"Perjury!" said Francis, "I swore no child of my child should ever touch coin of mine."

"He has touched it: the Lucky Penny' was given by you to him; but away with so poor a subterfuge. Shall man swear to the author of all evil to do evil, and may not God set the compact aside, and teach him to repent, and do well? We are commanded not to do evil that good may come of it; how much stronger is the command not to let evil become the parent of evil."

"There is somewhere," replied Francis, with scorn and calmness, "mention made of a deaf adder, that will not hear the voice of the charmer."

"Ay, because he is deaf, but you are not so; nay, you shall not parry me. Look at it as you will, I see that a fearful wrong has been done; nay, more than one, a succession of wrongs-leaving you, the inflictor, a greater sufferer than those upon whom you inflicted punishment. I know it is the time and the hour to see to this; if, indeed, the lad would accept retribution from your hands."

"If-if-he would accept retribution from my hands," repeated Mr. Francis, bitterly, "if!—if!—you know he has been taught (should he be the boy) to curse his grandfather; and yet were I to advance a stepwere I to advance hand or foot towards him -were I to look upon him as I would upon a thing I loathe (he knowing who I was, and what I have), the young serpent would coil, and cringe, and smile, and flatter, and lurk, and fawn; the old man's gold-see if he would not plunge his soul into perdition to grasp it -do I not know the world?-do I not know the mammon worship of old and young?"

"Test him, try him," rejoined Mr. John; "brother, that is all I ask, try if he be the thing you say if he be, I will absolve you; Mr. Francis rose from his seat, "I will do more, I will not consider him our kin."

Mr. Francis rang the bell. "My coat, and hat, and stick."

"It rains, and blows, and snows, from all points of the compass, sir," said the astonished servant; "shall I call a coach ?"

"No! now, brother John "he cast a look of such exultation towards him-such a look as Satan cast at our first parents when they departed from Eden. Going down the steps, Mr. Francis turned round, and laid his hand upon Mr. John's arm-" if he accepts, you do not give him any claim on me!"

"No," was the curt reply. They proceeded silently, those two old men, battering on against the blast, trembling both the one

secure in his belief of the predominance of that cringing evil which would lick the dust for gold; the other hoping in the good, and confiding with most unworldly wisdom in the independence of a young boy, whose loving and beloved mother was blind and helpless, and who, with high aspirations, had suffered from the bleakest poverty.

An empty coach hailed them they entered. Mr. John heard through the blast, and amid the rattling of the once courtly carriage, the low, chuckling laugh of his brother-he enjoyed the infliction he suffered because of its anticipated fruitage. They drew up at the bookseller's door, and knocked. By degrees the light vanished from the area window, and ascended the stairs, standing still in the hall; again they knocked, and Martha slowly undid the door to the length of the chain, and poking her face out, asked what they wanted.

"Woman! undo the door," commanded Mr. Francis-it needed no second word-the chain fell, and Martha, shading her candle from the wind and rain with her hand, stood openmouthed gazing at the old man.

"Ask, ask," he repeated, to Mr. John. Mr. John did so: "Was this Matthew Whitelock's?"

People generally, even when they come by daylight, say Mr. Matthew," was the reply to him, though her gaze was rivetted on Mr. Francis: "but he was not at home, he was gone out-gone to Richard Dolland's; why shouldn't he, if he liked it, go to his messenger-Dick Dolland's, who had grown into Richard, and might into Mr. Richard, who could tell?" She gave the widow's address, and away lumbered the carriage, stopping at the entrance to the little court. The two old men prepared to cross the threshold of the widow's lodging; they saw from the shadows, as they passed the window, that there were three in the little room. Mr. Francis knocked, Richard opened the door, and turning suddenly round, exclaimed, as people do at the sudden fulfilment of a dream-"They are here!"

CHAP. VIII.

