and to be dead meant to be gone away to God-I knew that, too. Was it, indeed, true that mamma was going away, so that I never should see her any more? What should I do without her? Oh, if I could only see her, and tell her how much I loved her! Surely I should see her once more. Sarah said something about three days! While these painful feelings were torturing my heart, I felt myself raised gently from the ground in Mr. Raby's arms, and with my head resting on his breast, he walked up and down the room, soothing me with soft words and gentle caresses. They opened my heart, and I poured out my pent-up feelings. I drank in all that fell from those lips; I promised to be a good boy, and think of what he had said, and bear the worst patiently, because it would be God's will. When Susan came to dress me for the journey, I was lying calm, though tearful, in the arms of my new friend.

"May I ever come here again and see you?" I asked, as he lifted me into the carriage.

aunt.

Then he looked at my
If he thinks with you,

"I hope so, my dear," he said. "Tell James all that I wish. still let him remember that, for this child of his, he will always find a friend in his old playmate, Arundel Raby. God bless you!--You can write a letter, Frank? Write to me, and tell me how your mother is."

CHAPTER VII.

MY FIRST AFFLICTION.

EVERY one who has lost his mother in manhood feels the pathetic truth which the poet Gray has put into a few simple words-"We can have but one mother." Other affections may be replaced, but a mother's love-where shall we find a substitute for that? I was too young when I lost mine to understand the full meaning, or half the meaning, of the term "mother's love." I only knew that she-the sun of our

home-round whom all lesser bodies revolved, and from whom they received light and warmth,-she, our guide and comforter, our joy, and trust, and admiration-who seemed to me almost omnipotent and omniscient-the perfection of beauty-who could do no wrong-that she was gone away for ever.

I remember little about my journey home. I was more capable of grief than most children of my age; and I grieved terribly during the long, long, weary drive,-for grief is terrible when we know not what it is that is about to fall upon us and all dear to us. Still the thought of Mr. Arundel Raby was a fixed source of consolation. I felt as if I could bear anything that he told me I ought to bear. I sat very still, and tried to recollect all he had said to me. My aunt leaned back in the chaise, and read out of a little book. I saw these words on the back-" De Imitatione Christi."

I was present when my mother died. She held me folded in her arms, and I heard the last words she uttered. They were of anxiety for me, her youngest child. My aunt promised to aid my father in watching over my health. She spoke then of Mr. Arundel Raby's desire to adopt me, and her words pleased my poor mother. She urged my father to consider the proposal. "It will help all our children forward in life. If you should be taken, what will become of them?" I remember my father promised to consider well what Mr. Arundel asked; and then he spoke of the great God, who is the father of the fatherless. My mother seemed comforted by his words. I was the only witness of their last parting. Of that I cannot speak.

I was removed from her arms without knowing that it was a corpse I clung to so fondly.

About a week afterwards, my aunt, who stayed with us for a short time after our family affliction, asked me to fulfil my promise, and write to Mr. Raby. She wished to give me some occupation that would distract my mind a little from the gloomy household.

It was much less trouble to me to write than it is to most

children. I showed an early love of scribbling. Next to reading, my favourite in-door amusement had been writing letters to my mother about anything that interested me, on any scrap of paper I could lay my hands on.

My letter was as follows:

:

