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"Because I will not stay behind, papa. Mamma said she was only leaving us for a little while, and she has never come back since. If you go too, papa, you may never come back either you must stay with me always."

"But if somebody called me away to a home where I never should feel sorrow or pain any more, would you not let me go there?" demanded the father, in a low voice.

"Yes, if I went too," was the prompt reply.

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Ah, Lizette, that is selfish," murmured the father, smiling in spite of himself, as he stroked the little hand that was clasped within his own. "Surely you would not try to keep me here, if you thought I would be happier in another place, even though you must stay behind."

"Oh, papa, don't go!" cried the child, imploringly. "I never, never could stay here with Margaret, or anyone but you or mamma; and I know mamma will never come back again."

Never again, indeed, poor child. You may go to her, but she will return no more to you. A long silence ensued, broken only by the scraping of a mouse at the wainscot, or the rustle of a falling ember. At length the shuffle of feet was heard outside the house, and a well-known rap at the door.

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"That is Dillon Crosbie!" exclaimed the child, starting up eagerly. "Light the candles, papa.' The father rose hastily, and from a bare cupboard, near the fireplace, took out two old brass candlesticks,bearing some inches of the remains of mould candles, which, having lighted, he proceeded to admit the newcomer. A boy about thirteen, tall for his years, entered the narrow hall, wearing a jacket of blue cloth, rather too small for him, his trousers also were shorter than they needed to be, exposing some inches of white stockings above a pair of large coarse shoes. The face of the lad was flushed, and not over clean-an ink mark streaking one glowing cheek. His curly hair rose in luxuriant disorder over his forehead; and in one red hand, hacked and disfigured by many a scratch and gash, he held a somewhat worn book.

"Good evening, Mr. Stutzer," he said, wiping his feet on the old worn

mat at the door. "I fear I am very late to-night."

There was a frank heartiness in the boy's voice that bespoke a cheerful, unreserved mind, and something of a fearless, independent, though still gentle nature.

"No, Dillon, you are not late at all," replied Mr. Stutzer, with a smile that lighted up his ghastly face with a pleasant beam.

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'How is your cold sir?" asked the boy, fixing his quick eye on Mr. Stutzer's face, as they entered the sitting-room already introduced to the reader.

"Better-or, at least, not worse, thank you."

"Here are some lozenges for your cough, sir," observed the lad, drawing from his pocket a little box. thought you might like them."

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"I am much obliged to you," said Mr. Stutzer, giving another pleased smile, as he took the little offering.

Lizette stood at a distance, looking on, like a little coquette, hoping to be noticed, yet withal seeming very shy and indifferent. Dillon disappointed her by not looking towards her, for he was thinking of something else. When she saw him sitting down at the table, and opening his book at once with a business-like air, she felt a disagreeable feeling of being neglected and forgotten. Mr. Stutzer sat down also, and soon he and the boy were engaged in the translation of a German history, which occupied them for some time.

Dillon Crosbie, of half a dozen pupils, who for sometime had been under his tuition, was the only one still remaining with him. Ill health had of late obliged him to relinquish the instruction of so many boys, and he would have also given up teaching young Crosbie, had he not found in him an extraordinary capacity for learning, coupled with much originality of character. All the time, however, that he could now devote to him, was an hour or so each evening, when he gave him lessons in French or German. The boy attended a day-school at Yaxley also, where he learned as much as the master of a rather inferior academy could teach him. Lizette sat on a low seat at the fire, silently and dejectedly, while the reading of the Siebenjahrigen Krieges went on; and it was only when

Dillon prepared to shut his book up, that she ventured to look towards him.

"I have a long way to go through this still, sir," he observed, pressing together the leaves he had not yet read, which formed a very thick bulk. "I won't finish the book for some weeks, I think."

Mr. Stutzer gave a faint smile, like the light of a moonbeam on a winter night.

"What book shall I commence, sir, when I am done with it ?"

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"I cannot say whoever you are reading with will choose one for you.' Dillon's head gave a little sudden jerk, and his eye looked inquiringly and anxiously into the master's face. For a long while he said nothing, but his glance wandered round the cheerless room, and fell upon the half dead embers in the grate. Until a few weeks back, Mr. Stutzer had always invited him to tea in the evenings; now he never did so, and a curious thought flashed into the boy's head, that probably Mr. Stutzer had no tea for himself or anyone else. At length he got up to go away; his air was abstracted and embarrassed. Lizette

now came towards him, with a great effort of courage.

