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Remember you have sinned against God as well as against him."

"I have, Justin, I have!" sobbed Richard, overcome for the moment, but for the moment only, by conflicting feelings. It was characteristic of him that he gave no thought to Justin and the change in his circumstances. The old lurking terror of his father's curse was gone for ever. He had been forgiven and reinstated by the poor old man, whom he had deserted, and whom he could now afford to forget. He was no longer the penniless, dependent brother, liable to be cut adrift at any time, and sent back into the cold inhospitable world. He was the real master and owner of Herford, and Justin, the supplanter, was giving up the birthright to him. It was his own place; who else could have any claim to it? He must get to know all the ins and outs of this extraordinary story. Why had he been left wandering about, in poverty and loneliness, while there was a good estate waiting for him? should like to have a clear understanding about it.

He

"Not here," said Justin, when he gave utterance to this wish. "Your uncle Watson managed all your father's affairs, and as soon as he comes I will go through it all. I wish to hide nothing, nor to keep anything back. I will deliver my own soul, and I pray God yours may be delivered also."

"I wonder how long he will be?" rejoined Richard impatiently. "You're a parson, Justin, and bound to talk good, you know; but I can't think of anything else, till I know all. I'm glad enough to know the old man forgave me," he added in a lower voice.

"He forgave you fully," Justin reiterated with the greater emphasis, as he saw that his father's pardon had taken hold on his shallow

nature.

"And I'll promise to forgive you fully," said Richard, once more holding out his hand to his brother; "yes, I'll forgive you beforehand, though I don't clearly understand it all. You need not be afraid of me, Justin."

He spoke in a tone of superiority, such as Justin had heard often in the later years of his brother's boyhood, when they had half angered and half amused him. He could not feel either anger or amusement at this moment. With a foreboding heart he looked earnestly into his handsome face, with its voluptuous, vacillating expression. Was he called upon to relinquish all the goodly work of his life into grasping, selfish hands

like these, and trust all his generous schemes to a self-indulgent, worthless nature like this? But Justin could no longer do evil that good might come. He had entered into the kingdom of realities, where perfect integrity was essential, at whatever sacrifice. He must go straight onwards, and trust all the results to God.

"I'll go and meet Uncle Watson," said Richard.

For a short time Justin remained alone in the church, pacing up and down the sunlit aisle. He almost marvelled at himself that he could have run into such a snare, as to give up his lowly station for the possession of his step-father's lands. What would he not have given to be merely the vicar of Herford once again, with no aspirations after a wider sphere!

CHAPTER XXX.-A FULL CONFESSION.

RICHARD HERFORD hurried away to the stables, his own stables now, and ordered the groom to saddle Justin's horse for him. The man demurred, and said his master might want to ride himself, whereupon Richard struck him sharply across the shoulders, quite after the manner of old times. He felt himself the master again.

He did not spare the horse as he galloped along the highway to Lowborough, for he was impatient to see his uncle, and pour out the whole story, as far as he knew it, to him. He overshot his mark in his eagerness, and missed his uncle, who had taken another road to Herford. By the time Richard had ridden to Lowborough and back, all thought of his father's curse, and his father's forgiveness, or of his own faint resolutions of reformation had faded from his mind. He felt no anxiety except to enter speedily upon the inheritance so long withheld from him.

It was to a very unsympathetic, though not an unmoved audience, that Justin made his full and candid narration of the circumstances attending his stepfather's death. His mother and uncle set him down as a fool; and his brother as a knave. They sat looking at one another in silence when the avowal was ended, which none of them seemed inclined to break.

"This is a pretty kettle of fish," thought Mr. Watson; "why could he not come first to me, and let us talk it over quietly? We might have taken proper measures, without letting Dick know all about it. Now he will never rest without every inch of land, and every penny of money passing into his hands. I'll be hanged if I know how the law stands!"

