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Why?" I asked.

Well, do you see it, mum? 'Cause that's his'n. He is the only young gentleman in this here school as knows what eddication is, and as larns manners. Whenever Muster Pusseyval wants to enjoy hisself, and gie's the young gentlemen a holiday, Muster Harrington could no more pass this here gate to go into the village without giving I a summut for luck, than I could swallow it without drinking his health. I'm a-going to make this here nosegay for him."

"What, for his sister?" I asked eagerly, believing for the moment that he had received some intimation of my coming, although I could not imagine how.

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Not exactly, mum; but a wery near relation," and he winked coarsely as he spoke, and grinned unmeaningly.

"Tell me," I continued-" where can I find him? Which way does he walk?"

"P'raps, mum," answered the gardener, "you'll think I am romarncing, but I mean neither more nor less than

I am going to say. He's so very industrious, that whenever he goes out for pleasure, he always follows the plough. Now, what can you make of that? Can you transmit that?"

I concluded the man was tipsy, and I walked on without further conversation.

He permitted me to reach the gate, and then he ran after me.

"If you really want Master Harrington," he said, addressing me, "I can tell you where he is; but you must'nt split, mum, to the governor. If you goes through the village, and turns down the lane at the end, you'll come in about two minutes to a public.

That there's The Plough, and if you'll enquire for him there, why, there you'll find him. I shouldn't be no ways disheartened to drink your health, mum, on the same occasion.'

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Drink again! was the horrid word to ring for ever in my ears! Was there not one spot of earth free from the enslaving passion? The very sound was cloying. I gave the beggar the means he asked, and turned from him with disgust. But what had he said of my brother? Whither had he directed me to go? What could he mean by asking me to keep his occupation secret? What was that

occupation? What, on such a fair invigorating day, could induce him to forsake the beauteous scene, in the midst of which I stood elevated and exulting, in spite of all my care and misery-so powerful for good, so very bright was all I saw? What lure enticed him to the alehouse-that nursery of crime-that grave of all the home affections? I had no leisure for consideration. I was already in the lane, and the sign of the public-house was dangling from the low roof before my eyes. The gardener had surely mocked me, and I asked for my brother at the door of the unsightly hut, with no expectation of hearing news of him. But I was deceived. The coarse proprietor of the house surveyed me curiously, whispered to a clown who was busy within the bar, and then nodded familiarly, telling me that the gentleman would soon be with me. The lout mounted a staircase that conducted to an upper room, and in an instant afterwards, I heard a loud laugh that I recognised for my brother's, notwithstanding the unusual and rough exuberance with which it was sent forth. Then did I remem ber, for the first time since I had quitted home, that he was as yet ignorant of our loss-that I had yet to impart it to him, and to depress his gaiety with the most melancholy news that had ever been conveyed to him. I endeavoured to summon courage for the task. Again I heard the wild and extravagant laughter, but this time in fellowship with other tones of merriment, that proceeded from another gladdened heart. What could my brother Frederick want here? In another minute he appeared at the top of the steps, followed by a youth of his own height, and apparently of his own age. That youth was James Temple. My brother was strangely altered. I had not seen him for eighteen months before, and he had become a man. The ingenuous and handsome countenance of which I had been so proud, had assumed an air that startled and confounded me. The open and generous expression, which stamped on every feature the impress of a young, a glowing, and an honest heart, was gone; and recklessness, immodesty, licentiousness, and turbulence, were mingled and concentred in the face on which I looked with shame. He had risen from a game

at cards, for he held a few in his hand when he quitted the room above. Perceiving me, he threw them instantly behind him, and a moment afterwards he was at my side. His friend retired, and we were alone.

"What has brought you, Emma ?" he asked at once, quickly-his eyes glaring as he spoke." It has happen ed, then-has it? He has killed her at last. Now, don't wait-don't go round about. Let me know the worst without words."

"She is dead," I answered.

