'Oh that I had been declared innocent before I left Genoa,' sighed Richard.

'Well, never mind, you are safe,' said Mr. Erle, out of their clutches; so don't fret.'

He shook his head, as soon as he was alone with Granville, however, and said, 'It's altogether an awkward business; he must not stay in England just now; Australia will be the place for him.'

At length the ship arrived in London, and Richard was cautiously moved into an hotel, where in a day or two his poor father joined him, looking hardly less ill and careworn than the son, whom he welcomed as one given

back from the dead; and when he learned all Richard's history, he found there was one great boon he had received in his cup of sorrow, and that one he prized more than all others, and he truly rejoiced as much as he grieved.

RICHARD

CHAPTER XVIII.

ICHARD was removed by easy stages, as soon as he was able to bear it, to Furstcastle, and lodged in Mr. Erle's house. He was very anxious to be taken at once to his own home; but for some reason his request was evaded, and at last, when a day or two had passed there without any communication with the Cloister, and his inquiries for his brothers and sisters had received as little attention as his wish to be among them, his fears were aroused, and he openly asked his father if he had anything to tell him that he feared to say.

Tell me now, father; I am able to hear anything now-even

He held his father's hand tightly, and his lips grew very white, as he searched with his eyes his father's face, where he saw the tears gathering fast.

'Tell me. Oh, but I need not ask. I know. It is-Henrietta. Oh, father!'

It was too true-too true. Richard looked sadly for a moment at his poor father, then

releasing his hold, he covered his face with both hands, and wept bitterly. His father did not attempt to soothe him; he quietly stroked his head as though he were still a child, and that token of affectionate sympathy was all that passed from him.

It killed her, father, I suppose?' 'She never knew it, my dear

'Oh, I am thankful,' exclaimed Richard. 'How long ago was it?'

'Hardly a fortnight,' said his father.

Nothing more was said. Richard's sobs at length ceased, and exhausted by his sorrow, he fell asleep. He did not again allude to his great loss, nor did he urge his removal to his home. When well enough to be taken there, he now seemed unwilling to change his abode, though he made no resistance to his father's evident wish to have him again at the Cloister. Poor Pauline, Edith, his brothers, all seemed too much for him; and though when his father was in the way, he roused himself and tried to be cheerful, at all other times his depression was so extreme, that a gloom seemed cast on the whole house.

Richard was now a true Christian; a weak one, but a sincere believer; yet he had many things to learn, and his experience and circum

As

stances had been such that he could not always take to himself the comfort that belongs to him who has not wilfully and persistently departed from God. He was very often doubtful whether he had really come to Christ-often inclined to murmur at the hardness of his fate, then grieved with himself that he who had so much more than he deserved, should dare to murmur. strength and health came, old habits of thought and action returned, and they were hard to combat; and he did not always fight as manfully as he should have done with them; discontent, restlessness, and even self-will, too often got the upper hand, these terrible enemies of his that had ruled too long to be conquered in a day. The house, the hamlet, the town, were all distasteful,—too quiet, too unexciting. The stillness left too much time for miserable retrospect; he wanted to rush off somewhere to forget himself and his grief, instead of trying patiently to take up that cross which was laid on him; that one of restraining his natural feelings as well as his more selfwilled impulses for his poor father's sake, and endeavouring to bear part of that father's burden. He was not, however, left much choice of his plan of action, and was not really sorry that necessity forced him to leave home almost

immediately. All his friends saw this necessity most strongly for him, and without understanding how congenial the arrangement was to his own unacknowledged feelings, it was settled that he should sail at once for Australia in one of Mr. Erle's ships, and remain out there as a settler.

Granville, Tom, Mildred, and Mr. Erle all accompanied him on board his new ship, and bade him adieu there, each, as well as his own loving family, having contributed his or her Iite to his comfort during the voyage. Mildred's sweet blue eyes were overflowing with tears as she put her hand into Richard's, and the remembrance of her sad face haunted him as long as that of the dear father whom he dreamed of frequently as he remembered him standing on the pier, with that settled expression of gentle resignation which he had lately so constantly worn. He waved his hat to his son, and Richard noticed, as the silky hair blew about in the breeze, for the first time, how very white it had become; and again came that terrible pang across his mind which had once or twice visited him, that he should have done so much to whiten his father's hairs, and to sadden the days of which he should have been the strength and glory.