sight.

Then first did Julian’s anguish find vent in tears. Passionately he longed at least to know the worst, and would have given anything to speed the progress of the train, far too slow for his impatient misery. He was tormented by remembering the unusually solemn look and tone with which his father had parted from him a month before, and by the presentiment which at that moment had flashed across him with uncontrollable vividness, that they should never meet again. At last, at last they reached Ildown late in the evening, just as the flushed glare of crimson told the death-struggle of an angry sunset with the dull and heavy clouds. The station was a mile from the town, and it was a raw, gusty, foggy evening. There was no conveyance at the station, but leaving with the porter a hasty direction about his luggage, Julian flew along the road heedless of observation, reached the cliff, and at length stood before the rectory door. He was wet, hungry, and exhausted, for since morning he had tasted nothing, and his run had spattered him with mud from head to heel. It was too dark to judge what had happened from the appearance of the house, and half-frantic as he was with fear and eagerness, he had yet not dared to give a loud summons at the door, lest he should disturb his father’s slumber or excite his nerves.

Ah! Julian, you need not restrain your impetuous dread from that cause now—

The door opened very quietly, and in reply to Julian’s incoherent question, the good old servant only shook her head, and turned away to brush off with her apron the tears which she vainly struggled to repress. But the boy burst into the study where he knew that the rest would be, and in another moment his arm was round his mother’s neck, while Cyril and Violet and little Frank drew close and wept silently beside them both. But still Julian knew not or would not know the full truth, and at last he drew up courage to ask the question which had been so long trembling on his lips—

“Is there no hope, mother, no hope?”

“Don’t you know then, my boy? Your father is—”

“Not dead,” said Julian, in a hollow voice. “Oh, mother, mother, mother.”

His head drooped on her shoulder the news fell on him like a horrible blow, and, stunned as he was with weariness and anxiety, all sense and life flowed from him for a time.

The necessity for action and the consolation of others are God’s blessed remedies to lull, during the first intolerable moments, the poignancy of bereavement. Mrs Home had to soothe her children, and to see that they took needful food and rest; and she watched by the bedside of her younger boys till the silken swathe of a soft boyish sleep fell on their eyes, red and swollen with many tears. Then she saw Violet to bed, and at last sat down alone with her eldest son, who by a great prayerful effort aroused himself at last to a sense of his position.

He took her hand in his, and said in a low whisper, “Mother, let me see him?”

“Not now, dearest Julian; wait till to-morrow, for our sakes.”

“What was the cause of death, mother?”

“Disease of the heart;” and once more the widow’s strength seemed likely to give way. But this time it was Julian’s turn to whisper, “God’s will be done.”

Next morning Mrs Home, with Julian and Violet, entered the room of death. Flowers were scattered on the bed, and on that face, calm as marble yet soft as life, the happy wondering smile had not yet even died away. And there Julian received from his mother a slip of paper, on which his father’s dying hand had traced the last messages of undying love and when they had left him there alone, he opened and read these words, written with weak and wavering pen—

“My own dearest boy, in this world we shall never meet again. But I die happy, Julian, for my trust is in God, who cares for the widow and the fatherless. And you, Julian, will take my place with Violet, Cyril, and dear Frankie—I need say nothing of a mother to such a son. God bless you, my own boy. Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you. Your dying father,

“Henry Home.”

The last part was almost illegible, but Julian bent reverently over his father’s corpse, and it seemed that the smile brightened on those dead lips as he bowed his young head in prayer.

Reader, for many reasons we must not linger there. But I had to tell you of that death and of those dying words which Julian knew by heart through life, and which he kept always with him as the amulet against temptation. He never forgot them; and oh! how often in the hours of trial did it seem as if that dying message was whispered in his ear, “Be brave, and honest, and pure, and God will be with you.”

The concluding arrangements were soon made. The family left the rectory, but continued to reside at Ildown, a spot which they loved, and where they were known and loved. Mr Home had insured his life for a sum, not large indeed, but sufficient to save them from absolute penury, and had besides laid by sufficient to continue Julian’s education. It was determined that he should return to Harton, and there try for the Newry scholarship in time. If he should be successful in getting this, there would be no further difficulty in his going to college, for it was expected that a wealthy aunt of his would assist him. His guardians, however, were kind enough to determine that, even in case of his failing to obtain the Newry, they would provide for his university expenses, although they did not conceal from him the great importance of his earnestly studying with a view to gain this pecuniary aid. Cyril was sent to Marlby, and Frank, who was but ten years old, remained for the present at Ildown grammar school.

After the funeral Julian returned to Harton with a sadder and wiser heart. Though never an idle boy, he had not as yet realised the necessity of throwing himself fully into the studies of the place, but had rather given the reins to his fancy, and luxuriated in the gorgeous day-dreams of poetry and romance. Henceforward, he became a most earnest and diligent student, and day by day felt that his intellectual powers grew stronger and more developed by this healthier nourishment. At the end of that quarter he gained his first head-remove, and Mr Carden rejoiced heartily in the success of his favourite pupil.

“Why, Julian, you will beat us all if you go on at this rate,” said he, after reading over the trial verses which Julian asked him to criticise after the examination. “You always showed taste, but here we have vigour too; and for a wonder, you haven’t made any mistakes.”

“I’m afraid I shall be ‘stumped’ in the Greek ‘Iambi,’ sir, as Mr Clarke calls them.”

“Ah! well, you must take pains. You’ve improved, though, since you had to translate Milton’s—

            “Smoothing the raven down
Of darkness, till it smiled;

“when, you remember, I gave you a literal version of your ‘Iambi,’ which meant ‘pounding a pea-green fog.’ Eh?”

“Oh, yes,” said Julian, “I remember too that I rendered ‘the moon-beams’ by ‘the moon’s rafters.’”

“Never mind,” said Mr Carden, laughing, “improve in them as much as you have in Latin verse, and we shall see you Newry scholar yet.”

A thrill of joy went through the boy’s heart as he heard these words.