"The monster!" he exclaimed, gnashing his teeth, and clenching his fist, reminding me of the violence of his childhood. "The villain! he shall answer it. Now, tell me, Emma -did he use outrage? Disguise and conceal nothing. The law shall follow him to the grave. If it could follow him beyond it, and fix him in everlasting fires, by heaven, I wouldn't spare him the smallest pang. He shall feel it, or may I die this moment! I tell you again, Emma, attempt no hiding of his guilt. I shall discover every thing; and if it costs me my life, I'll have blood for blood.'

"Oh, Frederick," said I, interrupting him, and terrified at his passion, "you cannot know what you say-how dreadfully you talk! Your Bible never taught you this."

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My Bible!" he answered with a sneer that deformed his every feature, and rendered fiendish the face that nature modelled from an angel's. "Bah! —cant and priestcraft! Talk of something else."

"I will talk of nothing else, Frederick," I returned, "until you have recovered your reason, and cease this blasphemy. We have no friend left us now but Him. Beware how you lose that friend-and draw down upon your head the vengeance of an insulted heaven!"

"Heaven!" he replied, in no way softened by my appeal. "Heaven! What have you received in the way of good from heaven, that should teach you to be its warm defender? Don't you be ignorant and weak enough to be imposed upon by all you hear. Why has heaven permitted my father to rob me of comfort, happiness, and peace of mind, since the hour that I was sensible of life, and capable of enjoyment? Why has heaven permitted him to persecute my

poor mother for months and years, until the persecution killed her? Why has heaven not separated them before? -and in separating now, why has heaven destroyed the innocent, and left the murderer to live and riot as he pleases. Don't turn away from me," continued he-" that's the way with all of you. Answer me-let me know what can be said to this? I'll listen to reason, and to nothing else. If heaven has permitted all this, what is it better than hell-what is your God".

"Frederick," I cried out, "I'll hear no more. I am too young to reason with you-but my soul revolts at what you say. I want no other argument to persuade me you are wrong. I will trust the rising indignation that spurns your reasoning with fear and shuddering, and cannot tamely bear the violation you would madly perpetrate. Tell me who are your companions?-what are you doing in this house? You have been reading impious books. Something has warped your better judgment, and has made shipwreck of your happi

ness.

"Do not talk dogmatically of things you do not understand," he said sarcastically. "Who taught you to call books impious? Have you ever read them? Oh, to be sure, there's no purity in them-no purity in any book but that of which my father is the authorized interpreterwhose doctrines he has taught and studied for so many years, with such advantage to the world, and so much profit to himself! I wish you joy of your book, and I hope you are pleased with its delegated minister. Miserable humbug!"

I endeavoured for a little time to collect myself, and to get language to express the feelings which were battling in my bosom. I knew him to be wrong. I was satisfied that his reasoning was unsound, and that in a moment, an experienced mind could have hurled him with confusion from his untenable position; but I was distressed, grievously shocked, and flurry prevented thought. I had nothing to say, and, grieved beyond expression to find him triumphing where discomfiture should have abashed and routed him, I could only weep, and as a weak woman, rely for eloquence in my tears. The cold and heartless les

son that he had learnt, had not robbed me of his natural affection. He took me to his arms, and sought to console me.

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"Never mind these things, sister," said he, pressing my hand. "We will never speak of them again. have nothing to do with them. Right or wrong, they can never make me love you the less. I must be every thing to you now, Emma-brother, mother, and father; you may trust me. Tell me of our poor mother. Let me hear every thing connected with her end-mind, Emma-every thing. Why do you cry so?" he continued. 66 I could not help speaking as I did just now. I will not refer to the subject again. These abstract questions should not make us miserable."

"Oh, Frederick!" said I, "that man has much to answer for. You are to be commiserated. You have been thrown upon the world. You have never known the value of a mother's hourly communications. You have never listened to truth dropping into the ready heart from the lips of love, that give a sanctity even to holiest things. You would not think as you do had you been at home, and had that home been peaceful as it should have been. You have depended from childhood upon the purchased kindness of strangers. You have grown up, as dear mother often said, not as she would have trained you, but as providence allowed you. You will get older. You will meet with good and pious men, and you will be more grieved for this unhappy way of thinking than I am now. But what awaits our wretched father, who is the cause of all?"

"It may be as you say. To please you, I will think it may be. But tell me, Emma-how fared it with poor mother?"

