CHAP. VII.

"NED, "who, be it remembered, had received one of the "trysting" pennies from the old gentleman, on the first of January that commenced our tale, was shuffling his way to the appointed corner, among the market baskets and decayed vegetables which always crowd about Covent-garden; it was the new-year's-day, and Ned had improved astonishingly in rags and laziness since that day twelve months. "Still on the batther, chicken," said an old Irishwoman to him; "but where's your comea-rade?"

You know"-was the curt reply.

"Ay! IN JAIL! where you ought to be your own self, you spalpeen, if right was right; why couldn't take pattern by the other-he's a you credit to look at, and no ways proud—he helped me up with a basket last week, and that in the public street-and you! You've looked at me slaving at this for ever so long, and never offered me a hand."

"Its too bad," grumbled the boy, without heeding her hint; "here am I, a poor lad, poorer than I was last year; and there's he, grow'd stout and tall, and with an air!-I hate them getting up ways! 'Crabs' and 'Jim Crows' ain't what they was-I'm too big for them-or standing on my head either. If mother know'd I'd have grown out o' that, she'd have given me more gin than she did, to keep me little!"

"God help you!" said the poor woman--whose withered, wrinkled face beamed with good nature-"God help you, and such as you-who are cast, not born, into the world. And sure this is the first of the blessed new-year, and may-be the Lord would look down upon you, and put some light or sense into youit's too much trouble I have of my own, to be bothered with other peoples. And yet, it's the troubles of the world that bother me most, so it is! God help me, and every poor sinner, this blessed new-year's-day!"

"I wonder," muttered the boy, while the brisk, little woman, her load on her head, trotted off, "I wonder what makes the days be blessed to little Molly-she's always talking of blessed days-she is "-and he lounged on, so degraded as to be hardly ashamed of

* Concluded from page 273. VOL. I. N. S.

his rags, or conscious of his having descended lower and lower in the scale of humanity"them that promise me pennies for holding their horses," he continued, "I never sees them again; but the old gentleman promised me nothin', so I suppose he'll come back." He lounged to the corner, close to the basket shop, and stared in at the window, but soon turned away in disgust; there was nothing available there; but a sharp, keen, sleet was descending-cutting and cold. The boy slunk away, and took shelter under the portico of St. Paul's, just as the brothers Oldham came up Tavistock-street: Mr. Francis looking purpled, pinched, and frozen; his double-breasted coat buttoned up to his throat; his narrow shoulders shrugged to his ears; his long withered hands encased in warm rough gloves; his step, still firm and rapid; he carried an umbrella open; nothing could suggest a more perfect picture of sour discontent, of a man at odds with the world-as much from bitterness as eccentricity-than did his face, and figure, and general bearing; not the pinching misery of want and hunger, but the still poorer misery a man entails upon himself; the working of a powerful but self-harrowed mind, soured rather by wilfulness than circumstances. Mr. Francis seemed gathered together against the world; he was condensed into a human icicle. John walked beside him, the hail beating and melting against his jovial, ruddy face; and he met it, with jovial good humour-he might be said to welcome the hail as an old friend, so earnestly was his face upturned to meet it; his strong muscular figure was enveloped in a sort of roquelaure, lined with a still more foreign-looking fur, or it might be feathers; for men (and women too) come home with such strange "tiring" from the far east, that it is quite impossible for an untravelled citizen of London to define their dresses or draperies; one thing was certain, he carried a pink silk umbrella in his hand, which he sometimes whirled round like the sails of a windmill; at others, thrust out before him, as a sort of pioneer. When he passed a woman, young or old, rich or poor, he made instant and immediate way; but he walked in general in that free and easy manner, as if the street and "the houses," right and left, were his own, and he was attached to them all he looked even

Y

at the bricks and mortar with loving eyesdogs peered up into his face and wagged their tails-children gazed into his eyes and smiled.

