TALES & SKETCHES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 793, 13 May 1887, Page 7

TALES & SKETCHES.

In the Flesh and the Spirit.

A NOVEL BY ARTHUR, B. R. ROOKES.

CHAPTER I. Brother and Sister,

*So you mean to leave me to my own de. vices. Ah 1 Burton’s a lucky fellow, Emmie dear, [and the man of all men I would like you to marry, but it will be hard to give you up even to him so spoke Alfred Rochdale, a young fellow of some eighteen summers, to his sister Emmie; * when is the happy day to be ?’ ‘ You ask me more than lam prepared to answer, Alfred. It is true that I have promised to become the wife of dear Burton, but, as yet, the happy day is not fixed, nor is it likely to be at present. You must remember he has a position to make in the world before he can take unto himself a wife, so that you will not be left to your own devices more than usual for some time at all events. Will you miss me very much then, Alfred ?’ « How can you ask me such a qnestion, my Emmie V said the young fellow. • Are you not my guiding star ? are you not my shield in all my scrapes ? do you not always give me good advice ? Emmie, my sister, I can scarcely bear the idea of losing yon, even though cousin Burton is a beautifnl fellow in every way.’ ‘ How foolish yon are to be so weak at your age. Why do you get into Bcrapes ? If you were to follow the good advice I give you, you would never need a shield. \ou are as thoughtless now as you were two years ago when you came home from school. You forget, when papa eaid you should have a tutor at home, what you promised.’ * Indeed I do not, but I must have a lark sometimes; if you were in my shoes yon would do the same.’

‘My dear Alfred, I am sure no one wishes to deprive you of any innocent pleasure, but when you carry your “ larks,” as yon term them, to such a pitch as to bring scandal upon your father’s house it is time some one gave you a good sound lecture, and you may expect nothing else from me. Tho idea, for instance, of your bringing that girl into the house the other night and entertaining her in your stndy in the way you did. I am only sorry papa did not catch yon. Whatever your connection with her may be, do, for the sake of us all, respect yonr home and parents.’ ‘ There you go again, Etnm'e, at it again —pile on the agony,’ repl ed Alfred ; * did I not tell you that my connection with “ that girl,” as you call her, was purely of a friendly nature ?’ ‘Ah 1 my brother, you will never do any good for yourself or anybody else if you have each friends.’ ‘ Why, what the deuce do you mean ? You do not know anyth ng bad about the girl, do you ? I don’t, or I should not have brought her in.’ ‘You may depend upon, Alfred dear, no girl with any re-pect for herself and you would p'ace herself in such a position, and it is time you knew that. How can you expect to have the respect of those who know you when you outrage society in such ways ? You really ought to be more careful ; and do, my dear b other, above all, respect and love our parents and show them that what they predicted is likely to come true.’ ‘ Emmie, my own darling sister, kiss me, I will—indeed I will t y to merit the love which corner to me from all—but change the subject. Where did you leave Burton ? How good of you to come out here this first day of your bliss.’ ‘ He is in the next field with papa, and we are going to stay and return w-th you if you will have us. By the bye, havd you had much sport ?’ ‘Fairish, old girlie, come and see.’ The foregoing conversation took place in a meadow situated near the pretty 1 tt e vil age ef Babbington, Oxfordshire, through which the river Thames passes. Alfred had crossed a bridge on seeing his sister, leaving his rod and creel to take care of each other.

Emily Henrietta Rochdale at this time was a beautiful girl of twenty. It is an old saying that beauty is only skin deep ; but there is a deeper beauty that is on'y seen in those who are good and pure, gentle and loving, which penetrates the whole being —fuch a beauty had Emily Rochdale, Fair, with a de'ightful rose bloom, limp’d blue eyes and arched brows, hair of a rich golden brown flowing loosely over her shoulders below her waist in wavy luxuriance, her form being symmetrical and supple—a perfect blend of purity and grace. Alfred is two years her junior, but looks much older than he is, being already favoed by nature with a glossy mon3tache and beard of fair a Iky ha r, He is what would be termed by most persons a good-looking fellow, like h's sister fair and with the same eyes, but his face was a puzzle to many. Some-

