about four-and-twenty years ago. I was fifty-four years old yesterday,
and I was thinking that I passed my thirtieth birthday on the top of
that stage-coach. Well, we were some distance north of York--I have
forgotten the name of the place, but it was a charming little
village--and at the top of a shady lane, at the garden gate of a pretty
house, there were several people waiting to bid a young soldier
good-bye. Young, indeed! he was only a lad, just fifteen, a
fine-hearted, sprightly young fellow, and he was going off to India.
Well, he took his seat amongst the passengers, called out good-bye, and
off he went. I sat beside the coachman, and as I glanced round at him, I
felt sorry for the boy, for, though he appeared cheerful enough, I had
an idea that his cheerfulness was a little forced: the passengers began
to talk with him, and he really was a fine fellow. I never shall forget
him--the very type of a handsome English youth. Excuse me, I was
forgetting myself; it's but a simple story, after all: we can find
something better to talk about."

"Oh, no, pray finish it; I am interested in your story. What became of
the young soldier?"

"Well, it was rather curious that I was going south on purpose to bid my
brother good-bye, and I found that this young soldier was going to India
in my brother's ship."

"That was curious enough," said Hubert.

"It was; and when we alighted, after a long and tedious journey, in
London, we went off to the ship together. How very often I have thought
of that lad! He had evidently been well cared for by good religious
parents, but perhaps from his school training, or I cannot tell what, he
was certainly forgetting the instructions they had given him. Oh, how
thoughtless and reckless he was! I watched him, for he had told us a
little of his history; and as I was leaving the ship, I ventured to give
him a word of advice, and tried to persuade him never to forget his
duty to his parents: but I cannot tell you more about him. Poor lad! I
never saw him again, nor ever heard of him after he reached India. I
fear he died, for, soon after his regiment landed, many of the soldiers
died of fever, and from what I can remember, I saw amongst the deaths in
an Indian paper a soldier of his name; so, never hearing anything more
of him, I concluded the poor fellow had succumbed to the climate."

"Why were you so anxious to hear something more of that lad in
particular?" inquired Hubert.

"Ah! were I to tell you it would be a long story. I don't know, though,
that I need tell all. I think I once told you some of my early history.
Well, I married at an early age, and three years after my marriage I
buried my wife: the sorrow, however, was greatly alleviated by a little
son I had--he was two years old when his mother died, and just able to
dissipate my grief by his innocent prattle. Years passed away: wherever
I went I took my boy. I travelled through Germany and Prussia with him,
and it has often occurred to me that the many people who have been
charmed by the works that these travels helped to produce, little
thought under what circumstances they were accomplished. Many a long
journey, where conveyances could not go, have I taken, with my staff in
hand, a little satchel at my side, and that boy on my back. At other
times he has trotted by my side; and very often--most nights,
indeed--with him sleeping in my arms, or seated beside his bed, I have
penned most of my daily wanderings, for I never left him. For eight
years after his mother died I never allowed him to go from my sight; but
then he left me for ever."

"Not for ever," said Hubert; "you mean, he died? Well, you will go to
him, though he will not return to you."

"Why do you say so?"

"Because I believe it, and so do you."

"Yes, I do: but now, tell me how it is that I cannot always think so. I
believe it all as well as you do, and yet, when I sit alone and think,
my thoughts are not the same as when we sit and talk together--how is
it?"

There was an earnestness in the stranger's manner, and also in his eye,
as he put this question to Hubert, who, after sitting unmoved for a
minute or two, at last said--

"I have felt the same many, many times; indeed, there is scarcely a
truth in the Bible that I have read, which, though I believed it at one
time, I have been led to doubt it another. Many a time have I gone out
into the court-yard of my quarters in India, that I might see some fresh
object, because upon everything in my room there seemed to stand out in
large gilded letters the word 'Unbelief.' Turn where I would sometimes,
the very objects and things I wished to forget were always before my
eyes; indeed, blasphemy has been upon my tongue when my heart has
dictated prayers. Terrible hours they have been to me. And sometimes the
falling of a piece of paper, the opening of a door, or the smallest
possible sound you could conceive, has so alarmed me that I have
actually been afraid of myself. No one but myself can know what I
endured. But I don't feel anything of the sort now. _Prayer_ was the
effectual remedy for me, and it will be so for you. I believe that such
doubts and fears are extra mercies sent by God to bring us nearer to
Him; so, when you feel anything of the kind, try what prayer will do.
There is a great deal of seeming prayer that isn't prayer; but when the
heart can feel itself going out upwards,--I mean, when it utters the
words, 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief,' depend upon it, that
upon the other side of that petition, written in words of fire, is the
command to the tempter, 'Get thee behind me, Satan!'"

The stranger sighed, but then, thrusting his hands deeply into his coat
pockets, as was his usual custom when in a thoughtful mood, he sat still
looking over upon the broad blue sea. Hubert sat still beside him, and
as the sailors moved about attending to their various duties, they gave
many a glance at the two friends as they sat together. Ben had told them
all something about these friends, and, though they were not all of the
same way of thinking as Ben was, they imbibed from him an extra amount
of respect for the Captain and the stranger; and had the part of the
deck where they were accustomed to sit been a sacred part, it could not
have been more free from intrusion than it was when they were there; so
Hubert sat and thought; so did his friend, who was the first to speak.

"Yes, it is so," he said; "I know it is all true; I shall go to _them_.
And now let me finish my story. I had returned from the Continent, and
it was in Scotland that I buried my son; he lies beside his mother in
the kirk-yard at Dunkeld; it is a pretty, quiet place, at the foot of
the Grampian mountains, and there they lie--I hope to be buried there
too some day. I did not think at one time that I should have lived thus
long after them, but time has fled on, and it has worked its change in
me. I remember that it was on my first journey after my loss that that
lad rode with us to London. I shall never forget how startled I was when
I first saw him: older, of course, he was, but such an exact resemblance
did he bear to the one I had lost, that--it may have been a
delusion--some of my affection for the dead seemed to centre in him."

"What was his name?" inquired Hubert.

"I cannot tell now, I had forgotten it long ago; indeed, I had forgotten
the incident until you brought it back to my memory, it happened so long
ago."

"I wonder you forgot his name, though," said Hubert; "but time works
upon the memory, and makes it less retentive."

"True; especially one that has been tried like mine has. I am not an old
man--I am only a little over fifty, yet see how grey I am. I attribute
it to my memory being overtasked."

"And to early and deep sorrow, perhaps," replied Hubert.

"Well, the philosophy of that I neither argue nor dispute: what do you
say to it?"

Hubert smiled, and, taking from his pocket his "torn Bible," he said,
"Here we have a high authority for the fact that suffering purifies the
heart. Now, whatever effect it may have upon the outward appearance, it
most certainly leaves its impress within--leaves many a deep scar upon
the heart: and we know that it leaves furrows on the brow; yet what a
blessing suffering is!--it is often the last effort that God makes to
reclaim the reckless sinner. When all other efforts have failed, and
nothing seems effectual in bringing down man's proud heart, the Almighty
smites that He may bless. I know it, for I have experienced it all; I
have felt both the scourge and the blessing."

Hubert added this latter part because he feared lest his friend should
think him presumptuous; but the stranger added, "Captain Goodwin, I am
sure you must have felt a good deal of what you have often talked about,
and I would give much to be always as thoroughly settled in these
matters as you are. What you say, I feel to be all perfectly true.
Here," he said, placing his hand upon his heart, "it is all right But
here," and he touched his forehead, "there are other thoughts. But if
God spare me, I will come to you again when my business in Portugal is
done, and then we will talk over these matters more fully. The world has
been a wide one to me, but I have only a few friends in it, and am tired
of rambling about it, so I shall return to England and come near to
you."