"Well, Justin!" exclaimed his mother, when the silence grew too much for her to bear, "I never heard such an extraordinary story in my life. I can take my oath I burned the will my poor husband gave me with his own hands. 'Take this packet,' he said, 'and let me see it burn away to a cinder,' and so he did. He gave the other packet to Justin, and said, 'That's my last will; and you can testify I'm of sound mind.' If you believed it was the wrong one, why did you not speak up at once, before the other was destroyed?"

"Do not you all understand?" asked Justin, "I did not know of the fatal mistake till we opened the one that was kept, the day after my step-father's death."

"Well, well!" murmured Mr. Watson, who was overwhelmed by the intricacies and the importance of the case. He was growing a little puzzle-headed in his old age, and was in the habit of handing over all out-of-theway matters to his younger and shrewder partner, Mr. Frost. He threw himself back in his chair, and pushed his spectacles high up on his bald forehead, staring at Justin with unassisted vision. Mrs. Herford tossed back her cap-strings, and smoothed her dress upon her lap, and gazed from one to the other of her sons.

"I always said right was right," she said, in her most oracular tone, "and I must say I always thought poor Dick was the rightful heir to his own father. It is a true saying, 'Murder will out.' Conscience is too much for us all, you see, Justin. I never suspected you were carrying such a burden on your conscience; and you a clergyman, and a magistrate. I hope you won't be brought to a public trial; for that would be a great trouble to me, as you are my own son. I wonder what your poor dear father, Mr. Webb, would have felt, if he had lived till now! But I'm sure my dear Dick will not prosecute, for my sake."

I can

"Don't be silly, Susan," growled Mr. Watson angrily. "What is Justin to be prosecuted for? It was the old man's own blunder, not Justin's; and Dick never gave a sign of being alive till nine or ten days ago. testify how Justin did his utmost to find him. And now he gives it all up nobly. He is not standing out for any terms for himself, as he might have done, and as I should have advised him. I suppose the law would give the estate to Dick, for the disherison of an heir must be beyond question the intent of the parent; and in this case the old man plainly intended Dick to inherit. But

remember you have not a tittle of evidence but what Justin says."

"I am quite ready to say all I have now said in any court of law," remarked Justin. "Oh! go to law, go to law!" cried the old attorney, "and beggar the estate to enrich the lawyers. What I advise is: let Dick have the inheritance of course, as his father meant him to have it, and let him allow you a younger brother's share; £300 a year or so out of it"

"What?" exclaimed Richard, interrupting

him.

"I say," continued his uncle doggedly, "you ought to be so grateful to Justin for giving you an estate, that you should allow him a fair income out of it. Why, man alive! nothing on earth could have shaken him out of it! There was no flaw in the will; not a doubt about it. We drew it up, and have the instructions still in your father's own hand. Everybody said you richly deserved to be disinherited, and you would be a disgrace to the name of Herford; whilst he was worthy of taking the name and the lands. If you don't give him a share, you are a mean scoundrel."

"Then I am a mean scoundrel," replied Richard, with a sneer. "I should call it mean to keep a brother out of his own for ten years or more.

He ought to be thankful if I do not sue him for the income he has spent, of my money. Could you reckon how much would be coming to me if he had put it into trust ten years ago? By George, I've borne enough loss, without charging myself with any more."

"I wish for nothing from you," said Justin, " and I need hardly say it is out of my power to restore anything to you, of the spent income of the estate. If you had come back when you saw the advertisements begging of you to come, you would have entered into possession then, and I should have remained vicar of Herford."

"There should be a law that all wandering heirs put in an appearance once in seven years," said Mr. Watson, "or forfeit their claims and rights. Of course Dick must have the estates; but what is to become of you? You've fallen out of the ranks of the clergy almost, and there's small chance of a preferment for you. Besides, this strange story will run through the country like wildfire, and nobody will understand it rightly. I'll be whipped if I quite understand it myself. I think you might have kept quiet with a pretty clear conscience. If every man is to point out the flaw in his titles property would

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always be changing hands. I'll go home and consult Frost; he's as keen as a hawk. But we must make some terms, you know. You cannot be turned out like a beggar on the world, at your age; and with our pretty little blossom into the bargain. What shall you do with Pansy?"