Frederick received from me a circumstantial account of our home proceedings since he had last been with us. I had come to him with my heart full of accusations and reproaches against the author of all our woes; and to his ready sympathy, of which I was sure, I looked forward for my solace and alleviation. But the mood in which I had discovered him, and the principles by which I found him to be actuated, suggested another line of conduct, which the safety and happi

ness of us both rendered it incumbent upon me to pursue. There was no need to spur him on to vengeance

it required, not a heart-rending recital of our history to inspire him with the desire of vindicating his departed mother's injuries. Those injuries he had brooded over until a spark, a word, had become just necessary to ignite the heated and long cherished animosity. I found it difficult to mitigate the conduct of my father. From what point of view, indeed, did it admit of palliation? Still, against my very conviction, I was led on, by the impetuosity of Frederick, until I beheld myself extenuating every fault of our common persecutor, seeking for excuses where the glaring and enormous guilt denied, even in the most forgiving, a hope of pardon for the offender. The more my brother spoke of revenge and retribution, the stronger did I plead for his intended victim-the warmer were my entreaties for forbearance and oblivion of the past. I put in a favourable light all that had passed, since the death of our mother, between my father and myself. I told him of his sorrow when she had gone, and his earnest desire to see his too long absent son. I did not fail to add, that it was by his express wish that I had undertaken my present journey, and that, in spite of all that I had urged to the contrary, he had resolved to have him home without delay.

"Who knows, Frederick," said I, "but that the melancholy death of our poor mother may have struck terror and remorse into his soul, and have startled him from the path down which he madly plunged year after year? Let us hope that he has awakened to a sense of his wickedness. We cannot mend what has happened. Ought we to prevent our happiness for the future? Every thing depends upon our conduct during the next few days. Come home, as he proposes. Let it be on the day of the funeralyou will mark him well on that day. If his sorrow is sincere, his repentance genuine, neither of us can withhold our pardon to the sinner. It will be our duty then to provide for our future peace and quiet. Should he exhibit no true evidence of amendment-should he be the same ungovernable tyrant, you need not remain with him another day. He has promised to provide for

you-until he does, you can still reside with Mr Percival. If you love me, Frederick, and value my peace of mind, you will put an end to violence and tumult. I am worn out with them. Think not of heaping up the load of infamy and disgrace that has already buried our good name beneath its foul deformity; no good will come of that, to you, to him, to any of us. Level it, if you can, with the earth, and let its existence be forgotten amongst

men."

I repeated my entreaties, and I subdued and cooled his heated temper. I received his faithful promise. He believed that I was right, and that it was useless to avenge what never could be repaired. He would not seek to do it. He would revisit home, as I had requested him, upon the day of the funeral. If his father was indeed as I had described him, he would be silent with respect to his former conduct, and no syllable from his lips should disturb the welcome and muchenvied harmony. If it should be otherwise, he would absent himself at once, and await at school the determination of his parent with regard to his future prospects. With this understanding we separated-my brother returned to the school, I remained at the inn, from which the coach set out that evening that was to convey me to my home again.

Left to myself, I remembered that I had made no enquiry respecting the employment which had called him to the public-house. I had not spoken to him, either, of his companion, who had left him as he caught sight of me. I desired eagerly to be informed of these. In my heart I believed that no good had drawn him to the hut, and a corresponding sentiment was entertained in respect of his friend and associate. I had scarcely permitted myself to form the latter opinion, before a gentle knock at the door of the room in which I sat, introduced to my presence the very gentleman himself. He entered the apartment with a very modest demeanour, and bowed profoundly; then, somewhat confused, he enquired if he had the happiness of addressing Miss Emma Harrington? Colouring highly, I answered in the affirmative.

"I have considered it my duty, Miss Harrington," he proceeded, "to apologize for what must have appeared to

you an unbecoming rudeness. Before you leave us, may I hope that I am forgiven?"

He spoke in a sweet voice, and unhesitatingly, as one used to talk-confidently and well. I did not under.. stand him, and I blushed more deeply than ever.

"Do not think ill of me," he continued, "because you found me where, in truth, my tastes would never have seduced me. Your brother has no doubt told you why and how I came there?" He stopped for my reply.