"Do," said Hubert; "and may God spare you, and me too. I shall be glad
indeed to see you; the heart grows better by communion, and I think
somehow that there is many a kindred feeling between us; at any rate,
our voyage has been rendered pleasant by our having met, and it will be
a source of pleasure to me, in many a sad hour that I feel will yet
befall me, to look forward to our meeting again."

This, and much more, formed the matter for conversation between Hubert
and his friend; and when the day had closed, and night drew on, they
passed an hour together by Hubert's lamp; for the heart which had
unburdened itself seemed to have twined its tendrils more firmly round
the wounded soldier.

CHAPTER X.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

    Lead, kindly light, amid the evening gloom,
      Lead thou me on!
    The night is dark, and I am far from home;
      Lead thou me on!--KEBLE.

Nearer and nearer drew the vessel homeward. Hubert and his friend had
that morning kept below; there was a little luggage on a table upon the
deck, and two or three people were standing near it; some of the sailors
were evidently busy about one of the boats, but a casual observer could
not have perceived that anything unusual was going on. Many, nearly all
in the vessel, were gladdening their eyes with the first glimpse they
were having of Europe; and as the coast of Portugal became more
distinct, many hearts burst out with joy, for they were nearing home.

Hubert and his friend at length came on deck: Lisbon, with its noble bay
and high lands, could be seen in the distance, and the boat was lowered
to convey the passengers to the small vessel that would take them up
the river to the town. "Farewell!" it was the last word from Hubert's
lips that sounded upon the traveller's ears as he was wafted over the
billows that rolled upon the shores of Portugal; "Farewell!" echoed back
upon the air, and Hubert, drawing a deep sigh, began already to feel
lonely: he had made no other friend in the ship, and he returned to his
cabin; he sat down, and began to think over the conversations he had had
with his friend, and he wondered again and again whether he himself was
not indeed that once reckless boy, who in years gone by had won the
sympathies of the noble heart which had now won his. So many incidents
in that short narrative had a counterpart in his memory, that at last
nothing could persuade him but that it all referred to himself; then how
sorry he felt that he had not told his friend more about himself; and,
less at ease than he had felt for many months, he closed the door of his
cabin, and buried his face in his hands.

Poor Hubert! His heart was growing as tender as it was once hard, and
recent sickness had unfitted him to encounter, without emotion, the many
visions of that youth-time which now came so vividly before him.

"God grant that I may find them living!" he said earnestly; but then his
memory brought back again some of the forebodings and inward whisperings
which had often, in bygone years, checked for a moment his reckless
course, and his heart told him again that his mother was no more. It
came like a deep sorrow to Hubert, like a mighty wave throwing back
every torrent upon which it rolled; but he had learnt how to contend
with grief, and soon the dim cabin lamp was lighted, and, as night grew
dark, he sat and read the much-treasured portion of his mother's Bible.
He gained comfort as he read page after page, and it may have been that
the lamp grew brighter; at any rate, Hubert's face wore a happier beam,
and when the sailor came into the cabin, he said, "Good evening, your
honour; glad to see your honour looking better and cheerful like."

"Better, Ben! have I looked ill to-day?"

"Not ill, exactly, your honour," said Ben, "but a little landsman-like,
just about the time the passengers for Portugal got adrift, when Mr.
Collinton, yer honour's friend, left."

"Well, Ben, I was sorry to lose him; but how late it is! why, I have
been reading two hours."

With the assistance of the sailor, Hubert retired to rest, but, just as
Ben was leaving the cabin, Hubert requested that he would reach him the
Bible that lay upon the table.

"I have a better Bible than this, yer honour," said Ben, as he handed
the book; "I mean one that has it all in, not torn as this is; and, if
yer honour likes, I'll fetch it, though it's not to every one I'd lend
it."

"Why do you offer to lend it to me, then?"

"Because, yer honour, I'm sure you think a great deal of the Bible, and
it's a pity you haven't one with all in; this has been bad enough used,
at any rate, but some folks don't care how they destroy the Bible. I'm
glad it's got into yer honour's hands; but, if you'll accept the loan of
mine, I shall be proud to lend it to you; there's not a leaf out; it was
the last thing my poor mother ever gave me, and I have used it now over
twenty years."

"Thank you, Ben, I do not wish it; mine is torn, I know, but it will do
for me. Thank you all the same. Good night."

Hubert was glad when he found himself alone; he was in the habit of
talking with Ben, but the sailor's homely remarks were not quite
agreeable to him now. Poor untaught fellow! how nobly he appeared to
rise in that night's shadows; children of penury, perhaps, he and his
mother, yet how rich in affection! Hubert thought many times of that
sailor's Bible; like his own, it was a mother's gift, but it had _all_
in, while his had been ruthlessly destroyed. Memory brought back many a
long-forgotten scene, when his hard heart strove to rise against the
silent admonitions which the sight of that book was ever wont to give;
and, as he grasped all that was left to him now, a deep and heartfelt
prayer from his penitent heart ascended to the throne of God.

The vessel in which Hubert sailed had made a quick run to England, and,
in a few days after the passengers left for Portugal, Hubert landed upon
the shores of his native country; and never before had he felt so
lonely. He was home without a home; however, being still under orders
from the East India Company, he referred to his papers, and then
immediately proceeded to London. Lame, without friends, and amongst
strangers, Hubert longed to be making his way to his own native village,
but he was compelled to tarry some time in London; at length, however,
he received his discharge with a handsome pension, and was at liberty to
go where he pleased.

Now Hubert felt undecided; he scarcely knew what to do. At one time he
thought of writing home, and telling them he was coming; but to whom
could he write? Then he thought of taking the coach at once home, but
another thought made him abandon that; for his heart was not yet
schooled to the task of facing those he had so cruelly injured.

Hesitating what to do, another week passed by, and his conscience, at
length, so smote him for lingering, that after arranging about his
luggage, which was still at the custom-house, and which he preferred
should for the present remain there, he set out with one small trunk,
and commenced his journey northward. So many years had passed since
Hubert had come along the road by which he was returning, that he might
have been In a foreign land: he remembered nothing, but he thought the
country beautiful; and, when evening came on, he alighted from the
coach, and stayed for the night at a small town. The journey had been
rather too much for him: still he felt anxious to be getting on; so,
when the coach passed through the town on the following day, he
proceeded some distance further. Four days had passed. Hubert, by short
stages, was drawing near his home, and the nearer he came to it, the
more anxious and nervous grew his heart; he would have given much to
have known which of his family remained. Once, years ago, while in a
frenzied mood, when rage and passion overcame him, he was suddenly
called back to reason by a mystic shadow crossing his vision: it may
have been that a heated brain brought before his fierce eye that which
startled him; but the remembrance of that moment had seldom left him,
and he felt certain that his mother, at least, was missing in his
father's household.

Another short journey had been made, and a candle was placed upon the
parlour table in the little village inn where Hubert, tired and weary,
intended staying for the night. Many of the villagers had seen him leave
the coach at the inn door; he was wrapped in a blue cloak, and walked
lame, resting upon a stick; his bearing, perhaps, or it may have been a
whisper, told them that he was a soldier, and there was a fair chance of
a good evening for the landlord of the King George.

One by one the parlour received its guests, and more candles were
brought in; a log too--for it was the month of October--found its way to
the fire, and the landlord told his wife to see to the customers, for he
was going to join the company in the parlour.

