man who had so much money he did not know what to do with it-the man who had no children to come after him, yet wanted to grasp everything he could lay his hands on.

The father was evidently much irritated, and said many severe things. The mother tried to soothe him, wishing to look on the brighter side of the affair, hoping it might be better than he expected. But her gentle arguments availed nothing, and he went on to tell her many things which seemed to show that Sandilands-though a relation of his own-was "a man capable," said the father, in his excitement, "of any cruelty; he would take the very bread from our children's lips!"

"Oh no, dear; I hope not!" exclaimed the wife.

"You shall see his last letter," returned the father, bitterly, taking a letter from his side-pocket, and giving it to her.

She read it; and said with a deep sigh, "It is a very unfeeling letter. But he looks on these things from such a wrong point of view." They were silent for some time; then she added, "But we are in God's hand, dear. Sandilands cannot go beyond what is God's will regarding us. It is very hard—very hard for you. Men cannot bear these things

"Bear! No!" interrupted her husband. "Nor ought they to bear them. No more ought I to bear Sandilands' injustice than the sting of a serpent, or the plague of these gnats, which I should like to annihilate!" added he, beating about his forehead with his hand, to drive away a cloud of those tiresome little insects which, rising from the water in the cool of the evening, were very troublesome. "No, I tell you, he's a hard, grasping man, without chick or child to come after him; and we might as well be in the hands of Beelzebub himself!" said he, rising; and his wife rising also, they walked quietly away, leaving the children with a fixed idea in their minds. After this, therefore, a horrible sort of monster serpent, Beelzebub, and lawsuit combined, became personified in their fertile imaginations as "old Sandilands," seeming to live in gloomy corection with the long shadows over the water, the old gnarled tree branches, and the creeping dusk of evening.

This was six years ago. The lawsuit went on. The intensest anxiety prevailed at times in the lovely home of the Summerfields; the garden was full of flowers; the pond was covered with lilies; nightingales sang amongst the amber leaves and pink blossom of the old oak and crab trees; but the flower garden, the long shrubbery walks, the old water, the rustic summer-house, even the song of the nightingale, were haunted by the sense of the lawsuit. The parents were loving, good parents-none better; and their children were continually with them. The morning letters came in with breakfast-that pleasant meal in the sunny breakfast parlour; but it often happened that some one letter amongst otherwise welcome ones would cast a gloom and silence over the meal. The wife would anxiously watch her husband's countenance as he read that letter; the children watched them both. Not a word would be said; the wife knew that it contained unfavourable news; the children thought it was another sting from that cruel old serpent, which now to their imagination seemed miles long! This was not a pleasant state of things to last year after year.

In the autumn which succeeded the summer of which I have recorded one evening spent in the rustic summer-house, another child was born to the

He was a delicate

Summerfields; another little son, a great joy to every one. child-very different in this respect from his brothers, but all the more an object of tender love from that very cause. The mother hoped that as he increased in years he would increase in strength; but it was not so. When he was six, he reminded one of a spring-flower which had come out too early amidst the frosts and snows that nipped its young beauty.

"It is all owing to that wretched lawsuit, which has lasted now these nine years," said the father; "and if we lose our little Eustace, I shall lay it to Sandilands."

"It's God's will," said the mother. "He wishes to bring us nearer to Himself by this affliction."

"But for this wicked old lawsuit, I would have better advice for Eustace," said the father; "or a pony for him to ride. It cuts me to the heart to save expense as regards him, but this lawsuit eats up everything!"

Harry, who was now a tall, strong, and manly boy of ten, was like a little father to Eustace; and merry-hearted, indefatigable Frank was his servant. It was a lovely sight to see those three brothers together-Eustace with his large, thoughtful eyes, his pale countenance, to which nothing could give the strong rose-tint of health, and his delicate, almost transparent frame, waited upon and cared for by his robust, handsome brothers. But he was very happy, and the affection which his parents and his brothers lavished upon him gave a sunshine to his whole being.

Eustace, on account of his delicate health, slept in a little bed in the chamber of his parents. One early morning, therefore, whilst it was yet hardly light, happening to be awake, he heard them talking; they were talking of the lawsuit.

It was just as he expected, said the father; it would eat up every thing! It would leave him a ruined man! They could live no longer as they had done; they must leave their present home. He did not mind for himself, the good father said, in a voice which sounded so sad that Eustace could hardly believe it his father's-he could live in the backwoods of America or in Australia, or rough it anywhere; he could be satisfied for himself with a crust of bread and a draught of water; "but for you, dearest Annie," he said, "and the children-those dear children!"

