"Oh no.'

"Come away from the open window, and cool by degrees; you frighten me, dear! I'll tell you about Robin Hood."

And by the time her story was ended, and he had cooled gradually, the dinner-bell rang. After dinner, she gave him a large portfolio of prints, which he spread out on the carpet to view at his ease. Meanwhile, she told William about her reception at the Hall.

By-and-bye, Harry got up and stood at her knee. "My head aches now," said he, quietly. "I knew it would!" cried she, turning pale; now then, Harry dear, you must come to bed."

66

66

MAPLESTEAD AND ITS GLORY.

WHEN Burrell arrived at the haunted house on the following Saturday, his fatherly heart. was chilled at not seeing his little black-eyed boy spring out to meet him. In place of this, he was silently admitted by Priscilla, who looked unusually dull, and shown into Clarinda's parlour, which was empty.

Presently Clarinda came in, looking wan and harassed; and when he advanced to meet her, her lips quivered, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Something is the matter!" cried he, hastily. "Where's Harry?"

"Harry is not very well, Mr. Burrell; I have thought it best to keep him in bed. In fact,-" here she began to cry quietly but bitterly.

"The boy's ill!" cried he, impetuously. "Where is he? Let me see him!"

"You shall, this moment; but pray compose yourself, and come up to him quietly, for he is now asleep. When I pressed you so urgently to let him remain with me, I did not know the measles had appeared in the village. We fear, but are not quite sure, that he has taken the infection. To be on the safe side, we have kept him in bed, and Mr. Crewe has seen him twice daily. I can assure you that if he has taken the disorder, it is attacking him very lightly."

Burrell had turned from red to pale while

she spoke. He now followed her up stairs, without a word, to his child's bedside.

Harry was still sleeping; his long, black eyelashes were resting on cheeks of too deep a carmine for perfect health, and his feverish hands were spread out to cool on the snowy coverlet; but he was as lovely a little fellow as a fond father could gaze upon. As Burrell leant over him, a tear fell upon Harry's face, and woke him.

"Ah, papa!" cried he, gladly.

"My dear little boy! my own dear Harry! Why, how came you to be ill? This is an unfortunate business, is it not?”

"No," said Harry, decidedly, "I like being ill; for I have all manner of nice things, and lic in bed as long as I like; and Mrs. Clarinda tells me no end of stories. What a number of treats I am having, to be sure! You see she has given up her own room to me, because mine had no fireplace; so I'm in the haunted room, after all; and I think she sits with me all night, for I saw her whenever I opened my eyes."

Hush, Harry; you must not talk so."

"I don't much want to get up," pursued he, "my head aches so, and I've pains all over me; but I lie still, and think of many pretty things -all about fairies, and angels, and so on—” "Hush, now, Harry."

"I've gone all through the life of a fairy, I think it was so amusing! To see them dine on a mushroom-head, with a dock-leaf tablecloth; and they had a bluc-bell for a dinnerbell!"

"Ah, that comes of your lullaby song of Queen Mab," said William softly to his sister, who looked much dismayed.

"That old man at the foot of the bed made faces at me during the night; but Mrs. Clarinda put a handkerchief over him. I think she knows how to drive away all bad things."

"Now, Harry, your papa is a little tired with his journey, and he will go down stairs with William to have a glass of wine, and I will sing you to sleep again."

"I can't leave him yet," whispered Burrell; "do you leave him awhile to me, and go to take a little of the rest you so much need.”

She saw he really wished it, and said, quietly

"Well then, I will leave you a little while, and we will then change places. You will not talk much, Harry?"

"No, Mrs. Clarinda; it's so pleasant to lie looking at papa; only my eyes are so hot and heavy. But I can feel his arm under my head, so I don't mind lying still."

When they were left to themselves, however, he said he hoped his hair would not all come off when he got well, for he should not like to wear a wig.

"What will it signify ?" said Burrell.

