double locks in cabinets is the real lumber to the boy! Lumber, reader, to thee it was a treasury! Now this cupboard had been the lumber-room in Caleb's household. In an instant the whole troop had thrown themselves on the motley contents. Stray joints of clumsy fishing-rods-artificial baits-a pair of worn-out top-boots, in which one of the urchins, whooping and shouting buried himself up to the middle-moth-eaten, stained, and ragged, the collegian's gown: relic of the dead man's palmy time-a bag of carpenter's tools, chiefly broken-a cricket-bat-an odd boxing-glove-a fencing foil, snapped in the middle-and more than all, some half-finished attempts at rude toys: a boat, a cart, a doll's house, in which the good natured Caleb had busied himself for the younger ones of that family in which he had found the fatal ideal of his trite life. One by one were these lugged forth from their dusty slumber-profane hands struggling for the first right of appropriation. And now, revealed against the wall, glared upon the startled violators of the sanctuary, with glassy eyes and horrent visage, a grim monster. They huddled back one upon the other, pale and breathless, till the eldest, seeing that the creature moved not, took heart-approached on tiptoe--twice receded, and twice again advanced, and finally drew out, daubed, painted, and tricked forth in the semblance of a griffin, a gigantic kite?

The children, alas! were not old and wise enough to know all the dormant value of that imprisoned aeronaut, which had cost poor Caleb many a dull evening's labour-the intended gift to the false one's favourite brother. But they guessed that it was a thing or spirit appertaining of right to them; and they resolved, after mature consultation, to impart the secret of their discovery to an old wooden legged villager who had served in the army, who was the idol of all the children of the place; and who, they firmly believed, knew every thing under the sun except the mystical arts of reading and writing. Accordingly, having seen that the coast was clearfor they considered their parents (as the children of the hard working often do) the natural foes to amusement-they carried the monster into an old outhouse, and ran to the veteran to beg him to come up slyly and inspect its properties.

Three months after this memorable event arrived the new pastor: a slim, prim, orderly, and starch young man, framed by nature and trained by practice to bear a great deal of solitude and starving. Two loving couples had waited to be married till His Reverence should arrive. The ceremony performed, where was the registry book? The vestry was searched, the churchwardens interrogated; the gay clerk, who, on the demise of his deaf predecessor, had come into office a little before Caleb's last illness, had a dim recollection of having taken the registry up to Mr. Price at the time the vestry room was whitewashed. The house was searched; the cupboard, the mysterious cupboard, was explored. "Here it is, sir!" cried the clerk; and he pounced upon a pale parchment volume. The thin clergyman opened it, and recoiled in dismay: more than three fourths of the leaves had been torn out.

"It is the moths, sir," said the gardener's wife, who had not yet removed from the house. The clergyman looked round: one of the children was trembling. "What have you done to this book, little one?"

"That book?-the-hi!-hi!-"

kite, sir!”
"Where is the kite?"

Alas! the kite and its tail were long ago gone to that undiscovered limbo, where all things lost, broken, vanished, and destroyed-things that lose themselves, for servants are too honest to steal: things that break themselves, for servants are too careful to break-find an everlasting and impenetrable refuge.

"It does not signify a pin's head," said the clerk; "the parish must find a new 'un!"

"It is no fault of mine," said the pastor. "Are my chops ready?"

CHAPTER II.

"And soothed with idle dreams the
Frowning fate."-CRABBE.

"Why does not my father come back? What a time he has been away!"

"My dear Philip, business detains him: but he will be here in a few days-perhaps to-day !" "I should like him to see how much I am

improved."

"Improved in what, Philip?" said the mother, with a smile. "Not Latin, I am sure; for I have not seen you open a book since you in sisted on poor Todd's dismissal."

"Todd! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through his nose: what could he know of Latin?"

"More than you ever will, I fear, unless-" and here there was a certain hesitation in the mother's voice, "unless your father consents to your going to school."

"Well, I should like to go to Eton! That's the only school for a gentleman. I've heard my father say so."

"Philip, you are too proud."

"Proud! You often call me proud, but then you kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now,

mother."

The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside the clustering hair from his forehead, and kissed him; but the kiss was sad, and a moment after she pushed him away gently, and muttered, unconscious that she was overheard.

