanswered; if the actual thing is not given, the heart receives something in another way—at any rate, itdoesget a blessing. How many years you have prayed for that son, and how many times you murmured, and thought God had forgotten! but He never forgets; He has remembered all your grief, and answered, what prayer? Why, the prayer of faith. If you look back you will find that it is only of late years that you have borne your sorrows without murmuring; they have been heavy, we know; yet, for how many years the gilding of your prayers was tarnished by the breath of sorrowful repining? and perhaps it was when your heart could really say 'Thy will be done,' that the cloud of your troubles began to disperse, and the blessing was given. Oh that men would always praise the Lord for His goodness! How well He knows all our need! He knows when to smite and when to heal, and they who continue faithful unto death, to them shall that mysterious Providence be more fully revealed. If much sorrow has been your portion, so has much blessing. It is better to have saints in heaven than rebellious children on earth: and God has been very gracious to you."
"He has, indeed," said Hubert's father. "I feel it more truly now." And as he grasped the faithful pastor's hand, he said, "He gave you to this parish as one of my blessings, and your prayers have perhaps helped to restore me my son. Pray with us now, for our joy may be too great."
They knelt: a deep and earnest prayer fell from the pastor's lips upon the stillness of the hour, and the tear upon the cheek told its power on the heart. The prayer was over, and the good man, bidding them adieu for the present, left them to rejoice over the once lost one, while he, in the spirit of his mission, withdrew himself from the world, and thanked God for having brought back the wandering sheep.
Hubert's return had filled his father with such joy that he would scarcely tell him anything about the family, so anxious was he to hear all about himself; and it was some time after his arrival before he heard of all the bereavement of that household. All gone! all whom he had left in the beauty and strength of youth, when he went out to India, had been swept to the tomb; not one left round that desolate hearth, except the little orphan Richard,now nine years old, the only child of his second brother, who, with his young wife, had sunk into an early grave. One by one the hand of death had taken them from the fireside, and it was now his turn to mourn them. He saw plainly now how it was that his father had received him so fondly. Poor old man! his home had been sadly lonely; the household gods had been all broken, and his aged heart nearly so. Hubert looked at his father as he told the history of each one as they had departed, and conscience told him that there was before him a braver warrior than he had ever seen before—one who had fought a stern battle, and had ever been in the thickest of the fight. Hubert's heart beat; he felt that he had added heavily to the burden and heat of his father's day, and, falling upon his knee before his parent, he cried, as his hands covered his face, "Oh, father, forgive me!"
"Forgive you! Oh, Hubert, did I forget to say I had forgiven you long ago? There is nothing now to forgive, but I bless you for coming home. Let the past be the past. Bless you for coming home to me! God is good; He gave, He has a right to take, but He has given you to me again." But thetruth seemed to shine upon the old man's mind, and putting his arm round Hubert's neck, he said—
"Ah! well, it's all forgiven; you might have done other than you have done, perhaps; but never mind;" and he wept tears of joy upon the bosom of his son. This little rebuke from Hubert's father was more welcome than the caresses he received, and Hubert opened his heart upon it, and began to tell his father of things which had befallen him in India; hitherto he had seldom spoken, except in answer to his father's many questions, for there was a weight of remorse in his bosom which nothing yet had removed; but now he was assured of his father's forgiveness, and a smile lighted up his hitherto sad face, as they sat round the fire telling many a story of his distant home; his father was delighted, and young Richard drew his little chair beside his veteran uncle, to listen also. Many a week passed by; Hubert had ever something to tell his father, but of all the history of the past, or of all the fame he had won, nothing was so dear to the old man's heart as the "torn Bible;" he made Hubert tell again and again all about it, its long neglect, and its abuse. The field of battle, thecapture, and the rescue from the Indians, and even the dreadful night in the jungle, when Hubert's life-blood was draining from his wounds, were nothing compared with the strong will broken, the heart subdued, and the torn, despised Bible giving back a new and better life to the prodigal. Oh, how the old man loved to dwell upon that! many prayers from the long since silent heart had been answered then, and he ever repeated in Hubert's ear the words, "Oh, yes, she knew all about it, for she was one of the angels in heaven that rejoiced when you repented."
Hubert grew happier in the society of his father; and though at times a kind of reflection on his past life would cast a sort of thoughtful sadness over his brow, yet his health daily improved, and his heart became more and more attuned to the will of God.
Gales from heaven, if so He will,Sweeter melodies can wakeOn the lonely mountain rillThan the meeting waters make.Who hath the Father and the Son,May be left, but not alone.—Keble.
