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on a thousand hills;" my harvests were bounteous. The wool of my flocks was borne in buoyant "argosies" to the great ports of England, and I was fast growing a capitalist, "Monarch of all I surveyed"-yet, yet I turned many a backward glance after the sweet face of Dora, and pondered often, in silent, yearning pain, whether her heart was mine still-whether she could, in womanly honour, think tenderly yet of me; for time, and tide, and circumstance had divided us-yes, oh, yes, for ever-so the voice of my soul said; so the stern echo of every probability whispered. When, in the Sabbath stillness of the evening, and the labours of the day were over, I watched the herdsmen in the glade-sturdy youth and budding maiden-saw the husband and the wife walking forth together in the tranquil air-listened to the prattle and the merry laughter of the children-my heart would beat the more quickly, thinking of what might have been, but which was not to be; thinking that, blessed as I was by a bountiful providence, I had no one to share my lot, to rejoice with me, to be the partaker of what joy or what sorrow might yet be in store for me, to gratulate with me on my success, or sympathize with me in my reverses-which latter indeed seemed improbable enough. It was like amassing wealth without a purpose; a selfish triumph over the evil frowns of fortune, where the full sense of enjoyment and the appreciation of my increase were wanting. I was too much alone, and my distempered thoughts were becoming morbid. Little by little, as time wore on, my hopes were dying away; my yearning cooled; time, I dreaded, at intervals of thought, was doing that dreary service for me which we comprehend under the term "oblivion." I recollect to have felt a shuddering dread creep over me, when I found I was forgetting what was yet dearest to my heart to cherish and remember. To forget her voice, her smile, her words, her look of love! Oh, never! Worldling and trifler as I had been-now battling manfully with fate, and a conqueror over the stern and palpable obstacles of life-her name Í prayed might be the last on my lips, her memory ever fresh, green, and rejuvenescent before my mind's eye.

Meanwhile I had written to one or two I yet felt some lingering old feeling for in England. I honestly put before them the vast material opportunities offered in this virgin land for retrieving a falling fortune. I wanted society, perhaps, more suited to my cultivated tastes, though I was well stocked with books and other associations of intellectual refinement, for the mess-room and the billiard-table had not so utterly occupied me as to make me neglect what I had once mastered with some difficulty, and so I urged and invited some few I wished near at hand, to come. Having broken through the trammels of conventionalism, our first half-savage life was now taking a civilizing tinge, out of the very exuberance and redundancy around us. Nature had become indeed our nursing mother, and there I first grew acquainted with her sublime and solemn face.

I had written to Dora. I could do little less; for let her have taken what step her politic parents wished her, so much was due to her for the interest she had exhibited in my welfare. wished her to know that I was successful, even happy; and I did not touch on that tender chord, which, if still full of melody, might yet have some sad and sorrowful minors infused into and pervading it. Contentment and health; affluence in exchange for what had at first given but doubtful promise; a wilderness converted into an Eden, were really something to boast about. But where was the Eve to crown my felicity, to give me my reward?

And yet it came at last. The blessing we least expect--how gracious and benign is its aspect! Even when I had surrendered the last fragment of a vague and forlorn hope-and this alone was the first and only time in which I admitted into my lexicon the word "impossible "— —even then came the angelia

messenger to my porch.

A gallant ship sailed across the sea, and bore my treasure to my arms. And looking now, as I look, thousands of miles away in our new home, on the blooming wife of my bosom, and the fair mother of my fine, handsome lads, and girls, each one so like to her, I can scarcely credit the reality of the thing-it seems too much to have realized.

Yes, one night, when all the stars were out, and the odorous winds were sighing their low moanings about my roof, wafting me, with their immemorial voices, back to the lights, and the drawing-room, and the English home of Dora, there came the summons at my door. To hasten to the porch of my timber-rafted palace-to find, half swooning over my threshold, something half in collapse, with a white face, and in it an awful trouble, blended with hope, and trust, and love-to recognize, with a loud cry, that this face was the face of Dora that it was she who summoned me-oh, what a revealing splendour was that then opened to my inmost soul, and how my heart throbbed and beat with pride and rapture, with tenderest pity, with a deep, reverent love!

She knew me the bearded, stalwart man, in his wild, uncivilized habiliments-she knew me in a moment. She said :"Philip-Philip Conyers-it is I-Dora. You-you know me? I am come to you for shelter, for a home. I have left mine; they forced me to fly. I trusted in you-will you-will you"

She could say no more. She was in my arms-on my breast; but, despite her tears, a pale smile lit up her wan but exquisite face.

"Come to my heart, Dora," I said. "Live within it for ever, as thou hast been enshrined in it hitherto. My love! my dove! my darling! My wife, if it please heaven, ere another sunset pass, welcome! This is thy home, and over all that is here thou shalt be queen and ruler !"