"If, after all, my devotion to the father should wrong the children!"

The boy started, and a cloud passed over his brow; but he said nothing. A light step entered the room through the French casements that opened on the lawn, and the mother turned to her youngest-børn, and her eye brightened.

"Mamma! mamma! here is a letter for you. I snatched it from John: it is papa's handwriting."

The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and seized the letter. The younger child nestled himself on a stool at her feet, looking up while she read it; the elder stood apart, leaning on his gun, and with something of thought, even of gloom upon his countenance.

There was a strong contrast in the two children. The elder, who was about fifteen, seemed older than he was, not only from his height, but from the darkness of his complexion, and a certain proud, nay, imperious expression upon fea

"Speak the truth, and you sha'n't be punished." tures that, without having the soft and fluent

with the love of the fantastic and the picturesque which bespeaks the presiding genius of the proud mother. The younger son had scarcely told his ninth year; and the soft auburn ringlets, descending half way down the shoulders; the rich and delicate bloom that exhibits at once the hardy health and the gentle fostering; the large, deep blue eyes; the flexile and almost efseminate contour of the harmonious features, altogether made such an ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence had loved to paint or Chantrey model.

And the daintiest cares of a mother, who, as yet, has her darling all to herself-her toy, her plaything-were visible in the large falling collar of finest cambric, and the blue velvet dress, with; its filigree buttons and embroidered sash. Both the boys had about them the air of those whom Fate ushers blandly into life: the air of wealth, and birth, and luxury, spoiled and pampered as if earth had no thorn for their feet, and heaven not a wind to visit their young cheeks too roughly. The mother had been extremely handsome, and though the first bloom of youth was now gone, she had still the beauty that might captivate new love: an easier task than to retain the old. Both her sons, though differing from each other, resembled her. She had the features of the younger; and probably any one who had seen her in her own earlier youth, would have recognised in that child's gay, yet gentle countenance, the mirror of the mother when a girl. Now, however, especially when silent or thoughtful, the expression of her face was rather that of the elder boy; the cheek, once so rosy, was now pale, though clear, with something which time had given, of pride and thought, in the curved lip and the high forehead. They who could have looked on her in her more lonely hours, might have seen that the pride had known shame, and the thought was the shadow of the passions of fear and sorrow.

But now, as she read those hasty, brief, but well-remembered characters-read as one whose heart was in her eyes-joy and triumph alone were visible in that eloquent countenance. Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved; and at length, clasping the letter to her lips, she kissed it again and again with passionate transport. Then, as her eyes met the dark, inquiring, earnest gaze of her eldest born, she flung her arms round him and wept vehemently.

"What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma?" said the youngest, pushing himself between Philip and his mother.

"Your father is coming back this day-this very hour; and you-you-child-you, Philip -" Here sobs broke in upon her words, and left her speechless.

The letter that had produced this effect ran as follows:

"TO MRS. MORTON, Fernside Cottage. "Dearest Kate,-My last letter prepared you for the news I have now to relate-my poor uncle is no more. Though I have seen so little of him, especially of late years, his death sensibly affected me: but I have at least the consolation of thinking that there is nothing now to prevent my doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to his fortune. I have it in my power, dearest

Arthur made no answer, but the smile with which he had hitherto gazed on his new relations vanished.

" Kate," said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. Morton, and lifted his youngest born in his arms, "this is my brother and his son: they are welcome, are they not?"

Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, muttering something equally complimentary and inaudible. The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and Arthur brought up the rear.

"Do you shoot?" asked Arthur, observing the gun in his cousin's hand.

"Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my father: he is a famous shot. But this is only a single barrel, and an oldfashioned sort of detonator. My father must get me one of the new guns. I can't afford it myself."

"I should think not," said Arthur, smiling. "Oh, as to that," resumed Philip, quickly, and with a heightened colour, "I could have managed it very well if I had not given thirty guineas for a brace of pointers the other day: they are the best dogs you ever saw."

Thirty guineas!" echoed Arthur, looking with naive surprise at the speaker; "why, how old are you?