THE widow was seated in her usual corner; her Bible lay in her lap, for though she had ceased to be able to read its word, it was her inexpressible comfort; it strengthened her feebleness, nay, it restored her sight-it was her friend, her faith, her love, her devotionthe fountain of living waters, the rock of ages; her fingers knew all her favourite chapters, and could trace them verse by verse-never

"Battery and brutality," muttered Matty to herself, "I thought I knew the ould tyrant through the hoary shroud of age; and good right I have. Didn't I nurse his wife through her dying and to think of our Richard being her grandchild—no wonder my heart went to him so tinderly-oh the deceitfulness, murdering, and dreadfulness of the world; day and night, day and night-God help us all! we are all bad together!"

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"Were my father's father poor,' " said Richard, after a long pause, were he poor and I rich, I would help him: he should not starve, nor work himself to blindness; but I will never put my neck into a yoke I cannot carry. I could not love him-I could not obey him. His help would be to me a millstone. I will not even bear his name."

"Speak to him," said the bookseller, addressing the widow. "If all be real that I have heard, he is thrusting fortune from him."

The widow drew herself up, grasping her Bible more firmly than ever.

Let it be," she said, "according to the texts -HE loved. When great trouble came upon HIM, particularly in his latter days, when his hours were numbered, and he would still try to teach the child; then, when in most need of comfort, he would open his Bible, asking God, according to his want, for a text of patience, or faith, or hope, or charity, and it would come; just where he opened, there would be the balm and the teaching. And, according to the words God calls to my memory, let the lad decide." She paused as if waiting, and then quoted, in a low tone,

"It saith-the chief thing for life is water, bread, and clothing, and a house to cover shame.' Thank God, we have all these in an humble way. And it says again, 'Better is the life of a poor man in a mean cottage, than delicate fare in another man's house;' and it saith, understanding is a well-spring of life.' My child has understanding, and his father thought it for good, and it was sanctified by hope, and the hope hath been fulfilled." She paused, and shook her head mournfully; "they will not come to me, as they used to HIM. I am not worthy as HE was; and I told HIS father

I was not worthy, and that if he would forgive him, and nurture him, I would give him back his son!"-again she paused.

"This is cruel," said Mr. John; "it is too much for her; see how she trembles!"

"Mother! blessed, mother! exclaimed Richard, clasping her in his arms, "my own dear, darling mother"

"And what," she said, "did Jesus in the Temple? did he not overthrow the tables of the money-changers? You are right, my child -you do not want his wealth, let him go forth; his presence troubles me, I have the right text now, my child-it is for you-"

"And thou shalt eat of the labour of thy hands. Oh, well is thee, and happy shalt thou be!'

"Happy shalt thou be, my child," she repeated, exultingly, "his wealth has not made him happy; there is no HOPE in his voice; and if he came to make the offer, it was because of the unquietness of his own spirit; he has said naught of the sorrow, naught of the repentance, that would sanctify the gift. Oh, poor, old gentleman, how I do pity him; his cruelty killed the sweetest lady that ever loved a tyrant, and that was one desolation; and then, when his son loved me, that was another! I do pity the poor old gentleman whom even we desire to depart."

The bookseller was pulling at Mr. John's arm- "He has such talent, sir, poetic talent," he whispered, "a wonderful lad, sir; I saw it from the first, sir; he is proud and wilful. Ask the gentleman to give him time; you know it is sheer madness-quite the spirit of a gentleman." This eloquence was lost on Mr. John, whose feelings had been, and were, too strong for words; he had altogether lost sight of the actual motive why his brother had accompanied him there. He took the widow's hand," You mistake-you both mistake," he said, gently, "we came here to render justice, and I-I ought to have long since inquired concerning my nephew."

"Then," said the widow, "you are Mr. John, ah! my poor husband always said, you ought to have been his father!"

A fearful groan burst from the lips of Mr. Francis, the straightforward and simple avowal stuck like a spear into his heart: the widow heard the groan.