Hubert saw with some uneasiness the people coming in, and he would
gladly have retired to rest; but his coming was an event they were
unwilling to let pass unobserved, and they gathered round him with so
much kindness and sympathy, that Hubert felt constrained to stay with
them.

The old arm-chair in the corner, which was sacred to two
purposes--namely, once a year, when they had beaten the bounds, the
vicar sat in it in the tent to partake of the roast beef, which was
bountifully provided for those good old observers of ancient customs;
and, once a year, when the village club was held the lord of the manor
occupied it again. Duly polished every week was that dark oak chair, and
not even the sage-looking cat attempted to usurp it. This evening, that
honoured seat was drawn up to the fire, a large cushion was placed in
it, and there the tired soldier rested.

They saw he was lame, and one went and fetched a soft stool for his
wounded leg; then as they sat around him, with their honest sympathetic
hearts beating warmly towards the brave defenders of their country, what
could Hubert do but tell them of the battles won, and many incidents
that make up the soldier's life in India? He had much to tell, and they
listened eagerly to him till the hour grew late, and Hubert felt that a
soldier's heart still beat in his bosom, and the fire of his youth had
not died out. They felt it too, but their enthusiasm was tempered by the
constant reference that Hubert made to the God who had preserved him.
They parted for the night as the village clock struck eleven, and many
of them wondered, as they walked homeward, where he was going, and why
he was travelling alone--questions they had not yet ventured to ask; but
they promised each other before they parted that they would come again
to the inn on the morrow.

CHAPTER XI.

HOME AT LAST.

        My father's house once more,
    In its own moonlight beauty! yet around
    Something amidst the dewy calm profound
        Broods, never marked before.

        My soul grows faint with fear,
    Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod;
    I tremble when I move--the voice of God
        Is in the foliage here.

Hubert was not much refreshed when the morrow came; the weather had
changed during the night, and the rain fell heavily, and his wounded leg
was so painful that he determined upon not proceeding on his journey,
but requested permission to walk in the well-kept secluded garden at the
back of the house, if the rain cleared off.

It was a dreary morning, but about noon the sun shone out, and Hubert,
leaning upon his staff, bent his steps to the snug little summer-house
in the garden. It was a quiet spot, and Hubert was glad to be there
alone. The storm was over, the few remaining autumn flowers were fading,
and the leaves were falling thickly from the trees, and Hubert, as he
looked upon the scene around him, drew a deep sigh, and taking from his
pocket his "torn Bible," began to read.

Absorbed in what he was doing, he did not see a little boy approach the
summer-house, and it was not until a small spade fell accidentally from
the child's hand that he noticed him.

"Ah! do you live here?" inquired Hubert

"No, sir, but grandfather does, and he told me you were here."

"Did he send you to me?"

"No, sir, but he told me you had fought a great many battles, and I
wanted to see you because I am going to be a soldier--when I'm a man, I
mean."

"How old are you now?"

"I'm eight, sir; but, you know, I shall be older soon, and perhaps as
big as you are."

"Perhaps so," said Hubert, with a smile; "and what's your name?"

"Frank, sir--Frank Lyons--the same as father's and grandfather's; but
they are not soldiers, you know. I am going to be a soldier." And then,
fixing his eyes upon a medal which Hubert wore upon his breast, he
eagerly asked all about it. Hubert was amused at the little fellow, and
answered many an inquiry that he made, and as he was listening to
something Hubert was saying, all at once he caught sight of the "torn
Bible," and taking it in his hand, he said--

"Is this a Bible, sir? Oh, how it's torn! Did It get torn like this in
the battles?"

"No, child; but," pointing to the hole in the cover, "it got that in the
last battle I was in."

Frank looked for some time at the hole the bullet had made; then looking
up into Hubert's face, he said, thoughtfully--

"Sir, don't you think God was very good to take care of you in the
battles?"

"He was, child; He has always been good to me."

"Then why did you let any one be so wicked as to tear this Bible so?"

Hubert kissed the boy's cheek: he could not answer the home-thrust, but
taking the Bible from his hand, said--

"Good bye, Frank; now run away home."

The child went away as he was desired, but Hubert's heart reproached him
in a moment; he thought he had been harsh, so, bending forward, he
called the little fellow back.

There was a tear in the boy's eye when he returned, and stood gazing up
again into Hubert's face, which convinced Hubert that he had
disappointed him; so, taking his little hand, he said--

"Frank, do you wish to ask me anything more?"

"Yes, sir, I want to ask all about being a soldier."

Hubert could not resist, nor refuse to listen to the inquiries of that
little heart. And there they sat--the once disobedient, sinning,
reckless son, and the little artless child. It relieved the older bosom
to talk of the past, and Hubert told into that little ear more than he
had told any one before. It was a strange sympathy; but the boy drew
closer to him, leant his little arms upon the veteran's knee as he gazed
earnestly into his face, while Hubert told him something of his own
youth-time, and about being a soldier.

"Then you have been a soldier longer than I've been born," said Frank.
"How glad your mother will be to see you! I think I should run all the
way; I would not stop at all till I got home."

"But could you run, Frank, if you were as lame as I am?"

"No, sir, I could not; but then I would ride--I would never stop
anywhere until I got home."

"But if you were in pain what would you do?"

"Oh, I would not mind it at all; soldiers ought never to mind pain. When
Charley wheeled the big barrow over my feet I did not cry, though he
hurt me dreadfully, because I am going to be a soldier. But that is
grandfather calling me. Good bye, sir."

In an instant the boy was gone; and Hubert, bending forward, looked out
along the side pathway down which he had run. He watched him until he
was out of sight, and then his thoughts turned upon himself. Why was he
contented in tarrying there? How was it that he felt no spirit to hurry
onward? He looked up at the sky; the clouds were breaking, and the sun
shone brightly.

"Oh that I were at home," he uttered, "and all the past forgiven! How
can I face it?" But no good thought came into his mind to help him in
his difficulty; and he sat for some time gazing vacantly into the
garden.

"Yes, little Frank," he suddenly exclaimed, "they will be glad to see
me; I'll not stay here." And taking his stick in his hand, he drew his
cloak around him, and went into the house. The good people were somewhat
unwilling to part with their visitor, but Hubert was determined to go;
and, as he parted with the kind people, they were astonished to see him
kiss little Frank, and then to hear him say--

"Good bye, Frank. I'm not going to stop any more till I get home. Learn
to read your Bible; and I hope you will make a good soldier."

The old landlord felt honoured at the notice Hubert had taken of his
grandson, and as he removed his own little old black hat from his head,
he turned to the child, and said--

"Your bow, Franky; make a bow to his honour--it may be he's a general."

General or not, it mattered but little to Frank, for, taking Hubert's
hand, he said--

"Good bye, sir; I _will_ try and be a good soldier."

Many little incidents, besides the one here recorded, befell Hubert as
he journeyed homeward; and, though he was long upon the way, he might
have been longer, had not little Frank's words--"How glad your mother
will be to see you!"--so rung in his ears, that he felt compelled to go
on; and the next afternoon to that on which he left the village inn, his
heart began to beat as he thought he recognized some old places. Ah,
yes! there was the old white toll-gate--he knew it was just one mile
from his home; so here he alighted from the coach, and, leaving his
luggage with the man who kept the gate, he walked gently on his way.

