BY MRS. ELLIS, AUTHORESS OF "THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND," ETC. CHAPTER VI. HE loss of his brother Harry, with all his real or imagined power of protection, was at first severely felt by little Archy, and he would have stoutly resisted the comforter who should have told him that the day would come when his regret would be less. It is a trite saying that school is a little world, and in one sense especially is the saying a true one,-in the force of public opinion, and the certainty with which a pliant character is made to bend and accommodate itself to this opinion. The convictions of little Archy's better understanding were far from being favourable to Charles Hetherington's general mode of conduct at school. Yet, somehow, he liked the boy; and, what perhaps had more weight, he thought the boy liked him. It was a strangely new and pleasant feeling to be liked by such a boy as Charles Hetherington. It seemed to place him in a different position with the whole school, so that he was no longer the little puling, homesick fellow that he was first thought to be, but a man and a gentleman-nay, even a fellow with some life in him, capable of an enterprise, and not afraid to help when there was fun on the way. All this, however, was the result of time. A change so great was not effected even in the course of twelve months; and at the end of that time George Dunlop left the academy to enter upon his life of business with a London merchant. Archy had, however, the support and satisfaction of his brother Harry's companionship during his holidays, which, according to previous agreement, were spent at Eastwick, in the family of Mr. Godwin; but here also, and especially in the society of this beloved brother, Archy was sensible of a considerable alteration in himself-a greater distance and reserve in talking over school affairs with Harry-less freedom in telling him what transpired among the boys, and a certain dread of his hearty, outspoken disapprobation when he told too much,-all which made him seldom tell his brother half. At first he wished he could tell him. He longed to make a clean breast by exposing some of the practices amongst his companions. But then he had been accustomed to believe no character so despicable as the taleteller; and as Harry had left the school entirely, and was no longer one of their set, what right had he to be made acquainted with their secrets? Thus, by degrees, Archy grew less communicative with his brother. Harry did not quite like this change-did not understand it altogether; but loving Archy as he did, he was willing to let the matter pass without any close investigation. It might, he thought, be only that the boy was growing into a man learning to stand alone, and take care of himself,-a useful lesson, and one that must be learned sooner or later by all. Harry was the more ready to let the matter pass, because, in his own nature, he was not inclined to dwell much on complicated or mysterious subjects involving nice distinctions He looked in regard to human motive. rather at facts, understanding people chiefly those words of Harry's were ever ringing in his ears-that he was "not of the stuff that martyrs are made of." But he would show them all at home how mistaken they had been. Charley Hetherington knew him best by their visible and prominent modes of action. Of his brother Archy's actions in connexion with the school he certainly knew less and less, for each recurring holiday brought him a more scanty supply of information; but when had Archy ever been any--appreciated his character and capabilithing but good, and kind, and true, within the range of his knowledge? and he could trust him now, even if he could not entirely understand him. Yes, Harry said to himself, he could trust his brother Archy; but sometimes when he looked into those clear blue eyes of his, he thought they turned away as if to avoid his earnest gaze; and when he would have talked, as in the old times, confidingly about the right and wrong of things, Archy seemed to have lost his relish for such conversation, or else it pained him; Harry could not quite tell which. When they read together their home letters too, their mother's sweet letters, written as she used to talk to them sometimes before they went to sleep, or as they wandered in the autumn woods, Archy now made no response-evinced no pleasure-did not even linger over the letters, but folded them up as soon as read, and would begin to talk on other subjects, while his eyes, in spite of all his efforts, would fill with tears which he struggled hard to hide-Harry wondered why. Was he really grown so manly that he would not let his brother see him shed a tear?