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had said many things in his lecture' which, clever and telling as they were, he now thought scorn of himself for having uttered.

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The society had been formed at Charlie Wilde's instigation, and numbered among its members some really clever, well-educated youths, though none perhaps with ideas so refined, or minds so highly cultivated as Harold Nugent. These boys who professed radical principles, and took for their motto, "Liberty, equality, and fraternity," nevertheless talked loudly of the "aristocracy of talent," and welcomed Harold as a new star in their intellectual firmament." Some of them were idle, irreligious youths, rebellious to parental authority, and despising steady occupation; but the greater number were harmless creatures, who meant no ill to either Church or State, and merely thought it very fine to be able to deliver their opinion on men and things, without being subject to the snubbing which fell to their lot at home. These last were delighted with Harold's ready eloquence, and with the higher tone of thought which ran through all the absurdity and exaggeration of his discourse. They clapped at nearly every sentence, and cheered him vociferously at the end; so no wonder if, boylike, he allowed the whisperings of his better judgment to be stifled by the applause of his youthful admirers, and in becoming a hero to the lads of North Lyon forgot that he was sinning against his principles and falling from his own high standard of honour. But he had not deliberately shut his ears to the voice of conscience, and when the conceited carelessness that had been for some time growing on him produced at length so terrible a result as the death of Brian's dog, the shock awoke him from his self-exalting dream, and brought him to immediate contrition. Then to a mind which, with all its faults, really aspired towards good, there

could be no question of continuing in a course after it was found to be wrong. From the moment when his eyes were opened to its real character, he had abandoned it in heart and there needed but Mr. Merivale's advice and encouragement to spur him on to abandoning it in deed. The more he saw how he had been led by his pride before, the more he owned it just that it should be made to suffer now, and the rather hard nature which had prevented his sympathizing with Brian in his errors, equally forbade the idea of being tender towards his own.

After that one open confession to his uncle, he never said a word to any one but Mr. Merivaleand very little even to him-of his sorrow for the past, or resolutions for the future; but they both grew together in silence. In a few days he returned to school, graver and more reserved than ever, but certainly wiser and more humble also; no longer thinking himself a paragon of perfection or prating arrogantly of philosophy, but with a new feeling of self-distrust, strong enough to make him careful, though not to damp his manful determination to struggle against the wrong, and aspire to the right, to fight the good fight, and never give in.

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"His childhood shall be froward, wild, and thwart,
His gladness fitful, and his angers blind,
But tender spirits shall o'ertake his heart,

Sweet tears, and golden moments bland and kind."
FREDERICK TENNYSON.

WHEN Harold was gone back to school everything at Vale Moir resumed its usual footing, and Brian and Sibyl promised themselves that they would make the most of the two or three months which were to pass before school-life commenced for Brian, and hold a sort of perpetual carnival of fun

and frolic.

These designs were unexpectedly frustrated by an announcement made to Sibyl by her father about a fortnight after Harold's departure; namely, that her grandfather, Mr. Merivale, had written to invite her to spend six weeks with him, and that she was to set off in a day or two. At another time this invitation would have given her great delight, for she dearly loved her kind grandfather and grandmother, and knew herself to be a great favourite with both of them; but now she was so distressed at the idea of how lonely Brian would be without her, and so loth to forego all those weeks of his society, that she could not look forward to her visit with any degree of pleasure, and begged very hard to be allowed to remain at home. The petition was not granted; for Mr. Merivale

would on no account consent that his father and mother should be disappointed in their wish of having their little granddaughter for a guest, and Mrs. Merivale was really glad that Sibyl should be withdrawn from the life of frolicsome liberty which she passed in Brian's companionship.

So Sibyl went to her grandfather's, and after she had got over the parting with her playfellow, was very happy there; whilst Brian was obliged to content himself with the society of Austin and Philip, who were manly, adventurous little fellows, but too greatly his juniors for him to look upon them as altogether satisfactory companions.

Perhaps Mr. Merivale was the person most deserving of pity, for he missed Sibyl perpetually; something seemed always wanting to him; and though he laughed at himself for the feeling, he really exercised a great deal of self-restraint in not setting off to fetch his little girl home again. Though by no means fond of her pen, she exerted herself to send " papa news of all her little doings; and accordingly twice every week arrived two or three sheets of note-paper, scrawled all over in a not very legible hand, and containing an amusingly characteristic account of the way Sibyl's days were passed in the stately quiet of grandpapa's old-fashioned mansion.

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Mr. Merivale was accused of bestowing as much attention on these childish scribbles as antiquaries give to a Runic scroll, or Colonel Rawlinson to the mystic Assyrian characters; but, as Mildred jestingly observed, Sibylline writings have always been thought of great importance; and Mr. Merivale, entering into the joke, laughingly declared he preferred receiving these lucubrations of his one modern Sibyl to being put into possession (if that were possible) of the nine books of the ancient Sibyls, with all their fabled wisdom.

The six weeks were lengthened out to eight before the grandpapa and grandmamma could bring themselves to part with their merry little visitor, and it so happened that Sibyl and Harold arrived at Vale Moir the same day.

Harold's midsummer holidays had been shortened on account of the unusual time given at Easter, and instead of commencing about the middle of June did not begin till the first week of July. He had therefore only three weeks to spend at his uncle's, and these weeks passed very quickly in the usual summer amusements.

There were still some haymakings going on, and Brian and Sibyl made themselves thoroughly happy in erecting hay-houses for noonday habitation, or contriving hay couches, tempting in appearance but hollow within, upon which Harold was sometimes induced to recline himself, and which of course immediately gave way beneath him, bringing him to the ground with a sudden and ignominious fall. He took this and sundry other jests in good part, sorely as they wounded his sense of dignity, and was altogether much more good-natured towards Brian than he had been in the preceding vacation. Poor Nial's death, sad as it was, and bitterly as both Brian and Harold still lamented it, had really been productive of good; it had brought Harold down from that sublime pedestal of pride which made him such an object of awe and almost of dislike to his juniors; and it had shown Brian's generous, forgiving nature to the best advantage.

Yet if Brian had discovered that this was the origin of the better understanding between himself and his cousin, he would have thought the benefit very dearly purchased, for the loss of his dog had not been a mere transient grief, but one which still lay heavy at his heart. Nial was so

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