The day was closing, the labourers were returning from the field, and
Hubert looked earnestly into the face of many he met, to see if he could
recognize any of them. He did not in his heart quite wish to be known,
but the incentive to find some friend of other years was powerful, and
there was a slight hope for a familiar face; he, however, met no one
that he knew, so he turned aside into a shady lane. Hubert knew the
place well; often in his boyish days that lane had been his
play-place--it was his favourite haunt; and there now he sat down upon
the same old grey stone, round which so many memories of the past still
hovered. From that large stone seat nearly every house in the village
could be seen, and there in the valley it lay, in all the same calm
beauty in which it had often risen before his view as he lay down
beneath the sultry skies of India; there, too, was the cottage, with its
white walls, over which the ivy still roamed at will--the same garden,
not a path or tree seemed changed; there was the same white-painted
gate, near which his family stood when he said the last good bye to
them; everything, indeed, looked the same--there appeared no change,
save that which his heart led him to expect; and his coat felt tighter
than usual across his chest as he looked down from the hill upon his
early home. He knew the way well--he saw the narrow pathway that would
lead him out against the gate of his father's house, and yet he had not
courage to go there.

Night drew on, and still Hubert sat upon the stone; many persons passed
him, and more than one gazed earnestly at him, for his dress was not
familiar to them; and he heard them whisper as they passed, "Who is he?"
A few, more curious than the others, returned to take another look at
him, but he was gone. "I am a coward," he had whispered to himself, and
in the closing shadow of the night had trodden the narrow pathway, and
reached the white gate of his home. The walk down the hill-side had
wearied him, and he stayed a moment to rest upon his staff before he
entered. He may have stayed longer than he intended, for an aged man,
leaning also upon a staff, startled him by saying--

"You appear tired, sir; pray, have you far to go?"

"Not far; I hope to lodge in the village to-night. Does Mrs. Bird keep
the White Swan now?"

"Mrs. Bird? Nay, she's in yonder churchyard; it's many a year since she
died. You may have been here before, but it must be long since."

"Very long," said Hubert, with a sigh. "It is more than twenty years.
Since then I have been fighting in the wars in India. Sir, I am a
soldier."

"A soldier!" said the old man. "Ah! and from India--come in and rest a
bit. From India, did you say? I once had a son there--come in, talk with
me, if only for an hour. It may be that I may hear something of my boy.
He went away nearly twenty-four years ago, and I never heard from him
afterwards. Sometimes I think he is dead, and then sometimes I don't.
The neighbours feel sure he is dead, but sometimes I have an idea that I
shall yet hear from him--I scarcely dare to hope it, though. Come,
soldier, don't stand here, the evening is cold: walk up to the house; my
little Richard will know where you can lodge for the night. He knows
every one in the village."

Without uttering a single word, Hubert followed the old man. Richard saw
them coming, and, at his grandfather's bidding, drew another chair to
the fire for the stranger.

The old man changed his shoes, and then, putting his feet upon a stool
before the fire, turned his face to Hubert, as he said--

"There was a time when the very name of a soldier was hateful to me, but
circumstances change one. I had a care for all my lads, but for that one
that went into the army I had the most care, and it was better, perhaps,
that he should be taken from me. For more than twenty years, though, I
refused to be comforted for his loss, but I now do feel that it was
God's will, for that boy was our eldest, and we thought a deal too much
of him until he rebelled against us. He often stood between us and our
Maker--I mean he had our first and best thoughts. It will not do,
soldier, for the heart to worship more than one, and that one must be
God. Our poor lad, God forgive him! paid us ill for our care--he was
ungrateful--he forgot us. Bitterly, indeed, we felt the truth of the
proverb, that 'sharper than a serpent's tooth is an unthankful child,'"
And the old man brushed away a tear; then, looking into the stranger's
face, he added, "Did you ever hear of a Hubert Goodwin in India?"

"Hubert Goodwin?" repeated Hubert, with a husky voice. "Goodwin?--but
why should you think your son is dead, or that he has forgotten you? He
may have written, or something may have prevented him. His letters may
have been lost, or a thousand things happened, and he may have regretted
the silence as much as you have."

"Is it possible," replied the old man, much excited, "that my poor lad
ever thought I had forgotten him?" and he bowed his whitened head.

Before this little scene was half finished, the unworthiness of the part
he was playing smote Hubert's heart; he had never intended offering any
excuse for his past misconduct, and he felt so self-convicted at the
sight of the grief he had so unwittingly caused, that, raising up the
old man's head, he said, with deep emotion, "No, father! father, I had
forgotten--not you."

"What, Hubert!" cried the old man, pushing him back, and wildly gazing
at him. "Hubert! my Hubert! No!" Then he laughed, and then, pointing
upward, he added: "Perhaps he's up in heaven with the others, poor lad.
I'll tell him there that I never forgot him: poor lad, he'll forgive me;
I never forgot him."

While the old man was speaking, young Richard whispered something to
Hubert, who immediately moved behind his father's high-backed chair.

"Grandfather, dear," said the boy, as he kissed his cheek, "why do you
cry?"

"I don't know, boy. Oh, yes, just some thoughts of your uncle Hubert!
but--" and he stared about, "where is the soldier? where is he, Richard?
Was I dreaming? Was it Hubert?--has he returned?--where, where is he?
Fetch him, Richard."

"I'm here, father;" and Hubert, as well as he was able, knelt before the
old man.

"Oh, Hubert!" were the only words that were uttered, for the recognition
in one moment was complete; long, very long, the old man wept upon the
bosom of his son, and Hubert wept too; young Richard cried, perhaps
because his dear old grandfather did; but Martha, the faithful servant
of forty years, knew all the sorrows of her good old master--knew, too,
all about the wandering sheep that had come home. She remembered when he
was a little lamb in the fold, and she mingled the overflowings of her
heart with the others; then she went and closed all the casement
shutters, for they wished to have the joy of that first meeting to
themselves. The prodigal had indeed returned, but friends and neighbours
must not come and make merry yet--the fatted calf must not be killed
till to-morrow.

No one intruded upon the scenes of Hubert's home on the evening of his
return. The joy of once again seeing him--the answer to so many
prayers--came as a new link in the chain of the old man's existence; he
would have no supplication, no confession from his erring son: it was
enough that the wanderer had returned; and it was _more_ than enough;
it was a joy that he had often prayed for, though his hope of knowing it
had long since died, that Hubert might become a child of God. Poor old
man! how tenderly and lovingly he strained his long-lost son to his
bosom! and the most severe reproofs, denied forgiveness, or the
bitterest reproaches, would not have been so hard for Hubert to endure
as the tender affection of his deeply-injured father.

Night closed around, and the old man sat later by the fireside than he
had done for years, for much of life's vigour had returned with his
hopes and joy; he breathed the evening prayers with a deeper fervour; he
joined in the evening hymn with a voice less tremulous than the others,
and he walked without his staff to his bed.

Poor bereaved heart! nearly all had been taken from him; none save the
little orphan grandson had been left for him to love; the waters of
affliction had rolled deeply over his head; but the heart, consecrated
to heaven, had learnt to bow meekly to the rod, and now the most bitter
cup of his life had been filled with joy. "Thy will be done," was the
old man's closing prayer, as he lay down upon his pillow that night,
and there was a holy calmness upon his brow, for peace and gratitude
filled his heart.

Different, indeed, were the feelings Hubert endured; and, as he shut
himself in his bed-room--the bed-room of his boyhood--there was a deep
struggle in his heart. More vividly than ever came the sins of his past
life before him, and great indeed was the remorse he felt for the long
years of woe he had caused. How he longed to tell all his repentance to
his father! but the old man had forgiven him without: it would not,
however, wipe away the sin he had committed; and the remembrance was
like an inward fire--burning and burning continually. There was One,
however, who _would_ listen to his woe; and Hubert, on bended knee,
poured it out from his swelling heart; no eloquence, no effort was
needed; and as the hours of that night of deep repentance passed on,
Hubert drew nearer and nearer to his Father in heaven, and the chastened
heart became lightened; then he sank to sleep as calmly as his father
had done.