Years rolled away. Hubert's history in the village became almost a thing of the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for his warrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence him for his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessed him with their latest breath. Ever, day by day, did Hubert take his staff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "torn Bible"—guide of his present life—accusing, yet dear relic of his past, soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own for Eternity.
Since Hubert's reunion with his father, he hadfound many new friends, but he did not forget his old ones: to those in India he occasionally wrote, and occasionally received letters; still, it was a source of great regret to him that he did not hear anything of the companion of his voyage, with whom he parted off Lisbon. While the first year after his return home was passing, he scarcely thought anything of not hearing from him; but the second year, and third, and now the fifth had come, without tidings of his friend, and, with a pang of deep and silent regret, he began to conclude that he had died; though notwithstanding this thought, there was a lingering hope that his friend would yet come; and it was sometimes when his heart felt sad, that the wish for his friend became strong; perhaps upon the wish grew the hope; and then Hubert would take his staff and wander up the hill-side, out to the little white toll-gate, and then walk a mile or two down the broad road that led to the south. There was a rude seat by the roadside, formed of gnarled and moss-grown branches intermixed with stones; beside it was a huge stone trough, which a kindly mountain stream kept ever filled with water; over it, shading it from the sun,branched a stately oak; and this spot was a resting-place for man and beast. Hubert often walked there, sat down and rested beneath the tree, and looked with longing eyes down the road; still his friend came not, and he as often returned sadder than he went. How little he thought that his father had trodden that same road with a heavy heart for many a year, in the fond hope of meeting him, though there was but little probability in either instance that the hope would be realized! one moment's reflection would have told the heart so, but the heart under such circumstances seems unwilling to reflect—or even if it does, the effect is transitory, and the heart hopes on again against hope; and it is a blessed thing, this hope—for how often in the dark hour it throws a ray of light upon the darkness that is felt, and keeps a soul from despair!
Hubert had been six years at home, and for many months had not been along the road where he was wont to go; indeed, he had sighed over the memory of his friend, and at last had ceased to expect him; but now an unexpected joy had befallen him, for Mr. Collinton was coming. Hubert was delighted,and he read the letter many times over; his father was delighted too, for Hubert had confided to that parent, whom he now so loved and honoured, all his secret about the stranger, and the old man partook of the longing to see the friend, a portion of whose life had been so strangely linked with that of his son.
Hubert had often wondered how it was that the letter which he had written to his friend, telling him of his safe arrival at home, had not been answered; but it appeared that that letter had been duly received, and that Mr. Collinton, acting upon its contents, was now, after a long delay, making his way to Hulney.
One morning, after rising somewhat earlier than usual, Hubert took his staff, went up the hill-side, and took his way towards the seat by the roadside. It was still early, yet Hubert appeared to be in haste; he passed the white toll-gate, wished good morning to the man who kept it, and stayed a moment to inquire what time the coach would pass by, and then he went on his way again until he came to the seat by the roadside, when he sat down and looked with an anxious eye for the coach coming.Mr. Collinton had not told him the exact day that he would come, but this was the last day of the week, and Hubert felt sure that it would bring him, and he was not wrong. The coach, with its living burden, came at last, and Hubert and his friend met again.
"Leave the luggage at my house," said Hubert to the coachman, whom he now well knew, and then he and his friend sat down beneath the shady tree. How glad they were to meet again! and then Hubert soon told him that he was none other than the soldier lad who in years gone by had won his heart. The stranger listened with astonishment; gazed at him with a deeper earnestness than ever, and tears rushed to his eyes as he grasped his hands. And why did he feel so? There was nothing now in the face of that war-worn soldier which reminded him of the dear one he had buried, nothing now to make him feel, as he once said he had felt, that some of his love for the dead seemed to centre in him; and yet he did love him, and it was to find him again that he had given up the world, and taken his way to that little northern village; for he had felt, ever since he had partedwith Hubert off Lisbon, all the emptiness of life without pure religion. He had felt a void in his heart that nothing around him could fill; and though he tarried longer upon the continent than he had intended, he ever thought of Hubert; and as he told him, as they sat together by the roadside, it was his memory and the hope of seeing him again that had blessed his life, and made him long to join him, that they might read and study God's Word.
"Why have you been so long in coming?" asked Hubert. "I thought, at most, your absence would be but one year; but when it was two, then three, and now nearly six, I gave you up."