Mr. Frank was sullen and out of humour, and he was particularly so, because his brotherdespite the weather, the hail, rain, and windpersisted in being so happy. He did not quite believe in his happiness, and every now and then he glanced at him in a sideway, uncomfortable manner. If Mr. John saw it, he did not heed it The sleet was so sharp and bitter, that the street was almost deserted; it glittered in round shining globules upon the pavement, one running a race with the other, and hopping fiercely against the shop windows-old women said the new-year was coming in like a lion, and would go out like a lamb.

"Brother!" said Mr. John, still more to his brother's disgust, "I can't tell you how this sleet revives me! I have not felt anything half so invigorating for twenty years! it puts me in mind of a hail storm once on Snow-hill, when we were little starvelings!—Ah! I meet it differently now, thank God!" he added, reverently, wrapping his warm cloak more closely round him, "thank God for that, and all other mercies!"

"I can't think," muttered his brother, calling to mind his tryste, "how I could have been such a fool, or in such a humour-one of my speculations in human nature, fond of delving and diving-but having promised, I must come--never broke my word in my life! that's something to say-never! Ah! here's one of the boys! but no-it can't be!" We need not say that it was Mr. Francis Oldham who had invested the sum of threepence in an experiment on the three boys, with whom we also at the same time made acquaintance. Richard Dolland knew Mr. Francis at once; but his quick eye rested for more than a moment upon his brother, even while he took off his hat to Mr. Francis. Richard never appeared to so much advantage as at that moment; his features had grown in beauty and intelligence his fair, white brow gleamed beneath the rich masses of his folded hair, and his uplooking eyes were filled with the triumph of success.

"Put on your hat," exclaimed Mr. John"Stay!" said Mr. Francis, with his usual suspicion-"What brought you here?

"You gave me a penny, sir, this day twelve months, for holding your horse; you may remember there were three boys, you gave each of us a penny-and-"

"Ay-ay-but where are the other two?" "I have not seen either of them to-day, sir.”

"That's not true," said Mr. Francis, rudely, while he backed into the basket shop for shelter, you boys always herd together-herd together."

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"And is that all you have got to say to him?" inquired Mr. John. Mr. Francis shook the sleet from his coat, and, while doing so, Ned, having crept up to the door, shivering in his rags, made a sort of harlequin pirouette-a half-starved approximation to hilarity. "Here am I!" he exclaimed, while Richard stood back to make room for him.

"Hunt in couples, eh!” said Mr. Francis, his eye gleaming and glittering from one to the other, while the sight of the rags and wretchedness seemed to do him good.

"Hunt in couples," repeated Mr. John, in a tone of voice conveying dissent, "Hunt in couples!" Richard had been changing from red to pale. It was a singular group.

66

Well, and what did you do with your penny?" inquired Mr. Francis, addressing Ned, "Why, ye'r honor, I made more of it?"

66

'Good," said Mr. Francis, "but how?" "I had a run of luck, and turned it into four brownies, and would have traded it, only mother spent it all in lush, and beat me afterwards; he knows the sort she is," he added, "it's all along of his having a tidy mother, he's such a swell."

"So you have a good mother, have you?" inquired Mr. John of Richard.

"Thank God, I have, sir!"

Richard's warmth and confidence returned under the influence of Mr. John's genial smile -"and the penny the gentleman gave me was the lucky penny' of my life!"

"It had a hole in it?" interrupted Ned (pointing with his thumb), "he always got the luck."

Mr. Francis chuckled; the evident rascality and starvation of Ned, seasoned by his quaint, coarse humour, had attracted him; the boy upheld his theory as to the wretchedness of humanity--it was pleasant to find all as vile as he argued they must be; it was pleasant to know that, though the penny multiplied, the canker was at the root, and it did not prosper.

"But tell me, how was it?" said Mr. John, whose sympathies went with Richard. Before the youth could reply, Mr. John espied a somewhat discontented expression in the eyes of the good-natured shop woman.

"Ah!" he said, smiling at her, "so many damp strangers: has your mother a dog?" "No, sir."

"A cat?" "Yes, sir."