CHAPTER XII.

MEMORIES OF CHILDISH DAYS.

    I stand on the brink of a river,
      The river of life to me,
    Where the billows of memory quiver,
      And rise and fall like the sea.

    I read in their tremulous motion
      The records of many a year,
    And like voices that come from the ocean
      Are the muffled words I hear.--ANON.

A bright morning beamed upon Hubert as he awoke from his slumber in his
childhood's home. He looked round the room; somehow there were many
things in it that he could recollect. There was the dark oak chest, with
curious figures carved upon the front, which had often been a source of
terror to him in early days, because on one occasion he was told that
they were the likenesses of certain naughty boys, whose remains he
verily believed were within that black chest, and though for many years
he had forgotten all about it, the story, and the nurse who told it,
came all back fresh into his memory. Then there was the old-fashioned
furniture upon the bed. "Why!" and he looked at it again, "it is the
same, the very same that covered me when last I slept here." And that
large arm-chair behind the door, he knew _that_; he remembered that it
was taken up there when his grandfather died, and he also remembered
that it was where he always put his clothes when he went to bed. Many
other things there were that he remembered: very little, indeed, seemed
changed; and, as he looked round, his eyes lighted upon a stick, a bow,
and a kite, tied together, hanging on the wall. He arose from his bed,
and began to dress himself, scanning as he did so the various objects in
his room. Presently he saw a small picture over the mantel-shelf, and
went to look at it. He started back--it was intended for himself.
Whether it had been a good likeness he was not able to judge, but it
represented him as a young soldier just going from home, and beneath it
was written, "Our Hubert." It had been drawn from memory, and placed
there in remembrance of the lost one. Beneath it, on the mantel-shelf,
was a little box, and Hubert raised the lid. Something more! Yes,
something more. In that box lay a pair of slippers; they were little
ones--a child of eight years old might have worn them; and Hubert, as he
was just closing the lid, saw written inside it, "Our Hubert's." "Mine,
mine!" he said, as he took them out. "Not mine!" But then some flash of
memory lighted up the past, and he thought he could remember when they
were his. Over these little slippers the soldier sat down and wept; for
the truth had suddenly come to him, and he pictured his parents,
gathering up every little thing that he had owned, remembering all about
him, except that he had gone away and forgotten them; placing from the
heart upon canvas the features of the rebellious one, and loving him
fondly to the last. Perhaps over these little slippers they had shed
many a tear; since they had covered the little feet, those feet had gone
astray. What a dear relic they were of the past! how they reminded him
of a time when he was pure and innocent! And he said, as he brushed away
the tears from his cheeks--

"Oh! If I had only died then, I should have caused no sorrow, nor felt
any, but been in heaven with the angels."

"Yes, Hubert, you would have caused sorrow," some spirit near him might
have whispered; "first-born of that dwelling, they could not spare thee.
He who gave thee as a blessing at the first, means thee to be a blessing
still."

Hubert replaced the slippers, and went downstairs to meet his father.

The old man was there first. Years had passed since he had risen so
early; but new life seemed to have been given to him; and, as he met his
long-lost son at the door, he forgot that he was no longer the little
child of his love; he forgot, too, all the sorrow he had been to him;
forgot the long years he had mourned him; and clasped him fondly to his
heart.

"Hubert," said his father, "it is thirty-nine years this very day since
I received you, my first-born child; a second time you have been born to
me, and we shall do well to rejoice. Your mother, dear sainted one, I
would that she were here with us; but we will not wish her back--she is
happier in heaven, and we will not sorrow because she's gone; it would
seem like reproaching that good God who, in His mercy, has restored you
to me. Yes, boy, I know well that she bitterly wept your loss--your
absence, I mean; but she wept the death of other dear ones, and God took
her to them: we shall, I hope, join them soon. Heaven bless you!"

It was a happy day, sanctified by a holy joy. Many friends, including
the good minister of the parish, who, thirty-nine years before, received
Hubert at the font, and prayed to Heaven to bless him, brought their
meed of welcome to the wanderer, and that faithful servant of his
heavenly Master spoke comfort to his aged fellow-pilgrim's heart.

"Master Goodwin," he said, "I told you, years ago, that if ye pray and
do indeed believe, that ye shall receive--it shall be as ye ask; it is
the prayer without faith that wins no blessing. God does not give us all
we ask, because we are sinning creatures, and know not what we ask; but
then, how many of us pray for things that we never want! and if we had
only ourselves to judge what is best for us, instead of receiving a
blessing, we should often receive a curse. When the heart asks God to
teach it to pray, and then asks a blessing, believing that if it is
God's will that prayer will be granted, depend upon that, that prayer
_is_ answered; if the actual thing is not given, the heart receives
something in another way--at any rate, it _does_ get a blessing. How
many years you have prayed for that son, and how many times you
murmured, and thought God had forgotten! but He never forgets; He has
remembered all your grief, and answered, what prayer? Why, the prayer of
faith. If you look back you will find that it is only of late years that
you have borne your sorrows without murmuring; they have been heavy, we
know; yet, for how many years the gilding of your prayers was tarnished
by the breath of sorrowful repining? and perhaps it was when your heart
could really say 'Thy will be done,' that the cloud of your troubles
began to disperse, and the blessing was given. Oh that men would always
praise the Lord for His goodness! How well He knows all our need! He
knows when to smite and when to heal, and they who continue faithful
unto death, to them shall that mysterious Providence be more fully
revealed. If much sorrow has been your portion, so has much blessing. It
is better to have saints in heaven than rebellious children on earth:
and God has been very gracious to you."

"He has, indeed," said Hubert's father. "I feel it more truly now." And
as he grasped the faithful pastor's hand, he said, "He gave you to this
parish as one of my blessings, and your prayers have perhaps helped to
restore me my son. Pray with us now, for our joy may be too great."

They knelt: a deep and earnest prayer fell from the pastor's lips upon
the stillness of the hour, and the tear upon the cheek told its power on
the heart. The prayer was over, and the good man, bidding them adieu for
the present, left them to rejoice over the once lost one, while he, in
the spirit of his mission, withdrew himself from the world, and thanked
God for having brought back the wandering sheep.

Hubert's return had filled his father with such joy that he would
scarcely tell him anything about the family, so anxious was he to hear
all about himself; and it was some time after his arrival before he
heard of all the bereavement of that household. All gone! all whom he
had left in the beauty and strength of youth, when he went out to India,
had been swept to the tomb; not one left round that desolate hearth,
except the little orphan Richard, now nine years old, the only child of
his second brother, who, with his young wife, had sunk into an early
grave. One by one the hand of death had taken them from the fireside,
and it was now his turn to mourn them. He saw plainly now how it was
that his father had received him so fondly. Poor old man! his home had
been sadly lonely; the household gods had been all broken, and his aged
heart nearly so. Hubert looked at his father as he told the history of
each one as they had departed, and conscience told him that there was
before him a braver warrior than he had ever seen before--one who had
fought a stern battle, and had ever been in the thickest of the fight.
Hubert's heart beat; he felt that he had added heavily to the burden and
heat of his father's day, and, falling upon his knee before his parent,
he cried, as his hands covered his face, "Oh, father, forgive me!"