"Will you draw a picture for me, to-night?" she asked, timidly. "Dillon is in a hurry, missy; do not trouble him," said her father. "Oh, it isn't any trouble, sir," observed the boy, sitting down again.

The child ran for her paint-box and pencils, and a sheet of paper; and soon Master Crosbie was sketching off a very fierce tiger indeed, just about to pounce upon an unhappy individual within reach of him. Missy's delight was intense. A lion and a panther were drawn with the same speed, and in a manner betokening rather more boldness_than accuracy of design, and then Dillon once more took up his book to depart, still looking grave and thoughtful. When he was gone Mr. Stutzer extinguished one of the candles, and going to the cupboard, took from it a cup of milk and piece of stale bread, both of which he gave to the child for her supper. After which an old, half-blind woman, whose face was a mass of wrinkles, made her appearance, and Missy was borne off to bed.

CHAPTER II.

A SKETCH OF THE PAST.

FEW people at Yaxley knew much about Paul Stutzer, nor did any body feel particularly curious to ascertain his affairs. He was merely a teacher of languages, not often seen out of doors; but when seen, dressed shabbily, and of careworn appearance. There was nothing wonderful in that. Who are so shabby and careworn looking as the instructors of youth? He was always at church on Sundays -he and his little girl sitting sometimes in one pew, sometimes in another, wherever the Sexton chose to place them. Yaxley was a healthy neighbourhood. Strangers not unfrequently came there for change of air, and to drink of a certain cool spa among the hills. Paul Stutzer arrived there in the summer time, when the leaves were on the trees, and the days long and warm. There was nothing mysterious in his coming there. He had committed no crime-was guilty of no political offence he was

not anybody in disguise. He was simply Paul Stutzer, teacher of languages. The old lady, Mrs. Meiklam, living at Meiklam's Rest, about a mile from Yaxley, knew more of him than any one else in the vicinity; and what she knew was this. Just before he arrived, she received a letter from an old friend in the North of England, recommending him to her notice and patronage; and it was through her influence that he procured his first pupil at Yaxley-Dillon Crosbie. Alone in the world, without known kith or kin, Paul Stutzer had struggled from early childhood. His father was a native of Germany, and had held for some years the situation of Professor of the German Language in one of our English colleges. Extravagant and thoughtless, he died in poverty; and his only child might have gone to the workhouse had not strangers pitied him. He was sent to a charity school, where his abilities

attracted notice. Then he was placed under the tuition of the master of a respectable academy where young gentlemen were educated, and where his cleverness also became remarkable. From thence, under the patronage of the person who had first rescued him from workhouse oblivion, he was promoted to Cambridge, where it was hoped he would shine brilliantly. Well, he did shine, for a time, at least; and then, in a luckless hour, he fell in love, and married, sorely against his patron's consent. His wife was not pretty, but gentle, and of winning manners, and, unhappily, full of romantic ideas. They married; and thenceforward Paul Stutzer's prospects grew black. Enraged at what he considered the bitterest ingratitude, his patron discarded for ever both the offending parties; and then, away in a remote spot of the North of England, Paul and his wife began life on their own account. They set up a school, and at one time had thirty day-scholars and twelve boarders. Things went on pretty smoothly for a long while, till Mrs. Stutzer's health began to give way under too much exertion. Boys were unruly and difficult to manage. It required a much more sturdy-minded individual than she was to fulfil the duties of a schoolmaster's wife. There was continual noise in the house, and shouting, and tramping up and down stairs, and swinging over banisters, and hanging from the two great trees in the play-ground. Naturally nervous, the poor woman was always dreading some accident, and her heart beat violently at any extra noise. Perhaps it was a presentiment of evil.

"Paul, I cannot rest easily in my bed often," she said; "for I feel that we have great responsibility in the care of so many people's children. Would it not be frightful if any of our boys died while under our roof?" "We must bear whatever happens," replied the husband. "Let us do our duty, and we need not have anything to reproach ourselves with.'