This was grandiloquent, no doubt. What matter, if it was sincere. Ifwho for a moment questioned it? We were married. My "flight to Egypt." you see, did not turn out so hopeless a matter after all, as my friends prognosticated. I am in captivity still, and like my bondage very much. We have been to England once since. We were "pardoned" by the dismayed folk of May-Fair. I shook my brother by the hand; took his stately congratulations in good part; made my sisters each a present of a diamond bracelet; returned in my own schooner, the "Dora," to New Zealand-she sails from Auckland to-but come over and you'll know more about us. Meanwhile, as my story is ended, as I have told you all about my "flight into Egypt," I drink a health to all in the old country, and wish them a "Merry Christmas and a Happy new year."

"PUT YOUR HEART INTO IT AND IT WILL SOON BE DONE."

"PUT your heart into it, Biddy, and it will soon be done."

I was on one side of the sweet-briar hedge, "Biddy" on the other; and though years have passed since those words were spoken, I have never found out into what Biddy was to put her heart, or whether, following my fostermother's injunction, she found the promise come true. It might have been a column of spelling, hard to learn, or a sock of her father's, troublesome and tedious to darn, or it might have been some other thing of a very different

nature; any way, I was too lazy, on that summer noonday, to leave my hidingplace, to enquire the nature of my little playfellow's difficulties; too selfish, perhaps, to desire to help her out of them. But the words then heard, or heeded, for the first time, have often rung, with a warning sound, through both heart and conscience since. "Put your shoulder to the wheel" is very good in its way, inciting to energy, perseverance, and determination, in spite of obstacles; there is downright good sense in the proverb, and I like it; but old dame Hollings's words, though, as far as I know, no proverb, I like still better. Put the energy of your affections, the strength that is love-born, into "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do," be it small or great, and that, whatsoever it be, will, in Carlyle's expressive phraseology, become more doable," if not 66 sooner done." Choose your path in life, if choice be given you, and once chosen, "put your heart into it," and see how much may be accomplished by a single earnest-hearted worker. But some, alas, will say, with but too much truth, their lot is not of their own choosing; their daily, hourly duties are but so many varieties of daily, hourly trials. The work the hand finds is far from being the work the will would seek, or the taste select. Should such be the case, and the lot irremediable, beyond all earthly power of amelioration, even then try dame Hollings's advice," put your heart into it," and see whether it will not seem more endurable, less distasteful and irksome. Paradoxical though it may appear, the larger the heart, the easier will it be to "put it into" even the lesser duties of life.

That this is not at all times and in all seasons an easy matter, even to the most conscientiously disposed, none knows better than the present commentator upon dame Hollings's text; yet is it a thing to strive after and eventually to succeed in.

Again, there are cases in which the heart is ready, but the work wanting, or insufficient to satisfy its secret cravings. And there are instances, more than enough, of the heart's strength being wasted, or frittered away upon interests altogether unworthy of such energy and untiring zeal, yet, even then, it seems

to me

"Better to have worked in vain
Than never to have worked at all!"

if I may venture so to paraphrase the laureate's immortal couplet. Too much heart is a rarer and more venial error than too little, or indeed than the want of it altogether. How difficult is it often to put heart into the monotonous routine of daily teaching, the constant repetition of the same, or similar instructions to the young, but not always interesting pupil. And yet how much heart is there needed to make the head work willingly, if at all!

To these, and many another arduous labour, some higher incentive is needed than the prospect of getting the work "sooner done," which, it must be owned, is not the invariable sequence in every case where heart-work is desirable. Yet who shall say that the teacher, whose work is a work of love, has no more reward than they to whom "lessons" are mere words learned and repeated by rote; to be listened to methodically and indifferently, rather than taught and entered into with an interest that is not feigned? Look at the strong ties which often exist between teacher and pupil, the depth of affection at times awakened in both. Does the heart demand a recompense for its work? Will not such response be reward enough? And is not the heart the motive power, in the strength of which the triumphs of philanthropy, genius, and science, are effected? A Howard, a Wilberforce, a Stephenson, and a thousand others of the noble army of heart-workers, might be cited, even amongst our own countrymen, in proof of what may be done by those who, having once put their heart into a work, turn not back, and faint not till tha

VOL. II.

work be accomplished. Lukewarmness hath no triumphs to record, either in the cause of philanthropy or of science. Greatheart alone is the successful struggler. They who are "out of heart," or have "lost heart," are ever in the ranks of the defeated.

