with stern resolve; the one half of his nature would shrink into itself, while the other looked on it with a sardonic kind of pity.

Yet again and again came these softening reveries. It was in the midst of one of them, in the twilight of a dreary December evening, that he was roused by receiving a letter from William.

It was the first since many years, during which the stern elder brother had suspended all intercourse, and had never sought to know what had become of the other. He had known somewhat, however; for William had come to London, and had commenced the new life of authorship, and Laurence had occasionally met his name in passing periodicals. But direct communication between the two had alto

gether ceased. He frowned as he recognised the hand.

Perhaps, had this letter come at any other time, he might have returned it unopened. Oh, men! ye who pray, pray for your fellow-men whose hearts are hardened. Oh, angels! plead for them, strive for them; for verily if there be a place in all His works where God does not dwell, and where no saving spark of divinity can linger, it must be in the sterile heart of a worldhardened man.

Laurence frowned; but he tore the letter open, so soon as the servant had left the room, and he read :.

"I had almost sworn never to address you again, after that last letter you sent. In that you bade me never to trouble you more; you told me that you would neither listen to me nor assist me, however sore my strait might be. I forgot you were my brother when I read those words; the devil rose within me, and I had uttered what hereafter it might have withered me to think of, only my wife came up to me, and looked in my face, and, God bless her, while her eyes rested on me, I could not speak, nor even think of what was hissing at my heart. I tell you this that you may judge what it costs me to write to you now. might starve,' you said. Laurence Carr, since then I have learned what starvation is like I have travelled very near its utmost brink; it is a word the meaning of which I know. That would not drag me one quarter inch towards your threshold; its worst agony is not within a twentieth part of

'I

that which even the thought of addressing you for help would have cost me. But that anguish now is swallowed in a greater. I ask your help-I entreat you, I beseech you to assist me. Laurence, we are brothers, the children of one mother; do not deny me. Give to me as you would to a beggar fling me some money into the street. I care not how, so you be not deaf to my cry. only be prompt, for Death is pitiless.

Brother! God look on you as you hearken to me. My child is dying for want of food. I wait.

"WILLIAM CARR."

Laurence rose from his gilded chair, and traversed the luxurious chamber wherein he had sate, stately and solitary. He opened the door-there he paused. Then, as if with new resolution, he stepped forth into the ball.

In a remote corner, which even the brilliant lamp failed to clearly illumine, he distinguished a tall, thin figure-a pale, pinched face, with grey hair fall ing tangled over the broad brow. Did Laurenée see then the vision of the bright-haired child, who slept on his breast one Christmas night long years back? Who can tell.

Howbeit, he retreated into the room before he was recognised, or even seen by his brother; and it was by a servant that he sent to William a small but heavy packet. He eagerly seized it, with a kind of smothered cry, almost like a sob, and the next instant had left his brother's house.

The child was saved; and then William had time to think on the sacrifice he had made to save it. His proud heart was torn at the remembrance that he had been a waiting petitioner in the hall of his brother's house, and had been relieved at the hands of his brother's lackey. He could not know that Laurence, hard man as he was, had tried to face him, but could not; that he had watched him as he darted away through the street; that he had thought of him often, since, with something almost approaching tenderness.

He did not know this; so he strove and toiled with desperate energy, till he could give back his brother's gold, and then returned it with a brief acknowledgment. He added-"It is best for us both to forget our humiliation, for you degraded both in me. Let us be strangers again." And

THE returned money found Laurence Carr a ruined man. Sudden political troubles abroad, with their inevitable consequences-two or three mistakes in home commercial policy - had wrought this great change, and he was bankrupt. A day-two or three hours in that day-saw the fall, saw the ruin to its climax. The merchant prince was worse than penniless; for there were large debts which all his vast possessions, all his accumulated wealth, would fail to satisfy. His wife, naturally incensed at his misfortunes, betook herself and her liberal jointure to the parental roof, and he remained alone to combat with ruin.