"Do you mean the inu, sir" I asked, in ignorance of his drift.

"Yes," he answered, with a faint smile. "Yes, Miss Harrington, if you will condescend to honour it by that title. He has told you-has he not?"

"No. We did not speak, sir, on the subject. Do you come from him now? Have you brought a letter from him? Has he sent a message? He has not changed his mind, I hope?” Certainly not," was the reply. "Miss Harrington," continued Mr Temple, " your brother is my dearest friend. I have known him for years; I love him as a brother."

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The young man spoke with fervour, and my heart warmed towards him as he said the words.

"He is worthy, sir," said I, "of your affection. He has a noble heart. He had," I continued, checking myself; "and I pray to God it may continue so."

"Yes, Miss Harrington," continued the gentleman in a musing tone, "he had; and let us hope he has. I risk much on his account. Do not sup

pose that for one in whom I took a common interest, I could perform so much. For him, and him alone, do I venture to such haunts as that in which Miss Harrington surprised us both this morning. If I retreated hastily, and quicker than good manners would permit, it was to spare an explanation that would have pained us all to hear."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said I; "I do not quite understand."

"It would be useless to disguise the fact," he said, interrupting me. “ Your brother has been in danger. He has been surrounded by companions who have led him into dissipation. He is safe now. I have never deserted him. I never will desert him. I have injured my own character by follow

ing him throughout his career of folly. I am satisfied to be spoken ill of, whilst I know that I have done my duty. Should you hear your brother's friend, James Temple, mentioned with disrespect, you will know the reason why."

I was still at a loss to gather the exact meaning of Mr Temple's words. I begged him to be explicit.

"A few words, Miss Harrington," he returned," will explain as much as you desire to hear. The whole is, in truth, very little; but I wish you to do me justice. Pardon me if I say that injustice never accompanied beauty so perfect as your own. Frederick has been tempted to the wine-cup and the gaming-table."

"You do not mean it!" I exclaimed, starting with affright, and dreading to hear more.

"He has been tempted, and withdrawn from them," he added, in a louder voice. "I have watched him daily and hourly. I have seen him gradually falling beneath the wiles of wicked and designing men. I have interfered to snatch him from the trap. I have succeeded, and am happy."

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whom we see--and this is true religion. How the heart overflows with adoration on a bright sunny day, on any spot of earth that is glowing with the variegated charms of the voluptuous goddess! How free and generoushow prodigal she is of all her gifts, giving alike to the rich and the poor, and preaching, with a voice as loud and expressive as her own thunders, the doctrine of a universal love!"

"But, what is all this, sir, to the poor sufferer?" said I, stopping him. "Sunny days bring little warmth to the bare heart of the orphan.”

Mr Temple ventured to contest the point, and continued to panegyrize in the loftiest terms the principle which, he contended, existed, and governed throughout the whole visible world. It was a strange theory, and new to me. I could not realize it, nor adapt it to my own preconceived notions of the everlasting Deity. Of the latter, in the affairs of this world, he seemed to take no account. He ended and began with Nature. All things were wrought by and through her, and we had only to submit to and obey her laws. There was a mystery about all he said; but he spoke with eloquence, and with a fervour that animated his countenance, and gave brilliancy to an eye that shone with the fire and impetuosity of unsophisticated youth. I was struck and pleased with his earnestness; and oh, how much did I regard him for his kindness towards my unfriended and neglected brother! It is very true, that here and there, in the vehemence of his argument, I was startled and unsettled by propositions which my native sense of truth at once rejected as unsound and perilous; but his expression of the heresy did not give rise to anger, nor permit me to think unfavourably of the speaker. I could not, at that distance from the moving springs that worked within his crafty and inhuman heart, discover the motive and design of every word that fell, poisonous and sweet, upon my ears. What if his theory were dangerous and false, I believed his soul was pure, and flattered my imagination with the thought that I could see it beaming in his face. Hence, although he enforced the doctrine of personal unrestraint, and argued that the indulgence of what are deemed unlawful wishes, is sinful only when unnatural, and in opposi

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