The mother spoke very tenderly-" We are not old, dear. We will begin life again, hopefully and cheerfully, in Australia, or somewhere. God will take care of us, for our children's sakes. But we must not lose our hold on Him."

"It is a miserable prospect," resumed the father. "I wake in the night with a dreadful despondency. In the daylight I can battle with it-at night it seems to overpower me."

"Don't despond, dear," returned the wife; "you have not lost all whilst you keep your own integrity. God will help us; I know He will! He tells us to come to Him with all our heavy burdens. This is our heavy burden; we must take it to Him. And if we are obliged to leave this happy home, we will endeavour to do it cheerfully, as in obedience to His will who has required this sacrifice from us."

A little movement of the bedclothes startled them. It was Eustacethe pale child, in his white night-dress, like a fair lily in the early dawn, standing by the bed.

K K

"Oh, mother, I have been praying our Lord to kill that wicked Sandilands, and I am so frightened! Let me come into your bed."

"My child!" exclaimed the mother, starting up, and raising him into her arms, "let us now pray together for forgiveness of our murmuring and discontent. Let us pray that Sandilands may be forgiven-that God would please to change his heart-his hard heart. He is your father's cousin, dear, and I think there is goodness in his heart somewhere: there used to be; and though we cannot reach it, yet God can! Let us pray for him, dear; I often do."

Eustace sobbed, and laid his head on his mother's bosom. He was cold and frightened. The indistinct light and his unwonted desire of vengeance had terrified him. He nestled down into the warm, large bed, between his parents, and with his mother's arm round him, sank into a sweet sleep.

The next morning it seemed to him like a dreadful dream. But he knew it was a reality, from his mother's words. She again told him, in the clear open light of day, with the sun shining upon them, that Sandilands was his father's cousin that they used to be dear friends until a variety of circumstances hardened his heart, and changed his nature. "But we must not now hate him," she said; "we must pity him, and pray our Lord and Saviour to change his heart, and make him as good and kind as he used to be."

And Eustace did not forget his mother's bidding.

PART II.

The chancery suit was ended; and as the father had foretold, it was considered necessary for the Summerfields to leave their happy home. The boys had hardly time to realize the idea when they found themselves about to be dispersed. They had had no opportunity of hearing any family plans discussed: one thing only they knew-that they must leave their pleasant old home, the flower-garden and the shrubberies, the water-lily pond, the rustic summer-house under the old oak and crab trees; that they must leave their own little gardens, where Eustace's pond still held water, though a fresh supply of tittlebats was needed-all must be left.

Harry and Frank were going, for the present, to some kind relations near London, and also to school; Eustace, the darling of every one, to his grandmother Summerfield's, a long way off, in the North of England. His mother was to take him, and stay amongst her husband's relatives there for a week, so that the little boy should not find himself abruptly thrown amongst strangers, and perhaps be unhappy. To make Eustace's prospect all the happier, he was told that his young Aunt Susan was going soon to be married, and as neither of his parents would be at the wedding, he must be considered as their representative on this happy occasion; besides which, he would have plenty of playfellows, for Uncle Mark, of Burrowthwaite, alone had seven children, boys and girls, all under twelve years old. Poor Eustace! he looked very grave in all these changes; the wedding did not seem to promise him much pleasure, and he had hitherto lived so entirely with his parents and his brothers, that the idea of the seven new cousins at Uncle Mark's almost frightened him.

Grandmamma Summerfield and Aunt Susan lived at a very pretty house

called the Leas, three or four miles from Uncle Mark's, who was a large farmer, and lived at Burrowthwaite Hall. Eustace was surprised at the great number of people that he became acquainted with during the week that his mother stayed with him-gentlemen and ladies, and their children—all his father's relatives. He had no idea that the sphere of relationship could be so large. How kind everybody was! and how glad to see him and his mother. But the shorter the time of her visit became, the closer he clung to her; for he heard some of his many uncles and aunts and cousins talking about the long three months' voyage that his father and mother were about to undertake; that they were going to New Zealand; and that when they were settled, Cousin Everards were going out too, and that the boys were to go with them and join their parents.

"Grandmamma Summerfield" could hardly be called an old lady, because she was so bright and active. She had a small farm belonging to her house, and many people who worked for her; and though, when Eustace and his mother left the South of England, the hay was all got in and stacked, they found everybody up in the North just beginning theirs; and Eustace, who had never before lived completely in the country, thought this life delightful, and enjoyed being in the hay-field above everything. Though his home was at his grandmother's, he was often at his uncle Mark's, whose seven children made it very merry, and where there was more land and more hay-making-more cows and sheep and ponies.

