Another year passed, and the Lathams were unchanged, and Miles was still happy. It was night; he had gone to bed healthily tired, and fallen asleep soon. He was awaked by screams and cries for mercy. He sprang out of bed, put on his clothes as quickly as possible, and rushed into the passage. He was met by a servant, who implored him to go to master's room for fear he'd kill missus.' Miles was there in a moment. The door was locked; Parker was uttering frightful imprecations, and evidently dealing dreadful blows; the wife's cries and entreaties were growing fainter. Call the boys Williams and Briggs directly,' said Miles; 'tell them to come to me; and send two of the others, one to Mr Latham, and the other to the butcher, for help. Be quick. I will break open the door; but that man may overpower me if I am alone.' He threw his whole weight against the door; it gave way; and he beheld Parker, dressed and furiously intoxicated, standing over his senseless wife, from whose head blood was streaming. To knock Parker down was the work of a moment; to keep him down, not so easy; but Williams and Briggs, two strong lads of seventeen and eighteen, came; and the three dragged him, foaming and screaming, into the inner room, threw him on the floor, and locked him in. The maid-servants had raised the unhappy and unconscious wife, and laid her on the bed. Some one had gone for the doctor. Miles breathed, and looked on the horror-struck and wondering faces around him. 'What does all this mean?' he asked.

'Mean!' said the butcher, who, being the nearest neighbour, had first arrived to help. Why, that old Parker's beastly drunk, and has half-killed his wife: not the first time either, I reckon. It have often seemed queer to me that night after night, all the year round, I saw a light burnin' in that 'ere window far into the morning. Folks said he sat up to his books. Don't b'lieve it, said I; more likely to sit over his cups, if there's any truth in a man's red nose and pimply face; but I didn't think he was such an out-and-out ruffian.' Light flashed on Miles: the study inside the bedroom, just so situated that no one could be asked into it-Parker's unfitness to rise in the morning-the wife's suppressed manner-her joyless performance of her daily duties; and yet it seemed impossible. Why, how could such a secret be kept so long?' he asked. 'I never suspected it myself-never heard it hinted.'

'Ah, master, the poor wife kept the secret. Don't you call to mind now how she never took pleasure in nothing, but went about stern-like, meddling with nobody's business, and minding her own? What 'ud 'a become o' the school if she hadn't seen that the boys had good victuals and drink, and that they were washed, and combed, and mended? And didn't the usher as was here afore you say one day down at the blacksmith's that he could astonish people if he liked? I see it all now, plain as a pikestaff. Murder will out; pity it didn't come out sooner. What a life that poor soul has led! And hear to how he curses!' Horrible sounds did indeed proceed from Parker's room; and while the listeners dreaded the wife's recovering her consciousness so as to hear them, no one, for fear of the consequences, dared propose to move her before the doctor had seen her. He came as soon as possible; said it might cost her life to awake to the use of her senses in that room; and, with help, carried her tenderly to the remotest part of the house. She had received, he found, frightful blows on the head, but the skull was not fractured. The loss of blood was perhaps in her favour; at all events, he hoped so. She must be kept in the dark, and perfectly quiet. Who could be trusted to stay with her? It should be some one superior to a servant some one who would keep others away. Mrs Latham volunteered to stay till some one else could be found. The next point was to dispose of

Parker. He was evidently wearing himself out, and he had become less violent, but it was thought nevertheless prudent to handcuff him, and he was put into a cart, and placed in the town Bridewell. It is bewildering to think of the consequences of one action: we could not bear to know and grasp them all. Volumes might be filled with the various results of Parker's conduct on this night, if they could be traced wherever they extended. There were sixteen boys of different ages to be scattered in other families-there were three servants to be disposed of— Parker and his wife must commence life anew, elsewhere, and in different circumstances. And what must our beloved Miles do? What a mercy it is that we have life only from minute to minute, and for most of us that we move in a small circle! The doctor was gone. The boys had been sent back to bed, and desired to go to sleep, which, of course, they did not, but regaled one another with conjectures as to whether Mrs Parker would die; if she did die, would her husband be hanged? and if she lived, would he beat her again for having called out for help? This being all given up as too difficult for determination, they filled up the time till daylight with such stories as the recent event suggested; and as at that period there were no penny newspapers, and very few newspapers at all, the young soul felt more horrified, and the young intellect more exercised than is possible in this generation, which is familiarised day by day with murder and suicide: the demand almost seeming to create the supply. Miles walked up and down the schoolroom; his thoughts at first dwelt much on the miserable pair with whom he had lived two years, unconscious, and even unsuspicious of the concealed sin and suffering connected with them. His confidingness had received its first shock. An ingenuous young person feels exceeding pain in the first realisation of the fact, that external propriety and the semblance of good principle may for many years co-exist with vicious habits. Next he grieved that he had not been kinder to poor Mrs Parker; and then he thought of himself. He must go elsewhere. What a multitude of thoughts and feelings was connected with this certainty! What a complete change had come over him! He could almost doubt if he were the Miles of twenty-four hours previously. How anxious his father and mother would be!-how shocked! And how miserable he should be among strangers again, and without the Lathams! How he wanted to talk, but there was no one to talk to yet. Mr Latham had gone home to his alarmed children, Mrs Latham stayed with Mrs Parker. It was a relief when the good-natured servant, who had received him on his first arrival at Dulford, brought him a large cup of hot strong tea, told him to drink it, for that he wanted it as much as any one, and that when it was gone, she would bring a couple of blankets to the sofa in the parlour, and that he was to lie down and go to sleep till she called him.