"Just fifteen last birthday. Holla, John ! John Green!" cried the young gentleman, in an imperious voice, to one of the gardeners who was crossing the lawn, "see that the nets are taken down to the lake to-morrow, and that my tent is pitched properly, by the lime-trees, by nine o'clock. I hope you will understand me this time: Heaven knows you take a great deal of telling before you understand any thing!"

"Yes, Mr. Philip," said the man, bowing obsequiously; and then muttered as he went off, "Drat the nat'rel! he speaks to a poor man as if he warn't flesh and blood."

"Does your father keep hunters?" asked

Philip.

"No."

"Why?"

"Perhaps one reason may be that he is not rich enough."

"Oh! that's a pity. Never mind, we'll mount you whenever you like to pay us a visit."

Young Arthur drew himself up, and his air, naturally frank and gentle, became haughty and reserved. Philip gazed on him and felt offended; he scarce knew why, but from that moment he conceived a dislike to his cousin.

CHAPTER IV.

ther; nearly as tall, but pale, meager, stooping, and with a careworn, anxious, hungry look, which made the smile that hung upon his lips seem hollow and artificial. His dress, though plain, was neat and studied; his manner bland and plausible; his voice sweet and low: there was that about him which, if it did not win liking, tended to excite respect; a certain decorum, a nameless propriety of appearance and bearing, that approached a little to formality: his every movement, slow and measured, was that of one who paced in the circle that fences round the habits and usages of the world.

"Yes," said Philip, "I had always decided to take this step whenever my poor uncle's death should allow me to do so. You have seen Catharine, but you do not know half her good qualities; she would grace any station: and, besides, she nursed me so carefully last year, when I broke my collar-bone in that cursed steeple-chase. Egad, I am getting too heavy and growing too old for such schoolboy pranks."

"I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton's excellence, and I honour your motives; still, when you talk of her gracing any station, you must not forget, my dear brother, that she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort than she is now as Mrs.

Morton."

"But I tell you, Robert, that I am really married to her already-that she would never have left her home but on that condition-that we were married the very day we met after her flight." Robert's thin lips broke into a slight sneer of incredulity.

"My dear brother, you do right to say this: any man in your situation would. But I know that my uncle took every pains to ascertain if the report of a private marriage were true."

"And you helped him in the search. Eh, Bob?"

Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on: "Ha, ha, to be sure you did you knew that such a discovery would have done for me in the old gentleman's good opinion. But I blinded you both, ha, ha! The fact is, that we were married with the greatest privacy; that even now, I own, it would be difficult for Catharine herself to establish the fact unless I wished it. I am ashamed to think that I have never even told her where I keep the main proof of the marriage. I induced one witness to leave the country, the other must be long since dead: my poor friend, too, who officiated, is no more. Even the register, Bob, the register itself has been destroyed; and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove the ceremony and clear up poor Catharine's fame; for I have the attested copy of the register safe and her, man!"

"For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to sound. Catharine not married! Why, look at

calamity that a raisin is able to kill him: any trooper out of the Egyptian army-a fly can do it, when it goes on God's errand." JEREMY TAYLOR.

The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Robert sipped claret, the sturdy Philip quaffed his more generous port. Catharine and the boys might be seen at a little distance, and by the light of a soft August moon, among the shrubs and bosquets of the lawn.

Philip Beaufort was about five-and-forty, tall, robust, nay, of great strength of frame and limb, with a countenance extremely winning, not only from the comeliness of its features, but its frankness, manliness, and good nature. His was the bronzed, rich complxetion, the inclination towards embonpoint, the athletic girth of chest, which denote redundant health, and mirthful temper, and sanguine blood. Robert, who had lived the

Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a moment, but his countenance was still that of one unconvinced.

the best masters for the boys. Phil wants to go to Eton; but I know what Eton is. Poor fellow! his feelings might be hurt there, if others are as sceptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends will not be less civil now I have £20,000 a year. And as for the society of women, between you and me, I don't care a rush for any woman but Catharine: poor Katty!"

"Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs: you don't misinterpret my motives?"

"My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how kind it is in you-a man of your starch habits and strict views-coming here to pay a mark of respect to Kate (Mr. Robert turned uneasily in his chair) even before you knew of the private marriage; and I am sure I don't blame you for never having done it before. You did quite right to try your chance with my uncle."

Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still more uneasily, and cleared his voice as if to speak. But Philip tossed of his wine, and proceeded without heeding his brother.

"And though the poor old man does not seem to have liked you the better for consulting his scruples, yet we must make up for the partiality of his will. Let me see - what, with your wife's fortune, you muster £2000 a year?"

"Only £1500, Philip, and Arthur's education is growing expensive. Next year he goes to college. He is certainly very clever, and I have great hopes-"

"That he will do honour to us all-so have I. He is a noble young fellow; and I think my Philip may find a great deal to learn from him. Phil is a sad, idle dog, but with a devil of a spirit, and sharp as a needle. I wish you could see him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. Don't trouble yourself about his education: that shall be my care. He shall go to Christ Church-a gentleman commoner, of course-and when he's of age we'll get him into Parliament. Now for yourself, Bob. I shall sell the town-house in Berkeley Square, and whatever it brings you shall have. Besides that, I'll add £1500 a year to your £1500: so that's said and done. Pshaw! brothers should be brothers, Let's come out and play with the boys!"

The two Beauforts stepped through the open casement into the lawn.

"You look pale, Bob-all you London fellows do. As for me, I feel as strong as a horse; much better than when I was one of your gay dogs, straying loose about the town! 'Gad! I have never had a moment's ill health, except a fall now and then: I feel as if I should live for ever, and that's the reason why I could never make a will."

"Have you never, then, made your will?" "Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little enough to leave. But, now that all this great Beaufort property is at my own disposal, I must think of Kate's jointure. By Jove! now I speak of it, I will ride to ***** to-morrow, and consult the lawyer there both about the will and the marriage. You will stay for the wedding?"

"Why, I must go into shire to-morrow evening, to place Arthur with his tutor. But I'll return for the wedding, if you particularly wish it: only Mrs. Beaufort is a woman of very strict"

life of cities, was a year younger than his bro-kept at present-and have a yacht, and engage

"I do particularly wish it," interrupted Philip, gravely; for I desire, for Catharine's sake, that you, my sole surviving relation, may not seem to withhold your countenance from an act of justice to her. And as for your wife, I fancy £1500 the Penitentiary."

Mr. Robert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and said, "I appreciate your generous affection, Philip."

not cruelty in the boy, but which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man. And scarce had he reloaded his gun before the neigh of a young colt came from a neighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence. "He calls me, poor fellow; you shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for a piece of bread-a large piece, Sidney." The boy and the animal seemed to understand each other. "I see you don't like horses," he said to Arthur. "As for me, I love dogs, horses-every dumb creature."

"Except swallows!" said Arthur, with a half

of the boast.

"Oh! that is sport-all fair: it is not to hurt the swallow-it is to obtain skill," said Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite easy with his own definition, he turned away abruptly.

"This is dull work: suppose we fish. By Jove! (he had caught his father's expletive,) that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong side of the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!" and the unhappy gardener looked up from his flowerbeds; "what ails you? I have a great mind to tell my father of you: you grow stupider every day. I told you to put the tent under the limetrees."

The next morning, while the elder parties were still over the breakfast-table, the young people were in the grounds: It was a lovely day, one of the last of the luxuriant August; and Arthur, as he looked round, thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It was, indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and susceptible fancy. The village of Fernside, though in one of the counties adjoining Middlesex, and as near to London as the owner's passionate pursuits of the field would permit, was yet as rural and se-smile, and a little surprised at the inconsistency questered as if a hundred miles distant from the smoke of the huge city. Though the dwelling was called a cottage, Philip had enlarged the original modest building into a villa of some pretensions. On either side a graceful and well proportioned portico stretched verandahs, covered with roses and clematis; to the right extended a range of costly conservatories, terminating in vistas of trellis-work, which formed those elegant alleys called roseries, and served to screen the more useful gardens from view. The lawn, smooth and even, was studded with American plants and shrubs in flower, and bounded on one side by a small lake, on the opposite bank of which limes and cedars threw their shadows over the clear waves. On the other side, a light fence separated the grounds from a large paddock, in which three or four hunters grazed in indolent enjoyment. It was one of those cottages which bespeak the ease and luxury not often found in more ostentatious mansions: an abode which the visiter of sixteen contemplates with vague notions of poetry and love-which at forty he might think dull and d-d expensive-which at sixty he would pronounce to be damp in winter, and full of earwigs in the summer. Master Philip was leaning on his favourite gun; Master Sidney was chasing a peacock butterfly; Arthur was silently gazing on the shining lake and the still foliage that drooped over its surface. In the countenance of this young man there was something that excited a certain interest. He was less handsome than Philip, but the expression of his face was more prepossessing. There was something of pride in the forehead; but of good-nature, not unmixed with irresolution and weakness, in the curves of the mouth. He was more delicate of frame than Philip, and the colour of his complex- | ion was not that of a robust constitution. His movements were graceful and self-possessed, and he had his father's sweetness of voice.

