"WE

E all do fade as a leaf" was the first thought that rose to Ernest's poetic mind as he entered his uncle's presence. The fact, rather than the lesson, impressed him as his eye fell upon that once straight and stalwart figure, now bent and, as it were, fixed to the chair on which he sat. It was about eight years since they had met, when Mr. Rivers was hale and hearty, never dreaming of the possibility of decay or even of the diminution of the bodily vigour which he regarded as the chief indication of manhood. Ernest was then entering his twentieth year, a pale, romantic-looking youth.

Of course there was some change now. The stripling had become a man, not indeed of the type after Mr. Rivers's heart-strong, muscular, and hardy-but yet with a distinction of his own. His face was refined, his bearing gentle, manlike, and his voice was musical. His dark brown eyes expressed intelligence, and had, moreover, a softness about them which could never be allied to a gross or material nature. In personal appearance he was the reverse of his uncle's taste as much as he could well be, even to the cut of his clothes, all of which told against him. Though Mr. Rivers was certain in his own mind that he had expected nothing better, he nevertheless experienced a feeling of disappointment when the young man entered the room, and could not give him the cordial reception he had intended.

To a man buried in the country there is ever

something distinctive in the dress and deportment of a denizen of London, or of any large city; an ease, a polish, differing in degree according to the station, but always existing in reality.

In Ernest the difference was particularly apparent-the make of his coat, the grace of his figure, the poise of his head, all marked him down gentleman, and would have done him disservice in the eyes of his uncle without the gold watchchain across the waistcoat with the inevitable locket dangling from it, a badge of foppery in the old man's estimation.

"A souvenir with hair in it, or meant to appear one," he thought viciously as his eye fell upon the ornaments. "What am I to do with a sentimental fop like this?"

affairs, and who but you can feel any real interest in them?"

His bantering tone was now exchanged for an earnest one, and there was something pitiable in the helplessness expressed by his whole appearance, his eye and tongue being all that remained obedient to his will, and by which he could still hurt others when it pleased him to do so. Though smarting under his uncle's rough words, Ernest was both reasonable and prudent. Compassion soon came uppermost, and, remembering his 'mother's injunctions, he answered in his usual

tone,

"Such assistance as I can give is at your service. Agricultural subjects have not been in my line, but I think I can follow instructions, and that may perhaps be as useful to you as if I could act independently."

"Perhaps; we shall see. How did you leave your mother?"

"Thank you, my mother was as usual; she is never strong."

"No, no.

Of course not-one of the fine ladies who would blush to be thought robust or to do anything worth doing. I expected you by the morning train, or if not then, later in the day. How did you come?"

"I came by the morning train. Mr. Nash invited me to lunch with him."

"And you talked the old man over together, his strange ways and harsh temper, and Nash advised you to put up with him for a consideration. And what else did he speak about?"

"Mr. Nash endeavoured to make me a little acquainted with the property, to give me imformation about it which he thought might be necessary if you wished me to remain any time with you."

Mr. Rivers eyed his nephew sharply, but as Ernest gave back glance for glance in a natural, unconcerned manner, his suspicions, whatever they were, were lulled.

"True, you ought to know the area and acreage of the estate and the farms upon it. You must study that book on the shelf there with the white vellum cover. Take it down and look at it byand-by. You can keep accounts, of course? I shall want you to look over those of the last two months. Unlock my bureau; here is the key; bring out the account-books you find there, and come and sit down by me. In turning them over I shall be able to make you understand what I want with you. If I can't trust you, whom can I trust ?"

Ernest did as he was bid, glad enough that his uncle had dropped the caustic mood for the practical. He put all the books asked for on the table, and then seated himself, turning over the pages as directed, and listening attentively to the observations Mr. Rivers chose to make. If this were a specimen of the life he had to lead it would not be a disagreeable one, provided the old gentleman acted handsomely by him in the end, but the time had not come to speak about the future. He was in the present: where his uncle was soon became doubtful, for after about another half-hour of desultory talk, Mr. Rivers's eyes closed and his

head sank lower upon his breast. Ernest applied himself to a careful examination of the white vellum book until both parties were startled by a sharp knock and the sudden opening of the door.

The young man rose quickly, and Mr. Rivers awoke.

"Well, Matty."

"Well, John."