"Forgive you! Oh, Hubert, did I forget to say I had forgiven you long
ago? There is nothing now to forgive, but I bless you for coming home.
Let the past be the past. Bless you for coming home to me! God is good;
He gave, He has a right to take, but He has given you to me again." But
the truth seemed to shine upon the old man's mind, and putting his arm
round Hubert's neck, he said--

"Ah! well, it's all forgiven; you might have done other than you have
done, perhaps; but never mind;" and he wept tears of joy upon the bosom
of his son. This little rebuke from Hubert's father was more welcome
than the caresses he received, and Hubert opened his heart upon it, and
began to tell his father of things which had befallen him in India;
hitherto he had seldom spoken, except in answer to his father's many
questions, for there was a weight of remorse in his bosom which nothing
yet had removed; but now he was assured of his father's forgiveness, and
a smile lighted up his hitherto sad face, as they sat round the fire
telling many a story of his distant home; his father was delighted, and
young Richard drew his little chair beside his veteran uncle, to listen
also. Many a week passed by; Hubert had ever something to tell his
father, but of all the history of the past, or of all the fame he had
won, nothing was so dear to the old man's heart as the "torn Bible;" he
made Hubert tell again and again all about it, its long neglect, and its
abuse. The field of battle, the capture, and the rescue from the
Indians, and even the dreadful night in the jungle, when Hubert's
life-blood was draining from his wounds, were nothing compared with the
strong will broken, the heart subdued, and the torn, despised Bible
giving back a new and better life to the prodigal. Oh, how the old man
loved to dwell upon that! many prayers from the long since silent heart
had been answered then, and he ever repeated in Hubert's ear the words,
"Oh, yes, she knew all about it, for she was one of the angels in heaven
that rejoiced when you repented."

Hubert grew happier in the society of his father; and though at times a
kind of reflection on his past life would cast a sort of thoughtful
sadness over his brow, yet his health daily improved, and his heart
became more and more attuned to the will of God.

CHAPTER XIII.

AT REST.

    Gales from heaven, if so He will,
      Sweeter melodies can wake
    On the lonely mountain rill
      Than the meeting waters make.
    Who hath the Father and the Son,
    May be left, but not alone.--KEBLE.

Years rolled away. Hubert's history in the village became almost a thing
of the past; the young, who had paid a sort of homage to him for his
warrior fame, had almost forgotten it, and had grown up to reverence him
for his goodness; and the aged, as he sat by many a dying bed, blessed
him with their latest breath. Ever, day by day, did Hubert take his
staff and go forth to comfort some less favoured brother; and the "torn
Bible"--guide of his present life--accusing, yet dear relic of his past,
soothed many a departing spirit, and helped to ripen his own for
Eternity.

Since Hubert's reunion with his father, he had found many new friends,
but he did not forget his old ones: to those in India he occasionally
wrote, and occasionally received letters; still, it was a source of
great regret to him that he did not hear anything of the companion of
his voyage, with whom he parted off Lisbon. While the first year after
his return home was passing, he scarcely thought anything of not hearing
from him; but the second year, and third, and now the fifth had come,
without tidings of his friend, and, with a pang of deep and silent
regret, he began to conclude that he had died; though notwithstanding
this thought, there was a lingering hope that his friend would yet come;
and it was sometimes when his heart felt sad, that the wish for his
friend became strong; perhaps upon the wish grew the hope; and then
Hubert would take his staff and wander up the hill-side, out to the
little white toll-gate, and then walk a mile or two down the broad road
that led to the south. There was a rude seat by the roadside, formed of
gnarled and moss-grown branches intermixed with stones; beside it was a
huge stone trough, which a kindly mountain stream kept ever filled with
water; over it, shading it from the sun, branched a stately oak; and
this spot was a resting-place for man and beast. Hubert often walked
there, sat down and rested beneath the tree, and looked with longing
eyes down the road; still his friend came not, and he as often returned
sadder than he went. How little he thought that his father had trodden
that same road with a heavy heart for many a year, in the fond hope of
meeting him, though there was but little probability in either instance
that the hope would be realized! one moment's reflection would have told
the heart so, but the heart under such circumstances seems unwilling to
reflect--or even if it does, the effect is transitory, and the heart
hopes on again against hope; and it is a blessed thing, this hope--for
how often in the dark hour it throws a ray of light upon the darkness
that is felt, and keeps a soul from despair!

Hubert had been six years at home, and for many months had not been
along the road where he was wont to go; indeed, he had sighed over the
memory of his friend, and at last had ceased to expect him; but now an
unexpected joy had befallen him, for Mr. Collinton was coming. Hubert
was delighted, and he read the letter many times over; his father was
delighted too, for Hubert had confided to that parent, whom he now so
loved and honoured, all his secret about the stranger, and the old man
partook of the longing to see the friend, a portion of whose life had
been so strangely linked with that of his son.

Hubert had often wondered how it was that the letter which he had
written to his friend, telling him of his safe arrival at home, had not
been answered; but it appeared that that letter had been duly received,
and that Mr. Collinton, acting upon its contents, was now, after a long
delay, making his way to Hulney.

One morning, after rising somewhat earlier than usual, Hubert took his
staff, went up the hill-side, and took his way towards the seat by the
roadside. It was still early, yet Hubert appeared to be in haste; he
passed the white toll-gate, wished good morning to the man who kept it,
and stayed a moment to inquire what time the coach would pass by, and
then he went on his way again until he came to the seat by the roadside,
when he sat down and looked with an anxious eye for the coach coming.
Mr. Collinton had not told him the exact day that he would come, but
this was the last day of the week, and Hubert felt sure that it would
bring him, and he was not wrong. The coach, with its living burden, came
at last, and Hubert and his friend met again.

"Leave the luggage at my house," said Hubert to the coachman, whom he
now well knew, and then he and his friend sat down beneath the shady
tree. How glad they were to meet again! and then Hubert soon told him
that he was none other than the soldier lad who in years gone by had won
his heart. The stranger listened with astonishment; gazed at him with a
deeper earnestness than ever, and tears rushed to his eyes as he grasped
his hands. And why did he feel so? There was nothing now in the face of
that war-worn soldier which reminded him of the dear one he had buried,
nothing now to make him feel, as he once said he had felt, that some of
his love for the dead seemed to centre in him; and yet he did love him,
and it was to find him again that he had given up the world, and taken
his way to that little northern village; for he had felt, ever since he
had parted with Hubert off Lisbon, all the emptiness of life without
pure religion. He had felt a void in his heart that nothing around him
could fill; and though he tarried longer upon the continent than he had
intended, he ever thought of Hubert; and as he told him, as they sat
together by the roadside, it was his memory and the hope of seeing him
again that had blessed his life, and made him long to join him, that
they might read and study God's Word.

"Why have you been so long in coming?" asked Hubert. "I thought, at
most, your absence would be but one year; but when it was two, then
three, and now nearly six, I gave you up."

"And thought me dead, perhaps?"

"Yes, sometimes I thought it might be so, for I could not think you had
forgotten."

"No, no, you are right there; I never could forget: but travelling in
Portugal and Spain, those countries full of such deep interest, I know I
tarried; but when I was uneasy here in my heart, and my thoughts would
turn nowhere but to you, I prepared to make my way to you. Sometimes an
opportunity lost threw off my plans; sometimes the desponding mood I
had fallen into was suddenly dispersed by some event; and so I wandered
up and down, amongst the many beauties and enchantments of Spain--not
forgetting you, my friend, but tempting Providence by deferring to come
to you. Oh! it was a sin, and I felt it; but I hadn't you there, nor any
one to say the words you might have said. And so I lingered; but I gave
in at last. I was not happy there; and it has struck me many a time that
there is many a man in this world whose life has been a continuous
fluctuation between right and wrong--knowing what was right, being
anxious to do what was right, and yet ever doing wrong: how is it?"