times a beautiful smile, joyful and pure, would light up his fine countenance, and a’most the next moment a look of inexpressible sadness would succeed, and his eyes would glisten w th suppressed tears, and deep sighs, half sob, half sigh, would escape him. He would gaze for an a’most inc v edible time into the aky, especially at sunset, as though he were trying to read the heavens, then in particular that bright, happy smi e would light up his face and he would appeartoo beaut ful a be ng for a man; and then, the sun’s light having faded from the heavens and fields abound, the tears would come to his eyes, the smile disappear, and the sobbing sigh escape his lips, such as would . stir your heart, reader, w th wonder and pity if perchance you were near him. At other times, when indulging in some of his ‘larks,’ he appeared full of joy, and no trace of sadness would seem to interfere to mar his fun. Many friends of the family had studied him, and all agreed he was a puzzle, and though his strange fancies often led to scandal and his jokes to grievances, yet all who knew him intimately liked him ; and here is a trait in his character worthy o f notice. He was generous, and deeply loved by all the poor, honest people, in whom cottages he spent many hours. His pocket money was not extensive, but he always had a copper for a poor child, and often a pound of tea or packet of snuff or tobacco for the ‘ old ’uns.’

He had just found a source of adding to his purse, of which he had told no one but his sister, she promising secrecy until he gave her permission to speak, which he promised to do if he met with success. He had a most sincere affection for his sis er Emmie, and she loved him with that pure, holy love which a sister alone can give. She advised him and watched him tenderly. She saved him from many a serious scolding, not by hiding .his faults, hut by pleading for him with a loving father and mother, and though he did not always follow her advice, he knew the value of a sister’s love. No wonder he did not like the idea of losing her.

CHAPTER 11. One of the Old School,

The Reverend Thomas Rochdale, Doctor of Divinity, the father of Alfred and Emily, is a fine old gentleman of sixty-three. - He has been for thirty years rector of Cranwell, and is the father of a family of seven-four sons and three daughters-—three sons being at this time in good positions in the great city, two daughters being married and residing respectively in India and Scotland, Emily and Alfred being the only two left to gladden the old gentleman’s declining years. The Doctor had been a Fellow of College, Oxford, but thinking married life a better state, he had given up the pleasures of fellowship and bachelorhood, and, after holding a curacy in Norfolk for a time, had been appointed to bis present living, which, though not a rich one, had enabled him to give his family a sound education and place them out in the world.

Alfred is now his great anxiety. He loves him, and is desirous that he shall do well, and humours him id many of his little ways, where perhaps a strong rein would be advisable ; but he had on many occasions of late observed with pain a want of confidence and a nervous beating-about-the-hush when replying to certain questions. For instance, our yonng friend would be missing sometimes from home for days, and he would often return with his fishing rod and a creel full of fish after these absences, and, if questioned where he had been, appeared confused and evaded the question somehow. The Doctor had, only tho day before, been told by one of his parishioners that he came down from London in the train with Al'red a few days previously, and as on that very day the young hopeful had oome home with his fishing rod and three good-sized pike, he had been thinking a good deal about it, and had determined to see into the matter. He found, on inquiry at the station, that Master Alfred had made frequent trips to London during the past twelve months, sometimes travelling first class and, more often, third. He often returned with a young lady, who generally went back alone the next day. The worthy Doctor is to day dressed very much as any country gentleman would dress to go fishing, in a suit of small pattern shepherd’s plaid, a grey alpaca cap, with sundry artificial flies stuck about it, a black stock, and strong watertight hoots. He is five feet ten inches in his socks ; stout, of a florid complexion, with handsome features, * mutton-chop ’ whiskers, kind blue eyes, and soft brown hair—somewhat scanty crop—slightly silvered. He has been trolling, and is now playing a very fine pike. He has just sent his nephew, Burton Rochdrie, to Alfred for 'the landing hook; the latter returns, leaving Burton with the words—- • Accept my congratulations, my dear fellow ; you have landed your fish (so he spoke of Ernily) : you had better stay and look after her while I go and land the pater’s.’ The cousins laughed, and Alfred trotted off, little thinking that, having landed the fish, the doctor would cast a net for him. Kneeling down with a fine fish between them, they were disgorging the hook, when tho Doctor suddenly said, ‘I hear you were in London the other day ; did you bring any news ?’ * Wherever did yon hear that !’ said Alfred, his hand trembing. And then he added, as a happy thought struck him, * Hark ! thare’s Burton calling me. 1 will be back presently.’ And before his father could stop him he was off like a young stag, an 1 didn't stop until he reached his sister *nd her lover, when he told them about the fish they had succeeded in landing, and told Burton to go back—he thought his uncle wanted to speak to him. ‘ Well, Burton, where s Jthat young rascal Alfred ?’ said the doctor, as Burton approached him. ‘ I left him in the next field, and he told me you wanted to speak to me, so I made all haste round.’

