He had been speaking rather doggedly, saying what he had arranged for himself to say, in many an hour of silent thought; and trying to remember it all as he went on. And then a sudden wave of memory and of tenderness rose in his heart, and thrilled through his brain.

He was not tongue-tied by nature, only by habit, and now for once he could say what he felt.

'Don't you remember those Sunday evenings, Jack,-and you, Jem, too? You should remember them better than I do, for Nellie and I were the little ones then. Mother used to say a word or two to us when we'd said our lesson to her, and now and then father'd join in. It wasn't their way to say much, either of them, but you know, both of you, that they lived according, and I know it better perhaps than you. After you were gone we used to talk about you, on a Sunday evening, and read your letters, read the old ones over again when there wasn't a fresh one. Mother kept it up till the week before she died. They were so proud of you, both of them,-but I've wondered since I came here whether they would have been so proud if they'd known everything. Oh, lads! you may think it isn't pleasant to me to say all this; but if the old folks could know all the ins and outs here, wouldn't they take shame to themselves instead of pride?'

surprise and anger, and James began to speak somehow got out nothing things are altered now.' Then I think I'd

The elder brother was crimson with had for the moment no words ready. with a great appearance of fluency, but intelligible but—' Old-fashioned ways, 'Are they?' said Michael, with a sigh. better be old-fashioned too.'

'You!' began John violently, and stammered, choked by his own passion. He was ready to break out with all that he and James had been about to say when they were forestalled, and with a good deal more than the latent coarseness in him could suggest,-to heap reproach on the ignorant ill-mannered country clown who set himself up to correct them, and to assure him that they had been far from intending to cumber themselves with him. But Michael never knew how near his self-respect was to a wound that would have rankled so long and so bitterly.

James lifted his finger—and in the matter of speech James was always the leader of the two brothers, who understood each other remarkably well. John gasped, and checked himself, and left James to speak; and James was of rather finer mould than

his elder brother, and had perceptions that the other lacked. He was softened a little by that past which they both remembered, and if he was stung also, he bethought himself that it would be but a barren gratification to sting in return, and would leave their consciences the sorer.

'We may as well part friends, at all events,' he said deliberately. I'm sorry Michael can't see his way to working with us, but perhaps it's the best for all parties. Anything we can do to help you at Coldacres, Michael, we shall be glad to do now, for the sake of the old people,-shan't we, John?'

'Thank you,' said Michael gently, as John growled assent, 'but I shall do very well. I'd rather have no help, though it's kind of you to offer it.'

He rose slowly and stood waiting for a moment, while the men who thought they despised him could not meet his eyes.

'I think I'd rather say good-bye now,' he said simply; 'I'll be going home to-day, and I'll be gone before you get back from work. Good-bye, and—you'll think on, won't you?-both of you? I'm the youngest, I know, and maybe not so clever,-anyway I've never had the advantages:-but I feel to think I'm right in this. I don't know-I've never had a chance to know-whether there's other ways of getting on in the world, but if there isn't, then getting on was never meant for honest men; and I for one won't get on, for fear I shouldn't be able to look my father and mother in the face when I meet them again. Good-bye; and for all your kindness, that you meant by me, I thank you and bid God bless you.'

In James Anderson's grand drawing-room Michael was wishing his niece, Laura, good-bye; his blood so stirred by the excitement of the morning that speech was still easier to him than usual.

'Good-bye, my dear. You've been very good to me, and I shan't forget it, though it's little enough that I can say or do. Only,-you're a deal younger than I am, you know,-there's one word I'd like to say. Don't you be led away, in this place where nobody seems to think of anything else, to fancy that to be a rich lady and drive in your carriage is worth any price you might have to pay for it.'

Laura coloured deeply, but she looked up frankly too, and her eyes told him that she knew what he meant.

'Time was when I might have thought so myself,' he went on -and if he was not over clear she followed him easily enough—

⚫ but I suppose I've learnt better now. If it's gentility some of these folks are after, I say they buy it too dear. It isn't honesty, and I doubt it isn't even happiness. I doubt it hasn't the promise of the life that now is, any more than that of the life to comeIf you don't think he's a good man, Laura, don't you have him, no matter what he is nor what he's got.'