We will hurry over a few of the following events. The boys' parents removed them as soon as possible. Poor Mrs Parker did not recover. It was supposed she died from the shock to her nervous system, as her wounds, though severe, were not necessarily fatal. It was thought to be happy for her that her life was over. Her husband was tried for manslaughter, and transported. The Lathams took Miles to stay with them, while he formed new plans. With Mr Smith's willing aid, he got a mastership in a school of very superior standing, with increased salary; and as his services would not be required till after the coming Christmas vacation, and the journey into Yorkshire was very expensive, Mr Smith suggested his paying him a visit in the interim. This was thankfully accepted; but it was with a heavy heart that Miles counted the few days yet remaining of his visit to the Lathams. He had become thoroughly at home with them, sincerely attached to them all,

and, hurried on by unlooked-for circumstances, he acknowledged to himself that his whole human happiness was involved in Amy. The feeling might have smouldered for years, had not the even tenor of their daily intercourse been troubled by the excitement of recent occurrences, and the prospect of inevitable separation. Miles felt that his love was part of his character-strong, uncompromising, perseverant. That Amy responded to it, he did not doubt; he had never asked her, but he knew it. He thought that her mother was aware of it, and not displeased; but he was sure that Mr Latham did not suspect it, and he anticipated opposition from him. He was undecided how to act. He would not say anything to Amy without her parents' permission, and he dreaded asking that permission, because, if it were withheld, he must shorten his stay at the vicarage. However, he could not go away without knowing how he stood in the matter; he would rather know the worst. Therefore, on the third night before the day fixed for his leaving, he followed Mrs Latham, when he wished her goodnight, and said: 'Dear Mrs Latham, may I ask the vicar's leave to win Amy?' She was a little startled, but did not look surprised, and said: Yes, Miles; but I cannot encourage you to hope. Mr Latham has never contemplated the possibility of parting from her, and has often said that he thought it a great hardship to bring up daughters for other people. Then, again, your position is but promise-good, hopeful promise, certainly; but health and life are very uncertain.'

'I know all that, Mrs Latham; but as much may be said, after all, of every human desire and project, and I cannot go without understanding distinctly what is before me. I think that my temperament requires a certain amount of prevision in order to work effectively.'

Mrs Latham smiled-the smile of a kind mother and observant woman, and said: 'But Amy, Miles -are you sure of Amy?'

'Dear Mrs Latham, I am sure that a girl so young, innocent, and candid as Amy would not treat me so freely as a brother if she could not come to love me in a nearer relation. I know she is sorry I am going away. Is she not?'

'I think, Miles, that you and I had better not talk more on this matter till you have seen Mr Latham; I shall leave you to make your own beginning. Good-night.'

Who has not watched for an opportunity to say something critical, and, when the opportunity has come, been afraid to use it? The very next morning, Mr Latham asked Miles to take a walk with him. The good vicar talked of the poor people in the parish, of some crying evils there, of the winter prospects, of all that suggests itself most naturally to the good country clergyman, and for some time did not, being full of his subjects, observe Miles's pre-occupation. At length turning suddenly round, and facing him, he said: You are out of spirits, my young friend-you must not give way. I know you are sorry to leave us, and we are sorry to lose you; but even had not this wretched business occurred, we must have separated in another year, that you might pursue your honourable ambition. You will do well-you will make other friends. Come, cheer up!' Miles felt a nowor-never impulse, and with a burning face, said: 'I shall never be in any other house, Mr Latham, what I have been in yours. If even I make other friends as kind and familiar as you and Mrs Latham, I shall never find any one as lovely, good, and dear to me as Amy is; and desperate as the act is made by my poverty and youth, I cannot go without telling you, and asking you, in remembrance of your own early love, to let me hope that if I succeed in life as well as, with God's blessing, I expect to succeed, you will one day give me Amy for my wife.'