"And thought me dead, perhaps?"
"Yes, sometimes I thought it might be so, for I could not think you had forgotten."
"No, no, you are right there; I never could forget: but travelling in Portugal and Spain, those countries full of such deep interest, I know I tarried; but when I was uneasy here in my heart, and my thoughts would turn nowhere but to you, I prepared to make my way to you. Sometimes an opportunity lost threw off my plans; sometimesthe desponding mood I had fallen into was suddenly dispersed by some event; and so I wandered up and down, amongst the many beauties and enchantments of Spain—not forgetting you, my friend, but tempting Providence by deferring to come to you. Oh! it was a sin, and I felt it; but I hadn't you there, nor any one to say the words you might have said. And so I lingered; but I gave in at last. I was not happy there; and it has struck me many a time that there is many a man in this world whose life has been a continuous fluctuation between right and wrong—knowing what was right, being anxious to do what was right, and yet ever doing wrong: how is it?"
"My friend," said Hubert, putting his hand upon the stranger's knee, "the Bible says that the heart of man is inclined to do evil; and is it not so? Still, there is that in man which makes him love to do good—do right, I mean; and, as far as I can judge, man generally makes an effort to do so. But here is the mistake: he too often has a false idea of whatisright, and follows his own notions of right and wrong, rather than the standard laid down in God's Word. His inclination to do evil makes himtoo often try to make out that evil to be good; and so he goes on, spending a whole life in error, while all the time he fancies he is perfectly right. When a man's heart is not right with God, he must ever be going wrong; but, somehow, we don't like to be told it—I know I did not. Think of the years I spent in India in all kinds of sin, and all the time I wished the world to think well of me, and tried to persuade myself that I was perfectly right. But what a life it was! How many things occurred to tell me that I was wrong! but I would not hear, and continued a wicked course, trying to please man, and caring nothing whatever about God. I was worse than the heathen."
"How? you had the Bible with you in India."
"I had," replied Hubert, "and therefore I was the more guilty and responsible for the life I led there. I cannot look upon man without the Bible as I do upon him with: it is theonlysource from which we can draw a perfect rule of life; and if man has it not, how can he know? Whether he reads it or not is another matter: if he have it at all he is responsible."
"Ah!" said the stranger, "I shall do now; wecan talk these matters over together; somehow, I know all this, but yet I cannot get on with it alone. How is your father? is he still living?"
"Yes, and will be glad to see you; I have told him all we know of each other, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, he thought you would be here to-day."
As Hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat and walked to the village; and as they walked along Hubert told him of the devastation that Death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he was the last of his family, to make his dwelling with them.
It was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at Hubert's home; and there was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion which he longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying a yearly visit to the grave at Dunkeld, where he had buried his loved ones, he lived for ten years with Hubert and his father; and when he died, they mourned the loss of a Christian and a friend, and buried him as he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. Five years more were meted out to Hubert's father, and then they laid him with thedear ones gone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered the grave where he and his wife lay.
"They sleep in Jesus," was all that Hubert told the world of them, and very soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony.
Between Hubert and Dr. Martin, in India, a warm friendship continued for many years; it ever cheered Hubert's heart to hear from his distant friend, for he owed him much, and heard from him gladly; but one day, after a longer silence than usual, there came a letter written by a stranger's hand, bearing the unwelcome news that the good man was gone. He had spent a long life of usefulness, and, in the land which had always been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. It was not his lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels he had won; his Master was the King of kings, in whose cause he spent all his life. How could he rest? There was no reward on earth a sufficient recompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknown distant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great King, he has been crowned with an immortal diadem. How manyquiet unobtrusive Christians there are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim and guide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live and appear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when there would be no peace; and they are often the ten—ay, the five—that save the city.
Hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where he should meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the young sinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten Harris; with a grateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope to meet him there.
Once more let us turn to Hubert's home. Young Richard, dear good boy, when he grew to manhood, married the playfellow of his childhood, the orphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the old house with Hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended, they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and Richard had that seventh white stone carved to his memory. It is but a simple unemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strange device, thattorn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks its meaning.
Our story is ended, and we would ask the reader to remember that Hubert's life is not a fiction. And shouldst thou ever wander to that old churchyard, sit down amidst its shadows, amongst its silent dead; perchance a fitful vision of thine own life may flit past thee, some whisper may re-echo a mother's prayer or a father's counsel, and it may not be altogether unprofitable to thee to remember the history of Hubert and
"THE TORN BIBLE."