faithful bearer of the small burden, never giving way to the attraction of small heads for table corners, or the angles of doorposts, but using my master tenderly and well, while he has howled and shrieked at her for her pains.

But one has a memory, and that memory is a storehouse wherein repose the pictures of the past. Speak the word, touch the spring, and the particular picture we require is full in view. I touch the spring with trembling hand, when once more I see the scenes of many weary days-days when a little flushed face tossed wearily here and there; when two little eyes were unnaturally bright and dilated, and gazed wildly, recognising none of the

(Drawn by A. Stocks.)

bemoan their utter helplessness to afford that aid which every moan so appealingly asked. The doctor, of serious mien, touching with light hand the tiny wrist, beneath whose transparent skin the pulse throbbed heavily; the doctor's boy, with oilcloth covered basket, containing the neatly tied up packet of powders-each a tiny pinch of dust to lay upon the little fevered tongue. While watching by the cot side, kneeling that one might be nearer, each hardly drawn breath of that panting breast jarred within one's own, and told how that a wondrous Power had woven heartstrings together, knit them firmly and tightly, and that in very truth this was a part of oneself that fluttered

The same scene; and night, with the wintry wind howling down the street; the fire tinkling as the cinders droppod musically upon the hearth; and the clock upon the chimneypiece beating off the seconds loudly in the stillness of the night. The same scene; and the lamp shaded from the little flushed face, now still, and only a sigh at times to tell of life. Two anxious watchers, daring not to sleep, but ever bending forward to gaze closely at the watched one, lest at any future time an upbraiding voice should whisper, "The gentle spirit stole away, and you knew it not." One night-two nights-three nights-till weary nature would hearken not, and sleep overcame one and the other by turns, to make them start again and again from a dream-fraught, fevered slumber, to ask, "Is all well?" And watching again to wonder whether the oil of that tiny lamp should again flow unchecked to the flame, so that the dried wick might again expand, and shed its brightening rays around; while all still trembled in the balance.

A change and the heart as if a strong hand clutched it to check its throbs. A change? for what?-for the better; and every hour light coming back to the now dim eyes.

And now days and days of thankfulness and hope, when the silent suffering or the gentle moans were changed for the child's peevish fretfulness. Man in miniature upon the sick couchfretful, dissatisfied, and asking for novelty; sleeping by day, restless and sleepless by night. A

every fretful fancy was smiled upon, and humble, thankful hearts offered their sacrifice for the granted mercy.

My master! my tyrant! The little limb who snatches at my papers, kicks at my inkstand, and jobs my pens upon the floor or table-who roars and screams at not being allowed to enter my den when seemeth him good-who insists upon turning me into a beast of burden, to the detriment of my trouser knees and the toes of my boots-who seats himself upon my shoulders, like an Old Man of the Mountain; disorders my hair with one hand, and with the other, armed with a hard toy, hammers my skull furiously. My master! my tyrant! A very ruffian-a golden-haired savage, who took the house by storm, and maintains his sway. The last to sleep at night-the first to wake in the morning—a monarch who will accept no divided allegiance.

My master! a little tyrant, who resents every attempt at coercion! whose will seems to him law; whose little mind cannot comprehend the words "Must not." One who offends against law and order for ever: whose sole aim seems to be his own gratification. One whose little passions are a study in themselves; for, but in miniature, they are the untutored ways of man himself-the erring child for ever wandering from the beaten path-for ever following this or that myth which takes his fancy; for ever rebellious, angry, struggling against the guiding hands of reason; the child for ever needing the pardon of his Father-God.

T

low

On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,

Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd in graceful attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashion'd for a happier world!

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,

They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding quickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such an empty mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He pray'd for Israel-and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those
Whose love had been his shield-and his deep tones

patterns-while all the "fellows" sat round on beds and on table corners, and wisely shook their heads, and joined in debate over disputed colours. Indeed, the dealings of the firm were marked by the highest liberality. They were only anxious for " custom," and, it would seem, not for payment. Wilcox's story was long repeated in the regiment to their honour and gentlemanly dealing. A Scotch and economical officer had insisted on a half-yearly payment, declaring he never went in debt; and Mr. Wilcox himself had heard the gentlemanly emissary say, almost pathetically, "At least have something in our books, sir.' "And I vow to Heaven!" continued Wilcox, telling the story, "the Scotch fellow was touched, and took back a twenty pound note."

Yet their principles of business were certainly fitful, and their proceedings had all the promptness and suddenness of a Judgment or of a Nemesis. It was noticed that so long as the sun was shining and the day clear, time or delay was of no consideration. There were opulent men of fortune "in their books" for half a dozen years at a time, and who had merely gone on "ordering." Money was never asked from them. But was a gentleman known to be overtaken by cloudy weather, or caught in a storm, even for a time, the gentle character of the firm became changed. Nothing more cruel, vindictive, or even savage, could be conceived. They pursued him with a relentless hatred; they fastened their claws into him; they did not let him go a second. In the Court they opposed him with a bitter fury. Many and many a military creditor had they hunted out of the army, driving him to the sale of his commission; and yet Mr. Hardy, the manager and ambassador, and the Messrs. Payne, seemed to be the gentlest and softest of their kind, and seemed almost too unsophisticated for the wiles and deceits to which gentlemen of their profession were exposed.