Such was the greeting between brother and sister after a long separation. Ernest received a more demonstrative one from his aunt, who unintentionally did him the disservice of pronouncing him more like his mother than his father. A few general remarks were made on Mr. Rivers's illness and on Miss Matty's willingness to be of use, and then Ernest, thinking that the newly united relatives might like to be together, proposed to return a little later.

"Come to me again in the evening after tea. We have a good deal to talk about, and, remember, I sent for you to see after my affairs and not to look after other people.

"And that white-handed carpet-knight is the sole representative of the family," ejaculated Mr. Rivers, when Ernest had left the room.

"I see no harm in him. He is good-looking, and perhaps not too wise to serve your purpose." "And what do you call my purpose?" he asked, gruffly.

"You wish him to marry Miss Lacy."

"No, I don't; I wish him to be the future master of Deane Hall."

"That is only another way of putting it. Your nephew can only arrive at that by marrying your heiress, your own folly having cut away all other ground from under your feet. I warned you that you would repent when it was too late, and begged you not to commit yourself to such a wholesale promise, but you would not listen, and my wellmeant counsel only made bad blood between us. But let that pass. There is no use crying over spilt milk. What is done cannot be undone. To mend and patch is all that remains for us to do. A match between the two parties will set things right, and to tinker it up as pleasantly as possible is all that now lies in your power. Marriage is a foolish business at all times. It is rather hard to bring me from my comfortable home to countenance a proceeding to which I have been opposed all my life. However, I am not going to quarrel with your present scheme; it may be the best under the circumstances. I think it is. When a man has cut off his right hand he must use his left. These children may get on together as well as others as far as I can see. Ernest, however, is quite as clever as the girl, and sharp enough to perceive where his interest lies; but all the same, he may not be willing to be beholden to a rich wife."

More than once while his sister was speaking, Mr. Rivers's eye flashed dangerously, but being slow of utterance, except now and then when vehemently angry, he had not been able to interrupt her, and now, when she had finished, his wrath subsided into the one idea to which he clung so tenaciously.

"Deane Hall will not pass into the hands of a woman. It shall remain in the family."

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It may or may not. You have tied your own hands, and the darling desire of your heart is at the caprice of a mere child, superficially educated at a fashionable school. It will be as she pleases after all, even if your nephew is dutiful enough to seek to promote your wishes and his own interest by the same stroke."

Miss Matty was far from having any intention of exciting her brother against Miss Lacy; her contemptuous tone was directed against wedlock itself, and the necessity for it in the present case as the only way out of a difficulty. But Mr. Rivers was furious at his sister's persistency, and spluttered out something that sounded like a malediction upon marriage, but whether upon his own, or the one to which she had just referred, was not apparent. Miss Matty supposed it to be his own, and replied,

"You have no one to blame but yourself. A wrong-headed man must eat the fruit of his own doings."

"If Harold had not turned out such a rascal-" "Or if you had been more reasonable and less violent," she retorted. "If you had had any feeling for your own flesh and blood, if you had not hunted him down as a felon, driven him from the country to ruin and death, he might have been with you now, in his proper place, your rightful successor, and this unsatisfactory concatenation of circumstances would not have existed. Woe to us all if the iniquities of our youth are never to be pardoned. There was good in the lad in spite of his faults."

'Aye, he would have been a better man than this white-handed Ernest," returned Mr. Rivers, visibly softened either by regret for what he had done or for what he had lost.

"Better, I will not say. Ernest has always been steady and hard-working, but Harold was your legitimate heir, and ought to have been dealt with more mercifully. His tragic end you may well take to heart."

"I wish he were here," sighed the old man, after a few minutes' silence, which both had given to the memory of the favourite nephew. Miss Matty took some credit to herself for not loading her brother with further reproaches, but now she lost her patience.

"Of course you do; that is the common way with those who indulge their anger unchecked. They sin with their eyes open, and then rebel at the consequences. Give me the man who counts the cost beforehand, and pays it without grumbling. But poor Harold is gone, we cannot bring him back; and were he alive, the only difference it would make would be that Etta Lacy might have a choice between the two, nothing else. She would still your heiress."

be

honourable man will condemn you, and justly too," said Miss Matty, hotly.

And what will that matter to me?" he asked, his grey eyes lightning with fiery wrath. "Shall

I be here to hear them?"