"Oh, papa! so uncomfortable and ugly!"

66

Why, you're no great beauty now, are you? Boys and men don't mind their looks." "Not as long as people love them," said Harry, doubtfully.

"Why, who will love you less for wearing a wig? Your mamma and I shall not, nor will Mrs. Clarinda."

"Ah, then I shan't care, even if people do stare at me. Only, mamma always calls me her pretty boy.""

"She means her good boy-her dear boythat's all."

"Oh, is it?" And good little Harry shut his eyes, and was satisfied. "By the bye," said he, just as his father thought he was falling asleep, "the first day I came here, I said such a foolish thing to Mrs. Clarinda!”

"What was it, Harry ?"

"It was wrong, too, I'm afraid. I said, 'I shall be a man-a rich man, some of these days.'"

"That savoured of bragging, certainly, Harry."

"Yes, papa; only I've so often been told so. And what do you think she said?— If you live, and if your papa dies.' But I don't wish you to die, papa; and so I told her."

A tear rolled down poor Harry's face.

"I'm sure you don't, my boy," said Burrell, kissing him.

"And when she said if you live,' I felt quite sure of living; but it doesn't seem so sure now!"

Burrell did not feel very much obliged to Clarinda for the suggestion.

"However," pursued Harry, comforting himself, "we must all die, soon or late, you know; and from what I hear of heaven from Mrs. Clarinda, besides what you have all along told me, papa, I know I shall like it very much-if I am so fortunate as to get there, which I'm quite sure to do if I believe in Jesus Christ. And I do!"

"Ah," thought Burrell, as he kissed him again," what words of gold!"

"There's no middle place, I think?" said Harry.

"No, Harry. Why do you ask?"

"Because I don't feel quite good enough for the very best of all; and a good many people I know don't seem good enough for it either. Then, suppose they don't get there!"

"We must pray for them; we can all do that."

"Yes; and the 'fervent, effectual prayer of a righteous man'-I've lost the rest! Mr. Singlehart is a righteous man, papa."

"Yes, Harry."

"And he'll pray for me, I know! So will mamma, I dare say, if you write and tell her how ill I am. But I think you had better not, it will frighten her so."

66

Well, if you will lie quiet a little while, I'll think it over."

Clarinda now came in, accompanied by Mr. Crewe, with whom, after his examination of his little patient, Burrell went down stairs.

Mr. Crewe now was clear that Harry had not the measles, but a feverish attack, from which he would probably recover in a few days.

Burrell, greatly relieved, communicated this intelligence as guardedly as he could to his wife, adding that he thought it best to remain with the boy, but that if she wished to join him, he would return to accompany her to Maplestead, where Mrs. Clarinda would do all in her power to make her comfortable. He sent his letter off at once by his own man.

William, communicating this to Clarinda in private, concluded with "but I don't think she'll come."

"Why not?" said Clarinda; "rely on it she will."

"Well, I think not."

"Unless very ill, she surely will. Have you any reason for thinking she will not?" "No, none; only an impression."

"Oh, well, one impression is as good as another, and mine is that she will and must come if she can. I shall prepare for her reception accordingly."

"No harm in that," said he smiling, as she went away.

William and Burrell were left pretty much to entertain each other during the long, quiet evening. They sat without candles as long as they could, talked over old college friends, and seemed for ever recurring to the ominous sentence, "Oh, he's dead!"

"Ah, is he indeed, poor fellow! And what has become of so-and-so?"

"Oh, he's dead!"

Then they talked of Mr. Winterflood, and speculated on Nessy's continuing in the house. From the rich man's death-bed, William reverted to the last scenes of many poor men, and related many pathetic and interesting circumstances. Then he withdrew to his study

for a while, and Burrell sat alone, and wondered whether his wife would come, and thought how desolate he should feel if he lost little Harry. Clarinda would not resign her night-watch to him, and he felt Harry was best off under her care; but yet he could not invite sleep while she was watching his child in danger, and he resolved within himself to keep vigil in his own room.