1 The young scamp 1 I’ve a great mind to go and fetch him. I spoke to him on a subject that was evidently not very agreeable to him, and he started up suddenly, saying you were calling. I knew it was all bosh. Would you mind going round to him and telling him to bring a bottle of beer and a glass? lam thirsty. You come back with him and bring Emmie ; 1 want to hem him in so that he can’t escape ; I have a bone to pick with him,’

As soon as Burton had left him, Alfred had told Emmie, who was in his confidence ts some extent, what had occurred, and, as usual, asked her advice as to what he Bhould do, saying, ‘ I was even more successful than I anticipated, dear Emmie, and have a splendid offer fiom the proprietor of Magazine. With what I get for scribbling and my allowance, I shall be able to “fly round” better, and get any amount of personal experience ; but if pater gets wind of it, ho may take it into his head to put a stop to my little game, especially if he finds out some of the places I go to. I would like to tell him so much, Emmie dear. I know he has suspected me of telling fibs for some time, and it pains me to hurt his feeling 3 ; what had I better do ?’ ‘To tell you the truth I am tired of advising you, Alfred, for you seldom seem to act upon what you acknowledge is good advice ; but as soon as it is given you appear to forget it, and fail to remember it until too late. If you will promise to follow my advice I will give it. What say you ?’ ‘la this instance, my Emmie, I will be guided by you, for it mak- s me very unhappy to shilly-shally with the dear old pater, of all people in the world, and to feel afraid to'look our dear mother in the face.’ ‘Now you are indeed my own dear boy ; you are something like a brother now. You know, Alfy dear, I am always sincere in my advice to you, and .1 always advise what seems good for you. As you have in this instance promised beforehand that you will follow my counsel, give me a few minutes that I may view the case from all sides, as Burton would say.’ ‘Look sharp, then, Emmie, Hallo ! here’s Burton himself. What brings yon back so soon ?’ *My legs, of course. But you are a nice fellow to send me on a wild goose chase. Uncle wants you to take round a bottle of beer, etc ; he is thirsty.. Emmie and I will follow, and I will lend my services with a view to emptying the bottle. What are you looking so serious about, and what's the matter with my Emmie ? Crying ! What ! have you been sparring?’ ‘ There is nothing the matter, Burton ; I am happier than usual. If there is a tear in my eye it is not a tear of sorrow. You walk on, aud I will follow with Alfred ; I want to talk to him. Now, Alfred,’ continued Emmie, turning to her brother, as Burton walked away, ‘ come along. My advice is this : that you tell papa all you have told me, and as much more as there may be to tell, such as those little items I have found out without being told, though without prying into your affairs—the visits you have from the mysterious lady, etc, etc. And I advise you further to commence your confession cn our way home, if not before. Burton and I will give you every opportunity. By doing so it will put us on a more comfortable '.-footing at home. Even if papa : should scold you it is better than telling fibs and concealing facts which he really ought to he made acquainted with. And do, Alfred, explain the mystery attached to that girl you hring home. People will talk, you know, and it is very likely some one has given him a hint of what is going on.’ This was Emmie’s advice ; we shall see how it was followed. ‘You are a “brick,” Emmie, and I will keep my word. Will you tell pater that I will tell him all about it as we go home ?’ ‘ That will be the best way, Alfred. I will go oi now.’ The doctor was sitting on a little mound on the bank looking at the fish he had caught, which lie bad spread out before him. Burton was standing near, smoking in silence. Emmie pounced upon the old gentleman, from behind, and gagged him—that is to say. she put her lips to his so that he could not cry for assistance. He did not appear to object to this system of garotcing on the part of his daughter, who, when she thought he had had enough * gushing,’ said, ‘Don’t ask Alfred anything about London till we start home, papa; he has a lot to tell you, and has promised me he will tell it as we go home, so tell him what I have said. And then we shall be all confidence and love again, I hope, and dear mamma will not be so anxious about her ‘baby boy.’. If he has done wrong be easy with him ; he means well I sincerely believe—here he comes.’ The Doctor had just time to bless and thank his daughter when Master Alfred came up with his rod and creel and a small handbasket containing refreshments— the remnants of their lunch. He produced a bottle, and drawing the cork filled a glass, which he handed to his father. The Doctor drank the contents, repeating the dose, and declared that he ‘felt better,’ a common expression of his after refreshment. Emmie, never having found good malt and hops disagree with her, drank half a glass, and Alfred rind Burton cracked another bottle.

