mind with all the writhings of remorse.  Not yet, for in the morning of that day he only revelled in thoughts of his vast wealth, and dreams of future aggrandizement.

Presently his mother entered the room, accompanied by his cousin William; they came to offer their congratulations, with, on Mrs. Sidney’s part, a hope that, now her son was really in the possession of enormous wealth,

some impulse of generosity and benevolence would spring up in his heart.  Accordingly she it was who took the opportunity of offering a petition: nothing less than that he would spare a certain sum of money for his cousin William’s college expenses.

Poor William! he trembled while he listened, for on the chance of his cousin’s acquiescence rested the probability of his advancement in life, and the means of assisting his brothers and sisters.

But the face of the young lord grew clouded, and though it would seem that he dared not look up when he spoke, he said, resolutely, “I have no money to spare for any such purpose.”

“Oh, Charles!” exclaimed Mrs. Sidney, “I know that you have hundreds and thousands of pounds at your disposal; again, again, I warn you that your sin is great.  In the sight of God you are but the steward of this vast property, and to Him will you have to render an account of its disposal.  My son, my son, while there is time, oh! change this heart of stone;” and overcome by her bitter feelings she burst into tears.

“My hundreds and thousands of pounds,” returned Lord Sereton, without appearing in

the least degree moved, “are wanted to pay for an estate which is contiguous to my present property, and which I am determined on having.  By joining them together, I shall increase the value of each.”

“Is it you, then,” exclaimed Mrs. Sidney, with an expression of horror in her countenance, “is it you then, who have been bidding so cruelly against the former owner? that good man who, having been compelled from unforeseen misfortunes to sell his inheritance in early life, has worked indefatigably for thirty years to win back the house of his fathers, and preserve the honour of the family.  He was your father’s friend too.”

“What have I to do with friendship that existed before I was born?” said the unfeeling youth, sulkily; “I will have the estate, I tell you.”

“Hush—hush,” murmured the mother, and her words seemed almost prophetic, “it is God that wills, not man; and even now I think He does not will this cruelty.”

“Aunt, let us go,” said William, “I am as grateful to you as if your mission had been successful.”

“Let me call you son:” exclaimed Mrs.

Sidney, taking William’s hand with affection; “I will no longer own that selfish and cruel child.”

And to this pass had the hardening heart, and the growing covetousness of Charles Sidney brought him: to be disowned by his mother on his one-and-twentieth birthday, at the moment of his earthly pride, and of his acquiring princely possessions!

Yet now, even at this eleventh hour, a merciful God might have pardoned and protected him.

The feasting and attempted merry-making went off heavily.  There was no spirit of love, or reverence, or gratitude, to warm the hearts of the tenantry, or make their lips eloquent; and not a few were glad when the day was drawing to a close.

Towards evening, the young lord mounted his horse, and rode in the direction of the much admired neighbouring estate.  Wishing to examine some particular spots minutely, and to revel in the contemplation of the whole without being disturbed, he was not even accompanied by a groom.

The sun was going down in all its glory, casting tall shadows of the trees across the

road, when it peeped from the clouds of crimson and gold that encircled it.  The young lord came to a field dotted with the graceful wheat-sheaves, for it was harvest time, and knowing that if he rode across it, he should be saved half a mile of road, he determined to do so.  Two men were lounging at the gate through which he passed.  One of them was Thomas Bennett, whom circumstances had induced to become a labourer on the estate, and he it was who remarked, “He’ll be thrown, that’s my opinion; those fine-paced gentlemen’s horses are not used to make their own roads across a corn field.”

“Then why don’t you warn my lord?” said the other.

“Warn him!” replied Bennett, who it must be owned, had grown up a violent tempered vindictive man; “you have not lived long in these parts, or you would have known better than ask that question.  If it were Master William, now, I should make free to seize the bridle—but as for my lord there—why, I have known him man and boy, and I’ll answer for it, no one has love enough towards him to warn him from any danger.”  And so saying they both walked rapidly away.

Bennett’s words were indeed true, for scarcely had the young lord proceeded a hundred yards, when the horse, unused to such uneven ground, stumbled and fell, throwing his unhappy master.  Nor was this all, for Charles had remained entangled in the stirrup: he was dragged along the stubble a considerable distance, with a broken arm and fearful bruises, till, stunned by a kick from the horse, he became insensible.  Probably the saddle-girth at the same moment gave way and released him, for the unconscious animal trotted home, and was discovered with disordered trappings at the park gates.

It was evident some accident had happened, and servants were sent out in all directions.  The first conscious perception Charles had was of waking to excruciating agony, and finding himself supported on men’s shoulders along the road.  No doubt every one believed him still insensible, or, much as he was disliked, they would not have been so cruel as to reproach him in his hour of agony.  He had not strength to speak, but he could not avoid hearing.

“He can’t get over it; he’ll never see another sunset,” said one.

“Well, any way we can’t have a harder master, that’s some comfort!” exclaimed another.

“Oh!  Master William is a real right down lord,” cried a third eagerly, “he won’t rack-rent the tenants, and grind down the poor.  Why, he saved us and our little ones from the workhouse last winter, though he is poor—that is quite poor for a gentleman—I well know.”

“Then hurrah! for the new lord!” said the second speaker, throwing his hat in the air; “and I think they should pension the horse, that has given him to us, with the free run of the park all his life, instead of shooting him, as some one talked of doing.”

“For shame, it is wicked to rejoice over the fallen,” said a woman in the crowd, and in the next moment the sound of a pistol was heard proclaiming that the horse had paid his penalty for the accident, and would never throw another rider!

And now for a moment, before these pages close, let us contemplate the death-bed of the selfish and avaricious young lord, who in the three stages of ease, affluence, and luxury—and as boy, youth, and man,—had only laid up his “treasures on earth.”

But they could not assuage one torturing pain, or prolong his life for a second!

Far more than bodily pangs, oh! harder to endure a thousand times, were the stings of