opinions, and distrustful of their own. I argued the matter with him earnestly for a long time, and under every point of view; but, whilst he was ever loving and affectionate in his words to me, whilst he exaggerated every little service which I had ever done him, whilst he spoke of me and what he called my faithful friendship in terms which I cannot repeat, the end was ever the same, the unvarying determination expressed in the words which seemed to come from out his very heart, "It is no use, Ambrose, it is all no use, I must and I will see my father." And so at last, out of very pity to his poor, pale face; out of very pity to his tears, his sobs, and his weary cry; out of the very pity which made me prize and revere him more and more deeply every moment of his life, I gave up the useless contest. I urged my opposition no farther, although I felt none the less surely, none the less keenly, that my poor friend was but about to draw the storm more fiercely down upon his unprotected head, to entangle his bleeding feet but still more deeply among the cruel thorns which had so suddenly sprung up around his path. I had but one comfort and one consolation in all this. It came to me more strongly than I had ever before felt it, as I was that night pondering in the silence of my own room on the present and the future of my friend. It was the holy and the blessed thought that, however dark the path of life may grow-however apparently inextricable the confusion may become-however the winds may howl and the waves may roar-however little we may be able to see that end, there is One, nevertheless, who is ever causing all the troubles and the pains of this weary life to work together for the good of those who follow Him with simple and with

loving hearts-One who is ever tempering the wind to the shorn lamb-One who has sworn not to break the bruised reed nor quench the smoking flax-One who has told us in words that shall never fail, for they are the words of truth itself, that happy is the man who suffereth pain, and trouble, and temptationwho has told us that they who go forth sowing their seed in weeping and in tears shall surely return in great rejoicing, carrying the sheaves of the harvest time which shall compensate, even to the very full, for all the former things that have passed away.

B

CHAPTER XI.

THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.

EFORE I retired to rest that night I had made one resolution, viz. that, if I could not prevent my friend from endeavouring to see his father, I would, at least, wait upon Sir Percy previously, that I might thus judge as much as possible for myself of the real state of affairs, and if I had an opportunity pave the way for Eustace. Probably, I acted indiscreetly enough in this; but I can only say that I did all for the best ; and this must be my excuse. Moreover, in any case, I should have waited upon Sir Percy. He had been so kind to me, and his intentions in my behalf had been so generous, that I deemed it no less than my duty to wait upon and personally inform him of that change in my position of which he had, doubtless, already heard from other sources. Consequently, the very next morning, after making some excuse to my mother and Eustace for my absence, I made my way with no little trepidation of heart to Percy Grange. I doubt whether I had ever, even in my youngest days, entered it with more nervousness and trembling than I did on the present occasion. However, I called all my resolution, all the strength of my manhood to my aid, and boldly sent up my name.

After some delay the servant returned, and begged

me to follow him to Sir Percy's room. How my heart did beat, to be sure, as I trod the noble galleries and the stately halls of the grand old housethe house from which one certainly, if not two, of its sons were exiles and outcasts. Raising a thick curtain of heavy velvet, the servant threw open the door, and once again I stood in the dreaded presence of Sir Percy Percy. As I entered by one door, I caught a glimpse of the skirts of my lady's dress, as she vanished through an opposite one, and I instinctively felt that her presence at such a time boded me no good. As if to provide against any danger of her influence suffering by her absence, she had left her son behind her. He was now a very handsome child of some four years of age. He was standing by his father's knee as I entered the room; and he at once reminded me most forcibly of what Rupert and Eustace, the two elder sons of Sir Percy, had been when I first knew them. However, I gave no more than a passing glance at him, for, as I need scarcely say, my whole attention was at once directed to Sir Percy. A little more frigid in his manner, perhaps-the expression of his mouth a little more cold and cynical

his face a little paler, and more careworn than usual-he was, with these trifling differences, which an ordinary observer would scarcely have noticed, the Sir Percy I had always known, as he rose from his chair, as I entered the room, and received meif with coldness-with all the dignity and politeness of a gentleman. As I stood hesitatingly on the threshold, feeling all the awkwardness of my position, and scarcely knowing how to act, he advanced a step towards me, and held out his hand. Although there was no warmth, no feeling in its grasp as it touched mine, he gave me his hand nevertheless. Sir Percy

was far too much of a gentleman to have offered me a couple of fingers-a detestable practice which is in vogue with some who do not think you good enough to give you a whole hand; and who, being obliged to notice your presence, do not like to be rude enough to refuse you the ordinary salutation which one Englishman pays to another, and so make a compromise between your nothingness and their gentility, by extending to you a couple of their fingers-a piece of condescension which I am always grievously tempted to acknowledge by taking hold of the said fingers, whenever they are extended to me, with the lap of my coat. He motioned to me to take a seat; inquired politely after my own health, and that of my mother; and having gone through these conventional formalities, waited with frigid politeness for what was to follow.

I had scarcely ever felt less at ease; but, at last, I made a dash at it, and plunged at once, in medias res, to the heart of the business which had brought me into his presence. "You have always been so kind to me, Sir Percy," I began in a hesitating and blundering way, "and your intentions in my regard were so generous, so truly liberal, that I have deemed it my duty to wait upon you, in order that I might personally inform you of a very considerable change which has lately taken place in my position, and of which, perhaps, you may have already heard. I have not the presumption to suppose that my future lot can be of any interest to you," I ventured to add; "but still, Sir Percy, I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I have not taken so grave a step without the weightiest reasons; and if, by any chance, I can' have offended or given any pain to you by that step, I trust that you will pardon me for it, and believe