to leave them as they to lose him, but his sorrow was not unmixed with the pride and excitement of making a new step in life. Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock Inn, London, at about seven in the evening, and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order for supper, and seen his father seated cosily by the bright fire in the coffee-room, with the paper in his hand, Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered at all the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternized with the boots and ostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho coach was a tip-top goer, ten miles an hour including stoppages, and so punctual that all the road set their clocks by her. Then, being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself on beef-steak and oyster-sauce; had at first attended to the excellent advice his father gave him; and then began nodding, from the united effects of the supper, the fire, and the lecture; till the Squire, observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the little fellow to bed, with a shake of the hand and a few parting words. "And now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, "remember, you are going, at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with all your troubles before you, earlier than we should have sent you, perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel, blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul, bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed tc come home, or we to see you." rather choky, As it was, he The allusion to his mother made Tom feel and he would have liked to hug his father well. only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and said, "I'll try, father." "I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?" "Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocke: to make sure. "And your keys?" said the Squire. "All right," said Tom, diving into the other. "Well, then, goodnight. God bless you! I'll tell Boots to call you, and be up to see you off.” Tom was carried off by the chambermaid to a clean little attic; and, still thinking of his father's last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on the dear folks at home. Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their desired effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice,-something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that, at any rate, not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma; no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted to go. If he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling man, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to their purpose. For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes of three he was down in the coffee room in his stockings, carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table. "Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink that; there's nothing like starting warm, old fellow." Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warmed through. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds, Boots looks in and says, "Tally-ho, sir;" and they hear the ring and rattle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the inn. 66 'Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest. "Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game, Rugby," answers Ostler. "Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot, and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here, shove the portmanteau up a-top,I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind.' "Good-bye, father,—my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps his horn to his mouth, Toot, toot, toot! the ostler lets go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up. School Days at Rugby. 265.—ODE TO AN INDIAN COIN. Slave of the dark and dirty mine! So bright, whom I have bought so dear?— The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !- Revives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime, The daring thoughts that soared sublime Slave of the mine! thy yellow light A gentle vision comes by night My lonely, widowed heart to cheer; I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, Ha! comest thou now so late to mock Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! 266.-OVER THE HILL. GEO. MACDONALD. "Traveler, what lies over the hill? I am only a child,-from the window-sill "Child, there's a valley over there, Pretty and wooded and shy; And a little brook that says, 'Take care, "And what comes next?" "A little town, And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys, up and down, And a river now and then." "And what comes next?" Without a beaten way; "A lonely moor And gray clouds sailing slow before A wind that will not stay." "And then?" "Dark rocks and yellow sand, And a moaning sea beside." "And then?" More sea, more sea, more land, And rivers deep and wide." "And then?" "O, rock and mountain and vale, Rivers and fields and men, Over and over-a weary tale And round to your home again." "And is that all? Have you toid the best?" "No, neither the best nor the end. On summer eves, away in the west, "Built of all colors of lovely stones,- Where no one is weary and no one moans, "I will go." "" But the steps are very steep; If you would climb up there, You must lie at the foot, as still as sleep, 267.-THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE. INCIDENT OF THE WAR. "I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his cruntry, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift-no, not one. The dear boy slept only a minute-just one little minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he fell asleep only one little second-he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said-only twenty-four hours! Where is Bennie now?" "We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly. "Yes, yes, let us hope; God is very merciful!" “I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm'—and he held it out so proudly before me-'for my country when it needed it! Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow!' 'Go, then -go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. "Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen; doubt it not." Blossom sat near them, listening with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said. It was like a message from the dead. Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope on account of his trembling fingers, |