Severne was one of their patrons, and had always treated them with an "off-hand" manner peculiarly his own. He would walk into the shop, handsome, brilliant, and in high spirits. "Send me home this and that," he would say. "I want some studs and buttons; I lose half of mine every week. Best pink coral, mind. Let me see them myself. Mr. Payne, what a judge you are of such things!" Mr. Payne, feebly and almost grovellingly, acknowledged his deficiency in taste, and would beg pardon for it. They kept such ornaments by them "merely to convenience their customers." And it was a great convenience for those whose jeweller's account was a "good deal blocked up." As to settlement, Mr. Severne's tone with these gentlemen was nearly always the "This is all your look out," he would say. "I tell you plainly I have no money, and Heaven

same.

knows when I shall have any! You are certainly the most confiding of tailors. If you don't know your own interest I am not to teach it to you.” But Payne would answer, gently, as if folly was hopelessly ingrained, and that he must pay the penalty of his weakness, "Ah, Mr. Severne, some of these days you will be a rich man, and then perhaps you will think of us."

"Rich man! You have faith and hope and charity. By-the-way, you must build me up a dress coat-and, let me see, I suppose I shall want a shooting suit-a quiet tweed; or wait, you may as well make it a whole dress suit-that's a new trouser, send me that as well"-&c.

We should scarcely have courage to put down at its proper figure the amount to which Mr. Severne stood in Messrs. Payne's books. It was something not very far short of one thousand pounds; and yet this sum, considering the sums the firm charged for the very smallest article of dress, was considered moderate for a young gentleman of his expectations. There was the young future baronet-the to be Sir Rupert Cranmer, in whose instance this sum might be quadrupled. But then it was said, on what authority we know not, that part of this was for loans in specie, to help that young man over his embarrassments from other creditors. For the Messrs. Payne were true Samaritans.

Going back a little to the time when our Harold Severne had begun to "work for his bread," he had on the first opportunity walked into this house. The young man had said to his mother, who had timidly and ignorantly asked, "Oh, Harold, what are these dreadful people coming with these long outstanding bills?" that these things seemed more terrible at a distance than near; that it was no use making molehills into mountains, if we could avoid it; with more topics of the same sort. "Yes," he said, "a resolute man will calmly look his difficulties in the face, and it is surprising how, by so doing, they melt away." There was much truth in this. Men, he would have implied, are a little the sport of their imaginations! they give way to morbid exaggeration of their wrongs and difficulties, which, after all, may be born of selfishness.

Full of this simple way of confronting his embarrassments, he, as we have said, walked straight into the tailoring house. He knew what was suited to his dignity, and to the nature of the situation, so he was careful to "drop" the lofty dictatorial manner he habitually assumed to these gentlemen.

"Where is Mr. Payne?" he said. "Be good enough to send him out to me. Ah, I see him in the office."

Mr. Payne came out with his kind welcome, "Come to see us, Mr. Severne? What can we do for you, sir, to-day?"

"Nothing, I am afraid, Mr. Payne. The fact is, I wanted to speak to you on business. Better shut this door, if you please."

He knows of course that they must be made out at once, under the circumstances."

"That was what I came to you for," said

"Shut the door, sir?" he repeated.

He said this mechanically, as it were; he really meant, "What mischief does all this mystery portend?" Severne was always in the habit of talking for all the shop.

"I may as well tell you at once," said Severne, hastily, and perhaps a little nervously, "how

by the demeanour of the two creditors, "to ask your forbearance and indulgence, while I look about me. At this moment, or indeed for a long time, I feel I ought to tell you frankly, it will be out of the question. I shall have to earn my bread now like other people; but I can promise you, you shall be the first considered."

Mr. Payne broke out here almost into a laugh.

"Let me finish," he said. "And it seems Sir John, for reasons of his own, has thought proper to leave his estates away from me."

Mr. Payne started back. "Here, Mr. Hardy, sir, step in here a moment. Listen to this. He has come here to tell us that Sir John Digby is dead, and has left away the whole estate."

"Well! What is that to us?" said Mr. Hardy, gravely. "We of course look to this gentleman himself to his person; to pay us our demands.

"Earn your bread, sir! that is good. That's not the way we're to be settled with. No 'doing,' sir, with us."

Mr. Hardy laid his hand gently on his partner's arm. Severne coloured furiously.

"Do you dare to speak to me in that way, you pair of extortioners, after all you have got from me?"

Mr. Hardy was the peace-maker.

"We should do things regularly," he said. "There is no use in this sort of language: it will neither pay us nor raise money. Now, sir-Mr. Severne, what can you do? what do you propose? what day do you name?"

Severne looked round on his two enemies with quivering lips.