If one could have divested one's self of sympathy, one must have laughed at the utter astonishment, mixed with indignation, in the good old man's face. He was literally speechless. Amy asked in marriage! She was a mere child but yesterday. Amy, his only daughter, ever to be taken from him! Why, he had looked forward to her care for both her mother and himself, when they became aged and helpless. And, besides, no one could understand her as well as her mother-no one could take the same care of her as her father. What had he thought, and toiled, and planned, and saved for this beloved girl, only that she might be taken away from him by a comparative stranger-and she not seventeen. Miles Stanton was not what he had taken him to be: he was either very foolish, or very presumptuous. All this of course flashed through his mind in a tenth of the time occupied in writing it; but Miles, strengthened in resolution by having acted, felt prepared to meet whatever was said; to hear the worst, and conquer it. Mr Latham's voice shook a little when he said: 'I am so utterly surprised, Miles, that I cannot express myself I do not even know where to begin. If a man of independent means, a man who, according to fair human foresight, could provide for a wife after death as well as during life, asked me for my darling child, I should be angry with him, alarmed, sorry; but you-God forbid that I should hurt any one's feelings! I would especially be tender with the young and struggling-but that you, a mere boy, your future path in life a mere plan, that you should ask me to promise her to you, is wilder than any action of a sane man with which I am acquainted.'

I know it-I see it as you see, Mr Latham. I see all in perhaps even a stronger light than you do, for my whole human happiness is in your hands; but, nevertheless, let me talk to you. You know enough of my father's character to be sure that I have been carefully brought up; you see for yourself that I have health, and a more than average share of energy and resolution. You have more than once encouragingly told me that I only want time and opportunity, and that I shall get on. If I succeed, even moderately, I may by this time five years be ordained, take pupils, and do well, as many men do, and by that time Amy will be older. I ask only to be allowed to keep this prospect before me, to correspond with you and Mrs Latham, if not with Amy; and with this understanding, to come and see you sometimes.'

With a sudden painful flash of thought, Mr Latham said: Does Amy know all this? Have you said anything to Amy?'

No, Mr Latham; I would not, without your permission, venture to do that.'

'I am glad of it; not that she would be likely to love any one as well as her parents, but she would have been excited-embarrassed. In this you have behaved well; and, to do you justice, you have behaved well in the openness with which you have come to me; but I cannot give the permission that you ask. You must leave us with a clear understanding that I promise nothing; and that I prohibit your expressing, either by letter or in person, to my daughter, that you feel more in her regard than the kindliness which exists naturally among young people who have spent pleasant days together, and whose parents approve of their acquaintance. I do not say, do not write to my wife or me: I could not say that to a man who saved my child from imminent perilperhaps death; but I cannot say, come and stay with

us.

At all events, I cannot say so now I have been surprised; I am agitated; I will talk to Mrs Latham.' He held out his hand; Miles shook it warmly, and understood that he wished to be left alone.

Mrs Latham had a talent for domestic life, and used it well. Ever self-forgetting, minutely attentive to little things, perfectly sincere, and genuinely kind, she

infused a sense of repose into her family and friends. Every one trusted her. Miles felt perfectly at ease about the conversation that Mr Latham proposed to have with her. He knew that, without opposing her husband, she would smooth everything; that she would take a broader view of all the circumstances; that she was more hopeful, understood Amy better, and was fonder of himself. This soothing conviction, and a brisk walk, enabled him to join the little dinner-party without confusion of manner; and Mrs Latham's cordiality and liveliness kept things going much as usual. It was not uncommon for the vicar to be taciturn, and on an occasion like the present, it was a relief to have him so. Miles knew intuitively that Mrs Latham was aware of all that had passed between him and her husband, and that she would want to talk to him; there was, however, no opportunity that evening, and it passed in the ordinary way. Amy had been decidedly less merry on each succeeding day, but that was only natural. She talked openly and simply, as her brother did, of being so sorry that Miles was going, and how they should miss him; but her mother thought as Miles did, that other love was but sleeping, and might be awaked by a breath. It seemed a pity to do it. One could understand her father's wishing to keep her ever as she was-neither child nor woman. 'Little Rosebud' was his pet-name for her, and very appropriate it was; she was so fair-so blooming; the prettiest blonde imaginable; and her figure, gestures, and movements had a certain graceful neatness which, in a home-scene like that parsonage, was exquisitely in tone.