"Oh! Pansy need not turn out," said Richard; "let her stay with her grandmother. There's plenty of room in the old place, and I like to see pretty girls about it."

"Pansy can stay with me, of course," interposed Mrs. Herford, "though she has been a little too much petted to be of any real use. This will be a sad blow to her, but it will do her good, I hope; poor, spoiled child! She won't be quite so flighty and high-spirited; not made so much of. If she was a little more humble, and kept herself more in the background, she would be really a nice girl; though I am her grandmamma. She looks much too big to be my grandchild," added the vain old woman, glancing at herself in the mirror, and lifting her shapely hands to the braids of hair upon her forehead.

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"Pansy will go when I go," said Justin shortly, "I can make a home for her. I am ready to transfer the estates to you as soon as the necessary documents are ready. Of course it will be burdened by a dower of £300 a year to our mother, bequeathed to her in the later will?"

Mrs. Herford started from her chair in sudden alarm. Any insecurity as to her own income had not occurred to her. But now it occurred to her that the will which had been destroyed by mistake had left her absolutely dependent upon her younger son. Justin had paid her handsome allowance as regularly as Christmas and Midsummer came; and she had never offered to take the least share of the household expenditure. The tears stood in her eyes, as she gazed imploringly at Richard, whose face was impenetrable.

"There must be no charge upon the estate," he said. "If my father left me everything, everything I will have. You can surely trust my mother to me? This is a question to be settled between her and me; not between me and you. I've no intention of going to law in this affair. I said I'd forgive you, and I'll stick to my word. If you like to leave Pansy here, I'll be good to her; for she is an uncommonly nice young girl, and she'd help to keep the house alive. Not but what it will be alive when I'm master of it.

We'll soon put some life into the place, I promise you."

"But, Dick, my dear, dear boy," said his mother pathetically, "I should like to have my money matters settled now, whilst we are all talking about it. Your father left me £300 a year, and it's no more than I ought to have. It must be made chargeable on the estate, as it is now. Thomas Watson, do open your lips, and speak a word of common sense about it, if you can."

"I don't know what to say," he answered. "If the will that was destroyed is to stand, he left you nothing; and if the other will is to stand, he left Dick nothing. It's a pretty kettle of fish. I think I'd better go home, and talk it over with Frost."

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"I say I'll take care of my mother," said Richard, in an irritated tone. My father left me all or nothing; and all or nothing I'll have. Besides, she has been saving money ever since my father died. If any provision is to be made for Justin and Pansy it is her place to do it. She's their mother, and a sight closer relationship than I am to them. I've got to think it all over; and all I'll promise now is that I won't go to law, for Justin's sake-if he'll act fairly without it. I can't say anything fairer than that."

Not

"I only wish to do what is right," answered Justin as shortly as before. It was of no use to argue with natures as selfish and shallow as those of his mother and brother. They could not understand him; that was impossible. The elevated mood, which had been his since the evening before, was descending, step by step, into a more earthly one. that he repented of his decision, or wished to recall his confession; but there was a blank disappointment hanging like a cloud over him. He scarcely knew what he had expected from his mother and Richard; but his own motion had been so deep and vivid, that he could hardly bear in patience the silly selfishness of the one, and the haughty superiority of the other."

He left his three kinsfolk still discussing his narrative; for though Mr. Watson was puzzled and vexed, he could not bring himself to act on his conviction that it would be best to go home and talk it over with his partner. Justin had put the matter out of his own hands; and so far that was a satisfaction. But there was no satisfaction in thinking of his successor, and of the change that Herford must speedily undergo. He went away, heavy at heart, to seek his daughter Pansy.

THE

MIDDLE LIFE.

BY THE REV. S. A. TIPPLE, AUTHOR OF "ECHOES OF SPOKEN Words."
"O my God, take me not away in the midst of my days."-PSALM cii. 24.