And in lesser, as in greater matters, it is heart-service alone which is acceptable in the sight of Him who hath said, "My son, give me thy heart." Not a cold, inanimate, insentient thing, but a living, feeling, active heart; this is the gift of "great price" in the eyes of Him who made us, and who claims of us the best offering that we can yield Him. Its pulses are still to play, its energies to be exerted; its affections are to be kindled, not deadened in His service. So, if we have hitherto ignored this duty, let us ignore it no longer. Whatever our lot in life, let us find something to which we can devote heart, and soul, and strength, in dependence upon that blessing from above which crowns the lowliest labour done heartily "as unto the Lord." Is the path we tread a rugged one? The goal is not far distant; may the struggling heart find comfort in this knowledge, and endure manfully, should enduranse be the only work assigned it. Is our lot lowlier than suits our aspiration to Let us put heart into it and ennoble it. Are we surrounded by perplexities, not of our own making? Those perplexities are either of God's sending or of his sufferance. Let us put our heart into them, and triumph over them; and if that be not possible, let our heart submit itself to Him who ordereth them. Or, lastly, is the life we lead congenial to our tastes, compatible with our inclinations, and at the same time not without use or benefit to others? Then let our heart rejoice and be glad, giving thanks always, and never wearying in well-doing, remembering too that all have not a life so fair, a portion so blest. Alas, no, one painful instance I have known of an individual whose whole existence was perverted and wasted, useless to others, except as a warning, and most miserable to himself, for want of energy and stability of purpose. That he was cold-hearted I will not say, but that he never "put his heart" into any single pursuit or aim was a lamentable truth. I only knew him when the last poor remnant of his misused life was waning rapidly away; when he could only acknowledge his errors, and own that the day for repairing them was past. Thinking that, as a warning to others, his own sad history might have some good result, he put into my hands the few pages, which will perhaps serve as a "moral" to dame Hollings's text. They are but an imperfect chronicle. Thoughts, apparently disjointed and unconnected, jotted down as he sat alone in the calm stillness of the fading summer, to be worked out and enlarged upon at some future day. That day never came, for when the Christmas snow covered the graves in the old churchyard beside his lodging, he was carried out to rest beneath it-at peace for evermore--and with him was buried the little sandal-wood box which contained what, in this paper,

he calls his

"Relics."

"Yea, verily, I have faith in relics, and do greatly prize them, although they are not of a nature to attract the interest of strangers, or to draw pilgrims to their shrine. No, simple and unpretending are the relics of my worship, the mementos lying beside me whilst I write-only a small white glove, a little ring, once encircling a finger of the hand that wore it, a sprig of white acacia, yellow with age, and long since devoid of perfume, a long tress of chestnut hair-these are my relics, the contemplation of which has a mysterious influence upon my heart. They recal to mind days long ago, when I was not what I now am, a disappointed man, with whom life has been a failure, without success in any one thing, without contentment at any one period of it. They

awaken softer feelings in a heart too prone to bitterness and scorn; therefore am I looking at them now, in the calm of this August evening, to soothe me, and hush my repinings, for I long for rest and peace-rest which I have never known, peace which I have never attained in this world.

I began my young life with toil, toil for my daily bread; necessity was my task-master, and a stern tyrant he proved. Then came a brief interval of happiness, so brief that it passed ere I had fully realized its possession. I inherited a small legacy, not much, but a sufficiency for her and me. I might have made it more, there was an excellent opportunity, but I loathed the drudgery of a business life, the wear and tear of mind and body for money, money, always money, so I left my chance in other hands, and he who profited by it is now a millionaire. What matter! I could not work as he has worked, even in those days of youth and strength; I had no heart for the toil, and later there was still less need for exertion, with none but myself whom to work for.

I have been a schemer and a planner all my life, but I have had no energy for working out a single idea. What castles I have built! In what theories I have indulged for the amelioration and regeneration of the human race. But those theories have never been put in practice, and those castles have crumbled into space. People say I am before the age in which I live. I do not know whether it be so or not, but I do know that the age and I have not got on well together. Everything I ever undertook has failed in my hands. Other men speculate eagerly, rashly, and succeed. I have been led into speculations cautiously, reluctantly; but whether in railways or in mines, all that I ventured, and more than all, was lost. So nothing remained to me but such work as others found for me, work which from my very soul I abhor. Ah, those relics! they appeal to me mutely, bidding me stay my murmurs. She is at rest. Yet a little while and I shall be as she is.

I suppose there must have been some great deficiency in my character to prevent success, or else, as she would say, failure is a part of the probation appointed me. Let me look awhile at that tiny glove, and recall the evening when I first saw it on her hand, when she lost it mysteriously, never to find it more. Even now I can see the group that gathered round the piano, as she sang, at my bidding, the songs that I never wearied of hearing from her lips. The quiet, delicate mother, the merry, loving sisters, and the guests who were to grace the bridal of the morrow. I see them all, and I hear again the sweet melody of her voice in that old, old song, now doubly cherished for her sake

"There's not in the wild world a valley so sweet

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet."

But the thought of that exquisite music makes me sadder than it is wise to be, now that, in this world, it is hushed to me for ever. So the little glove shall be hidden away once more, and I will look for awhile at the acacia's faded bloom. That grew not on British soil: I plucked it far away in Germany, whither we had gone for our bridal tour; not to any of the gay places of fashionable resort, but to a quiet, out-of-the-way nook, half town, half village, having the great attraction of being surrounded by most lovely scenery, which we could explore day after day, as we listed, without assistance from guide or guide-book. Scenery with which I had been familiar in long-past days of school-life, when the acacia avenue was a favourite haunt of mine if I played truant, which I often did-more's the pity!-yet never seemed its blossom so fragrant as at that midnight hour when I paced up and down in the moonlight with my newly wedded wife beside me. She asked for a remembrance of that evening; and from a branch drooping low over our heads

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