"This is really beautiful! I envy you, cousin Philip."

"Has not your father got a country-house?" "No: we live either in London or at some hot, crowded watering-place."

"Yes; this is very nice during the shooting and hunting season. But my old nurse says we shall have a much finer place now. I liked this very well till I saw Lord Belville's place. But it is very unpleasant not to have the finest house in the country: aut Cæsar aut nihil-that's my motto. Ah! do you see that swallow? I'll bet you a guinea I hit it."

"No, poor thing! don't hurt it." But, ere the remonstrance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the ground.

"It is just September, and one must keep one's hand in," said Philip, as he reloaded his gun.

To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty; it was rather the wanton recklesness which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify the im

"We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in the way."

"And why did not you cut the boughs, blockhead?"

"I did not dare do so, sir, without master's orders," said the man, doggedly.

"My orders are sufficient, I should think: so none of your impertinence," cried Philip, with a raised colour; and lifting his hand, in which he held his ramrod, he shook it menacingly over the gardener's head: I've a great mind to-"

"What's the matter, Philip?" cried the goodhumoured voice of his father: "fy!"

"This fellow does not mind what I say, sir." "I did not like to cut the boughs of the limetrees without your orders, sir," said the gardener. "No, it would be a pity to cut them. You should consult me there, Master Philip;" and the father shook him by the collar with a goodnatured and affectionate, but rough sort of caress. "Be quiet, father!" said the boy, petulantly and proudly, "or," he added, in a lower voice, but one which showed emotion, "my cousin may think you mean less kindly than you always do, sir."

The father was touched. "Go and cut the lime-boughs, John; and always do as Mr. Philip tells you."

The mother was behind, and she sighed audibly, "Ah! dearest, I fear you will spoil him." "Is he not your son and do we not owe him the more respect for having hitherto allowed others to-"

He stopped, and the mother could say no more. And thus it was that this boy of powerful character and strong passions had, from motives the most amiable, been pampered from the darling into the despot.

"And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last night, ride over to and fix the earliest day for our marriage. I will ask the lawyer to dine here, to talk about the proper steps for proving the private one."

"Will that be difficult?" asked Catharine, with natural anxiety.

"No; for, if you remember, I had the precaution to get an examined copy of the register; otherwise, I own to you, I should have been

Smith. I heard some time since from his father that he had left the colony; and (I never told you before-it would have made you uneasy) once, a few years ago, when my uncle again got it into his head that we might be married, I was afraid poor Caleb's successor might, by chance, betray us. So I went over to A- myself, being near it when I was staying with Lord C, in order to see how far it might be necessary to secure the parson; and, only think! I found an accident had happened to the register: so, as the clergyman could know nothing, I kept my own council. How lucky I have the copy! No doubt the lawyer will set all to rights; and, while I am making settlements, I may as well make my will. I have plenty for both boys, but the dark one must be the heir. Does he not look born to be an eld

est son?"

"Ah, Philip!"

"Pshaw! one don't die the sooner for making a will. Have I the air of a man in a consumption?" and the sturdy sportsman glanced complacently at the strength and symmetry of his manly limbs. "Come, Phil, let's go to the stables. Now, Robert, I will show you what is better worth seeing than those miserable flowerbeds." So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the way to the courtyard at the bank of the cottage. Catharine and Sidney remained on the lawn, the rest followed the host. The grooms, of whom Beaufort was the idol, hastened to show how well the horses had thriven in his absence.

"Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir; but, to be sure, Master Philip keeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, he will be as good a rider as your honour one of these days."

"He ought to be, Tom, for I think he'll never have my weight to carry. Well, saddle Brown Bess for Mr. Philip. What horse shall I take? Ah! here's my old friend Puppet!"

"I don't know what's come to Puppet, sir; he's off his feed and turned sulky. I tried him over the bar yesterday, but he was quite restiff like."

"The devil he was! So, so, old boy, you shall go over the six-barred gate to-day, or we'll know why." And Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek neck of his favourite hunter. "Put the saddle on him, Tom.”

"Yes, your honour. I sometimes think he is hurt in the loins somehow: he don't take to his leaps kindly, and he always tries to bite when we bridles him. Be quiet, sir!"

"Only his airs," said Philip. "I did not know this, or I would have taken him over the gate. Why did not you tell me, Tom?"

"Lord love you, sir! because you have such a spurret; and if anything had come to you-"

"Quite right; you are not weight enough for Puppet, my boy; and he never did like any one to back him but myself. What say you, brother; will you ride with us?"

"No, I must go to-to-day with Arthur. I have engaged the posthorses at two o'clock; but I shall be with you to-morrow or the day after. You see his tutor expects him; and as he is backward in his mathematics, he has no time to lose."

"Well, then, good-bye, nephew!" and Beaufort slipped a pocket-book into the boy's hand. "Tush! whenever you want money, don't trouble your father--write to me; we shall be always glad to see you; and you must teach Philip to like his book a little better-eh, Phil!" "No, father, I shall be rich enough to do without books," said Philip, rather coarsely; but then, observing the heightened colour of his cousin, he went up to him, and with a generous impulse

standers had witnessed the fall they crowded to the spot they took the fallen man from the weak arms of the son-the head groom examin

The intention was kind, but the manner was so patronising that Arthur felt offended. He put back the gun, and said dryly, "I shall have no occasion for a gun, thank you."

If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much more offended by the refusal. "As you like: I hate pride," said he; and he gave the gun to the groom as he vaulted into his saddle with the lightness of a young Mercury. “Come, father!"

Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite hunter: a large, powerful horse, well known for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted him once or twice through the spacious yard.

"Nonsense, Tom: no more hurt in the loins than I am. Open that gate; we will go across the paddock, and take the gate yonder-the old six-bar-eh, Phil?"

"Capital! to be sure!"

science from his experience in such casualties. "Speak, brother! where are you hurt?" exclaimed Robert Beaufort.

"He will never speak more!" said the groom, bursting into tears. "His neck is broken!"

"Send for the nearest surgeon," cried Mr. Robert. "Good God! boy! don't mount that devilish horse!"

But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed which had been the cause of this appalling affliction. "Which way?"

"Straight on to *****, only two miles; every one knows Mr. Powis's house. God bless you!" said the groom.

Arthur vanished.

"Lift him carefully, and take him to the house," said Mr. Robert. "My poor brother! my dear brother!"

He was interrupted by a cry-a single, shrill, heart-oreaking cry-and Philip fell senseless to the ground.

No one heeded him at that hour; no one heed

How well they looked, those two horsemen; the ease, lightness, spirit of the one, with the finelimbed and fiery steed that literally "bounded beneath him as a barb," seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty as the boy-rider. And the manly and almost Herculean form of the elder Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its movements, and the supple grace belonging to the perfect mastership of any athletic art, possessed an elegance and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarely accompanies proportions equally sturdy and robust. There was, indeed, something knightly and chivalrous in the bearing of the elder Beaufort; in his handsome aquiline features, the erectness of his mien, the very wave of his hand, as he spurred from the yard.

"What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is!" said Arthur, with involuntary admiration.

"Ay, an excellent life amazingly strong!" returned the pale father, with a slight sigh.

"Philip," said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered across the paddock, "I think the gate is too much for you. I will just take Puppet over, and then we will open it for you."

"Pooh, my dear father! you don't know how I'm improved!" And slackening the rein, and touching the side of his horse, the young rider darted forward and cleared the gate, which was of no common height, with an ease that extorted a loud bravo from the proud father.