It being now about 4.30, as they had three miles to walk, they commenced to put up their tackle, and that being completed they all set off together, talking and laughing merrily. Alfred had suddenly plucked up courage —possibly the beer, home-brewed, had something to do with this—and when they reached the gate he proposed to Emmie that she and Burton should walk on, while their father and he would follow. Burton, for reasons best known to himself, and possibly Emmie, thought it better, however, that the father and son should go first; so they started, when Alfred let loose his tongue, which dread of his father’s displeasure had hitherto tied.

CHAPTER 111. THE CONFESSION.

* I believe Emmie has told you that I wished to speak to you, my dear pater, and I know you want to have some conversation with me*from the remark you made just now. The fact is I have been wishing, for some time, to have a long talk with you, but I did not like to broach the subject. However, since you have found out that I have been in London lately, aud you have mentioned the fact to me, and asked me for news, . I will ted you a long story—that ib, if you will hear me—which will show you that I have been to town on several occasions when I have tried to mislead you—forgive me—yes, tried to deceive you as to my whereabouts. But before I go further will you promise me

that you will forgive me, and that you will make it all right with the dear mother if I prove to you that my seeming misdoings have brought no harm, and that my goings to Loudon have not with disgrace or vice? Will you promise me, father?’ the lad repeated, as he laid his hand on hi 3 father’s arm. ‘ My dear boy,’ said tho Doctor, pressing his son’s arm to bis side, while a tear of joy sLcod in bis eye, * if you can show me that your goings and comings have been for your own good, and that you have not been getting into debt or disgracing us in any way, of bourse I will forgive ; and further, if what you seem to imply is true, I will encourage you in doing what is good for you. But there are other things I would question you about.’ ‘ I know, and can give a pretty shrewd guess what those other things are, and if you will allow me I will commence my little story at once. Suppose we slacken our pace.’ The good old Doctor, trusting implicitly in his son's honor, turned his head and looked into those clear, honest eyes, saying, ‘My dear hoy, I have every confidence in you now, but I must confess strange things have come to my ears concerning you of late, which have caused mo—and your mother too —much uneasiness. For instance, I have heard strange rumors about you returning from town with a lady, and you have been watched—mind you, not by me—and have been seen to take that lady,(or whatever she is, into the garden entrance to your study ; and, moreover, that lady has not shown up again ti 1 the uext night. These facts have only recently come to my knowledge, or should have asked you about them before ; but I have noticed that you have"not placed confidence in me I would like from you for some time, and, though I have trusted in your honor, I have heard with much pain these reports, which, until explained, are fraught with mystery. As I said before, I have every confidence in you now, and expect the whole truth,’ saying which the Doctor pressed his son’s arm again. During the whole of the above, what at another time Alfred would have termed ‘ wigging ’, our young friend had been silent, only returned the pressure of the arm ; and now he Baid, ‘ I am glad you trust me, my dear father ; I shall show you that you confidence is not misplaced. You will remember that during the time I was at school I spent part of my holidays sometimes at Uncle George’s, at Richmond, and sometimes with Aunt Anne, in London, and that I frequently spent my Saturday and Sunday, as you thought, with the latter during the term time.!, ‘ Did you not, then ?’ inquired the Doc- * Well, 3 ! es, partly, but latterly I frequently went elsewhere, and my reason for not telling you before was thatl feared if you knew you would put a stop to what to me were pleasurable visits.’ ‘ Stay, Alfred,’ the doctor exclaimed, ‘ if you expect forgiveness, you ’ > * Hear me, father, please ; excuse my interupting you,’ continued the lad, * I think you will agree with me that I have done no harm, though some of the things I tell you will somewhat startle you, nq donht ; but hear me patiently to the end. Let me see —where was I—Oh ! I know.’ ‘ Go od, my boy,’ said the doctor, * only let me have confidence in you and feel the same love for you unattended by fears for your welfare, and you will be rewarded for any pain you may suffer or timidity you experience in telling me ; all but whatever you do, even if you have fallen into error, do not spare yourself. Tell your father all, there’s a dear boy.’ ‘ Yon must know then, father,’ Alfred resumed, ‘ that one holiday time, when I was at Aunt Anne’s I formed acquaintance with a lady, by name Mrs Newton. She is housekeeper at Colonel Elvy’s house, where she had private apartments. I frequently found my way there on Saturday afternoons, and when I did so I had to “ take in ” at first either Uncle George or Aunt Anne or both, for when I was not at Richmond I was supposed to he at Aunt Anne’s and vice versa.’ ‘ One Sunday I met a gentleman on going I into the hall, tie had just taken his hat to.go I out, but on seeing me he said, “Do yon wish to see me ?’’ when with my usual cheek I I replied, “No, not particularly, sir, but as I presume I have the pleasure of addressing Colonel ELvy. I am not sorry the opportunity has presented itself. I have often heard of you, but having never set eyes on you, I began to think you were a myth.” ’ * You may imagine Colonel Elvy thought my behavior rather strange, so J drew in my horns here, and before he could reply, 1, noticing his puzzled look and thinking I might get in a mess and perhaps be kicked out of the house for a rude, cheeky boy, said; “My name is Rochdale, and I- have come to see Mrs Newton.” To my surprise he held out his hand to me and said, “ I am glad to make your acquaintance, Rochdale. I have often heard your voice in Mrs Eewton’s rooms, and I was asking her only yesterday who the genleman was who sang so sweetly in her room, Bat if you. are not pressed for time come in here and have a chat and a glass of wine.” “Thank you,” I replied, “But am I not detaining you?’ “ Ob, dear no ; I am only too glad to know you, ’ said Coionel Elvy, and led the way into a very pretty little snuggery.’ * I won’t bore you with details, pater. He told me that Mrs Newton was the widow of an old chum of his who had beeu in his regiment, and that she was there on the footing of a friend, and she was only nominally housekeeper ; he always treated her as a friend, and as he had plenty of room he had allotted appartments to her where she could entertain her own friends without fear of interrup ion. He said he trusted I would look him up always when I came, and aaked ms to dine with him on the following Saturday.’ ‘ This resulted in my going there often, and I frequently stayed all night there. I did not tell Uncle George or Aunt Anne for some time; I don't exactly know why, but I didn’t like to I made other friends people I met there, and I soon found I must refuse invitations so, I made a clean breast of it to Uncle and Aunt and told them that I had some new acquaintances. Aunt Anne was glad when I told her on my intimacy with Colonel Elvy, and told me ho )vas a good man and a friend I might bo