"And your last act on earth will be a gross injustice, a crime. You will die with a lie in your right hand."

It was well for Miss Matty that her opponent's strength was not equal to his ire. He tried to raise his hands but could not, they lay powerless on the table; he opened his mouth but no word could be articulated, the tongue refused to do its office; his eyes alone showed how deeply he felt and resented her plain speaking. She too regretted her abruptness when she saw its effect, fearing the consequences of so much agitation. She sat quiet for a time, wishing that she better knew how to speak the word in season, and then took his hands and silently chafed them. degrees his eye glowed less fiercely, and the purple colour in his cheeks faded to a natural tint. He looked at her crossly, but the great passion had subsided. He knew that he was his own master, and let people say what they chose, he would do as he pleased. This conviction, rather than Matty's tacit concession, restored his speech, for the first use he made of it was to say,

"And you pretend to judge me?”

By

"Not I, but the Lord," she said, solemnly; "and if I speak strongly it is because I feel deeply; you have passed and I am fast approaching the term of life allotted to many. We are both going a long journey and have need to read the sign-posts on the road, or we may not choose the right way."

"Choose for yourself, Matty, by all means, and suffer me to do the same. I am not ill-I may last many years longer yet."

"Or may be taken off at a stroke, in a few hours or less, with no other warning than you have had already. Have you never thought of that, John? of the time when neither doctors nor friends can help, and you must go alone into a strange land?"

"Doctors and friends have not done so much for me here that I should be over-anxious for

their company in another world." He spoke scoffingly, and ended with one of his grating laughs.

"Then you think yourself prepared for the great change that must soon come?" The old man was about to make a sharp rejoinder-his sister's lectures, or indeed any word of religious import, always irritated him-but something stayed the angry mood, and he merely said,

66

Matty, you often talk like a silly woman, though you think yourself a wise one."

"Wise I certainly am in one sense, and in a degree," she replied, quickly, "for at least I

fear the Lord, and that we are told by the highest authority is the beginning of wisdom."

"There is such a thing as being wise in your own conceits, and I wish you joy of it. Spare me your allegories and parables, and don't weary the few brains I have. I want them for better things than making out your riddles. Leave me now; I am tired and shall require all the strength I have to converse with Ernest by-and-by. Thank you for coming here at my request, but don't lessen the obligation by interference and sermonising."

For the first time in her life Miss Matty yielded quietly to her brother's rebuke. She was anxious and earnest, but when she recalled the scene of his passionate wrath, she feared her zeal had been intemperate, and yet she knew that her conscience

would not permit her to see Etta Lacy defrauded of her promised inheritance, nor suffer her brother to go down to his grave without serious endeavours to bring him to a sense of the deep value of the few days yet remaining to him.

"Oh, the momentous issue of this one short life which we use so carelessly and throw away so thoughtlessly, and yet treat as if the boundary of every hope and desire!" she said to herself, when sitting in her own room pondering over the late interview. She had come from it grieved and humbled, grieved that a soul on the verge of eternity should be so absorbed in worldly schemes, and humbled over her own infirmity of temper and roughness of manner that so little recommended the faith which she desired to make the lode-star of life.

L

EAVING Miss Matty and her brother together, Ernest took the opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with Deane Hall, where some of his holidays had been spent in a boyish enjoyment of the freedom of country life.

The old place seemed greatly changed. It had a dreary look about it, very different from what he remembered when his uncle was in and out of the yard all day, or riding on his cob about the fields, and stir and work were going on all around. It now had a dead-alive air, showing that the master was either ill or absent. Where were the dogs that he used to chase, or rather which chased him, leaping and barking in the exuberance of their joy at having playmates? Playmates was the word, for there was another lad, older than himself, and a favourite, who could do no wrong.

helping him. He could not, he said, be for ever putting money into a bag with holes. Harold had to reap the natural consequences. He left the army and his country too, pursued by his uncle's vindictive anger, the stronger in its workings from the depth of the old man's affection, he having at one time regarded him almost as a son. They heard of him once from Australia as successful at the diggings, and likely to become a rich man. At his wife's death Mr. Rivers was inclined to forgive him, or to approach as near forgiveness as his nature permitted. By means of a friend he commissioned a person on the spot to institute inquiries about the young man, and to let him know the result. The first account was that Harold had turned a sheep-farmer, and was doing well; the next, that he had been tempted back to "the diggings," and had been killed and robbed by a less fortunate companion.