-so manly, that he would not talk of home, of his parents, but especially his mother? Harry did not know-he never even suspected that if his brother had once allowed himself to yield, there would have followed such an outburst of feeling as might have changed the whole current of his life. If Archy had begun to tell anything, he would have told all; and what right, he asked himself again and again, had he to do that? His friend Charley continually told him that all he wanted was to be a man; and that point of glory he was determined to attain. Even his brothers had been accustomed to treat him like a child, almost like a girl. He recalled a thousand instances in which they had laughed at his tenderness of spirit, though always playfully and kindly; and ties as no one else had ever done. George and Harry should not be the only men in the family. He would prove to them all that there was something in him which they had not had the wit to discover. So spoke the worse nature of little Archy, taking the language and the voice of the better. So spoke his inherent vanity, which the boys at the academy had learned how to work upon for their own purposes. But all the while there was another voice not silent -the voice of home, of conscience, of many holy and happy influences combined-taking the language and the voice of that communion which his own soul had once held with his Father in Heaven. This voice still spoke, and told him that in mind, if not actually in deed, he was departing from the way of peace-losing sight of the old landmarks-turning aside into troubled waters, where entanglements would beset him on every side-growing false to himself and his own true convictions, and so preparing to be false to others, -a coward at heart, while pretending to be brave-a slave to the opinion of others, while boasting of the power to govern himself. All this it told him some. times in the stillness of night, or when home thoughts and recollections rushed upon him, or when suddenly he saw the dust upon his now seldom opened Bible. Harry Dunlop was the more anxious really to understand his brother and his true position in the school, because the period of a long separation between them was at hand. Harry was much wanted at home, and perhaps his own inclination led him to exagge rate this want. His heart was amongst the active pursuits and stirring incidents of life, more than in quiet study or intellectual research. He had worked hard under the careful and judicious training of Mr. Godwin, because it was his duty to work; but he knew that his father needed more help than he had about him in the management of his Canadian farm, and he felt like a bird set free when the time came for him to fulfil the more congenial duty of returning home. It had been a great advantage to Harry that his sudden expulsion from school had been the means of his being placed with those who could understand him, who could make generous allowance for his natural tendencies of character, as well as his peculiar bringing up, and who could also exercise an unusual amount of reason in the adaptation of their instructions to his future life. It is true that Mr. Godwin was sometimes a little perplexed with the extreme requirements of the case, for his pupil had an energy of purpose, and a force of physical action, which it was very difficult to find exercise for in his quiet home. But when most perplexed, his good wife would come to his help with her womanly acuteness and tact; and then Harry would be asked to drive her out in the pony chaise, to help her in laying out a new walk in the garden, or in any other outdoor business requiring a little physical effort and management. Especially when a new pony was bought with a spirit a little beyond her control, Mrs. Godwin wisely committed it to Harry's charge; and early on many a bright summer's morning, and often in storm and rain, he might have been seen scouring over the common, or along the green lanes, on this pony, long before the time for lessons to begin. Boating was also a favourite amusement with Harry-not sentimental boating by any means. The fishing season was his delight, and James Halliday's cottage was to him a place of frequent resort. He liked to listen. to the fisherman's long stories of hairbreadth escapes in wind and storm, and the perpetual boast of what his little craft could do. He liked the breezy atmosphere and the wild freedom of that rocky shore--the very smell of the seaweed, the nets, and the tar. People said-for what will the gossips of a village not say?-that he liked James Halliday's pretty niece. And so he did; he liked her for an honest, truthful girl, and he wanted to serve her in the matter of her emigration scheme, although the right time had not yet come; and if he liked her not the less that she was neat and trim, and really very nice to look at and to talk to, he saw no harm in that; and seeing no harm himself, he never dreamed of other people seeing any. His conversation with the young woman was in all respects as innocent and boyish as with her father. She was at least five years older than himself, and that seemed a great deal at their respective ages. Besides which, she was like a married woman to him, and talked to him about her engagement with Tom Lawson as if it were a grave matter of fact, as indeed it was to her; while at the same time she felt a peculiar interest in Harry as the son of Tom's master, and as being likely to see her betrothed husband long before it was possible for her to enjoy that happiness. The time had now come for Harry to experience all the joyful exultation of anticipated liberty-the last summer holidays before he should be separated from his English friends; and somehow, according to a perverse law of our nature, they became a hundredfold more dear as the time for seeing them no more drew near; and Harry, who looked but little into human nature, nor gave much attention to the reason why, was