Then came out the finer part of his character. With courage he encountered the host of difficulties that pressed crushingly upon him. With scrupulous (some people called it Quixotic) integrity he gave up all he had, and quietly and simply announced his intention of paying off the residue of his debt to the uttermost farthing, if he lived. Then with proud, silent bravery he accepted a clerkship in some brother-merchant's office, took a humble lodging, and began again the life he had commenced in his early youth.

The world even the world of business and money-getting — is not so wholly bad as we read of in novels. Laurence received many offers of assistance, and one or two good hearts persisted for a long time in following him with their active friendship. But he was not great enough to feel gratitude, or even to thoroughly appreciate their goodness. His pride was but the pride of a strong, bold, determined man. He disdained sympathy, and sullenly repulsed all proffered generosity.

The wheel of fortune had made a complete revolution. While depressing one brother, she elevated the other. William was growing into that rara avis, a flourishing author. He was sufficiently far from being wealthy, certainly, but he was at an equally safe distance from want. And now oh, beware! ye who hastily write resentment - he felt as though he would gladly return to his old poverty, if he could only recall the few lines he had sent awhile since to his now ruined brother.

It was long before he dared to approach him with attempts at reconcilia. tion. He felt keenly, with anguish, the fresh bitterness he had himself added to the former estrangement. If desperate then, it was surely hopeless now. Yet he tried. He wrote again and again, and his letters were returned with their seals unbroken. He laid in wait often, and essayed to speak to him to grasp his hand. He was coldly thrust aside, without a word, without a look. He was always denied admittance at the door, when time after time he sought the poor abode where the former millionaire had his shelter.

One less tender, less patient than William, had been effectually repulsed with half the rebuffs he met with. But his exceeding love and yearning over his brother, besides the consciousness of having outraged that brother's pride, now that he was fallen from his high estate, smote him with an intense, sharp remorse. Only a man wholly sympathise in a man's pride. William's own heart, different as it was, told him how great was the barrier he had set between them.

can

At length William and his wife bethought themselves of another plan. Their child, the girl, that Laurence's assistance had saved from death, was now grown into a fair damsel, of some fourteen years. She was like her father, with golden hair and brown eyes, such as he had.

"He cannot turn her from him," said the father and mother, as with glistening eyes they watched her on her way. She led her little brother by the hand, and these two presented themselves before Laurence, as he sat reading in the quiet sunshine of a Sabbath afternoon.

"We are Willie and Alice," said the girl, timidly, looking in his face.

He knew them at once, though his eyes had never rested on them before. Alice was his mother's name, and his mother's face seemed bent on him now, longingly, yearningly.

William and his wife were right-he could not turn her from him.

"Uncle, won't you look at us?" said the pleading voice again; " won't you speak to us-me and little Willie ?" Papa's own little Willie," chimed in the boy inopportunely.

"Go home to your father," said

по

Time passed on, and Laurence was untroubled by his brother. His persevering industry was working its own way, too, and he was already clear of the barren poverty he had at first experienced after his ruin. Each succeeding year found him advancing to ease again, if not to affluence; and he was stern, cold, and unbending as ever.

Another Christmastide drew nearforty-five years after that Christmas when the moon shone on the little white bed at Cheriton. It was Christmas eve, and Laurence had been detained late in the city, balancing some complexed accounts. It was past midnight as he wended his way homeward. It was a frosty night, and moonlight, and the suburban streets were quiet and slumberous; Laurence's footsteps, echoing on the pavement, alone breaking the stillness. Somehow without his own will, almost in spite of it, indeed, his thoughts turned back to old times, and there arose before him a vision of the quaint house in the country, where his boyhood had been passed; the large rambling garden, the big mulberry-trees, and the wood near the village where he and Willie had used to gather nuts. He and Willie !-there he frowned, and sternly refused to dwell on the retrospection. He walked quickly on, with lips sturdily compressed and brows knitted, resolved to shut his mind on all softening influences; but he could not thoughts came again, and would not be repulsed. He lifted his eyes to the sky, and the myriad stars were shining down on him with a kind of smile the same smile as that of long ago. He could not sleep that night. He lay very quiet, but with a world of busy thoughts fluttering about his heart, striving for entrance. The moonlight streamed in through a crack in the blind, and lit up the dreary,

comfortless room.boLaurence sclosed his eyes suddenly.The moonbeams brought a remembrance with them that he would not welcome.