HE Psalm in which these words occurthe recorded cry of an anxiously wistful soul-is entitled, you observe," a prayer of the afflicted when he is overwhelmed, and poureth out his complaint before the Lord;" and the Psalm answers to the title.

It is manifestly the devotional utterance of one who spoke out of the depths of some great and sore trouble; nor is it less evident what the trouble was; there are expressions which indicate clearly enough the secret of the writer's grief. The Holy Land lay desolate, the sacred metropolis of Palestine in ruins; and for this he was mourning, and had long been mourning, apparently in exile, "like a pelican of the wilderness; like an owl of the desert; as a sparrow alone on the housetop." Yet while weeping bitter tears, a promise of better days near at hand would seem to have dawned to cheer him. "Thou shalt arise and have mercy on Sion; for the time to favour her, yea the set time is come; the Lord will regard the prayer of the destitute, He hath looked down from Heaven to hear the groaning of the prisoner, to liberate the children of death; that His praise may be declared in Jerusalem, when the people are gathered together and the kingdoms to serve Him." These sentences may be said to justify the conclusion of most Biblical students, that the Psalm was written by some expatriated Israelite, during the Babylonian captivity, but towards the close of the seventy years which the prophets of the nation had foretold as the limit of its duration; when therefore the outcasts from their country were beginning to look for deliverance, and to count on the restoration of the city and temple, that had been burned with fire.

Our author perhaps had suffered in silence, hitherto; for in the deep midnight of our distress, we do not sit down to describe it, are not wont to breathe it musically. But now that the darkness was softening a little with hopes of returning day, he could give himself to articulate and relate his woe in plaintive song, song rising gradually to a higher key, a livelier strain, under the sweet expectation of coming relief. It was still gloom around him; but not the dense unmitigated gloom that had been; surely the morning was drawing nigh. The happy conviction, nevertheless, brought with it to the writer a new anxiety and disquietude: "My days are like a shadow that declineth, and I

am withered like grass!" Ah, he was no
longer young!-carried away into bondage
probably in his early youth, he has survived
all the hardships and afflictions of the weary
exile, until at length its destined term is
almost completed, and the hour of emancipa-
tion approaches: but alas! in the course of
nature, the end of his own mortal term
approaches also, and can hardly be far off;
"his strength is weakened, his time is short,"
he may never live after all to go back with
the rejoicing tribes to his native soil and
watch with them the rebuilding of the House
of the Lord; and out of the anguish of this
fear breaks the cry, "Oh my God, take me
not away in the midst of my days!" A cry,
however, which is instantly followed by a
devout effort to rest content with the as-
surance, that, whoever dies Jehovah and his
purposes abide.

It is very beautiful to see the eager
yearning old man, endeavouring to face
serenely the possibility of his fading away
and his falling short of the land,—the land
he so pined to revisit; in remembrance of
God's eternity, and the consequent undoubted
redemption and reinstatement of the elect
people. And those of us who are living,
worn and grey, amid growing signs of a freer,
grander time in store for the earth, a time of
wider thought and clearer vision, " of nobler
modes of life, with sweeter manners, purer
laws; " we should feel satisfied, that although
we ourselves may be doomed to depart hence
before it arrives; that though, in spite of
strong desire, our eyes may not be permitted
to behold it, yet with it, men shall be blessed;
that when we are no more in these streets
and under these skies to enjoy, not having
been suffered to continue by reason of death,
the world of mankind will be climbing higher,
beneath the guidance of the everlasting God
who fainteth not, neither is weary; higher
toward the summits of a perfect day.

