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moment, had he suffered himself to be overpersuaded by his mother, and coerced by his stepfather, and drifted by circumstances into entering the Church? His heart was not in his work. He discharged his duties conscientiously, and would not wilfully omit one of his obligations; but they were a weariness, not a delight, to him. His desire was for other pursuits. When the men about him talked of their fishing and farming, their horses and their boats, he could enter easily and cordially into their interests; but when they were dying, and looked to him to give them comfort and counsel for their souls, he was at a loss. He had found himself tongue-tied and embarrassed at his stepfather's death-bed. It ought not to have been so. Perchance, if he had been himself a more devout and spiritual man, he might have awakened some answering emotion in the departing spirit, and it would have passed into another world with less of earth's ignorance and hardness about it. He felt bowed down by his sense of unfitness for his office. There had been times before this when the same wretched despondency had breathed over him, but now he had fallen into a dark and deep degree of it. If he had been what he ought to be as a minister of Christ, would his stepfather have gone from this life in so dense an ignorance of the character of God, and the nature of the revelation Christ had come to bring?

But irksome as the yoke was he must bear it. There had been a half-dream in his mind of giving up his living to his old friend Cunliffe, if the estate should ever come to him. It amazed and shamed him to discover how active had been his anticipations of supplanting his half-brother; yet what freedom there would have been in it for himself! How well he could have filled the offices of owner and master, squire and magistrate! Richard would do mischief in each of these positions-Richard, the ignorant, reckless spendthrift, as selfish as his father, with low habits bordering on vices. Justin had always despised Richard while he envied him. He had continually drawn comparisons between them, and in all these comparisons his own character and conduct stood out well; yet Richard was to be master of Herford !

At last Justin roused himself from his long reverie, stood up shivering, and lifted his soft cap from his head to let the keen seabreeze cool his throbbing temples. The thoughts that had passed through his mind he could utter to no man; and he must guard

himself against entertaining them again, even as passing guests. It was a poor man's life he was going back to, doomed to it for the remainder of his days; for if Richard came into unconditional possession it was little help his mother would get from her younger son, and she would become an additional burden upon him. Two hundred a year was the full value of his little living. Poverty had not yet looked in through his window, for old Richard Herford's pride would not have brooked the idea of any one belonging to him being in low condition; but now Richard was master he would spend all on himself in riotous living. His stepfather's last coherent words haunted him as he retraced his way homewards: "Justin has always been a good son to me; I wish I'd done something for him, but it's too late now."

CHAPTER IV.-PANSY.

JUSTIN'S Vicarage was built in the shadow of the church-a small, low house, not much better than the best of the village dwellings; yet such as it was he had been content with it until his younger brother disappeared, and his stepfather ostentatiously and continually proclaimed him heir to Herford Court. Since then he had, unawares to himself, looked upon it as a merely temporary abode, which answered his purpose well enough till he could move into a larger habitation. Now it must be his home for life, for Justin had no desire to quit Herford, for which he felt an almost passionate love, and no ambition apart from his beloved village tempted him. He had never left it as a boy without suffering from that strange malady, half physical and half mental, which we call home sickness; and to be banished from it altogether would have seemed to him like tearing up his life by the roots.

He looked up expectantly to the small window of the closet adjoining his own study, where his motherless child slept, and which he could enter with quiet footfall any moment of the long evenings he often spent alone, and mark every change on the sweet rosy face asleep on the little bed. He was not disappointed, for Pansy was already up and dressed, and was watching for him, with her face pressed close against the window. She ran down swiftly, and he heard her fingers busy at the fastenings of the door, which were but slight ones, for no one feared housebreakers in Herford. There was no lack of warmth in Pansy's welcome. pulled down his sad face to hers and covered it with kisses.

She

reached the man's hard and selfish heart had pierced it through with many sorrows. "You'll never be very grieved for long while I'm with you!" said Pansy wistfully. "Why, no! How could I?" he replied, rousing himself from his mournful reverie.

"How I've missed you, father!" she said. "Why did you stay away from me all night? I got up so early to see if you wouldn't come. I was going to run up to grandpapa's after you, if you hadn't come soon." "Pansy," he said solemnly, "I was watching with your grandfather till he went away" If my little girl is very good, and very happy,

from us all."

"Where is he gone?" she asked in an earnest, emphatic tone.

Justin was silent as he drew his little daughter into the homely room where his breakfast was being laid. What could he say in reply to the important question we ask of each one that passes away from our sight and ken? He had hitherto been so much occupied with his own position that the thought of the old man's destiny had barely touched his mind. No one knew him as well as he did, no man was better fitted to pronounce upon his doom, but Justin's heart sank within him as he vainly tried, for an instant, to follow the journey his stepfather had taken since he had left his questioning little daughter.