Clarinda came down to supper and prayers, and then took leave of them for the night. Burrell tried to cheat the time as long as he could in William's company, till he saw him suppressing a yawn; and then he too retired, but with a book under his arm. Mrs. Patty, noiselessly quitting Harry's room as he passed, put her finger on her lips: he glanced in, and saw Clarinda bending over his sleeping little boy, and thought something about 'ministering angels.'

Harry was better on Sunday; and Burrell was able to accompany William to church with a lightened heart; but it had been rendered sensitive enough by recent events—including his night's vigil-to be unusually receptive of devotional impressions; and he prayed, perhaps more fervently than he had ever prayed before.

In the afternoon, the servant returned from town with a letter from Mrs. Burrell. William presently afterwards called his sister out into the matted gallery.

"She don't come," said he, quietly. "She does not come! Why?" "She is not equal to the exertion; and has full confidence that you will do all you can for the best."

"She may have that," said Clarinda, with considerable indignation at what she thought the mother's apathy; however, she did not express what she felt.

In a few days little Harry was convalescent; and the grateful father departed with him, after expressing his feelings to the brother and sister with a warmth that had no simulation in it. About the same time, Mr. Winterflood was buried.

Clarinda hemmed away a little sigh, as she turned into the house after watching the chaise out of sight, with Harry kissing his hand to her from the window. Who knows not the temporary feeling of dulness and flatness when pleasant guests have departed? But the best way is to battle with it as Mrs. Clarinda did. Having cleared away sundry childish litters of half-painted prints, horses and dogs cut out of paper, &c., she tied on her large straw hat, put on her janty little mode

cloak, drew her long gloves well up over her beautifully formed arms, and sallied forth to the Rectory.

It always did Clarinda good to go there. When she and William first arrived in Maplestead, its occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Medlicott, were youngish people, with a more numerous young family starting up around them than poor Mrs. Medlicott seemed very well to know how to contend with. Parties of children in arms and on donkies, with couples of nursemaids, were continually to be met with in the lanes and in the village; and if Clarinda called at the Rectory, she was sure to hear long details of nursery affairs. It was a capital house for Mr. Crewe, he was scarcely ever out of it. The children were always catching everything there was to catch, taking it violently, bustling through it, and getting as well as ever. During the course of seven years, they had secured immunity from disorders that can only be had once, by having them all; and now they were springing up into fine, manly boys, and blooming, graceful girls, living in amity and cheerfulness.

When Clarinda went there, she was sure to find them scattered, in half a dozen parties, about the house; one sister giving a musiclesson to another-one nursing the baby-two or three busy concocting some dead secret that was not to transpire till somebody's birthday -and one, perhaps, shut up alone, with half a dozen books, doing something tremendous in the way of composition or translation.

Erasmus would have said it was the way of this family to begin with kissing, end with kissing, and kiss in the interim; insomuch, that Clarinda once proposed that they should say, "Preamble supposed," to one another when they met, and begin talking without it. But this was declared so unsociable, and unfriendly, and absolutely cruel, that she was obliged to yield; only stipulating that the boys, at any rate, should give it up after their first half' at school. Likewise she entreated that not more than two would talk to her at once, and that each should have their turn, herself included. So, at last, it came to pass that her laws for good order became a regular code, known not as the Constitutions of Clarendon, but the "Constitutions of Clarinda."

These young people had good tempers, good memories, and ready fancies; so that there was a constant interchange of harmless repartee among them, besides an accumulating store of good old family jokes, that were frequently referred to and served up afresh, and that strangers would sometimes have been amazed to

find were considered any jokes at all. For some of them applied pretty pungently to their own little misfortunes, blemishes, and infirmities; but though they laughed at themselves, it was subscribed to in the "Constitutions of Clarinda," that no satire was to be levelled at one another.