As Ernest thought of these things he wandered farther from the house towards the fields, by the lanes where the track of waggons and bits of grass and clover on the hedges showed that there was more liveliness away from the house than near it; and soon he heard the voices of the labourers at work. This was like old times, of which he could think, as far as he was concerned, without regret. He had done no great things with his life, but he had not stained it. "And, God helping me, I never will," he said to himself, as he thought of his mother's eager hopes and of the innocent, imprudent child who had spoken so unguardedly before him. "My uncle can act justly towards us both if he chooses."

Ernest wandered on, looking about him, reviving old memories as he went, until signs of the close of day in the shape of labourers, waggons, and horses returning homewards, reminded him that he might be expected at the Hall.

He arrived just as his aunt was waiting for him at the front door. "Come, Ernest," she said, gaily; "there is a high tea prepared for you. We shall learn after a time to fall into our respective places."

They went in together, and found Etta seated before the tea equipage with as much composure as if she had never been ruffled. Having vented her griefs in a long letter to her friend Ethel, she bathed her eyes, and went downstairs with the full intention of doing her part as hostess, at least in the dining-room. Beyond she could not go, for Mrs. Jukes, the cook and housekeeper, had told her roundly before the guests arrived that she would brook no interference from her. The table lost nothing by being left to Mrs. Jukes. Whether her doing, or through the good offices of Merry, it was well spread, and the silver upon it was bright and sparkling. There were some excellent cutlets for Ernest, and plenty of cakes and dainties for the ladies. To Etta's mortification a message was delivered in her presence to the effect that Mrs. Jukes would take Miss Matty's orders the following morning. But, though subjected to many humiliations, Etta would not succumb. Her belief in her own dignity and incessant efforts to assert it was unremitting, and equally visible to

both her companions, though it affected them differently.

"What a little goose she is!" observed Miss Matty, bluntly, when alone with her nephew, the fact of having to fight her battle from conscience rather than from regard, and the quarrels with her brother that must ensue from it, disposing her to exaggerate and to be very hard upon the girl's weaknesses.

Ernest did not seek to defend her, nor did he take part against her. To him she was a new type-a curiosity, a child, clever and piquante, endeavouring to act the woman, and making frequent mistakes because determined to be always right, and too thoroughly believing in herself.

After a few days the three fell into their separate grooves, and a regular routine was established, from which none of the parties departed. At the first dinner Etta had been practically deposed from the place she had taken at the head of the table. Being unable to carve the joint before her, she gladly availed herself of Ernest's offered assistance. After that it was regularly placed before him, and, as his aunt sat opposite, and the table was square, Etta found herself henceforth sitting at the side. It was a trifle, yet it wounded her consequence, and she had also a suspicion that the others were aware of it.

Altogether, Etta did not feel the happier for having company. Yet in reality she was quite as much mistress as she had been before. Lizzie disputed her orders whenever she gave any, while Miss Matty listened in silence, apparently engrossed with her knitting, but calmly watching the childish woman chafe under the impertinence.

"I was asked to be a duenna, not a counsellor," she would say to herself, by way of excuse for her indifference.

Had Etta consulted her she would have been an honest adviser, but Etta was proud and reticent, and would not admit that she required advice. She knew nothing of Miss Matty's endeavour to befriend her in the contest with Mr. Rivers or she would have been more grateful.

Whenever the two happened to be together they seemed to have little in common. Miss Matty, seated in the same arm-chair, was ever working at something useful destined to comfort the rheumatic limbs of some poor villager in the winter, while Etta fluttered hither and thither, intent upon some busy idleness she called an improvement. Their outward appearance was equally different; Etta's little well-shaped head was always arranged becomingly, which could not be said of Miss Matty, whose silver hair was as often straggling about her temples as smoothed under a cap, its tidiness or untidiness being no incorrect index of her humour, which was sometimes aggressive and pugnacious, at others thoughtful and placid. Their dress was another contrast. Miss Matty's short grey gown, doing duty upon all occasions, was a foil to the neat and tasteful costumes furnished to Etta when at school, and which were still in good condition.

Since the death of Mrs. Rivers Miss Owen had had the responsibility of her wardrobe and dressed her well-assisted, it is true, by Etta's own wishes,