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faded needlework; and the furniture, as old fashioned and heavy as any he had ever seen at Craddock Court. Horace was aware too of the same sort of low whistling, moaning murmur of the wind in the chimney as he remembered in his nursery at the court, but he did not see a living creature about him, till by turning his head he found poor Jocelyn in a very sound, sweet sleep, lying where he had placed himself, on the very edge of the frame work of the bed.
How lovely were the thoughts—how healthy and refreshing were the impulses of that Living Rill which had entered into the breast of Horace through his various reading, but especially his perusal of the Bible, and the ministry of his humble nurse, and which now welled up within him, as he lay leaning on his elbow, and gazing on the sleeping boy. He loves me ; or rather, is sensible of my love for him ; he has felt that he can trust me, or else would he have remained with me all alone? Nay more; would he have fallen asleep on my bed? He is capable of confidence, without which there is no pure love. He may be deficient in many things, but there is a feeling in his breast which may be taken hold of; and yet could I always be with him to lead him by this feeling, what could I do more for him in my own strength ?" But” said he, checking himself at this point, “ I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me. I can at all events tell him, in the confidence that his affection will win for me a sincere, and honest, and trustful, and child-like hearing, how God so loved the world as to give up his only begotten Son-bow Jesus came down to live and work, and suffer and die, as an example and a sacrifice; and how the Holy Spirit takes of the things of Christ, and shews them unto us. " And this," said he, betrayed by his earnestness to speak his thoughts aloud ;-"and this I will do at once, for I know not how soon I may be forced to leave him! I may die before him ; I may die soon!” and he heaved a deep breath, for he was aware of a weight on his chest which reminded him of the dangerous illness through which Mabel had nursed him the year before. And then, as he told it afterwards, the hidden spring—the life from above-the well of living waters, leaped as it were within him; and he thought it would be well, perhaps, to teach the truths he had referred to by illustrations at once striking and
familiar—to use, for example, the type of his own friendship for Jocelyn, and of his own boldness in defending him at the peril of his life, in order to lead him to the apprehension of that redeeming love, before whose glorious brightness the strongest glow of natural love fades as the beams of the moon in the effulgence of the noon-day sun.
Horace had, in fact, come to the conclusion, ere yet he was disturbed, that if left for any, the shortest time to cultivate the affection, and enjoy the presence of the poor despised Jocelyn, he would endeavor to lead his mind right forward, without other consideration, to the apprehension of the knowledge of the Redeemer.
Before we satisfy our readers respecting what Horace was enabled to do with the poor simple one, it is needful to sum up succinctly all the remaining history of the highly favored son of Mrs. Langford, to whom might he aptly applied that passage which, although of no authority, is yet full of beauty, occurring in the Apocryphal book of the Wisdom of Solomon, “ For honorable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years. He pleased God, so that living among sinners he was translated—He being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time.”
The friend of poor Jocelyn, for some days after he was brought to Barwell Hall, continued to rally, and was for a time so well as to be able to be present at some of the family meals, and to take one or two airings in the park in a pony carriage with his little companion, who never would leave him for a moment when he could help it. The sweetness and courtesy of his manners were such as to win more and more upon the heart of the justice. The kind old gentleman was prepared from the first to love him, though he by no means understood the finer parts of his character. He however hesitated not to pass his word to him, that Jocelyn should never again, with his consent, be subjected to severe treatment.
Mr. and Mrs. Rokeby also treated Horace with great politeness, and probably not the less so from finding that he was the heir of a man of large property, and already it began to be talked of that Horace when he returned to Craddock Court, which it was thought he would soon be able to do, was to take Jocelyn
with him, when he was seized with a complaint on the chest, with a great soreness precisely where the heavy piece of wood had struck him, which seizure first cut short his airings in the park, and next his visits to the family sitting room. One circumstance connected with the last of these airings must not however be omitted. As the little carriage was bowling along one of the avenues cut in the trees, they overtook, near the edge of the pool, one of the servants of the hall who was about to drown a young mastiff which had met with the misfortune of breaking its leg, and was never likely to be of any manner of use. Jocelyn cried and begged for its life, for the poor creature trembled whilst the man was fastening a stone to its neck, and Horace having added his entreaties to those of his young friend, the dog was given up to his deliverers, and they brought him home, and Horace bound up his broken leg; and from that time he remained always with them, having received from them the name of Cæsar—and truly it might appear that the creature knew what he owed to them, so profound was the affection which he showed to them, and so deep was his dejection when one of them was taken from him by death.
