and had reached the adjoining room, he sunk down on a chair, and, covering his face with his hands, he shed those passionate tears, which, coming like the life-blood from a man's heart, are shed by them but once or twice in their whole existence.

CHAPTER III.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years
In fatal penitence; and, in the blight

Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears,
And colour things to come with hues of night.

BYRON.

Fail not for sorrow- -falter not for sin-
But onward, upward, till the goal you win.

MRS. BUTLER.

"It is over now, Claude," said Henry Bruce, laying his hand upon his cousin's arm; 'you had better come home."

66

The young man stood by the side of an opened vault; he shed no tear-he uttered no sound; but his eyes were immoveably fixed on the dark passage through which he had seen his mother's last remains descend a few moments before. At his cousin's voice, he roused himself as from a trance; and, after looking for one instant hastily round, as if

unconscious where he was, he followed Henry Bruce to the carriage that waited for them.

Mrs. Hastings had lingered but a short time after her son's hurried return; and, though his unceasing cares had blest her swift declining hours; though her dying lips had blessed him; though, again and again, she had repeated that she was happier than ever; though she had heard his confessions, had smiled upon his resolutions, had forgiven the past, and spoken with strong hope and confidence of the future; still, deep into his heart had sunk the agonizing, remorseful memory, that it was the weight of his sins which had hurried her to the grave.

And now that she was dead, a further trial awaited him, and the time for that trial was come; and there were moments when, unworthy as he felt himself of every blessing which earth could give, he shrunk from the prospect before him. He was to part from his home the home of his forefathers, the place of his birth, his childhood, and his youth; the home which, with its beauties and its memories, had become as a part of his

own soul; from the accustomed faces of the servants, who had been around him from his infancy; from the tenantry, who were eagerly looking to the day which was to place him over them as their master and their friend, as all his fathers had been; and from the hallowed ground where the ashes of his father and his mother now slept in peace. All these things were to be forsaken, to be given up into the hands of strangers; and Claude's heart, resolute as it was, sank within him.

"Is this absolutely necessary?" said Henry Bruce, as, on entering the library on the afternoon of the day of Mrs. Hastings' funeral, he found his cousin engaged in removing from the shelves the books which he had selected to keep.

"Absolutely necessary," he replied.

"I think, Claude, you might have spared yourself to-day," said Henry, kindly.

"I might, perhaps," replied the young man, sadly; "but why should I, Harry? It must be done, and the sooner the better. I spare

myself best by hurrying now. Delay can but be painful."

Henry took two or three steps about the room-then approached Claude. "I tell you what, Claude, if I had my will, those blackguards should not have one shilling."

His cousin was silent.

"If you would consider it more," he continued, "I am sure that something might be done, and Sir Charles Hamilton thinks so too. I spoke to him about it last week."

"I believe he does think that some arrangement might be made," replied Claude Hastings. "He says something of the kind in a letter that I had from him this morning; but it would not be an honourable arrangementnot at least what I should call so."

"You are so wilful, Claude! surely you might trust Sir Charles; he would not advise anything that was not fair and honourable."

"It would be a quibble about my not being of age," he said, steadily; " and I will not take advantage of it. No, Harry-I staked it all-in my despair, I staked it all-I mentioned house, lands, all; and I lost all. And they