"He is gone to his own place," he murmured half aloud.

"Is it a pleasant place?" asked Pansy. "Is it where you'd like us two to go, father ?" "God forbid!" he answered hastily, pressing the child closer to him; "my darling, your grandfather is dead."

"Like my poor mamma!" said Pansy, in a pitiful tone." Never mind, father. I'll make up to you for him, as well as for poor mamma. Don't I make up for her to you?" "Yes, my little girl," he answered tenderly.

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5 Are you very, very sorry he is dead?" she inquired again, after a little pause. She did not find that she felt very sorry. He was a yellow, toothless, rough-faced old man, with a mumbling voice, of whom she had been secretly afraid; though she had too much native sweetness and grace to show it in any way. "Are you very sorry?"

"I am grieved," answered Justin, stroking his child's sunny curls, with as loving a touch as a mother's. For the first time he felt an emotion of grief for the old man; for his wasted life, so long in passing, and so solitary in its close. Could it be possible that he had possessed the same absorbing love for Richard which Pansy received from him? What poignant anguish must the forsaken father have undergone! What a sore spirit must he have carried about with him under his proud mien for many a past month! The only love that had ever

I couldn't be sorry for long. Now give me my breakfast, little woman." It was an unfailing pleasure to him to see the flush of mingled anxiety and happiness that mounted to Pansy's face when she was employed in pouring out his coffee, the only part she could yet take in the management of the breakfast table. She was not tall enough to sit down to her task, and she stood at the tray, with a grave face puckered up into supernatural seriousness, as she carefully portioned out the cream and sugar, and poured out the hot coffee; breaking out into a triumphant little laugh as she placed the full cup in safety before him.

"There! You'll never pour out my coffee for me again," she said, "like you used to do when I was a little girl. Not if I never break any of the cups and saucers? Don't make believe I'm little again, please. I'm going to learn how to mend your stockings; and some day, when I am quite tall, I shall wash your surplices and iron them. I'm almost a woman now I think. Was it very cold and dark all night, father?"

"It was neither cold nor dark in your grandfather's room," he answered.

"Poor grandpapa!" said Pansy, in a voice of awe and pity; "did he know he was going away all alone? Did he want to stay here a little longer? Would grandmamma have gone with him if she could? He would have liked somebody to go with him."

"She would rather stay with us as long as she can," replied Justin.

"Father!" cried Pansy, running to him, and throwing herself in his arms, "if you were obliged to go away I should want to come too. I should never, never like you to leave me behind. Didn't you want to go with poor mamma when God called her?"

"My little daughter," he answered, with soothing caresses, "we have no choice offered to us. Thank God, we are not called upon to choose whether we will go with those we love or stay behind! God calls each of us when He sees it best; and none can refuse to obey, neither can we go till He calls."

"It is so strange and dreadful," sobbed Pansy, hiding her face on his breast, and clasping him more tightly in her arms.

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"Why! how's this?" he said. "My little woman was quite merry a minute ago, and now she is crying her poor little heart away. Did you love your grandfather so much?"

"I didn't love him enough," she faltered between her sobs; "if I'd only known I'd have tried to love him better. And now he'll never speak to me again; and he's gone alone by himself; and I'm afraid it's not a pleasant place, for you said God forbid you and me to go there. If I was there I'd ask God to let him go to a quiet room, where he could rest himself a little while, because he is so old; and he should have some very quiet angels to take care of him. Might I ask God for it? Perhaps it would not be too late yet."

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"You may ask God for everything you wish," answered Justin soothingly. There could be no harm in teaching his child that; but he was reluctant to burden her young mind with any theory of the great mystery and tragedy which he had just witnessed. It came home to himself more closely than any death had done since his wife's, and had awakened a whole host of questions that

slumber easily enough in the recesses of the brain so long as death passes by our own circle. He exerted himself to chase away the gloom on Pansy's face; and presently she was sitting again at the head of the table chattering almost gaily, though a suppressed sob now and then forced itself from her lips. Her father had soon to leave her to go again to Herford Court, and Pansy ran up-stairs to her little room to ask God to grant a very quiet place to her old grandfather.

CHAPTER V.-READING THE WILL.

JUSTIN had to pass through the whole. length of the village street before reaching the road which led up to Herford Court. The place was in an unusual stir and excitement, with groups of men and women standing here and there talking busily. Only the very oldest among them could remember the death of the last Herford of Herford, more than sixty years before; and the news that their old master had at last laid down the burden of his extreme age had shaken the village as with the shock of an earthquake. There was no other death that

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