Michael's plain simplicity of speech somehow made it easier for the girl to speak.

I had almost made up my mind to have him when you came,' she said. 'Father will be ready to turn me out of the house if I don't.'

'It doesn't seem right,' he answered, 'to encourage a girl to go against her parents. But there's some things where every one has a right to speak. You're a lady, my dear, and you've never had occasion to soil your pretty hands, but you'd better earn your own living, if it was over a wash-tub, than be a lady of the sort he'd make you. I say so that have a good right to know; for I've earned my own living, in a way that's gone sore against the grain, all my days since I was a child; and I've valued gentility more maybe than those that have always had it within their reach.'

'I wish you were not going away,' she said, and sighed.

'I couldn't help you if I was here. But yonder perhaps I might. Coldacres is a poor little place, but it's a shelter and a home, and it'll be always yours to come to, my dear, if you should have to anger-those you are with. You're one of the gentle ones, you'll not anger them more than you can help; but for God's sake stand fast, my lass, and if you want a friend come to me.'

'You are very good,' she answered, hesitating, and he looked down on her and smiled somewhat sadly.

'It would be a step down for you, that! I don't know what that feels like; I've been down all my life, you see! And I shall never be a gentleman, now. When I was your age it would. nigh have broken my heart to have known that; and now I've given it up of my own will! It's a queer world, and, maybe, for your sake I ought to wish never to see your face at Coldacres ; but, my dear, I'd rather by half I'm worth see that than see you in the paper as Mrs. Henry Barclay.'

'You shall never see that; I promise,' answered Laura, more steadily; and with that they said 'Good-bye.'

VOL. 85 (V.-NEW SERIES).

29

NO. 506.

Coldacres still belongs to Michael Anderson, and it is ten years now since old Mrs. Anderson died. But there is a mistress now at the little farmstead, and last time I passed it I saw a rosy little girl in the garden who freely entered into conversation with me, and informed me that her name was Rebecca, and that baby sister was called Laura. From the look of the home at Coldacres I should say that the master was a happy man, though the snow lies so long there under those crooked walls of dark brown

stone.

Is it a pity that Michael Anderson-tender to his wife and children, generous to his servants, kind to the poor, courteous to his superiors-will always suppose that he has, after all, missed being a gentleman ? Well! perhaps not.

BOOK NOTICES.

An Easter Vacation, by Moira O'Neill (Laurence and Butler). This is a bright little love story, good in style and tone, interspersed with remarks worth reading, and delicate word-pictures. Mac is a delightful boy, and the characters are all natural. The final denouement requires a little more explanation to be probable, but it is a pretty and individual book.

The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, by Mary E. Coleridge (Chatto & Windus), is an original and somewhat brilliant sketch of the type of Mr. Shorthouse's minor stories, and, perhaps, of some of Mr. Stevenson's writings. It is well worth any one's while to discover whether it takes their fancy; for it is full of fancy of the most vivid kind.

Mrs. Marshall has written a pretty little book of verses, called the Eve of St. Michael (Arrowsmith, Bristol), for the benefit of St. Lucy's Hospital for Children, at Gloucester.

To parents of schoolboys, we much recommend the Hunter and Bear; A. Littelton's Mothers and Sons (Macmillan).

LENT LILIES.

I WANDERED in through the open door
Of a quaint old Church, on a lonely moor;
It was Lenten-tide, and from pew to pew
An old man passed, with his load of yew.

He bordered the pulpit and reading-desk,
Laid over the Table his arabesque;

Filled the ancient Font with that sombre yew,
Veiled window and screen, and monument too.

I asked him the reason; he simply said: "Good Friday," madam, we mourn for the dead; 'Tis seemly the Church should be left in gloom. While our Saviour sleeps in His rocky tomb.

Upon Easter Day we shall "light the yew"
With our golden lamps, all trimmed anew,
We shall fill His House with a blaze of light,
And our Easter glory will last till night.'

Ah, what is the light which the Chancel fills?
'Tis the gleam of a thousand Daffodils!
And the dazzling lamp the yew holds up
Is the shining Lent-lily's golden cup.