his lips his words came more slowly and languidly.

"If I were in your place, boy, I should go forth and see what is doing at the seat of war. I love not war for its own sake. It is a cruel and terrible thing. Yet there be times when it becomes a righteous thing; and methinks England is doing right to ally herself with the foes of France to crush the tyranny of that proud nation, whose king would fain be monarch of all Europe if he could. I know not whether men untrained to arms may enlist themselves in the ranks of the great Duke of Marlborough, whose genius is winning renown for England's sons. But were I young, methinks I would go forth and see some of the great things that are doing in the world; and it might well be that a fine grown young fellow, with stalwart limbs, a firm seat on a horse, and a knowledge of sword play and the use of firearms, might even find a place in the ranks of the great general. Whether or not, he would see life as he had never seen it before, and learn lessons which might make a man of him all his life."

The prospect was attractive and exciting for Tom, who loved a fight as he loved nothing else, and who had a very exalted idea of his own prowess and skill in arms. He could wrestle and throw better than any antagonist he had ever met, and was no novice with pistol or sword. He had the good opinion of his powers which naturally came to one who had seldom or never found his match in his native place; and already in imagination he saw himself riding at the head of a troop of soldiers, and winning laurels on all sides by his bravery and address.

The Squire's voice had sunk into the silence of exhaustion. He had closed his eyes, and only opened them again after a long interval. Their glance met that of young Tom, and the father seemed to read something of what was passing in his mind.

"Tom, lad," he said feebly, reaching forth his hand and trying to grasp the great horny fist of his son, "strive to be humble. Think not too well of thyself. Seek counsel from God in all things. Be not wise in thine own eyes. If thou art self willed, vain, and headstrong, grief and pain will be thy lot. Seek first the kingdom of heaven and its righteousness--"

But here the voice failed; and Tom, his quick nature touched and sobered, rose hastily, and, with a muttered promise of quick return, threw himself out of the room, as though afraid to trust himself there longer. He was such a stranger to keen emotion, that he fled from before it with a sense of dread.

The wife came back to her husband's bedside. He looked into her face and said, faintly:

"The lad hath yet a warm heart."

"I have always felt that," she answered quickly. "But oh, my husband, why send him forth to the perils of war?"

"In the hope that the stern discipline of a soldier's life may fit him for the duties which will be his at home. The lad needs above all things to learn to obey. Till he has mastered the lesson of submission, he can never be fit to hold the reins of government. That lesson he will learn most quickly in the life of the camp. There he will be no great man, but an overgrown boy to be taught and drilled. Young Tom needs to find his own level. That is what he never will do at home. He has lorded it over the neighbourhood too long already."

"But if he leaves us and goes forth into the world, who will care for his immortal soul?" asked the mother, with tears in her eyes.

"Has he listened to our words of admonition and warning at home?" asked the Squire, with a strange look in his glazing eyes. "Nay, wife, I feel as I lie here dying, that the life of the soul is something we poor frail human creatures must not try too much to touch. The Spirit of God will work in His own time. We may pray and weep and plead before God for an erring son, and we believe our prayers will be answered; but it will be in His time, not in our own. And time and place are no barriers with Him. He will do for Tom, I will not doubt it, what we have failed to do with all our pains and care."

The mother wept silently--for the husband whose life was ebbing away; for the son over whose heart she seemed to have so little control; for herself, soon to be left alone in the world, with only her daughter for her prop and stay. She was not a weak or helpless creature. She had been in her husband's confidence, and had been his helpmeet throughout their married life. She was well able to carry on single-handed the course of action he had pursued through his long rule at Gablehurst; yet not the less for this did she feel the desolation of her approaching widowhood; and it seemed an additional sorrow (although she recognized its necessity) that Tom was also to be taken from her.

A mother's love for her only son is a very sacred and compelling thing. Tom had not been a comfort or support to his parents; he was likely, if he remained, to be a source of endless trouble to his mother during her reign at the old house; yet none the less did it seem to her a heart-breaking thing to have to part from him.

The light about them grew more dim as the fire burned with a steady glow instead of with dancing flames. Rachel had lighted a lamp, yet it did little to illumine the great room. The sick man lay as though asleep.

Presently the mother spoke in a whisper to her daughter.

"Fetch Tom," she said.

Rachel knew what that meant, and her heart beat to suffocation. She crept from the room, and returned with her brother, and they stood side by side at one side of the bed, whilst their mother knelt at the other.

Once the dying man opened his eyes, and looked from one to another of those about him, though whether he saw them they did not know. Then his eyes closed, he gave a sigh, and turned upon his pillows.

The Squire of Gablehurst had passed to his last account.

CHAPTER II. OUT INTO THE WORLD.

"You had better let me go, mother. I shall do no good here."

Tom stood before his mother with a flush upon his handsome face--a flush that was one partly of shame, partly of anger, with a dash of excitement and eagerness thrown in.

His mother was in tears. She had been uttering words of reproach and sorrow; for after a period of wonderful steadiness immediately succeeding his father's death, young Tom had broken out into his wild ways again, and her fond hopes of seeing him grow into her comfort and stay were dashed ruthlessly to the ground again. The impression made upon him by the death of the Squire was growing dim now. His old companions were tempting him back to their ranks, and he had neither strength of purpose nor the resolute desire to resist their overtures.

"You had better let me go. You know my father said it. I have never done any good here, and I never shall. I want to see the world, and I see nothing here. Gablehurst and Gablethorpe are too narrow for me. I will go to foreign lands, and come back to you with a better record to show. I think I could make a fine soldier, but in this miserable little place a man has no scope."

"A man has scope to become a good landlord, a kind master, a God-fearing head of his household," said the mother, with a sigh in her voice.

But Tom interrupted impatiently:

"That is all very well when one is the master. Perhaps when I come back I can be all that myself; but now I am a dummy--a nobody, and they all make game of me for being a mock squire! My father himself knew that no man of spirit would stand such a humiliating arrangement. If he could not trust me to succeed him, he did well to arrange for me to go elsewhere. He said you would tell me what provision he had made for me to do so."

The moment had come that the mother had so long dreaded. She had to face the separation from her son, and to send him forth into the world alone. But the experiences of the past weeks had taught her that perhaps this was the best thing that could happen to young Tom. In Gablethorpe he had no chance of getting away from evil associates. In a different place he