The object of all these good people, as regarded Eustace, seemed to be to make him strong-to bring a colour into his cheeks like that of the boys and girls at Burrowthwaite. And thus the weeks went on merrily enough; the hay harvest was over, the sheep-shearing and washing done, and in the interval before the corn harvest the long-talked-of wedding took place at Burrowthwaite Church, not far from Burrowthwaite Hall, where, indeed, the great wedding breakfast for sixty guests was eaten and enjoyed. What a day this was for Eustace, who had also his part to perform on the occasion! for as there were twelve bridemaids, all nieces of the bride, these were matched by twelve groomsmen, from the bridegroom's best man, his oldest and dearest friend, down to little Eustace, who had a beautiful new suit for the occasion, and was paired with the sweetest of all the young bridemaids, in her white tarlton, little veil and wreath, and little bouquet of flowers in her hand-little Alice Summerfield, of Burrowthwaite, a year older than Eustace, and the greatest favourite of all his cousins.

After the merry breakfast, when the bride and bridegroom had departed, the younger part of the company set off in all sorts of vehicles and on horseback to the Leas, where they were to picnic in the wood, about a mile beyond, and then return in the evening for a dance on the bowling-green, preparatory to the great dance at Burrowthwaite, which was to last half through the night. Eustace had never before been in such a whirl of pleasure, and all he wished for was that Harry and Frank were with him.

I have not time to tell all the amusements of that picnic, but it must suffice to say that all sorts of games were played, stories told, and songs sung; and instead of going back to the Leas to dance on the bowling-green, they danced there, with such music as could be improvised. The time went on hour after hour, and at nine o'clock a signal was given for all to muster, some having to go home a considerable distance, and others impatient for

the promised dance at Burrowthwaite; whilst of the children some were to return there, and others to remain at the Leas, beds being made up for all who chose to stay at either house.

Eustace, far less strong than the others, felt himself, as evening came on, exceedingly tired and sleepy by all this amusement; and a little ashamed of being so when the rest were so lively and active, he stole apart into a little thicket of wild roses, now full in bloom, and lay down on the mossy turf, thinking only to sleep for a few minutes. But, tired out as he was, he sank into the deepest sleep, and remained as perfectly unconscious of the shout which mustered the large party, and then of the bustle and chatter of their retreat, as if it had never taken place.

After a few hours he woke, perceived he was in a strange place, and looking up, he saw between the loosely overhanging branches, the deep blue sky and the myriad twinkling stars. Surprised, and rather startled, he sat up, at once wide awake, and then remembered all about the past day, the merriment in the wood, his own weary sleepiness, and the lying down here to rest. And now, where were they all gone to? He sprang to his feet, ran forward he knew not whither, calling loudly for his cousins, shouting, in his child's voice, the names of such persons as were at the head of the party. But no reply came. A strange mysterious blackness seemed to shut him in; nearer objects were indistinct and shadowy, and the stars twinkled above his head. He had never, in all his young life, been in a midnight solitude before, and he grew frightened. Presently a wild cry thrilled through the wood, that seemed to pierce him to the very bone, and a long "hu-sh," as of downy wings, went by. Fortunately he had heard the same a few evenings before, when out with his uncle Mark, and he knew, therefore, that it was an owl; nevertheless, he could not help a creeping horror stealing over him; and silent as all seemed, yet around in the wood and in the grass were heard little creakings, and whisperings, and chirrupings of night insects which seemed to make the air astir. He ran and ran, his heart beating audibly, along a path which led him gradually out of the wood. Below this wood, as he knew, at about a mile's distance, was his grandmother's; he therefore ran forward on, and on; but he did not know, poor child, that every step was taking him farther away!

He thought he was in the right direction, and he went on hopefully over the soft turfy ground, knowing, by the scent of wild thyme which rose up around him every now and then, that he was treading on that fragrant plant. The air was stiller now, and much cooler. He stopped, looked round, and listened; but he could hear nothing except the beating of his own little heart, that seemed to throb up to his ears. But he thought he should soon be at home, and went on again cheerfully, not noticing that instead of descending, he was gradually ascending the hill. As he went on, the night seemed to grow lighter, for his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, and he could discover objects through it; therefore, the large white stones which he had supposed scattered over the path before him, as he approached, revealed themselves to be sheep, a newly-shorn flock, which, startled by his approach, sprang up with a plaintive bleat, first one and then another, all along his path.

No sooner was he clear of the flock than he stopped to think how these sheep and this long black hill-side could be between the wood and his grand