As in most schools, there was one boy in the community worse than all the rest-a tyrant over weaker lads --a leader of all that was mischievous. One bright summer evening, there was quarrelling between this boy and a delicate, but obstinate youth,

who always made a point of never giving in in any cause of dispute. One frightful blow on the temples laid this lad prostrate; no blood was shed outwardly, but the blow was mortal. There was a rushing wildly to the house of many frightened boys -a rushing that the schoolmaster's wife never afterwards forgot, and then the lifeless body of the poor, dying youth was borne within, and laid upon a bed, solemnly and tearfully. He died that same night, and the school of Paul Stutzer received a great blow. People blamed him for the misfortune that had occurred. What sort of a master was he who allowed boxing unto death in his establishment? The county newspapers took the matter up, glad, probably, to have anything to write about; and at length, poor Stutzer was a marked man-looked upon as little better than a murderer. The boy who was the cause of this misfortune went home, and being the son of an influential man, escaped punishment. It was only the schoolmaster that was responsible for the Occurrence. One by one boys were withdrawn from so disreputable an academy. Paul and his wife and child were in danger of starvation, when a somewhat eccentric aunt of Mrs. Stutzer, who for years had held no communication with her, invited them all to her house. Gladly they repaired there, but soon found their hostess by no means a pleasant one. Violent in her temper and unreasonable in her demands, she succeeded in worrying her niece, already in delicate health, to the verge of the grave, and they were forced to leave the refuge of such a home. Mrs. Stutzer did not long survive; she died in the obscure village of Climsley, on the borders of Yorkshire; and the Curate of the parish, who was interested in her husband, was the person who wrote for him a letter of recommendation to Mrs. Meiklam, at Yaxley, whither Paul thought of repairing for the benefit of his own health after his wife's death.

This, then, was the history of the teacher of languages in the humble cottage in the suburbs of the town of Yaxley. If unfortunate in the world, had he not many equals? If judged harshly and wrongfully, have not others been likewise judged? But

Paul Stutzer was not a philosopher. Over sensitive,shy,shrinking, ashamed to ask favours, lest he should be refused--gladly would he have met death, but for the poor little Lizette, who implored him to stay with her. And yet this weak man was not without his strength-strength to resist temptation. In the silent hours of a night of intense misery and despair was he not strong when he broke a phial of laudanum, and let its contents pour into the fire? Strong, you would acknowledge if you knew how great was the temptation to use it otherwise. No, he was not so

cowardly as he might have been. His misery was indeed great it might be yet greater-it must be greater; but the life that God gave must be revered: it was not his own to meddle with. It is easy to preach resignation to the poor mortal quivering under the rod of affliction-easy to say, "You must bear up;" but, oh, hard, very hard, to practise it. The warrior on the battle-field, brave as he may be, is yet often far less a hero than the patient, suffering creature who is living out his misery in the prison or the garret, murmuring, with pale lips, the words, "Thy will be done."

CHAPTER III.

REMONSTRANCES AND COAXINGS.

It was a wild night; the wind blew in shrill gusts, and ever and anon showers of sleet came dripping from the cold gray sky. A bright fire blazed in a comfortably furnished sitting-room, where the tea-tray still remained on the table, though the occupants of the apartment had for some time partaken of their evening meal. A fat, middle-aged gentleman was reclining, half asleep, in an armchair before the fire, a thin, sharpfeatured lady was doing fancy work at a little table, upon which stood a lamp, and a girl, about eleven years old, was alternately playing with pussy on the rug and running to look out of the window, rather anxiously, at the thick gloom without. She was a pretty child, with much of brightness and intellect in her face. A peculiar expression of sweetness played about her mouth and beamed in the depths of her eyes; her slight and graceful figure gave promise of much future loveliness; while the very small hands and feet, as well as the noble carriage of the perfectly shaped little head, round which a profusion of hair hung in curls, gave a charming distinction to her appearance.

"I wonder what keeps Dillon out so late to-night, mamma," she observed, as she once again drew aside the heavy folds of the crimson curtains that hung over the window, and gazed upon the blackness outside.

"I don't know indeed," replied the lady at the work-table, in a sharp, dry voice; "but if he isn't in soon I shall send the tea-tray away. I must

VOL. LXIII.-NO. CCCLXXIII.

put a stop to this reading of German, and going out in the night; he'll catch cold, and then I shall have pretty trouble with him. What good will all this reading do him. If he is so anxious to learn languages, could not Miss Pritty teach him along with you?"