"The poor gentleman is ill," she said, adding, with her usual simplicity, "Richard, though we will not have his money, nor his help, we must pay him respect; he has nothing to love him-nothing-no one-in the wide, wide world."

Hardened and cynical, avaricious, cold, and calculating, as Mr. Francis had been for years, labouring to stifle all human emotion, that scene was more than he could bear; a victim of the contending and stormy passions which for years had rendered him the terror of his household, and a mystery to the world; disappointed by an independence which, while he could not comprehend, he was forced to reverence; he was so suddenly struck by the widow's observation to his brother that, as the room felt whirling round, he grasped the door, falling literally into the arms of the woman, who had watched with deep devotion, the fading away of his gentle wife. Matty was silenced by both the terror of that moment, and the memory of the past. She flung off his cravat-loosened his throat and chest ; and while he lay in a fearfully prolonged state of insensibility, they saw, resting upon the shrivelled skin that barely shrouded the bones and muscles of his frame, the miniature of his wife.

No one but Matty knew why, when his eyes rested upon that picture, poor Mr. John sank upon his knees, close by his brother's side, or why tears-large tears-streamed through his fingers. That night Mr. Francis was carried home to his cold and stately house, a stricken man; a sluggish attack of paralysis had seized upon him, not fiercely, but fatally, withdrawing motion and feeling gradually, bit by bit, from the worn-out frame, but leaving the brain, after a time, clear and active, although the heavy tongue could not give words to his thoughts or his desires; when, after that fearful interview, consciousness fully returned, it was evident, that this stubborn spirit rose in rebellion against the MERCY, which had borne so long with his caprices and his misdeeds—his angry looks and stammering words were ever rushing against those who ministered to his wants-sleepless and restless, he wearied even Mr. John by his thankless and turbulent spirit-he would get up, and when his feet refused to do their office, curse in broken accents, the poor limbs that could neither move nor support his frail weight. Gradually his speech returned, and long did Mr. John, with the patient, loving kindness of the tenderest woman, minister to his wants. How he prayed for that brother, how daily and hourly, he wearied heaven with prayers, how he entreated that grace might be given even at the eleventh hour; that he might but call upon that name, in spirit and in truth, of which only cometh salvation; how, sometimes in the night watches, sometimes in the grey morning light,

he fancied that a murmured petition - an entreaty for peace, and pardon, trembled on those adamantine lips. Oh, how his old heart beat with joy and thankfulness, when Mr. Francis asked him, to finish the Lord's prayer; he knew, he said, as far as the petition for daily bread, and was "curious" (so his pride masked his desire), to hear the remainder; how fervently it was repeated, though in a trembling voice-earnest and trembling-is recorded in heaven-hope twinkled like a star, flickering and wavering at first-obscured by clouds, but still ascending in the firmanent. It was not often that John slept upon his watch, but one particular night, he was awakened from the slumber, which in age is frequently as light as in childhood-" Brother, brother;" it was Mr. Francis; he asked him to pray for him, and wondered if the boy and his mother would come to his bed side.

Many weeks had passed, and Mr. John knew that Richard continued earnestly at his work, more brave because of his independence, and, perhaps, a thought more erect in his carriage, but steady and firm; thinking sometimes of what he might have been, but resolved TO BE, by his own exertions; it was well to see that though the poet's dream was strong upon him-though he was in the toils, he worked manfully in his vocation; his blind, patient mother, pondering now and then, if the old gentleman lived, but turning from his proffered gifts, into the poor, but happy haven, where hope was growing into certainty.

