and Richard had followed Reginald, in regular succession, from father to son—a long line of respectable knights and esquires, who for the most part contented them with taking care of the family possessions at home, and leaving to cousins and younger brothers, the honour of supporting in arms, the ancient reputation of their name. But the last paragraph was that which the young Reginald read with tenfold interest.

of daughter of

"The present representative of this family, and proprietor of Grypherwast-Hall, is Richard Dalton, esquire, formerly M. P. for the burgh This gentleman married Elizabeth, Fairfax, Esq. and widow of the late Charles Catline, Esq. by whom he has issue, one daughter, Barbara. Mr Dalton is now a widower; and failing his daughter Barbara, the nearest branch of the family is his cousin, the Reverend John Dalton, vicar of Lannwell parva, Westmoreland."

Reginald had read this last paragraph, I take it, a dozen times over-then ruminated on its contents-and then returned to it again with yet undiminished interest; and the book was, in short,"

still lying open before him, when he heard the sound of his father's approach. The Vicar seemed to be trotting at a pretty brisk pace; and, without taking time to reflect, the boy obeyed his first impulse, which was, to tie up the parcel again, so as to conceal that he had looked into the book.

It was not that Reginald felt any consciousness of having done wrong in opening this packet— that he laboured under any guilty shame that he was anxious to escape from the detection of meanness. Had twenty letters, addressed to his father, been lying before him with their seals broken, he was entirely incapable of looking into one of them. He had had, at the moment when he opened the packet, no more notion, intention, or suspicion of violating confidence, or intruding upon secrecy, than he should have had in taking down any given volume from the shelves of his father's library. His feeling simply was, that he hastily indeed, and almost involuntarily, but still by his own act, put himself in possession of a certain piece of knowledge, which, for whatever reason, his parent had deemed it proper to withhold from him. To erase the impression that had been

made on his mind, on his memory, was impossible; but to save his father the pain of knowing that any such impression had been made there, appeared to be quite possible; and so, without taking time to balance remoter consequences or contingencies, Reginald followed, as I have said, the first motion of a mind, the powers of which had hitherto acknowledged the almost undivided sway of paternal influence, and from no motive but one, of filial tenderness for his father's feelings, he endeavoured, as well as he could, to restore to the packet its original appearance.

Having done so, he awaited his entrance quietly, with a book in his hand. Dinner was served up shortly afterwards, and they quitted the library together without Mr Dalton's having taken any notice of the packet.

Soon after the repast was concluded, he rose from the table, and Reginald heard him re-enter the library by himself. Perhaps half an hour might have elapsed, when he rung his bell, and the boy heard him say to the servant who obeyed the summons, "Go to Master Reginald, and tell

him I want to speak with him.”

There was something in the manner of his saying these words that struck Reginald at the moment as unusual; but the man delivered his message with a smiling face, and he persuaded himself, ere he rose to attend his father, that this must have been merely the work of his own imagination.

When he entered the library, however, he perceived, at one glance, that there was heaviness on his father's brow. "Reginald," he said in a low tone of voice, "I fear you have been guilty of deceit you have been trying to deceive your father, my boy-Is it not so ?"

Reginald could not bear the seriousness of his looks, and threw his eyes upon the table before him; he saw the packet lying open there, and then again meeting Mr Dalton's eye, felt himself to be blushing intensely.

"You need not speak, Reginald," he proceeded, "I see how it is. Look, sir, there was a letter in this packet when you opened it, and you dropt it on the floor as you were fastening it again. It is not your opening the packet that I complain of,

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but when you tied these cords again, you were telling a lie to your father. Yes, Reginald, you have told a lie this day. I would fain hope it is the first you ever told-I pray God it may be the last! What was your motive ?"

Poor Reginald stood trembling before himalas! for the misery of deceit ! Conscious though he was that he had meant no wrong-conscious though he was that had he loved his father less tenderly, had he revered him less awfully, he should have escaped this rebuke at least-his tongue was tied, and he could not muster courage enough even to attempt vindicating himself by the truth.

Involuntarily he fell upon his knee, but Mr Dalton instantly bade him rise again.

"Nay, nay, Reginald, kneel not to me. You humble yourself here, not for the sin, but the detection. Retire to your chamber, my boy, and kneel there to HIM who witnessed your offence at the moment it was committed." He waved his hand as he said so, and Reginald Dalton for the first time quitted his father's presence with a bleeding heart.