That particular evening never forsook Miles's memory to his dying day, he could summon her before his mind's eye as she was then. She was making a shirt for her father. Her little fingers, busy, but not hurried, took twenty pretty turns in five minutes; her long curling hair, pushed for convenience behind her ears, shewed to the full a delicate round cheek, with a low broad forehead just touched by thought. She looked the angel of home. The room was a blending of library and drawingroom: solid-looking books, pictures of reverend men and sober grandams on the walls; the vicar's bureau and writing materials in the snuggest corner; for the rest, crimson furniture, women's work, autumn flowers, birds, a harpsichord, a bright fire. It was hard to say which was most delightful-this evening aspect, or that delicious summer one, when, with windows open, one sat on the cushioned window-seat -half hidden, if it so pleased you, by the curtains looked into the well-kept garden, inhaled the rich perfume of those giant stocks, listened to that indefinite something which whispers in the air in summer twilight; and if the one you loved were near and true, felt that life was dangerously dear.

Part of the next morning was to be devoted by Mrs Latham to packing for Miles, and thus was afforded an opportunity for a private talk. She told him that she and the vicar had agreed that they should remain on the same mutual terms, provided that he promised to say nothing to Amy about his attachment to her; that he should write occasionally to either of them; and that he should come once or twice a year to see them; but that he must distinctly understand that there was no promise of Amy either given or implied; that they did not wish her to marry for many years; and that, if any one, suitable in every respect, presented himself, they should not oppose him. You understand, my dear Miles, that personally we have not only no objection to you, but a sincere regard for you; in fact, we have treated you as a son; but it is altogether too soon for you to think of marrying. We disapprove, for our child's sake, of the wear and tear of a long engagement, and we do not wish to have her heart touched while she is so young.' Poor Miles's face changed from pale to red, and from red to pale, while listening to his sentence; but his natural good

sense told him that it was as kind towards him as it was wise towards Amy. If she were capable of returning the love due to his love, she would be constant, though unbound by words. She would hear of him, he would hear of her he would sometimes see her. All this darted through his mind before he took Mrs Latham's hand and kissed it.

Parting! and parting when one has to smother, and even hide, strong feeling! They breakfasted together for that last time, all sorry, all agitated; the vicar wishing it over; Mrs Latham's countenance varying, and her cheerful voice faltering when she spoke; for she loved the youth who had saved her boy, and who idolised her daughter, and she guessed at new and keen pain in the daughter's heart. But it is over at last. Mrs Latham has kissed Miles; Walter has clung sobbing round his neck, and been taken away by his father. Miles has clasped Amy's hand-he was not forbidden to do that and something in that last grasp has made the poor Little Rosebud break down thoroughly. Something in Miles's last look at her has told her that he loves her better than his lifethat the anguish of his farewell is for her. She and Walter sit down and cry together; and she is glad that he cries-it seems an excuse for her. She knows that his and her tears are very different; but if he cries, why should not she? The kind, wise mother makes an excuse to talk to the father about something in another room; and before long, comes back wanting some little help, something both children can do for her, something that will occupy and interest them a little; and the three spend the long morning together, while papa is at a parish meeting, and they do each other good. By dinner-time, Walter is as merry as ever; and mother and daughter are cheerful and very happy, and trustful in each other. They talk calmly about poor Miles;' are sure that the Smiths will make his visit pleasant to him; guess at the people with whom he is to live next; pity him for being so lonely as he must be at first; say that he is, however, sure to make friends; and how much he will have to tell when next he comes to see them. There is a sweet unexpressed new tie between mother and child; a few silent tears come into their eyes when they kiss for good-night; but each falls soon into the peaceful sleep that comes of active, innocent employment; and each awakes next morning, feeling that a new period in life has begun, and each is braced for it.

STANZAS.

O MY Sweet, my Sweet, my Sweet! May the dawning hold thee dear, And the orient rose of day Flush thy dreams with hues of May, Till a richer dawn appear

In thine eyes, my Sweet!