"But then he is at school every day when Miss Pritty comes to me," said the little girl; "and he cannot go any earlier than he does, the dinner-hour is so late."

The mother drew out her watch, with impatience.

"It is a quarter past nine; I must have the tea-things removed."

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'Oh, mamma, wait a little while; he must soon come now."

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"No, no, not a moment longer; may do without supper when he stays out so late. I daresay he has had tea with that man.'

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The bell was rung, a servant appeared, and the tea-tray was borne from the room. For a moment a sorrowful shade passed over the little girl's eyes, but shadows never lingered there long. Soon after, the ringing of the hall-door bell announced an arrival.

"Now, mamma, I want you not to scold Dillon, when he comes up," said the child, running quickly to her mother's side.

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Get away, Bessie, you have made me make a wrong stitch," said the mother, impatiently. "I wish you could be more gentle, and not startle me in that way.'

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Bessie had not time to make any 2

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"Then what made you stay out so late?"

"Mr. Stutzer was ill," said Dillon, flinging himself on the sofa. "I thought he was dying, and I was obliged to run for Doctor Ryder to come to him; that was what kept me out so late.

"What ailed him?" demanded the lady, in a tone of slight hostility.

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I hardly know; he fainted just after I had finished reading with him, and I thought he was dead."

"Dead!" repeated the lady. "How could you be so silly? I daresay he will not thank you for calling in a doctor, if it was only a faint, putting him to expense for nothing. The heat of the fire, or something else, I suppose, affected him."

"It wasn't the heat of the fire, anyway," said Dillon, smiling, in spite of himself, "for I don't think there was a spark in the grate. I never was colder in my life."

"That is very odd. I should think he ought to have a fire at least for the short time you are with him," observed the lady, going on with her work. "I don't think it is respectful to you to treat you so."

"Oh, I don't care about a fire, aunt," said the boy, good-humouredly.

66 Won't you have some supper?" asked Bessie, in a low voice, coming towards him, and pushing the curls from his cold forehead with her small hands.

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'No," he whispered; "I am not hungry.'

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I will get you some milk and bread in a moment."

"You need not, indeed, Bessie; I could not eat to-night.”

"You are not offended because mamma sent away the tea-things?" asked the little girl, after a pause, as her mother left the room.

"Offended!" repeated Dillon, look

ing a little amused. "No; why should I be, when I stayed so late?" "Well, why will you not have any supper?"

"I don't want any."

Bessie thought Dillon's eyes looked as if he had a cold; he was biting his lip pretty hard, too. What if her mother's treatment had really annoyed him? For a long while she said nothing; but her glance was directed ever and anon to the figure of Dillon on the sofa.

"Bessie," he said, at last, "I am convinced that Mr. Stutzer has got nothing to eat. I know quite well he is starving." "Why?"

"Because Doctor Ryder said so; and I know there was nothing in his cupboard but a small piece of bread and cup of milk, when I was searching for some wine that the doctor told me to look for, while Mr. Stutzer was insensible."

"But he might not keep his food in the cupboard," said Bessie, gravely.

"There was nothing eatable anywhere, in the kitchen, or any place else in the house, except some brown bread that his old servant said belonged to her. She is a very stupid woman; but she told Doctor Ryder, she hadn't bought any meat for Mr. Stutzer for nearly a fortnight, and that he never, now, had any regular breakfast or dinner. She said she didn't think he cared for having regular meals, on account of his delicate health; but I know very well he is too poor to buy food. Doctor Ryder said he had fainted from weakness and want of proper nourishment."

Dillon got up and walked about the room, trying very hard to repress the tears that were fast rushing to his eyes; but he had mastered his feelings so far as to seem calm enough when his aunt came back. Bessie could not altogether sympathize with his sorrow for his poor tutor; she thought it very shocking, of course, for a man to be starving; but Dillon felt something more than mere pity for the gentle-spirited man, who had taken much pains in teaching him, and whose deep learning and high order of intellect even boys knew how to appreciate.

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Oh, mamma, Dillon says Mr. Stutzer is so poor he has nothing to eat," observed Bessie, when her mo

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