Family politeness was a fine feature in this code: they rarely encroached on the privileges of one another, contradicted flatly, or answered tartly. Neither were their meal-times seasons of dulness in the absence of guests; they felt and made it a duty to contribute to the general small talk, which sharpened their wits, and promoted digestion.

Of course there was no favouritism shown by father or mother; nor were competition or emulation encouraged; but little feats of industry, ingenuity, &c., were frequently and sometimes handsomely rewarded. Mr. and Mrs. Medlicott were accustomed to talk over their affairs with perfect openness before the children; and there was a total absence of petty concealments and mysteries among the young people themselves, except in the aforesaid case of birthday presents.

As there were many mouths to feed out of a moderate income, plain food and apparel were very much in vogue; and whenever a little dainty came to table it was surprising how far Mrs. Medlicott would make it go, so that each should have a taste. A cake or tart that most would be unable to divide handsomely into more than eight, she would distribute among twelve or fourteen, with such beneficence of manner, that each would consider their fraction affluence. But there was no sense of injustice if she could not, or did not make it go round; for it was not a Constitution of Clarinda that she should give a reason why she did a thing, or why she did it not.

Ironed ribbons, cleaned gloves, and mended lace, were thought no scorn of by these good girls; nor were the lads always straightening themselves and arranging their hair before the looking-glass. When William returned from visiting the Rectory, he would often say that he was sure the account of Sir Thomas More's family was no fable.

These girls were content to be called, according to the custom of the day, by the abbreviations of their names: as Nancy, Bessy, Livy, Kitty, &c., all except Polly, who, aspiring to be known by her second name, which was Agnes, had been honoured by her brothers with a compound appellation, and was dubbed Pollyagnes.

To these young persons did Mrs. Clarinda

now betake herself; and in hearing all they had to say, and entering into all they were doing, her mind presently recovered its tone, and she left them, strong and refreshed, to pay her visit of condolence to Nessy.

Burrell shortly wrote to William from the sea-side, to repeat his own and his wife's thanks for the kindness experienced by little Harry; and he added that he had received an intimation from Mr. Winterflood, junior, that Miss Winterflood intended to continue her occupation of the Hall.

Clarinda sighed at the dispersion of a little day-dream. Mr. Burrell's next letter, about two months later, recorded that Harry, braced by the sea-breezes, had been committed to Dr. Curtis's charge, to commence his school carcer. Then a pause ensued, and Mr. and Mrs. Burrell were presumed to be at Westlake Park.

One autumn day Burrell unexpectedly appeared at the Moat House, and with a face full of trouble. Harry had been returned on his hands,―ill, nervous, spirit-broken; and pronounced unfit for roughing it at school till he was a bigger boy. What should he do? Look out for a clergyman who would take charge of him, everybody said. Would William ?

Yes, William would, with joy; if Burrell could trust him with him.

Trust him? Aye, indeed! But would Mrs. Clarinda-?

"Ask her," William said. "Here she comes."

The very mention of Harry's being nervous and spirit-broken, made the tears start into Clarinda's eyes. In everybody's moral constitution there is, it appears to us, a certain provision made beforehand for every possible domestic relation, whether to be called forth or not. Thus, there may be the affections of a wife, mother, and aunt, lying dormant in many who have neither children, nephews, nieces, nor a husband; and, in the present instance, Clarinda, who had the making of a very excellent aunt in her, felt precisely towards Harry as if he had been her very dear nephew. It is true, Sylvanus had a little girl, whom Clarinda would gladly have become closely acquainted with; but Sylvanus and his lady kept up very little communication with their country relatives, except in the way of exchanging turkeys and barrels of oysters at Christmas. Clarinda had only once been to town since William's induction into his living, which was on the occasion of her little niece's christening. She was one of the godmothers; but the child was not named after her, but

after a richer sponsor, from whom Mrs. Singlehart had expectations, and whose baptismal name was Lucy. Sylvanus's name was memoralised on the occasion by. the addition of Sylvia, which did not chime very well with the other. He tried to make Sylvia the current name, but his wife chose it should be otherwise; so the little maiden was called 'baby' as long as she could be, and then became known as Lucy. Mrs. Singlehart had once paid a visit of curiosity to the haunted house, but fancied exhalations from the moat, though it had long been turfed, and would by no means allow her child to be sent there. Wherefore, Clarinda's affections, denied their natural outlet as an aunt, were all the more disengaged and ready to settle on Harry.