"Then here's a house for the cat, and a basket for your mother." Having thus gained the good graces of the shopwoman, who was not very clear as to the sanity of either of the old gentlemen, yet offered a chair to Mr. John, as seemingly the most sane of the two, she withdrew to the communicating door of the second shop, keeping her attention fixed on "Ned," and wondering how any one could notice such a "rubbish!"

"Now, my lad, what of your lucky penny?'” inquired Mr. John, of Richard.

"I had long desired to read the life of Benjamin Franklin, sir-and I went to a bookseller's where I had seen it, and offered the penny for the privilege. He wanted an errand boy, and took me into his service!"

46 "Without a character?"

"No, sir," replied Richard; and he drew himself up a little-"I was never without that."

"Oh! oh! proud I see!-good--and why did you want to read the life of Benjamin Franklin ?"

"Because, sir, long ago, when my poor father was alive, he used to set me copies-sentences composed by Benjamin Franklin- and I wanted to read the life of a man who was so wise and so useful, and who did so much for himself as well as for mankind."

"Good! and were you quite satisfied with the book?"

"There is a great deal in it I should like to do, and much I should like to be. My mother objected to some things; but she would have me to read only one book-the Bible, sir."

“And you?"

"Oh, sir, I should like to read all the books in the world."

"Ah! youngster, did you ever read men?" The boy looked down; and, after a moment or two, said, "It is perhaps pleasanter to read books."

"Complimentary! you try, then."

"I do, sir; every face is a book--is it not, sir?"

"Ah! well, I suppose so- -the young are the pleasures of hope-now I, what should I be?” "The pleasures of memory, sir, I should think, you look so happy."

Mr. Francis had dismissed his "boy," and was watching the progress of the acquaintance between his brother and Richard.

"A flatterer!" said he.

"Oh, sir, truth is not flattery: I only thought so."

"You said you were an errand boy," observed Mr. Francis, advancing.

"Yes, sir, at first, quite; but my master is very kind to me, very; he lends me books, and of late I sometimes sit with him and read to him, and might do so every evening if I liked; but my mother, sir, she is quite a young woman, but she is blind."

Mr. John spoke to Mr. Francis apart; while they did so, Richard went to the door, and looked out into the sleet which was thickening into snow. "And why did you make the appointment with the boys, if you did not mean to help the deserving?" said Mr. John. “I am delighted with this lad: the penny, brother, can be made as lucky to you as it has been to him, if you only take advantage of it; his voice has a strain of music in it which recals-"

"Nothing!" interrupted Mr. Francis, "what should it recal? You are still given to seeing visions and dreaming dreams. Now, boy," he added sharply, "where does your master live ? "

Richard told him. "And your name?"

"My father changed his name some time before his death; but I am called Richard Dolland!"

"And what was your father's real name?" inquired Mr. John.

"What have we to do with that?" said Mr. Francis.

"I have," replied Mr. John; "I do not like changed names."

"Ah! if he had one I dare say he had forty," said Mr. Francis, with a bitter sneer.

"No, sir," answered the lad, while an indignant flush overspread his face. "No, sir, he changed his name because of the cruelty of his father; his real name was Richard Oldham."

Francis Oldham sprang at the lad's throat, as a tiger would spring upon a fawn. "It is false!" he screamed, "It is false!false false !-he left no child; and if he did?" His grasp relaxed, he fixed his strong eyes upon the panting boy, who returned his gaze with more indignation than terror-there was something, to the looker-on, positively fearful in the expression of both; one so blighting, so cruel; the other so defying; the very look which youth should never wear to age.