proud of. Uncle George didn’t seem to mind either, saying it was desirable I should make as many friends as possible. * I met two fellows—bachelors—at Onslow Square, named Beaumont. They were dash* iug fellows, and Mrs Newton cautioned me about them as being rather fast. To make a long story short, I fell in with them and during the vac. used to spend a good deal of time in their company —by-the-bye you met one of them at Oxford last year during coin*memoration. They soon initiated me into all sorts of pranks, and we used to go the rounds as we term it. By the time X had left school I was pretty well known at all the music halls and other like places of amusement, and the chairman at Hall asked me one night if 1 could siug. I told him I could, when he said he would like to hear me ; so after the “ busiuess ’’ was over, we adjourned to a room off the staircase, and . made a night of it with harmony—so called —and three or four more fellows I knew coning in, who are more or less musical, we arranged a programme to come off the next week pro bono publico. We appeared, and performed our parts so well that the manager offered us an engagement as a company. We of course refused, though I was willing; bat we could not always get together. 1 You must know, father, we did not ap. pear naturally or in our own names. We were all disguised so that no one could know U 3. * This little exhibition of my vocal ability led to an offer from IST (the manager 1 spoke of) to sing once a week so loDg as I remained in town. He offered me two guineas per night for one song, with the condi ion that if an encore were demanded I should give another gratis. I agreed, and for the six weeks I was at Aunt Aune’s after my leaving school I devoted one night to this amusement. Mr N offered to get me other engagements if I would Take them ; but I would not for fear of it getting wind in the family. ‘I may here mention that Mrs Newton has a daughter, Miss Amy Newton, who contributes with me to the Magazine. It came about in this way : I met the proprietor, among other gentlemen of a literary turn, at Colonel Elvy’s, and in looking over a scrap book on the table he came across a skit which Amy and I had written together. We had placed our initials to it. He seemed greatly tickled with the originality of the thing—so I was afterward told—and asked Colonel Elvy who wrote it. That gentleman told him that it was some “ bosh of young Rochdale, which led to his asking my permission to publish it, offering to pay ma lor it, ■ I consulted Amy and she agreed, and since then we have written occasionally for ths same magazine under my initials, receiving remuneration therefor, which we have equally divided. I have been in almost every conceivable place in and about London since then, and have managed to escape so far without getting into any public disgrace ; but to tell you the truth I have of late been afraid of you, dear father, knowing that people have been talking about me, lest you should hear untruths about me which I should have been unable to contradict with an appearance of truth. * Circumstances appearing so much against me, I told Emmie a good deal under promise of secrecy, and she has always advised me to tell you. lam very, very glad chance made you acquainted with some of my movemeets.’