vexed with himself that he did not find the act of leaving England by any means so pleasant as he had expected that it would be. Two pleasant summer months intervened before his final departure. There was a large gathering at Eastwick of the three families, the Godwins, the Andersons, and the Dunlops; for even George ran off from his desk for a short season of recreation amongst his friends by the seashore. Agnes Godwin was also at home, and the years which had passed over her as well as others, bringing a varied amount of matureness of mind and character to all, had brought to her a larger share of beauty and winning grace; while to Margaret they had brought a different kind of charm, perhaps more of the kind which is generally described by the word interesting. A thoughtful and feeling observer looking at Margaret Courtenay would have been almost sure to look again-to wonder, in the first instance, what were her belongings or associations, and, in the next, to wonder what she would be likely to think and feel under the influence of any event or remark of a nature calculated to excite emotion. Margaret was not beautiful. A painter would not have selected her for his model; and yet her head and face were finely formed. Here forehead and eyes were striking and attractive, giving evidence of great capability of reflection, and of a high moral tone of character. Her eyebrows had that rare beauty of being clearly defined and level when at rest, but moving with every varying thought or feeling. Her eyes, rather large, as well as intelligent, had that character which gives the impression of looking deep down into things-not glancing or flashing, but absolutely looking, and that steadily and truly. Her mouth, very grave when at rest, was capable of smiling with a sweetness which it was almost impossible to resist; and her utterance and mode of shaping out her words was clear and pure, and in the highest degree correct; so much so, that Margaret, in the wildest state of enjoyment, when laughing heartily, or in any other way forgetting herself, never lost this purity of voice. and action. She could not lose it. It was a part of herself, and marked her out, more clearly perhaps than anything else could have done, as a gentlewoman by inalienable right, the right of a high and noble nature. Agnes Godwin was the picture for an artist. Fair and blushing, with ever-varying colour, now heightened for a moment, and then as quickly fading with every thrill of joy or touch of pain-her's was the kind of beauty which claims, especially from men, an excess of tenderness, and which, in the home circle, makes a girl the pet of the family. Agnes being the only girl, it was but natural that it should be so with her; and as each passing year seemed only to intensify her beauty, so she became in a proportionate degree the charm, and almost the idol, of her father's household. Of all the injustice done to woman by the world, there is perhaps none greater than that which charges her with being envious of other women's beauty. It is not the beauty, it is the false position in which mere beauty EO often places its possessor, which may without shame mortify, if it does not actually irritate, a rational observer; it is to see how wise men in society will bow down to it! how brave men will become slaves to it! and how, because of its universal acceptability as being what it really is not, even good and noble women will strive to imitate it, pre ferring, as it seems at the moment, to be petted for being pretty, rather than admired for being intellectually superior! Surely where there is vapidness beneath-where the beauty is mere beauty, the fantastic tricks which are played before it by those who are capable of acting out the higher parts in the great drama of life, are eminently and legiti mately sources of humiliation to the beholder; and when humiliated, we are not always capable of being altogether and demonstra tively amiable. Agnes Godwin did not deserve that her attractiveness should be classed under the head of mere beauty. Far from it. She had been too well trained, and too pleasantly associated from her childhood, for that. But her character was still not of the most exalted description by nature. It was that kind of character which is most affected by praise and blame, and which, because it is so, is generally called amiable. "A dear, gentle, loving creature," people say; "unable to endure the breath of censure or the touch of unkindness." Phrenologically, this cha racter is endowed with a large amount of the love of approbation,-a quality not bad in itself, and to a certain extent both useful and desirable, especially in women; but at the same time a quality which throws its póssessor open to the conflicting influences of praise and blame, not unfrequently to a degree tending to absolute weakness. Such characters are generally slaves to the opinion of those by whom they are surrounded; they admire what is admired, and despise what is despised by others; and such love as they are capable of, is subjected to the same rule. No one could have studied the characters of Agnes and Archy without perceiving in them a certain kind of resemblance, although the deeper nature belonged to the boy. No one could have seen them laughing and playing, or gravely conversing together, without |