melancholy way, carrying his basket of tools, with his eyes fixed on the ground, attending very little to what was passing around him, and Rover was trudging by his side, when, unluckily, just as Lord Robert came up to him, a hare darted out of some bushes, and Rover scampered after it.

"That is the way all the game is poached off the estate!" exclaimed Lord Robert in a fit of passion; and, yielding to the influence of temper, he levelled his gun at the dog. The piece, that had so many times missed fire that day, now rang sharp and true: the faithful creature was mortally wounded; he crawled feebly to his master's feet, and expired. Philip hung over his poor dog, while he saw him die, with anguish that gave a painful sensation to Lord Robert; yet still, under the dominion of temper, he said to his servant—

"What a fool the fellow makes of himself about a dog!"

Philip lifted the body of his poor favourite from the ground, and taking it in his arms, rushed by the young lord, giving him a look of contempt and indignation as he passed.

"It is the dog that used to lead about his blind sister," said the humane gamekeeper. "She is just dead."

Lord Robert then remembered meeting Kate and the dog when he first came home: he had patted her curly head and admired her beauty.

"Was it blind Kate's dog?" said Lord Robert. "Had I known that, he might have destroyed every head of game on the estate before I would have shot him."

Perhaps, had Philip heard this half acknowledgment of error, much evil might have been prevented. The next time he met the young noble, it was with the most bitter feelings. He considered that Lord Robert had wantonly murdered the innocent companion of his sister; and all the grief he felt for her loss was turned into rage. Contemptuous words succeeded angry looks: and these ere not to be borne by Lord Robert's untamed spirit; though he felt greatly displeased with himself, and would have given half his fortune to have recalled the past, yet he would not bear Philip's reproaches. A very little provoked him to strike him, and a desperate encounter ensued. This was followed by many others; for Philip neglected all his better pursuits to gratify his revenge; he lay in wait to attack Lord Robert, and took every opportunity of defying him; till the most ferocious hatred took place between the two youths, which led to the consequences we have already seen. In one instance, however, Philip was wrongfully accused, as he never had stained his hands with dishonest practices. Lord Robert well knew that the dog's accidentally chasing the hare was perfectly involuntary on the part of Philip, who was scarcely conscious of it before the poor animal was put to death.

This incident had given Lord Robert Summers great mental pain: he was as angry with himself as with Philip Harley; he could not bear to think of his conduct in this affair—he could not bear to recall any circumstance relating to it; and only the name of Philip Harley gave him the greatest uneasiness. Yet he was not conscious that the whole of this uneasiness sprang from giving the reins one moment to ungovernable temper; for it was neither Philip nor his dog that had offended or irritated him; but accidental circumstances had put him in a very ill humour, and he vented his temper on the first beings that crossed his path, and, by that means, he was induced to commit an act of cruelty and oppression really foreign to his own disposition, and which outraged the best feelings of a fellow-creature, already under the pressure of acute affliction. If young people will look into their own hearts, they will find that there is no frailty belonging to our erring nature so deceptive as temper. Strange as it may appear, it often happens that many individuals, when they express anger, generally wreak it on the last person who would have thought of exciting it. Some unfortunate servant, or still more unhappy dependant, is made the victim of ill humour; which is not only in itself as blind and erring as it is unjust, but also brings with it the additional pain of self-reproach. Yet the heart is not always bad that gives way to its evil dominion; but it is for want of self-examination—of saying, "I find myself mentally uneasy, perhaps from accidental events, or even from indisposition of body; why then should I make myself odious to this person, who is in my power, and must endure my ill treatment, when a little patience and forbearance will remove the cloud that rests on my mind, and my spirit will rise bright and unclouded, rejoicing in the consciousness of having overcome one of the most painful infirmities of human nature?" This self-confession (if it may be so called) will bring mental health, and rectify the most irritable disposition.

Never did a month seem so long, as the time appeared to Lord Robert Summers while he remained on shore. He parted from his noble relatives with the less regret as he longed to be at sea, to lose in active employment the memory of these errors and mortifying reflections.

This young nobleman had passed his examination as lieutenant with the greatest credit; and in a severe engagement between his uncle's ship and a French man-of-war of superior force (which ended in the capture of the Frenchman), Lord Robert Summers behaved with such distinguished valour, that he was considered, both for intrepidity and nautical skill, a most promising young officer; yet, on account of his youth, being but just sixteen, he did not expect his commission for some time to come. In this idea, however, he was agreeably deceived; for, before the Diomede put to sea, he received his commission as lieutenant. Lord Robert was greatly attached to his profession; and this early promotion, which he was conscious was less the effect of interest than desert, seemed to him the first fruits of a brilliant career of naval honours.

He was received with transport by Sir Henry Stanley; who, himself an ornament to the British navy, foresaw, in the early valour of this beloved nephew, the glory of a Vernon or a Rodney. The Diomede had received sailing orders; Lord Robert, in high spirits, and joyful expectation of future triumphs, was in one of his happiest humours, when a boat from a tender came alongside the Diomede, with a supply of pressed men to recruit the ship's company.

"Summers, are you ill?" asked a young officer, with whom Lord Robert was gaily conversing; when a sudden alteration became observable in his voice and manner, and his cheek was overspread with a deadly paleness. Lord Robert did not hear him, being wholly occupied in watching the progress of a young sailor up the ship's side.

Lieutenant Cary repeated the question, but received no answer; and, supposing that Lord Robert was troubled with one of his occasional fits of patrician haughtiness, and being to the full as high-spirited as himself, left him to his contemplations. These were of no pleasant nature; for though emaciated, ragged, and dirty, and in many respects different from the handsome youth he had lately seen, the young sailor (who by this time stood on the deck of the Diomede) was Philip Harley! He now felt that his dislike and abhorrence had arisen to a more intolerable degree than ever; he fretted at the perverse accident that had thrown this hated object in his way, and actually proceeded some paces to request his uncle to remove Philip Harley from the ship; but then he recollected that he should most likely be forced to enter into particulars that he detested to recall, besides giving his enemy reason to suppose that the presence or absence of so abject a creature could be of the least consequence to him.

"No," said he to himself, "let him remain; he will, in the discipline of a man-of-war, be cured perhaps of his audacity, and learn submission to proper authority." This was the result of Lord Robert's debate with himself. At first, he had been a little touched by Philip's pale and altered countenance; but, on a second glance, he found his enemy had recognised him, and returned his glance with a look