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you are just like your forebears, laddie, always loyal to the losing side; your resolution is more plucky than prudent; you don't know what you're attempting, and I can tell you it will be a hard time for all of you. Think of your mother."

"My mother and I have talked it all over, and she sees things exactly as I do. We have made our decision, and settled where we can lodge in London, with her old governess, Mrs. Earle. She will be more comfortable there than anywhere else now. The further from Glendarroch the better."

The old gentleman did not attempt to bring round Mrs. Grahame to his views. She was a gentle, broken-spirited woman, devoted to her Kenneth was her idol, and she would have made any sacrifice in order to please him.

son.

They left the wild beautiful Scottish home, now no longer their own, and went to live in a small house in Claremont Street, Bloomsbury. The good old governess, who had been a mother to Mrs. Grahame, was made happy for the rest of her life when she found that she could give a home to her and her children. The old lady had married late in life, and was soon left a widow. She eked out her small income by letting lodgings; and directly she heard of Kenneth's destination she had eagerly offered to take him in; her delight was great, therefore, when she found that the whole family were coming to London. There was just room for all in the house. It was small but comfortable. The look-out in front was dreary and dingy enough, to eyes accustomed to heathery hills, and wooded valleys. At the back it was at least open and sunny; there was a strip of green, called a garden, with a solitary lime tree, which every spring put forth fresh green leaves, and sweet scented blossom. The larger sitting-room looked out on this garden, and a flight of steps went down into it from the window. Mrs. Earle's little drawing-room, the pride of her heart, was in the front; it was decorated with muslin curtains, and bright-coloured chintz, and rare old china; but the younger Grahames, to whom air, and light, and space were greater necessaries of life, preferred the bare and shabbily furnished dining-room at the back, where they kept the blinds up and the windows open, heedless alike of the mid-day glare in summer, or cold draughts in winter, more amused than distressed by the plebeian spectacle of a great timber yard beyond the garden.

Mrs. Earle was a kindly little lady, very tenacious of old affections, and she had received them with such effusion that they felt they

were conferring real pleasure as well as accepting a favour. They paid very little rent, and small as the sum was, Kenneth had some difficulty in making the old lady take it. But their troubles were not yet over. Mrs. Grahame's health, always precarious, soon gave way, and though carefully nursed by her motherly old friend, she did not long survive her husband. She died in less than a year, leaving her little ones to Mrs. Earle's tender and anxious care. From the first Charlie had attached himself warmly to the kind old lady with her mild eyes and soft voice, who could tell so many pretty stories; he it was who dubbed her "Granny," and soon they never called her anything else. Christina, though more wilful and troublesome, was affectionate and engaging, and Mrs. Earle loved them both dearly. They brought into her solitary life a new and charming interest; it was, she told them, like the return of spring-tide after a long winter. Charlie was a docile pupil, as quiet as Mrs. Earle's favourite cat, and much more intelligent. Christina was clever, but many a battle ensued over the lessons, which the old lady had eagerly taken in hand from the beginning. Perhaps her powers had become rusted for want of use; but she could not cope with Christina. The high-spirited, and perhaps spoiled little girl insisted on arguing every question with Scottish pertinacity, and frequently disputed her authority; till Mrs. Earle finding gentle measures of no avail, appealed to the grave silent elder brother, of whom she, as well as the children, stood in awe. In few but stern words Kenneth pointed out to his self-willed little sister the ungrateful character of her disobedience. He treated her as a reasonable being instead of a spoilt child; and Christina was melted to repentance. He gave her lessons now and then, on her promise to obey Mrs. Earle faithfully at other times, and do her best to learn from her all the old lady could teach. From that time she conceived an enthusiasm for her brother, and for the task he had undertaken, which helped to influence her whole life.

Meanwhile Kenneth became after his mother's death, more and more silent and depressed. As long as he was upheld by the noble excitement attending a great effort, he could be brave and patient, and for his mother's sake apparently satisfied; but as soon as the crisis and the necessity had passed away, he felt a reaction. This highly strung tension was more than he could bear. He began to realize that he had not fully counted the cost of his resolution.

Kenneth was by nature full of high ideas and romantic imaginings;

his enthusiasm had been fired in childhood by tales of chivalrous daring, and with a boy's eager aspiration he had longed to emulate the fame of gallant Crusaders and noble Cavaliers; even if need were to perish in the cause of honour and loyalty, like Dundee in the hour of victory, or like Montrose on the scaffold. As he grew older these early dreams had drifted into a longing for a nobler warfare; religion had come to be a power in his life, and coloured all his aspirations. At the time of his Confirmation, he had resolved to devote himself body and soul to the service of a King not of this world. He would live the life of a saint, and die the death of a martyr. His strong desire was to be a missionary priest, to bear the banner of the Cross into the dark strongholds of heathenism. Even when he achieved some distinction at school, and looked forward to winning yet further honours at Oxford, it always seemed to him that he chiefly desired these successes in order to make his chosen vocation a worthier service, a more acceptable offering.