"Come!" said the old man to his brother, in a deep, hoarse voice, so deep that it seemed a voice from the grave, hard and untrembling as from a tongue of stone. "Come, come! I say, why do you look at him? there might be twenty Richard Oldhams. Come, John, brother-if you touch him, or hold any communion with him, I will never grasp your hand in mine. Never, do you hear; I will never, never give

my thoughts back for yours; never rest (if there are spirits) in a grave near yours: touch him not, brother; brother, if you touch him I will curse you both! Do not speak to me," he added passionately, not the frail flickering passion of an old man, feeble even in its violence, but with deep, concentrated, ungovernable rage; his eyes flashing, his thin lips quivering, his long, blue fingers impotent in strength, grappling the air convulsively"do not speak to me, but follow me, idiot though I have been, what had I to do with new readings of human nature-follow me, brother!"

Mr. John saw that the present was no time to combat his brother's will; and so, without another word, he followed him out of the shop, much to the relief of the basket-seller, who told Richard he would have a good action against that awful old gentleman, who was the biggest Turk she had ever seen; beginning the new-year after that fashion, and at his age too, when every additional day was an especial mercy.

"There he goes, tearing down the street?" she continued, "the wind has carried off his hat, but he does not heed it; the hail mingles with his grey hair, and streams over his shoulders; yet he feels nothing but his own passion: his strong, hearty brother can hardly keep pace with him. I judge he hasn't the same devil within to urge him on. Why don't you follow, and find out who they are? it may be worth your while."

Richard did not tarry either to hear or answer the question; he had disappeared through the other door. "Well, I declare,' continued the woman, "this is as strange a newyear's prank as ever I saw played; and as I live, the boy hasn't taken the baskets!"

Heedless of the knobby snow, and the pitiless wind which drifted it against his bare head, Mr. Francis rushed on. The few passengers who sheltered beneath their umbrellas, or bent half blindly to the blast, felt something pass them on the pavement so rapidly that visions of accidents or death troubled their minds; others stepped from beneath the shelter of door-ways, or hooded lanes, and thought the old man just escaped from a lunatic asylum, and that his keeper was following. More than one policeman asked Mr. John if he wanted help; but he waved them back, and they looked half perplexed and half offended at their assistance being thus declined. Mr. Francis's knock made the old door shudder again; though the servant did not know that her master inflicted this loudness on the quiet

of Harley-street, his little dog was aware of his presence, and flew to meet him; but his savage mood permitted of no tenderness, no sympathy, even from his dog. He kicked it madly from his path; the little creature howled piteously; but the moment after it limped to the door, which was banged and bolted against all the world, stretched out its half broken limb, and with that look of patient agony which a dog's face so well expresses, resolved to watch and wait for the returning love, which was all the heaven it ever knew or hoped for.

Mr. John could hear his brother pacing up and down the room, and when his step came near the door the dog's ears moved, and it uttered its little whine of recognition and entreaty."How much love," thought Mr. John," we cast to the winds and waves, which if garnered and nurtured, if even received and suffered to enter into the recesses where it would be content to dwell and fructify, would multiply the sweetest and tenderest blessings of existence around our hearths and homes. The sympathy we give to the small demands of others returns four-fold into our own bosoms." And then, again and again, he murmured— "Her grandchild, her grandchild—such an unaccountable sympathy drawing me towards him!" He tried to read; the letters escaped from their position, and resolved themselves into silhouettes and outlines of the face and figure of the youth he had seen-he looked up at the ceiling-out of the window -shadows, and visions, and memories were all about him. The present and palpable world was the dream-the shadows, the reality. He repeated over and over again to himself the youth's address, as if it could by any possibility be forgotten; his eagerness to go to his master could scarcely be restrained, and yet he must wait he must not go ALONE. How his long life in the Indian world seemed but a day, an hour, so forcibly did the time previous to his leaving England return to him; how he recalled it, and reviewed it, and what strong claims did nature assert within his bosom to enable him to remember, during those feverish hours, that Francis was his brother, born of his own mother-that mother whose image, beautified by the lapse of years, was so often present in his dreams -and how mysterious it was that Richard mingled with his thoughts, few as they were, of the future. The boy had suddenly given him a new interest in life. His thankful, righteous spirit was more than once lifted up in gratitude to God, not because of any certain good, but of the promise which he felt