Mr. John did but wait; he lingered in the trust that his brother might be permitted to perform his duty; and thus it was, mother and son stood beside his bed, and then the hard bitter man, grown feeble as a little child-tears welling from that stern heart, gushing from those blood-shot eyes-asked for the pardon he had refused to grant; the blind woman, standing still beside him, until her limbs refused to do their office, and she sank upon her knees, bound to pray for him "who had despitefully used her," which she did weepingly, and with the earnestness of a Christian. After that, the old man could not bear that Richard should be away from his bed-side; in this new love, he seemed to have forgotten altogether Mr. John, he would follow Richard's movements with his eyes, listen to his reading until the coming shadows of the GREAT CHANGE dulled his senses-and mutter, "The Lucky Penny, The Lucky Penny!" The lad's voice soothed him-the lad's hand smoothed his pillow-the lad's step fell like a feather on the floor, and yet, as the

old man's face whitened, and assumed, strange to say, even a peaceful expression, that of the youth became anxious and distressed. Mr. Francis lingered long on the threshold of the grave, and yet to his brother all seemed soon over; but his was that happy nature which renews its youth by sympathy with the young.

Matthew Whitelock flourished greatly in a new shop, and had the satisfaction, after the lapse of a few years, of publishing (not by subscription) a beautifully illustrated volume of poems, by an Oxford graduate, who might have played a distinguished part in fashion

able society, but for a home-keeping and somewhat distant manner-loving the companionship of a very jovial old uncle better than the society of Freshmen or Fellows-and watching the footsteps of a blind mother with the tenderness and affection of a girl.

It may seem no less strange than true, but Richard Oldham always believed he would have preferred the fortune he might have achieved for himself, to that which he inherited; though in a glass case in his library, containing many coins of rare value, is deposited an old copy of the Life of Benjamin Franklin, and a common penny piece-the "Lucky Penny."

THE PAINTED BUNTING.

(Emberiza Ciris.)

THE characteristics of the bunting family do not vary materially from the grosbeaks (loxias) and the finches (fringilla); the buntings are gregarious, with a strong bill, the sides of the mandibles bending inwards, having in the upper one a knob (or tooth) for the purpose of bruising food.

The painted bunting is one of the most pleasing of cage birds; its form, loving habits, and gentle sweet song, combine to make it an especial favourite. I have been the possessor of several, and found all equally docile, fond of leaving their cages for the breakfast-table, and eating and bathing close by me, in the most familiar way. I had some trouble in enticing them back to captivity, and a chase ensued; they run along the ground like mice, and skim noiselessly from place to place. With their own species they are as quarrelsome as our own robins, but quite gentle with other birds. In the pairing season they have, during the night, a loud but melodious cry, or callnote, beyond which they do not betray the migratory impulses. Their resentments and love of practical jokes are admitted by every one who gives room for their exhibition. In one instance, in my large cage, I had found it necessary to divide two of these birds, their quarrel being à l'outrance, the stronger being condemned to solitary confinement, he constantly watched the approach of his opponent to the seed drawer, and through the bars at

* Continued from page 284.

tacked an unfortunate bunch of newly-grown feathers on the head of his enemy; this freak he repaid with interest, the lex talionis was suggestive of a shower bath. The Rev. Gilbert White, in his charming work on the Natural History of Selborne, gives the following passage, illustrative of this peculiarity :-"I have a nonpareil which often sits demurely upon a perch behind the other birds, and from thence makes excursions to pull their tails, poising itself upon the wing, like a kestril, underneath another bird, while it pulls its tail, and almost drags it from the perch, regaining its own post before the other can steady itself or look round. It is very fond of molesting, in this manner, a beautiful redbird, which had lost a foot before it reached this country, and to whom the joke is on this account particularly inconvenient; and I have been amused at observing, when the nonpareil went down afterwards to feed, the red-bird look down upon it with an aspect that spoke, as plain as words could tell, 'you are the fellow who dared to pull my tail." It is singular that these birds, like the genus syl via (warblers), are very troublesome to each other, in plucking out feathers from their companions, and swallowing the small ones. The nonpareil being a foreign bird, it is not possible to ascertain if the analogy holds good throughout, the sylvia division not showing this mischievous propensity, except when reared from the nest.

The painted bunting-better known as the "nonpareil," and also called the "pope"suffers greatly during the season of moult; he therefore requires warmth, an unequal tem