O my Love, my Love, my Love!
May the kindly hours of day,

Each with blessing on its wings,
Bring thee gifts of glorious things;
And meridian's brightest ray
Light thy smiles, my Love!

O my Life, my Life, my Life!
Blest be all light that on thee shines;

The sun by day, the stars by night; And blessed be the moon, whose light Doth simulate the peace that shrines

Thy gentle heart, my Life, my Life!

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by all Booksellers.

OUR SCHOOL.

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MOOR, and Jones, and Mordax, and I were talking of the famous case of Puncheon v. Puncheon, which recently came before Sir Cresswell Cresswell. Ah!' said Moor, 'Puncheon was in our school.' 'Our school,' said Jones; 'what d'ye mean? You and I were not at school together.' 'No,' said Moor; but we always talk of Christ's Hospital as our school." Whenever there's a murder, or a suicide, or a divorce case; whenever, in fact, anybody distinguishes himself, and we recognise his name as that of an old school-fellow, we express ourselves in that way. The reason of the thing is this, I think: all the fellows who have been educated there fancy that if they use the proper term, people will suppose they began life with some sort of disease, and were in or out patients of the place where they received their education. Besides, the word hospitaller rather taxes a man's pronunciation-a shy man doesn't like to venture upon it, and Christ's Hospitaller has a sort of profane twang; so we always speak of the home of our boyhood as Our School. O dear me, I had pleasant days there-and unpleasant too, of course; but I believe it is much changed since I was there, which was many, many years ago. They tell me the fellows have all sorts of comforts now: real milk, and spoons to eat their bread and milk with, and meat every day in the week, and night-shirts, and crockery-ware, and are never caned or flogged unless they have committed some offence. I hope good may come of it; but I have my doubts; the age seems tending towards effeminacy. I used to think we were brought up in a manner that would fit us for anything in after-life: we had Smithfield within smelling distance; the shambles over the way; the Compter Prison next door; the Old Bailey close at hand; a dress that made us conspicuous everywhere; rough fare and rougher usage. Now Smithfield is not, nor the Compter either; the Old Bailey certainly remains, and so does the conspicuous dress; but the rough fare and the rougher usage, they tell me, now are past and gone.'

'But what I want to know,' said Jones, 'is what you do with those caps you are supposed to have. You do have them, don't you?'

'O yes,' said Moor; but you couldn't wear them if you tried; it would require a vast knowledge of statics to make them stick on your head; and what

PRICE 1d.

becomes of them, I don't know; I believe some fellows give them to the elephant at the Zoological Gardens.' "What! to wear?'

'No; to eat. I recollect one fellow myself who, after plying the elephant with buns, and getting his mouth well open, ended by throwing his cap in; but whether the elephant swallowed it or not, I can't say, as we "skedaddled" directly, for fear of consequences.' 'It must be a queer place,' said Mordax, who is a bit of a brute: 'it's a charity-school, isn't it?'

'I am very happy to say,' returned Moor cheerfully, 'that it is. It shews that there was at least once a king who, if he hadn't a kind heart himself, had advisers about him who had; and the number of its governors proves that there are very many people who, for some reason (never mind what), will assist their fellow-creatures; and as far as I am concerned, I honour and reverence the memory of that king, and those advisers; and as for the governors, dead and living, I can only say that whatever their motive was for becoming governors, I hope they don't repent it.'

'But, I say, Moor,' said another, tell us how you got in there, and all about it.'

'With great pleasure,' replied Moor, 'I will give you a few of my recollections. You see, when I was about seven years old, my mother, who was a clergyman's widow, of slender, indeed you might say attenuated means, had one morning put into her hands a rather larger letter than ordinary, having read which, she became paler (and she was very pale always) than usual, and more serious than I had ever seen her before. After thinking a short time, she said: "Come here, Bob ;" and seeing her so serious, I went without more ado. She placed me on her knee, put my hair off my forehead, and then looking me earnestly in the face, said: "Bobby, dear, would you like to go to school?" "No, ma," answered I decisively. "But you must go some day." The rejoinder to this remark was a blubber, accompanied by symptoms of inattention. After I had been " steadied," it was demanded of me: "Would you like to wear a blue coat and yellow stockings?" This was a vision of splendour which struck my childish fancy amazingly, and I answered with the hesitation of one who feared he was being imposed upon: "Oh!-yes-ma, so-much." 'Very well, then, you shall; but you must go to school to wear it. Will you?" "Ye-e-e-e-s." And so I went. The large letter was a presentation to Christ's Hospital;

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