surrounded the grounds of Percy Grange. This seat was near one end of a narrow country lane which ran round a considerable portion of the Grange. It took a sharp turn just at this point, and the seat was so arranged that a person advancing from that corner would be upon the occupiers of it almost before they were aware of his approach. Upon this seat Eustace placed himself, whilst I threw myself on the sward at his feet, that I might be the better able to look up into his face, and win from him, if possible, one of those bright smiles which in days gone by had sat so frequently and so fittingly upon it. Now, however, it did not seem to be possible to win a cheerful word or a happy look from him. Several times, when he saw how much his conduct pained me, he tried indeed to smile and speak pleasantly to me; but he faltered and broke down with the half-formed word upon his quivering lips, and the sad smile which flitted for an instant across his face, like a gleam of sunshine playing over some scene of utter desolation and decay, was infinitely more painful to behold than the most passionate gush of tears could ever have been.

Thus we had sat for some little time, when, suddenly, the sound of a horse's hoofs fell upon my ear. The rider, whoever he might be, was evidently advancing at a leisurely pace upon us from the corner of the lane, near which the seat, to which I have already alluded, was placed. As yet he was invisible to us, but, as the sounds came nearer and nearer, I marked that Eustace had become more deadly pale than ever, that the cold sweat was standing in thick drops upon his brow, and that he was trembling violently in every limb. Before I could rise to my feet Sir Percy Percy had ridden into the lane, and Eus tace, with outstretched hands, and with a cry which

sounded strangely on the quiet evening air, was rushing wildly towards him. In an instant, recovering from his surprise, Sir Percy reined in his horse, and turned as if he would ride away in the direction whence he had come. Before he could effect his purpose, Eustace had thrown himself upon the ground, and had got his arms twined fast about his father's feet. I heard a wild cry of "Father! tather!" rising from his lips in agonizing tones, as he clung madly to the stirrup, and every instant I expected to see him trampled beneath the horse's hoofs. Although I was standing within a few yards of them I thought it was no time for me to interfere; nay, I even dared to hope that, matters having come to this pass, the father's heart must of necessity relent at last. But, the evil look which I had seen that morning passed once more across his face, only more fearfully, more hideously than ever. I think he uttered never

a word, but turned away his head, and made strong and violent efforts to disengage himself from the clutch of his son. Once or twice the horse plunged wildly, but Eustace never relinquished his hold, never ceased that cry which might have pierced the heart of a stone: "Forgive me, father! only forgive me: this is all I ask! Father! Father! Father!" and, still, I interfered not. A moment more, and with the look of a very devil, distorting and rendering hideous his noble face, I saw him raise himself in his stirrups. I saw him lift the wicked hand that held his heavy riding-whip high above his head, and then I rushed in between them. The heavy whip came down with a crashing blow upon my head and shoulders, almost maddening me with pain, but I heeded it not. I had saved him from the cruel stripe. I had saved his father's hand from the deadly crime, and

this was all I cared for. I knew well enough that he would not have struck me intentionally, and I could pardon him the rest. I hardly know what followed next. I heard him, even in the torrent of his rage, uttering some words of apology to me, but I did not heed them. I threw myself upon him, snatched the whip from his hands, and flung it with all my strength over the hedge. Once more he rose in his stirrups and struck his spurs furiously into his horse. The beast plunged madly in the narrow lane, scattering the stones and dust in all directions. Then there was a loud cry, a cry louder and more heartrending than ever, and I felt myself thrown violently on one side, so violently, indeed, that I staggered and fell, as Sir Percy Percy, his head uncovered, and his long hair floating in the wind, his eyes glaring like two unholy fires in the midst of his distorted face, rode past me as furiously as ever spur and voice could urge his frightened and excited beast. I was stunned for a moment or two by my fall, but I quickly recovered myself, and the first object which met my dazed sight was enough to recall me to myself in an instant. My friend lay stark and motionless before my eyes. As I knelt down, that, with a tender and a pitying hand, I might raise his head out of the dust which so defiled the golden glory of his long, fair hair, the crimson blood gushed out in torrents from his nostrils and his mouth-his head fell back as if it were a log of wood-his form grew stiff and rigid in my arms, and I was fain to lay him down once more among the dust and stones of the narrow country lane, fain to lay him down, to all appearance, stark and dead before my very eyes.

*

And thus they parted-father and son-never to look into each other's eyes again, except for one brief instant, till, on that dread day which is to make all things straight, they shall stand, face to face, before the judgment-seat of God.

Book Third

BEATING то THE SHORE.

CHAPTER XIII.

NEARING THE SHORE.

ITH its never-ceasing ebb and flow, each wave drifting us nearer and nearer to the everlasting shores, the ocean of life for ever rolls

along Now, a million sun-lights dance upon its breast, and twinkle on its placid surface, till it seems to glow, a sea of silver, beneath the unclouded azure of the summer sky. Anon, that sky grows dark, and angry clouds roll up, each one fiercer and more threatening than the seething mass which the howling wind has just borne away upon its wingstill, at last, the foaming, boundless sea breaks out with one wild roar in all the majesty, the esistless fury, of the mighty storm. But, whether in the calm and sunny splendour of the summer's day, whether in the peace and still repose of the moonlit sky, or whether in the raging and the howling of the relentless storm, still it rolls along, that ocean of our life, drifting us with its every wave nearer and nearer to the everlasting shores. Since I parted from you, courteous reader, I need scarcely say that the world has not stood still for me or for those whom I ventured to