It was before the green buds appeared on the trees, nay before the mezereon and the snow drop began to open their blossoms, that the remains of the pious and once beautiful youth, Horace Langford, had been added to those of his many ancestors in the vault of the Craddocks, and his sorrowing uncle, and bereaved nurse who had been sent for to Barwell Hall when the danger became imminent, were returned to their homes—the one to endeavor to banish thought as well as he might do with such poor assistance as his old habits could render, and the other to indulge the memories of her beloved and lovely one, as one of the sweetest consolations she could experience.
Mabel South, in such memories of her son by adoption, loved most of all to dwell on those scriptural tests of his having been chosen as a vessel and depository of the living waters which flow from the wells of salvation. It was through her, though of course not directly from that good woman herself, that manyof the circumstances attendant on the last days of Horace reached the knowledge of the writer of this series of simple narratives ; and probably the reader, who assumes that there is no evidence
of the truth having passed from the pious youth to any of his companions or acquaintance since his second residence in his nurse's house, may anticipate the necessity of turning back to Mabel Souith, and endeavoring to discover whether she did not prove the channel of the truth to others besides Horace-others to whom it might be permitted in the arrangements of Provi. dence to carry it to future generations.
But could not God, we ask, prevent the truth which Horace poured into the mind of the poor boy from wasting away and sinking into the depths of the natural foolishness of the young and feeble-minded individual, as the streams of the hills lose themselves in the quicksands of the desert ? The next number will answer the enquiry
M. M. S. (To be continued.)
(Resumed from page 119.) Nothing could exceed the beauty of the morning, (at least so they both said) on which Catherine Simpson and Emma Maxwell set out to pay their long-talked of visit to Strawberry Hill, the pretty residence of the elder Mr. Simpson. The girls were both in high spirits, particularly Emma, who had scarcely breathed the fresh air since the memorable day of the bazaar, now nearly three weeks ago. To her, they had been three long dull weeks, and now that winter seemed to have passed away, and the bright blue sky and the soft mild air heralded the return of spring, it appeared as if a dreary gulf were passed that separated her from the source of so much unhappiness; and she exulted like a bird set free from its cage.
Mrs. Simpson only was at home, and she gave them that cordial welcome with which she always received her friends, whether young or old. She had led a very active life in earlier days, but advancing infirmities now principally confined her to her chair by the fireside, which she might truly be said to adorn; and so unvaryingly neat was her appearance, so placid yet cheerful her demeanour, that few young persons ever visited her without wishing that should they live to be old, they might be just such another as Mrs. Simpson.
Her drawing room, too, possessed much to interest and attract, and at this time was almost overpoweringly fragrant from the number of beautiful hyacinths which were in bloom, some of which, imbedded in moss, occupied a large china bowl which stood on an ornamental stand in the centre of a bay window at one end of the room. After the first mutual greetings were over, Catherine advanced to examine a very beautifully worked screen which stood on one side of the fire.
" Why, grandmamma,” she exclaimed, “ you quite surprise me: whose table was this lovely screen at? How very odd I did not see it at the bazaar! Oh, do forgive me, but I really had believed you did not buy anything, but I see now how mistaken I was."
“I fear, dear Catherine," said Mrs. Simpson smiling, “I must be content with a low place in your opinion, for indeed I did not buy anything at the bazaar : that screen I ordered from the repository.”
“From the repository?" involuntarily repeated Emma, thinking in her own mind that the price paid for it would have nearly purchased all her own work twice over. • “Yes, my dear,” said the old lady, a good deal amused at her look of blank astonishment. “I dare say you are surprised that I should go to any other mart of fancy work, when you young ladies had taken the trouble of opening so gorgeous an one; but I never buy anything at bazaars. The repository, you know, is for the sale of work by those whose altered circumstances prevent their gaining employment in any other way. Of course the names of the workers are from motives of delicacy concealed, but little secrets sometimes transpire, and I have reason to know that that is the work of a young lady who was formerly a governess, but the illness of her mother whose only support she is, compelled her to relinquish her situation. She was educated in Germany, where that beautiful style of raised flower work is brought to such perfection; and she was in hope of being able to turn her acquirements to account, but the bazaar of course has prevented her having any orders with the exception, I believe, of that one group."
“Then, grandmamma,you and grandpapa really do not approve of bazaars ? Do you know I have long had a suspicion of the kind ?"