Thus, nothing could be more delightful to her than the prospect of having the charge and oversight of the little fellow; and when Burrell, colouring a good deal, said something in an embarrassed way about terms, it seemed to her and William quite absurd and unfriendly to think of accepting any. What would he cost them? Nothing, beyond the trouble, which was a pleasure. On the other hand, Burrell averred that no sum within reason could be too great for the benefit they were about to confer, and hinted the many calls William must have on him for money in his labours among the poor. In a few minutes a very equitable arrangement was made, each party thinking the other too liberal; and Burrell, much relieved, sat down with them to their early dinner.

"What are your views, Mr. Burrell,” said Clarinda, "with regard to the system of Harry's education?"

Bur. Hum! I am not conscious of having any-except of your making him a good boy. I leave the details to you with perfect confidence.

Cla. I am not so certain I feel obliged to you for such entire confidence. Surely you must have some plans.

Bur. That he should be religious, truthful, honest, self-denying, and self-relying. Wont that do? Something between John Evelyn and Philip Sidney.

Wil. Well done, Burrell!

Bur. I should like him to be a good Latinist; but yet, more given to Greek than Latin. Hebrew I don't care for, as he is not intended for the church. Harry may some day stand for the county. I confess I should like to hear him thunder in the senate.

Cla. I don't think thundering speeches do a bit of good to the country.

Bur. You don't! Who would have expected a lady to prefer logic to rhetoric!

Cla. To rhetoric which comes from the head.... When a man's cause is good, then I like the rhetoric of the heart; and he is sure to carry his auditors along with him.

Bur. That's the secret of William's pulpiteloquence.

Wil. I have none; I never aim at it.

Bur. You do not; but you have it, nevertheless. Well, I should like my boy to be something of a rhetorician as well as a good logician. Mathematics may be followed up or not, according to his bent.

Wil. You are speaking of the urchin as if he were twelve or fourteen.

Bur. Well, but your sister was tempting me to scheme. I know we must be content, as yet, with little Latin and less Greek. French and Italian he already has a child's smattering of, and probably will speedily forget.

Cla. Oh, no! not if they are kept up. Leave that to me.

Bur. I may. English is the grand thing. Cla. Ah! how few are sensible of that! Bur. I own I should like him to be a thorough master of his own language. him drink deeply, if you can make him, 'of the pure well of English undefiled.'

Let

Wil. Odd that the line you quote should have been applied to one whose English was interlarded with French; which, indeed, had scarcely ceased to be the spoken language among the educated. English only began to be adopted into general use in Edward the Third's time.

Bur. Still, Chaucer will always carry that title with him ;-as long as Shakspere remains gentle Will; and Sidney, noble Sidney; and Jonson, rare Ben Jonson.

Cla. And Spenser, England's arch-poet.
Bur. Who calls him so?

Cla. He stands so on the title-page of his own Faery Queene, in my old edition of 1617. Wil. You forget to add Dryden as glorious John.

Cla. Ah, I always grudge him that titleit should have been given to Milton.

Bur. How we love our pocts! I know not of any country but ours having given so many of theirs pet names: Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspere, Milton-England's four great lights!

Cla. I have some insight, now, into Harry's studies; but there is something else we must include the book of Nature. All these great men were learned in flowers, herbs, animals, and stars.

Wil. Well, I think we have chalked out