you that my Dear mamma I saw her die. did you

"DEAR MR. RABY,-I have to tell is dead. she died three days ago. ever see anybody die It is very dredful, they let me stay in the room, and I never cried once, because aunt said it would make poor mamma unhapy. I was very miserable; but I kept on saying over to myself some of the things you said to me, that kept me from crying. My mamma held me in her arms when she died, and then I do not know what happened, for I seemed to fall asleep. poor papa is very unhapy. I think he cries a great deal when Nobody sees him. He likes to have us all with him; and this morning aunt Margaret read the Bible were it says 'I am the resurrection and the life.' I do not understand that. I wish you knew my mamma, and what a dear, kind, good mamma she was. She was so glad to see me, she loved me very much. Tom and Harry have been crying a great deal, I can see. They are such kind, good brothers. I am fond of them. They and Lucy are home for their hollidays, and were going to have such fun when poor mamma fell ill. Aunt Margaret told me to write to you, and so I came out of the parlour to write this in dear mamma's dresing-room. My desk is kept there. The men have brought the coffin. I heard them in the next room. Sarah thinks that perhaps mamma's spirit is there, and heres all we say. What do you think I should like her spirit to be with me always. I do not think I should ever do rong things if I rememberd that she could see me always. But God is always with us, and he can know and see more than any angle or dead person. Dear Mr. Raby, I like writing to you; but, now I want to leve of because the tears keep making blots on the paper. Indeed, I do try not to cry, but I cannot help it when I think that my own darling mamma is dead. Can you

E

read this? I dare say the writing is bad and the spelling all wrong. I will write you a better letter next time.

"I remain, dear Mr. Raby,

"Your dutiful and affectionate young friend,
"FRANCIS HASTINGS."

Some days after my mother's funeral, Mrs. Russell, a widowed sister of my father's, came to live with him and superintend his household; and my Aunt Margaret returned alone to Carleton. I was sorry to lose her, but I did not wish to leave my father, towards whom my affection seemed to have deepened wonderfully, while his love for me acquired all the fondness of my mother's. He liked to have me with him always; even when the others went away. This was natural enough at that time, for I was the youngest and the quietest; besides, I was my mother's darling, concerning whom she had shown the greatest anxiety on her death-bed.

One morning I went to his room as usual before breakfast. He was dressed and sitting by the open window, reading a letter. He took me on his knee, and after kissing me affectionately, looked steadily in my face while he spoke as follows: -"I want to speak to you very seriously, my dear child. Do you remember Mr. Arundel Raby?"

I

“Oh, yes, papa. He wrote me a letter whenstopped, and looked away from my father. By a tacit consent we never spoke about my mother's death.

"He has written me a letter now. Can you guess what it is about?"

"About me? He would like to have me for his own little boy. He has no children to love him, papa, as you have.” And I kissed him.

"Would you like to be his child, Frank ?"

"No, papa.

yours."

I would not like to be anybody's child but

"But Mr. Raby can give you a better education than I can. He can make you rich, so that you need never go to 'the nasty, gloomy counting-house,' as you call it. You can live

in a fine castle of your own, not ten miles from here, and have carriages and horses, and everything that money can buy."

"I don't care for that, papa. Why do you say all that? I love you better than all the fine things in the world." He kissed me tenderly. "I know you do, and I would not let you be Mr. Raby's child for all the fine things in the world. So I am glad we are of the same mind. But now there is another thing we must think of. I wish you to live with your Aunt Margaret for a year, or perhaps two years, till you go to school. Your aunt cannot come and live with us, and Dr. B- tells me you will never grow strong and tall if you live here. Aunt Margaret wishes to have you with her at Carleton, and Mr. Arundel Raby, who is a very clever scholar, offers to superintend your education there, and to have a tutor for you when you are a little older, even if I will not let him adopt you for his own son. This would be much better than your going to school for a great many years to come. You would learn a great deal more; and you would be with Aunt Margaret, who would take as much care of you as

I knew what he meant. We looked at each other in silence.

"What do you think of that plan, my love ?" "What will you do without me, papa, dear?

arms went round his neck.

And my

"I should have to do without you if you went to school. I should have to do without you in any case, my love; for you must not live here, and I am obliged to live here to attend to my business. I would rather let you go to Aunt Margaret than to any one."

"I would rather be at Carleton with her and Mr. Raby than anywhere else, except at home. I love them both very

much; and Carleton is such a beautiful place. It makes me so happy to be there. I often wish our home were like that. If I could come home and see you all sometimes, and if Aunt Russell and Sarah will stay with you, I should like to be with Aunt Margaret, if you would like me to, papa."