But he had been called upon to sacrifice his early dreams, as well as his matured aspirations. Without hesitation, yet with a deep and bitter pang, he had answered the summons, and turned from the bright visions of boyhood to the cold and hard realities of life. The renunciation was complete. He had set himself to bear a burden from which most men would have shrunk, and in doing so he had given up all which seemed to him to make life worth living-except honour.

Was there any consolation in such a sacrifice? Alas! the burden grew heavier instead of lighter as time went on. All things seemed sad and hard and dreary. The separation from former friends and pursuits, the irksome drudgery of his occupation, his uncongenial comrades, the painful and rigid economy foreign to his nature and habitudesall these things weighed upon his spirits more and more, and taxed his powers of endurance to the uttermost. He had loved his mother with a protecting, chivalrous tenderness; though undemonstrative, he had sorrowed for her with keen and deepfelt anguish. Moreover, a dark cloud covered his soul. He could not or would not look up to heaven for comfort. His whole mind became embittered with a sore resentful sense of wrong. He could neither forget nor forgive the evil his father had wrought. He felt that not only had his own career been ruined and his hopes blasted by Colonel Grahame's selfish extravagance, but he was also determined to believe that his mother's life had been shortened and her happiness destroyed by the same cause; refusing to see

that her grief for her husband's death had been the deepest of all sorrows. She had been blind to his faults, and to her he had ever showed himself kind and affectionate.

However, Kenneth brooded over these dark and grievous thoughts with sullen perverseness. He could not speak of them to any one; he lived a silent reserved life. He cared not to confide in Mrs. Earle, and he shrank from all society. Even the children's affection began to lose its charm. He was moody and depressed, shut up in himself. The only thing for which he seemed to live was the daily work which he hated more and more.

But at last there came a new element of interest into Kenneth's life. Sydney Parker, a former Wykehamist, a few years older, came to be Curate of the neighbouring church of S. Stephen, to which Mrs. Earle was much devoted. She was intimate with the Vicar and his wife; and through them the Curate heard of his old schoolfellow. He lost no time in seeking to renew a friendship which had been true and hearty enough in former days, notwithstanding the difference in age. Sydney, whose nature was genial and sympathetic, was grieved to see the change that had come over the eager high-spirited boy, upon whom he had looked with as much admiration as affection, preferring him as a companion and confidant to many of his own standing. The boy had fully appreciated the honour, and rejoiced in being able to pour out his ardent and romantic visions to a sympathetic and encouraging listener. He was frank enough in those days; his openly expressed religious enthusiasm made a strong impression upon the elder boy, who distrusted his own powers of steadfastness, and shrank with a kind of awe from professing principles which indeed he strove to practise, though timidly. It was Kenneth's fervent desire for Confirmation which at last led Sydney to seek for himself at the same time the long delayed gift of strength to keep his baptismal vows. The two had knelt together at the altar; nor had Sydney ever forgotten the pure and fervent joy of the boy's bright uplifted countenance, unshadowed by a trace of that trembling awe which filled his own soul with solemn and mysterious emotion.

Now all was altered; Sydney had gone forth into the world with his deep sense of personal responsibility as strong as ever, while gradually love had overcome fear, and he had been drawn on by its divine and resistless power into the vocation he could not have dared to dream of. He had not sought it, but it had come to him, and there was no look

ing back, only a ready thankful obedience to the loving call of the Master. But Kenneth! The change was great, incomprehensible to Sydney. Was this stern, grave, oppressed-looking man the bright lad from whose enthusiasm he had first caught the glow of high resolve? the young knight who had buckled on his armour with such eager loyalty? Had he been worsted in the conflict with evil? had the fair promise been blighted by sorrow and trials too heavy to be borne? What was the secret of this silent depression and reserve? Sydney longed to win back something of the old confidence, but he saw he must be careful. Kenneth responded but coldly to his advances; and he felt that any undue haste might destroy all chance of success.

Frequently he invited Kenneth to come and see him in his rooms at the clergy house; and they would talk on late into the night, sitting over the fire; sometimes of public events, sometimes of books, seldom of anything personal. Occasionally Kenneth would ask a few questions about Sydney's work, and once the Curate, emboldened by a slight show of interest concerning the S. Stephen's choir, ventured to go so far as to say, "I wish you would come and help us! you used to have a capital voice; we have indeed some excellent fellows, but none of them up to the mark, musically."

Kenneth instantly and very decidedly refused; two of the excellent fellows were brother clerks of his, and it was quite enough to have to endure their society every day, without seeking it out of working hours. But he did not give his reasons; and his cold brief answer prevented Sydney from pursuing the subject.

One evening however, their conversation turned upon old days at Winchester.

"Queer ideas of life we had in those days!" said Sydney. "I was not given to castle-building so much as you were. However, I am uncommonly fortunate; I have everything I could ever have wished for. Few fellows can say as much."

"Few indeed," muttered Kenneth, "are fortunate enough to say that, though most men have the moulding of their own destiny."

"Hardly so, I think. We have the rough hewing of our ends, but not the shaping of them."

"Little did I think," exclaimed Kenneth, with a sudden and vehement outburst of confidence, "that I should have to spend the best years of my life in hateful drudgery, to redeem wealth wasted in luxury and extravagance! such as I can never forget or forgive."