"My friend," said Hubert, putting his hand upon the stranger's knee,
"the Bible says that the heart of man is inclined to do evil; and is it
not so? Still, there is that in man which makes him love to do good--do
right, I mean; and, as far as I can judge, man generally makes an effort
to do so. But here is the mistake: he too often has a false idea of what
_is_ right, and follows his own notions of right and wrong, rather than
the standard laid down in God's Word. His inclination to do evil makes
him too often try to make out that evil to be good; and so he goes on,
spending a whole life in error, while all the time he fancies he is
perfectly right. When a man's heart is not right with God, he must ever
be going wrong; but, somehow, we don't like to be told it--I know I did
not. Think of the years I spent in India in all kinds of sin, and all
the time I wished the world to think well of me, and tried to persuade
myself that I was perfectly right. But what a life it was! How many
things occurred to tell me that I was wrong! but I would not hear, and
continued a wicked course, trying to please man, and caring nothing
whatever about God. I was worse than the heathen."

"How? you had the Bible with you in India."

"I had," replied Hubert, "and therefore I was the more guilty and
responsible for the life I led there. I cannot look upon man without the
Bible as I do upon him with: it is the _only_ source from which we can
draw a perfect rule of life; and if man has it not, how can he know?
Whether he reads it or not is another matter: if he have it at all he is
responsible."

"Ah!" said the stranger, "I shall do now; we can talk these matters
over together; somehow, I know all this, but yet I cannot get on with it
alone. How is your father? is he still living?"

"Yes, and will be glad to see you; I have told him all we know of each
other, and he is waiting now for our coming; for, like myself, he
thought you would be here to-day."

As Hubert finished speaking, he and his friend rose from his seat and
walked to the village; and as they walked along Hubert told him of the
devastation that Death had caused in his home, and begged him, as he was
the last of his family, to make his dwelling with them.

It was a goodly welcome that met the stranger at Hubert's home; and
there was so much peace and happiness, sanctified by that religion which
he longed for, that he soon became as one of the family; and by paying a
yearly visit to the grave at Dunkeld, where he had buried his loved
ones, he lived for ten years with Hubert and his father; and when he
died, they mourned the loss of a Christian and a friend, and buried him
as he had wished in the grave of his wife and son. Five years more were
meted out to Hubert's father, and then they laid him with the dear ones
gone before, and carved a simple record upon the stone that covered the
grave where he and his wife lay.

"They sleep in Jesus," was all that Hubert told the world of them, and
very soon the grass and flowers covered that fond testimony.

Between Hubert and Dr. Martin, in India, a warm friendship continued for
many years; it ever cheered Hubert's heart to hear from his distant
friend, for he owed him much, and heard from him gladly; but one day,
after a longer silence than usual, there came a letter written by a
stranger's hand, bearing the unwelcome news that the good man was gone.
He had spent a long life of usefulness, and, in the land which had
always been the field of his labour, he lay down and died. It was not
his lot to hang up his weapons of warfare, and rest upon the laurels he
had won; his Master was the King of kings, in whose cause he spent all
his life. How could he rest? There was no reward on earth a sufficient
recompense for his labours; and though his body now rests in an unknown
distant tomb, yet, far away in the city of the great King, he has been
crowned with an immortal diadem. How many quiet unobtrusive Christians
there are, of whom the world knows nothing, who live to reclaim and
guide aright their weak and sinning brethren, and though they live and
appear to die unknown, they give to many a dying bed peace, when there
would be no peace; and they are often the ten--ay, the five--that save
the city.

Hubert was sad at the news of his friend's death, but he knew where he
should meet him again, and not as he felt when he remembered the young
sinning companion of his youth, the never-forgotten Harris; with a
grateful thankful heart he could think of him in heaven, and hope to
meet him there.

Once more let us turn to Hubert's home. Young Richard, dear good boy,
when he grew to manhood, married the playfellow of his childhood, the
orphan granddaughter of the village pastor, and they lived in the old
house with Hubert; and when, at last, the veteran's career was ended,
they followed him with many tears to the old churchyard, and Richard had
that seventh white stone carved to his memory. It is but a simple
unemblazoned record of one departed, yet travellers say it is a strange
device, that torn ill-used book, and ever and anon some one asks its
meaning.

Our story is ended, and we would ask the reader to remember that
Hubert's life is not a fiction. And shouldst thou ever wander to that
old churchyard, sit down amidst its shadows, amongst its silent dead;
perchance a fitful vision of thine own life may flit past thee, some
whisper may re-echo a mother's prayer or a father's counsel, and it may
not be altogether unprofitable to thee to remember the history of Hubert
and

                         "THE TORN BIBLE."

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                            Catalogue.

                  NEW ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR BOYS.

The Orchid Seekers. A Story of Adventure in Borneo. By Ashmore
Russan and Fredk. Boyle. With Sixteen Original Illustrations by Alfred
Pearse and M.F. Hartley. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled
boards, price 5s.

"Boys will be grateful to the joint authors.... No reader can complain
of lack of interest or sensation in the narrative...."--_Daily
Telegraph._

"A capital story of adventure, such as would delight most boys, and
gratify many of their elders.... Written with great spirit. The
authors are to be congratulated on producing a story full of thrilling
incident without violating probabilities."--_Saturday Review._

The Riders; or, Through Forest and Savannah with the "Red Cockades."
By Ashmore Russan and Fredk. Boyle. With Twenty-six Original
Illustrations by Alfred Pearse. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt,
bevelled boards, price 5s.

"Most daring and attractive story of travel, peril, and adventure. The
book is of higher literary class than many of its rivals, and as a
present for a youth of mature age cannot well be beaten."--_Daily
Telegraph._

Young Tom Bowling. A Story of the Boys of the British Navy. By J.C.
Hutcheson. Fully Illustrated by J.B. Greene. In large crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, bevelled boards, price 5s.

"It is a spirited and adventurous tale about several brave boys of the
British Navy, who, besides getting through a multitude of monkey tricks
aboard a man-of-war, see some 'sarvice' in administering to the Arab
slave-traders that correction which these inhuman monsters so richly
deserve. The book has a number of excellent pictures."--_Scotsman._

"As a sea-yarn, with plenty of rollicking fun, exciting adventure, and
play of varied character, it should commend itself to all boy-readers.
Mr. Hutcheson has skilfully contrived to give as a background to the
story a very true and vivid and convincing description of the duties,
occupations, and routine work of the boys of the British Navy, and it is
this element in the book which gives it an importance beyond that of a
mere story of adventure."--_Daily Mail._

           _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

                    NEW ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR BOYS.

The Boys of Fairmead. By M.C. Rowsell. With Original Illustrations
by Chris Hammond. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bev. boards, price
3s. 6d.

"It is always a pleasure to take up a book by Miss Rowsell, whether she
writes for juveniles or adults, whether her pen be employed in history,
biography, or fiction, she invariably shows the cultured mind and the
polished diction of the writer, thinker and gentlewoman. This book has
adventure, and it has to a marked degree humour. Essentially a book for
boys, their elders will read it with pleasure."--_Public Opinion._

The Fortunes of Claude. By Edgar Pickering. Illustrated by Lancelot
Speed. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d.

This volume narrates the adventures of Claude, a nameless orphan, who
finds not only his name, but fortune and relations, whilst serving in
the army of "Bonnie Prince Charlie." He takes part in the battle of
Culloden, his escape therefrom and subsequent adventures will be read
with breathless interest by every boy who is the fortunate possessor of
this book. The illustrations by Mr. Speed add much to the interest of
the story.

A Chase Round the World. By Robert Overton. Illustrated by A. Monro. In
large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d.