had been given him since the morning, that his old age would not be childless. "Childless!" had it ever been so?-never! He had taken to his bosom, during his long life, orphans and deserted little ones, children who would at all events have morally perished but for the strong hand which gathered them into a home, and the warm heart which opened to receive them; fed, and clothed, and educated, he had placed out many such in the world. He had a perpetuity of children, and children's children, whose prayers daily and nightly rose to the throne of the Almighty for his good; no wonder that his ways prospered, that his sleep was sweet, and his blithe old heart happy. Some who did not profit by their blessing, he tried either to hope for or forget; the wild and the wayward, he suffered for a time to be scourged by their own whips, and the whips of the world; and when satisfied that their chastisement had been sufficient, he made a way for them to escape. He had engraved on brass, over the door of a school he had founded and endowed, a motto which should be engraved on every Christian heart

"While there is life there is hope!"

He had even scoffed at the idea of "natural affection," instancing the love borne to him by, and the love he bore to many of, these adopted children, as a love which could not be surpassed; but the lad Richard tugged so strongly at his heart, that he might have doubted his favourite theory, though he would have answered, "kindred has nought to do with it, but Richard's father was HER child!" Oh, deep and priceless love! bearing the toiler company through the rugged years of a rugged life; living after the life which gave it life has perished; a memory, yet strengthening the strong manly heart, to conquer in the battle with the world; a fragrance shedding perfume all along that world's thorny ways; a presence in the toilsome day and silent night— an active, earnest influence rising from a little mound of daisy-covered earth-a faith strengthening the faith by which eternal happiness is gained. Oh, matchless love! the joy and theme of angels, when purged of earthly passion, it lives,

"Bright as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky." Blessed are they whose hearts by thy power become altars! Even so it was with Mr. John Oldham; and those who observed his refinement and his benevolence, little wot of how it came, and wondered how it was that he did not marry, that his own children might

inherit the wealth he lavished (so always prate the thoughtless) upon those who were not kith nor kin to him.

At last his brother's door was opened, and the little dog permitted to enter, which it did with a joyous bark, looping up its poor leg the while, but not heeding its suffering, in delight at the murmured words which crept into its little palpitating heart; and he was sorry—Mr. Francis was both sorry and ashamed that he had injured the faithful brute, who had imbibed from him whatever of ill-temper disfigured its canine nature. In a short time the dinner was served, and Mr. Francis, selfconquered, met his brother with a firm step. Two hectic spots, as if dashed on by a firebrand, burned beneath his eyes; they were the only vestiges of his recent emotion. "I bade two of our old friends to meet you," he said, "but they were engaged." Mr. John made no reply-he could not speak-his brother helped him and himself; nor did Mr. Francis seem to observe that John's plate was removed untouched. The brothers had changed natures. Mr. Francis was terribly gay and grim-it was the flashing, fearful attempt at mirth of an evil spirit—the death's head crowned with a upas branch. When John spoke at all it was in monosyllables, dropped by accident; once he attempted to caress the little, limping dog, but the creature would have bitten him. Mr. Francis laughed. There was something terribly desolate, worse a hundred times than lonely, in this new-year's feast for in Mr. Francis's frugal housekeeping it was a feast. The cloth was removed, wine and dessert were placed upon the table; the servant vanished.

"I did not forget even your monkey, brother John," said Mr. Francis, "here are some nuts for him; but let us drink to this happy new-year, brother-happy new-year-ah! ah! Come, happy new-year."

John sprung to his feet, and pushed back the wine; "as I am a living man," he exclaimed, I will neither break bread, nor taste wine, until we-mind, brother, I said WE-it is my duty as well as yours-before we render justice! Food would suffocate me, wine would poison me, until this is done. I followed your footsteps; waited till your feelings subsided; acted like a child, instead of a man, at your command. But now I call upon youput that wine from your lips-put down the wine, brother Francis-let us out through the night; find the lad's master; and if it be that his character is clear, let us render justice; let us receive him as a new-year's gift from God!”