"Now, Puppet," said Mr. Beaufort, spurring his own horse. The animal cantered towards the gate, and then suddenly turned round with an impatient and angry snort. "For shame, Puppet! for shame, old boy!" said the sportsman, wheeling him again to the barrier. The horse shook his head as if in remonstrance: but the spur, vigorously applied, showed him that his master would not listen to his mute reasonings. He bounded forward-made at the gatestruck his hoofs against the top bar-fell forward, and threw his rider head foremost on the road beyond. The horse rose instantly-not so the master. The son dismounted, alarmed and

said Mr. Robert, as he followed the servants and their load. And he then muttered to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, and his breath came short: "He has made no will! he never made a will!"

CHAPTER V.

"Constance. Oh, boy, then where are art thou? What becomes of me?

King John.

It was three days after the death of Philip Beaufort-for the surgeon arrived only to confirm the judgment of the groom; in the drawingroom of the cottage, the windows closed, lay the body in its coffin, the lid not yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, speechless, was the miserable Catharine; poor Sidney, too young to comprehend all his loss, sobbing at her side; while Philip, apart, seated beside the coffin, gazed abstractedly on that cold, rigid face, which had never known one frown for his boyish follies.

In another room, that had been appropriated to the late owner, called his study, sat Robert Beaufort. Every thing in this room spoke of the deceased. Partially separated from the rest of the house, it communicated by a winding staircase with a chamber above, to which Philip had been wont to betake himself whenever he returned late and over-exhilarated from some rural feast crowning a hard day's hunt. Above a quaint, old-fashioned bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip had picked up at a sale in the earlier years of his marriage,) was a portrait of Catharine, taken in the bloom of her youth. On a peg on the door that led to the staircase still hung his rough driving-coat. The window commanded the view of the paddock, in which the worn-out hunter or the unbroken colt grazed at will. Around the walls of the "study" (a strange misnomer!) hung prints of celebrated fox-hunts and renowned steeple-chases. Guns, fishing-rods, and foxes' brushes, ranged with a sportsman's neatness, supplied the place of books. On the mantelpiece lay a cigar-case, a well-worn

and rural life that had passed away-sallow, stooping, town-worn, sat, I say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law-alone: for the very day of his death he had remanded his son home with the letter that announced to his wife the change in their fortunes, and directed her to send his lawyer post-haste to the house of death. The bureau, and the drawers, and the boxes which contained the papers of the deceased, were open; their contents had been ransacked; no certificate of the private marriage, no hint of such an event; not a paper found to signify the last wishes of the rich dead man. He had died and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beaufort's countenance was still and composed.

A knock at the door was heard: the lawyer entered.

"Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has ordered the bells to be rung; at three o'clock he will read the service."

"I am obliged to you, Blackwell, for taking these melancholy offices on yourself. My poor brother! It is so sudden! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place to-day?"

"The weather is so warm!" said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the deathbell was heard.

There was a pause.

"It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton if she had been his wife," observed Mr. Blackwell. "But I suppose persons of that kind have very little feeling. I must say it was very fortunate for the family that the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so improper a marriage."

"It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the post-horses? I shall start immediately after the funeral."

"What is to be done with the cottage, sir," "You may advertise it for sale." "And Mrs. Morton and the boys?"

"Hum-we will consider. She was a tradesman's daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, eh?"

"It is more than the world could expect from you, sir: it is very different from a wife."

"Oh, very! very much so, indeed! Just ring for a lighted candle; we will seal up these boxes. And I think I could take a sandwich. Poor Philip!"

The funeral was over-the dead shoveled away. What a strange thing it does seem, that the very form which we prized so charily, for which we prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arıns, from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should be suddenly thrust out of sight-an abomination that the earth must not look upon-a despicable loatlısomeness, to be concealed and to be forgotten! And this same composition of bone and muscle, that was yesterday so strong-which men respected and women loved, and children clung to -to-day so lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protect those who lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence expiring with its last sigh! A breath from its lips making all that mighty difference between what it was and what it is!

The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned to the house.

Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes,

"I will write to you in a few days, ma'am; you will find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we sha'nt hurry you.