The boy hero in this tale is occupied throughout in an honourable
endeavour to clear his father's name from the shadow of suspicion
which rests upon it, and to recover a stolen treasure. How he succeeds
in his quest, which carries him round the world and leads to many
strange adventures we leave to the readers of the story to find out.
Suffice it to say that the plot is admirably worked out, and there is
not a dull page from cover to cover.

          _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

                 NEW ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR BOYS.

In Quest of Sheba's Treasure. A Perilous Adventure by Sea and Land. By
S. Walkey. Illustrated by G. Hutchinson. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt,
bevelled boards, price 3s. 6d.

"A rousing book of adventure is 'In Quest of Sheba's Treasure,' by S.
Walkey, a tale of the days of Nelson (of whom, however, we get but a
glimpse) and of some bold Devon lads who went off to the Bedouin desert
in quest of the treasure of the Queen of Sheba, to which they had
obtained a clue. And after many perils and breathless escapes they find
it."--_Glasgow Herald._

Lost in African Jungles. By Frederick Whishaw. With Four Original
Illustrations by J.B. Greene. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled
boards, price 3s. 6d.

"'Lost in African Jungles' transports us by the magic wand of Fred.
Whishaw to the other side of the world, where plenty of perils from men
and beasts abound. Apart from being an excellent entertainment in
itself, the book will serve to illustrate the difficulties encountered
by British Colonists in the conquest of Lobengula."--_Birmingham
Gazette._

The Fur Traders of the West; or, Adventures among the Redskins. By E.R.
Suffling. With numerous Illustrations by Andriolli and Lancelot Speed.
In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price 3s. 6d.

"The perilous but successful career of the Cornish family who settled in
the wild Oregon country to trade for skins with the Indians is depicted
with unflagging spirit, and much varied information is skilfully mingled
with the incidents of the story."--_Manchester Guardian._

          _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

                  NEW ILLUSTRATED BOOKS FOR GIRLS.

Mona St. Claire. By Annie E. Armstrong. With Six Illustrations by G.D.
Hammond, R.I. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards,
price 3s. 6d.

"One is always glad to welcome literature thoroughly pure in its tone,
and such as youth can read with enjoyment. This is happily the case with
the present volume, which contains within its dainty covers a wholesome
and withal a stirring story."--_Lloyd's News._

My Ladies Three. By Annie E. Armstrong. With Six Illustrations by G.D.
Hammond, R.I. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards,
price 3s. 6d.

"This is a pretty gentle tale of a young girl's romance in the days
which we connect with memories of Queen Anne, of Johnson and Goldsmith,
of gold-laced waistcoats and three-cornered hats. The story is charming
in its detail, for its fresh dainty picturing of the old-fashioned
country life and of the ways and manners of the country gentlefolk of a
by-gone time."--_School Board Chronicle._

My Friend Anne. By Jessie Armstrong. With Six Illustrations by G.D.
Hammond, R.I. In large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, bevelled boards, price
3s. 6d.

A well-written tale of the days of Anne Boleyn, and the court of
Henry VIII., where for the most part the scene is laid, is depicted with
accuracy, and yet at the same time with an interest which cannot fail to
please the most critical of readers.

          _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

                    NEW ILLUSTRATED FAIRY TALES.

In large crown 8vo, art linen, gilt top, or cloth gilt, bevelled boards,
price 3s. 6d. each.

The One-Eyed Griffin, and other Fairy Tales. A Series of Original
Stories by Herbert E. Inman. With numerous Illustrations by E.A. Mason.

"This book contains several stories in addition to 'The One-Eyed
Griffin,' which is the chief item among them. This narrative is that of
a little boy who enters into the realms of fabulous monsters, where he
encounters the giants Can't, Won't, and Don't Care, into whose terrible
clutches has fallen the lady of his heart. With the aid of the One-Eyed
Griffin he succeeds in overcoming them, and the story succeeds, in
allegorical fashion, to detail the difficulties which befall the
diminutive hero. The illustrations are singularly happy in their
delineation of the subject, and will win the affections of the youthful
circle for whose benefit the volume has been produced."--_Daily
Telegraph._

Icelandic Fairy Tales. By Mrs. A.W. Hall. With Twenty-six Original
Illustrations from Drawings by E.A. Mason.

"A young reader could scarcely have a more promising introduction to
the literature of the Sagas. Sigurd and Frithjof and Ingeborg are not
indeed such imposing creatures as they are in the sterner tales; but
they are always people whom every child ought to know, and the giants
are giants of the proper sort."--_The Scotsman._

The Owl King, and other Fairy Stories. A Series of Original Tales by
Herbert E. Inman. With numerous Illustrations by E.A. Mason.

"So great is the cry among the little people for a fresh story--one they
have not heard before--that it is a relief to be able with 'The Owl
King' to satisfy for awhile their seemingly insatiable appetite. 'The
Owl King' will soon, however, become established among the old-time
favourites, for a good story once told travels with wonderful
swiftness."--_Family Circle._

          _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

                     NEW ILLUSTRATED FAIRY TALES.

In large crown 8vo, art linen, gilt top, or cloth gilt, bevelled boards,
price 3s. 6d. each.

Grimms' Fairy Tales and Household Stories. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull
and Mr. L.A. Wheatley. With numerous Original Illustrations and Coloured
Plates.

Grimms' Goblins and Wonder Tales. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull and Mr.
L.A. Wheatley. With numerous Original Illustrations and Coloured Plates.

These two volumes of famous stories, collected by the Brothers Grimm in
the fertile and imaginative field of their native land, have an
ever-growing number of readers, and are assured a hearty welcome from
all who delight in finding really high-class children's literature,
issued in a thoroughly attractive and up-to-date style.

Andersen's Fairy Tales. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull. With numerous
Original Illustrations and Coloured Plates.

Andersen's Tales for the Young. Translated by Mrs. H.B. Paull. With
numerous Original Illustrations and Coloured Plates.

Amongst all the various editions of Andersen's popular tales, none will
be found to surpass these editions for fidelity in translation, fulness
of text, and excellence of get-up. The tales are world-wide favourites,
known to nursery-land of all nations.

          _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

                   NEW ILLUSTRATED FAIRY TALES.

In large crown 8vo, art linen, gilt top, or cloth gilt, gilt, bevelled
boards, price 3s. 6d. each.

Prince Ubbely Bubble's Fairy Tales, and Glimpses from Elf-Land. By J.
Templeton Lucas. With numerous Illustrations by Barnard, Phiz, Ellen
Edwards, &c.

The favourite themes of childhood are here, in a series of fascinating
stories, of which the first is "The Perseverance of Prince Ubbely
Bubble," and amongst numerous other tales are told those of "The Six
Goblin Eggs," "Tom and the Ogre," "The Adventures of John, the Son of
Jack the Giant Killer," etc.

The Old, Old Fairy Tales. Edited by Mrs. Valentine. With numerous
Original Illustrations and Coloured Plates.

The well-known favourites, "Puss in Boots," "The White Cat," "Tom
Thumb," and others, are comprised in this collection, which embraces,
as its name implies, all the oft-told tales.

Holme Lee's Fairy Tales. The Story of Tuflongbo. With numerous Original
Illustrations.

Is a narrative of the wonderful life and adventures of Tuflongbo. When
he grows up, he goes on a great journey, falls into the hands of giants,
amongst whom his escapes are recorded, until he finally puts off his
shoes and vanishes into shadowland.

          _Chandos House, Bedford Street, Strand, London_

_Transcriber's Notes:_

  Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
  Variations in hyphenation have been retained.
  Page 46 "mame" changed to "name" ("his name honoured and respected")