There came a sound of music outside in the frosty street. of goinh

The waits. And they played the old, old tune two boys had listened to years ago at Cheriton.ed over add to

Very strangely it sounded on Laurence's ears- strangest of all because it seemed so familiar. With a mysterious, irresistible power the sweet, solemn strain smote on his closed heart, and even before he recognised it he had yielded to its power, and, wondering the while, felt the hot tears bubbling thickly to his eyes.

And then came thronging the recollections of the olden days-vanished the intervening years like an obscuring sinoke, leaving clear and vivid the memory of the happy, innocent time, when he was a boy, and Willie was his dear brother. The pleasant home, the kind father, and-gentlest thought of all-the mother who had been wont every night to hang over her boys in their little white bed, and lingeringly kiss them ere they went to sleep. How plainly he remembered all the childish face with its golden curls he opened his eyes, almost expecting to see it on the pillow beside him. No! the moonlight only fell on his own thin, wrinkled hand, worn and shrivelled with the troubles and the cares

of well-nigh sixty years. id no bazi

Prayerful thoughts, long strange to him, alas! came instinctively to his mind, and he heard, low and soft, but clear, and blending with the music in the street, the voice of his mother, sounding as of old when she read to her little sons from the large Book on her knee. He heard solemn, slow, and sweet, the Divine words "And this commandment I leave with you, that ye love one another."

He saw the dear mother's eyes as they rested on her boys with such an infinite yearning tenderness in their depths. He could tell now, what that earnest look meant. He could guess, too, something of what were her thoughts, when often in their childish quarrels she would draw little Willie close to her side, and then pass her arm round the strong, active, vigorous Laurence, whispering, "Don't be harsh with Willie ; take care of Willie. Love each other always, my boys-my darlings."

At the bay window of the oakpanelled parlour sat William and his wife, with their two children, watching the pale light trembling between the branches of the gloomy firs. The firelight flashed and glowed within the room, lighting up the pictures on the walls, the books, and prints, and drawings scattered on the table, and the graceful groups of winter flowers lavishly disposed, as women love to have them everywhere. Alice rested beside her father. his hand wandered among her bright curls; but he was looking towards the fir grove, and his thoughts had travelled back many, many years. His wife's eyes were fixed on his face; she could read the language of that sad wistful look ; she knew how eloquently everything he saw spoke to his heart of the old happy childish days tender, pathetic memories that she also loved so dearly for his sake. The children prattled gaily for some time, but at length their voices ceased; they were subdued into stillness by the unwonted gravity of their father. Never had they seen him so sorrowful, and they marvelled in their innocent hearts; for he was happy, they knew, at coming back to Cheriton to his old home. All the afternoon he had been pointing out to them his favourite haunts his garden, his tree with the seat under it, and the little room where he used to sleep. He had been so smiling and glad then. What could make Papa look grieved

Awed by the mystery, they y gave their good-night kiss with added tenderness, but silently; and silently followed their mother from the room. But she returned almost immediately, and stole softly behind the chair wherein her husband sat, still looking forth with that silent, longing, regretful look. Even when he felt her arm round his neck he did not turn.But she spoke softly

"Dearest, I know. But be comforted. It will be made right some day. Perhaps before another Christmas. God has been so good to us, he will not deny this one blessing you so crave, so pray for."

17And William folded her to his heart, and smiled. Mary's voice never sounded in his ears but to create peace, or to add to content. When she left him again, the moonlight fell on his face, and showed it calm, hopeful, and

serene.