But now, the prayer of the text represents, it seems to me, that which is peculiar to the middle-aged; and I am moved somehow to address myself for a little, especially to such. Being one of them, they naturally interest me a good deal. I love and delight exceedingly in the young; the star-eyed, sparkling children, full of motion, full of wonder, the lusty, san guine, conceited youths, and dainty, dream ing maidens; and I revere the old, whether wise or otherwise, looking up to them with a

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species of awe, as those who have traversed the whole mortal round, and are waiting to sail away into the mystery of eternity; who having experienced all things here, are about to make experience of the vast unknown beyond our shores. But they are the middleaged naturally in whom I am most interested. Well, my reader, in the prayer that the Hebrew Psalmist prayed, we are expressed. It is characteristic of us, more than any others, that we are loth to die. There are moments with us perhaps, as with all, when something of a longing seizes us to disappear behind the veil, to pass through the gates into the unseen; but for the most part and distinctively, we do not want to die. Neither for old nor young is it so difficult to surrender to the interruption and change of death, as it is for us, in the midst of our days. Either of these may resign themselves more easily to it than we: as to the former, they have begun to expect and arrange for it; they stand and wait, aware that it is eventide with them, and that the day is far spent. Besides they are conscious, more or less, of failing powers and appetites, their interest in things has lost much of its keenness, and they are feeling rather tired; Death, looking in at last, finds them not unready or reluctant to receive him and with respect to the latter, hard as it seems that they should be taken, and instinctively as they recoil from the thought of it, having life untasted before them, and being full of eagerness to sally forth and drink thereof; yet the very fact that they are comparatively new to life, not having become bound to it by long use and custom, nor by the formation and growth of numerous ties, must need render the pang of separation comparatively light; there is so much less attachment to overcome, so many bonds the less to break; while if the intervention of death disappoint the curiosity and inquisitiveness that are strong in youth, and thwart the passionate desire to try the untrodden, and explore the unknown-it does also invite, and offer food to the same. "Come with me," it says, in driving back from the gateway of the promised earthly existence, experience of which was thirsted for, come with me into another strange land to make acquaintance there with what eye has not seen nor ear heard."

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It is not the hardest thing to die young. I can remember, on learning the supposed fatal character of a serious illness that overtock me in my juvenile days, with how little difficulty I was able to reconcile myself to the prospect of leaving the world; how

much slighter the wrench seemed, than I had imagined it would be; and curious and eager as I had been to plunge into the untried mortal life that lay veiled and mysterious before me, when the conviction came that all experience of it was likely to be denied me, I began to be no less curious and eager in anticipation of that other life, still more veiled and mysterious, upon which, according to appearances, I was destined soon to enter. If the sudden new prospect awed, it yet strangely drew and fascinated me. But except in morbid moments, or intervals of extreme weariness, the middle-aged are never so easily weaned to die. Never is death such a rude, violent, unwelcome interruption. Never does it involve such rending asunder and plucking up, as in the midst of our days. Just then it is that we are most vigorous, and most interested, and most occupied; at the height of our powers, in the mid-heat of work and enterprise, and alive with widest and keenest mundane sympathies. We have got to be thoroughly at home in the world, and fastened to it by a thousand ties. There are the family relations and needs, the ripe mature friendships that have outlived many vicissitudes and survived many a peril, the pursuits that have become more engaging and absorbing than ever, the thoughts, schemes, and ideas that are being industriously worked out, the issues of things that are being waited for, the conflicts and controversies with which we are mixed up. We are so deeply rooted here, and so closely and variously entwined; and then all is so familiar; we have grown so habituated and inured to it all; while the youthful impatience of monotony, and susceptibility to the charms of change and novelty have diminished in us. We are less ready to seek the new and untried; our disposition is rather to cleave to the accustomed and old. Middle age begins to be conservative; although, like St. Paul, it may groan in this tabernacle, like St. Paul it does not care to be unclothed. It no longer hankers after fresh fields or inclines to fresh ways; it prefers running on in grooves that have been worn, and is reluctant and finds it difficult to quit them; it leans to the time-endeared state and scenery, does not wish to part from a world it knows so well; the thought of missing these streets and skies, these haunts and homes, strikes it with a chill. Never are we so in love with them, and so knit to them, as in the midst of our days.

With many of us, moreover, there is apt to be an increasing attraction toward carnal comforts and material goods, and an increasing

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