‘But you have not explained anything about the lady you bring home with you. This seems the worst point, and the one you carefully avoid,’ said the Doctor, who had listened attentively, with what feelings we shall seeby-and-bye. ‘ I am coming to that now, - pater. My acquaintance with Miss Newton soon became a deep friendship and I may say that I love her. ‘What!’ exclaimed the Doctor. ‘Hove her as a brother loves a dear sister, even as I love Emmie, and she accords the same feeling to me. As we are nearing home I will endeavor to make an end of this long business, and if you want any further particulars I will always be glad to answer any questions. The lady who .has been seen is no other than Miss Newton. She is not to blame, and if any one is, it is myself. She was ill some six months ago and I asked her, when you were at Clifton, to come down with me and I would give her pleasant quarters for a week. I fitted up the little room at the top of the 3tairs leading from my study as a bedroom and she used my study as a Bitting room.’ ‘My dear boy,’ said the old doctor, ‘this was most unwise, and I certainly think you might have consulted me about it first.’ ‘ And yon would have refused. Oh, no, father ; I meant to toll yon of it a'terwards, but I have not had courage till now. Amy received much benefit by the change, and to prevent scandal, when I have brought her down on three occasions lately, I provided for her stay at Thomas's mother’s, who is, as ! you know, a worthy woman. Mrs Newton asks her if she enjoys her visits, and she is contented with an answer in the affirmative, trusting me as her own son—though I am not worthy of such trust as she believes—and I suffer her to entertain the belief that her daughter visits your house as your guest.’ ‘And has my own servant been deceiving me as well as my son ? I am very angry ■with you, Alfred—very angry indeed.’ And the Doctor compressed his lips as though he meant it. Thomas was the man servant. ‘ Hear me a little longer, pater, and then, If you like, I will bide my time of punishment ; and if you can spare an hour after dinner you can put me out of my misery. At the same time, I reserve my defence.’ ‘ Hurry On, then, and get it over, for goodness’ sake,’ said Doctor Rochdale, looking at his son, and Alfred, raising his eyes, saw a faint smile lurking round his father’s lips, which gave him courage, ‘ The last time Amy came down was when I returned the other day. and Mrs Leydon could not accommodate her, so I brought her home, taking care that you should not see her, and she occupied the same rooms as on her first visit. I believe you did see her once in the garden, just entering the study j she was dressed as much like Emmie as my hints could make her, and as she has great faith in my taste for lemale dres3 she generally gives way to my superior judgment, and dresaes to please me. The reason why she came is this. We are engaged writing together for the Magazine, which I men-

tioued bef ere, and this time it is to be a great success—at least that is our determination—and my latest trip to London was partly to see the proprietor, who i 3 now my very good friend, and manages these things for us personally, partly to refresh my memory on certain points, and partly that Amy and .1 might lay our heads together, which we did; and as I never allow myselt more than three days from home without leave, my time was up, and we had not done anything like the amount of work we intended to have done, so I brought her down, and she leturned the next day.’ *Oh ! and is that all ?’ asked the Doctor, with a comical expression, as they entered the rectory gate. * Well, it is not much, certainly. You make a mountebank of yourso f at a music hall ; you allow yourse f to be seen at all sorts of places with all sorts of characters ; you bring a lady to my house and quarter her here for a week ; you repeat the offence under my very nose ; you per. suade my servants to assist you, and now you ask for forgiveness. Well, I never heard such a piece of impudence in my life ;’ then turning to Ai red, he sa : d, * come straight to my study, sir, at once.’ Now, though his father said this in an apparently angry tone of voice, Alfred thought he saw an expression of pleasure on his face and a half suppiessed smile. Ho followed to the study, and the Doctor having closed the door and locked it—which he frequently did when he wanted to be secure from interruption—said, laying his hand on his son’s shoulder and looking into his eyes, wh'ch act caused tears to start into them, ‘ Can you tell me truly my dear boy, that your connect on with this Miss Newtou is entirely free from sin, that your love for her is purely of the nature you say it is, that you hold her honour very dear, and, lastly, that you have no inclination to ma ry her at some future time ?’

‘ My dear father, I can most truly tell you all this, and— ’ ‘ That is quite sufficient, then, my boy. I have already made up my mind what to do to put a stop to this scan dal, and when I have consulted your mother I shall speak to you on thesubject again. Make your mind easy on this score, I am not angry with you and admire your pluck, but let me caution you, “ beware of false friends.” You are very young, and have done well to have escaped through all the temptations my exper ence tell® me must have been thrown in your way. Alwajß trust in God.’ * Thank you, dear fa— ’ Alfred commenced, the tears, which he had hitherto kept back, starting from his eyes, when his father stopped him, saying : * There now, Alfred, no bosh ; go and get ready for dinner—stay, haven’t we some people coming ? Your nonsense has put other things out of my head ; just go and ask your mother if—wait, though, I will go mysel'.’

‘ Lst me shake your hand, father, be’ore W 6 part, and tell you how deeply thankful I leel.’

‘ There, that will do,’ said the Doctor, as ho affectionately pressed his son’s hand. (To be continued.)