There came a heavy tread on the stone steps, leading to the entrancedoor, and then the great bell rang startlingly through the quiet house. William rose, and himself went to meet the intruder.

Fairly, clearly, purely gleamed the moonlight in at the window; warm and generous glowed the fire, revealing the pleasant home-like aspect of the

room.

So William threw back his grey hair from his brows a boyish habit, continued ever since the time of golden curls and went to the outer door, unbarred and opened it. na 11

A gush of chill, sharp air-the sound of the sea, like a far-off chant - the moonbeams, white on the stone porch and pavement and a dark figure standing motionless there; this was what William felt, and heard, and saw, the first moment.out

The next, a face looked on him, a hand was stretched towards him, and a voice uttered only one word ques Brother 15 46 botim and teds William's joyful cry answered him; then, like Joseph of old, he fell upon his neck, and wept."

And at the door where the two children had so often entered from their play, the two grey-haired men stood, the Christmas stars shining on their faces.

dgods gimstadt etdynodi zain! bo blenn SIT

dont a demanda ai bongente ad- danom

ANNE OF AUSTRIA, eldest daughter of Philip III. of Spain, and Queen of Louis XIII. of France, appears to have been a very ambiguous character. Some historians contend for her immaculate virtue, while others speak freely of her to an opposite extreme. Perhaps, as in many other cases, the truth lies in a medium. Born in 1601, she was married at fifteen to a spouse five days younger than herself.

a precocious union, in which all thought of mutual liking was more completely set aside than is usual even in royal alliances. The natural consequence was, that they led an unhappy life, and in a short time seldom met except upon public occasions. When, after a nominal union of twenty-three years, Louis XIV. was born, the event was so extraordinary and unlooked for, that the ready tongue of scandal whispered more than doubts of the royal infant's legitimacy. The Queen was suspected of an undue partiality for Gaston of Orleans, her husband's brother; but no evidence was ever produced beyond her affable demeanour. This of itself was sufficient to rouse the King's jealousy, which he thought became his dignity, although his heart had no interest in the matter. There was reasonable colour for the suspicion notwithstanding, for when the King fell dangerously ill in 1630, and his life was despaired of, a marriage by mu tual consent was talked of between the widow expectant and the heir presumptive. Cardinal Richelieu hated the Queen, did all in his power to ruin her, and for a series of years subjected her to a harassing and unmanly persecution. If we could believe secret anecdotes, and the court gossip of the day, he had been treated with contempt, and exposed to ridicule in a manner which a haughty and vindictive spirit, such as he possessed, was

not likely to forgive. Whatever might be her imperfections or weaknesses, the Queen was endowed with beauty, grace, gentleness of manner, a sweet temper, and an amiable disposition. The king-minister-who, as he said himself, covered all scruples of conscience with his cardinal's robe-fell in love with the Queen, and committed himself so far as unequivocally to declare his passion. Anne appeared to encourage his hopes, merely to turn him into ridicule. Such was her ascendancy over that strong mind, and the influence of the passion which he suffered to obscure his reason, that he was persuaded to appear in the presence of her Majesty, and dance a saraband in the costume of Scaramouch. At the appointed time, he caused himself to be conveyed secretly to the palace in a sedan-chair, masked, and enveloped in a large cloak. The exhibition was to be perfectly private, and the Queen the only spectator; but when the infatuated politician was executing one of his happiest pirouettes, and the Queen imperfectly endeavoured to suppress her laughter, his quick ears caught an accompanying titter, which proceeded from the ladies in waiting and maids of honour, concealed purposely behind the arras. He saw

at once that he had been made a dupe and a victim. With unutterable vexation at his heart, and a deep scowl of malignity on his countenance, herushed from the apartment to concoct plans of vengeance, from which he never afterwards relented for a moment. Thenceforward the unhappy Queen was constantly exposed to visits of scrutiny from the chancellor, and examinations before the presidents of the Parliament, on the pretence of being concerned in Spanish plots against the existing administration. These inflictions were enforced with personal rudeness, under