"I in them, and Thou in Me, that they may be made perfect in one." We see how the teaching of fraternity alone leads to the crushing of individuality and the extinction of freedom. We see how the preaching of individuality alone leads to selfishness and mutual repulsion, and, while it pampers our material prosperity, starves out true humanity in us. But in the known presence of the Father of all each is drawn to Him in the fulness of his individual being, and yet all meeting in Him are brothers one to another. So it should be in theory: so, in spite of imperfections and sin, it has been in fact. Yet, on the other hand, while this truth is so profound, it is yet the one simple and living truth which all alike can recognise. The sense of unity and fraternity among men is one which it is very hard for a simple mind so to realise, that it shall be a practical guide and an inspiring consciousness. When it is grasped at all, we see painfully how it is narrowed, so as to make it intelligible and effective, sometimes within the limits of family and relationship, sometimes within the social circle of class, sometimes within the wider area of an exclusive and arrogant patriotism; or, if this narrowness be avoided, it is the favourite theme of satire to show, how in the attempt to become universal, it is diluted to weakness, and, in the desire to reach those who are far off, neglects those who are near home. But the idea of the Fatherhood of God is one which comes home to the youngest child, and to the simple knowledge and affection of those who are children; and when it is grasped, it at once suggests the brotherhood of men as an inevitable inference, keeping it from shallow vagueness on the one hand, from cruel narrowness on the other. Wherever real fraternity has been recognised, it has been among those who cry, “ Abba, Father.” 66 Therefore, thinking of the strifes and divisions of these present days, we would say, "Fight any way and every way against them." God bless those who cast out the devils of individual sin and mutual jealousy in Christ's name, even if, following not with His disciples, they know that name but imperfectly! But God grant us to fight as His soldiers indeed! God grant us in ourselves to know what it is to be children of God in Christ, and then what it is to look on all our fellowmen as His children, and realise the brotherhood of men in Christ, because in Christ we know the Fatherhood of God! SALENTINE LOVEJOY had a nature as innocent as it was light and gay. He could suffer privation with a cheerfulness which, to his very differently constituted wife, seemed perfectly insane. He would go without dinner, and make a late meal of tea and bread and herring, with absolute graciousness; a man who for himself feared poverty not at all. Its shifts, to others so painful, and even disgraceful, were to him only little difficulties to be triumphed over by patient endurance, and smiled at when they were past. He had persisted in being a gentleman in the midst of them. Disgrace in the true sense he had never experienced. When he heard Emily's account of his son's capture, lying there in the dark, he uttered not a word. Mrs. Lovejoy said but little. She, too, had a conviction that the charge was true. But as soon as her daughter-in-law left she rose. She could not lie there, she said, and Albert in prison. Still her husband did not speak. She lighted a candle and dressed, preparing to leave the room, when he murmured, "I'm very sick, Susan; give me a drop of water." There was none in the room, and, with his usual habit of sparing her trouble, he said, "Never mind, 'I'll rise too." As He rose, and they went down-stairs together and lighted a fire, over which they sat shivering. All at once Mr. Lovejoy moaned, and his wife looking at him, saw him grow deadly pale, and he would have fallen had she not held him. He had fainted. With some difficulty his wife managed to restore him, and prop him up in his chair, and the spreading warmth of the little fire revived him still more. he became better, and Mrs. Lovejoy was relieved from the anxiety she had felt while he was uncon scious, she began to feel a bitter contempt that he should take it thus, fall down before this trouble as it were, while she maintained herself erect, in spite of the raging pain at her heart. She was not a woman who could be tender in her sorrow, and she was anything but that now; she felt savage with her misery. She would have liked, only she knew it was useless, to go after her son that very night. She chafed at having to sit still there; it was only one degree more bearable than lying in her bed. So the FANNY'S FORTUNE. two sat over the fire, neither attempting to comfort the other; Mr. Lovejoy drooping his head, and at length laying it down on the wooden table. "I can't think what I've done to deserve this," said his wife, breaking a long silence. "He was as pretty a child as ever was born, and I tried hard to do my duty by him; he never wanted for anything that I could give him." Her husband lifted a woebegone face. "And what have I done, Susan?" he said. With sure instinct he picked up the clue to her tangled thoughts, and found it was reproach to himself. Thus we often know what people think, more from what they don't say than from what they do. "I've been honest and honourable," he went on; "through all our poverty I've never touched a farthing of other men's money, though I've had my pockets full of it, and been like to drop with hunger. God knows he has not learnt dishonesty from me." "If we had been comfortably off, if things hadn't been so hard, he might never have been what he is. He never could bear to be mean and shabby," said Mrs. Lovejoy, bitterly. (By “mean and shabby' Mrs. Lovejoy meant in the outer man: that her husband had never been mean and shabby, in his most threadbare garments and with his empty purse, she had no comprehension.) "I don't think he has had a very hard life," said Albert's father. "Some people might think my life had been a hard one, Susan, for I was brought up in luxury; but it hasn't; you've never heard me murmur: it has been very happy till now. When the children were young, Susan, do you remember how happy we were, if we could only make ends meet and get bread and cheese? When we went to Greenwich Park on a summer Sunday, and ate our dinners under the old tree, and fetched water from the well to drink, we were happy enough, and there wasn't a prettier set of children on the ground than Accustomed as she was to his ideas, Mrs. Lovejoy stared at him; she could not remember the happiness. She could remember her husband proposing the park and bread and cheese, and no need to cook a dinner, because there was none to cook. She had never been happy, she thought, and truly; for to her happiness consisted of purchasable commodities, and she had never been able to purchase them in sufficient quantities. Even her stomach, temperate though she was, rose at cold water with chalk in it, and preferred London stout. She wanted to see her children well clad and well shod, rather than down at the heel, and dancing in the sunshine. It was the same life she and her husband were looking at, and yet how different! the one saw all its squalor and dinginess, all the manifold unpleasantnesses of its poverty; the other dwelt upon its glimpses of sunshine and radiance, the beauty of his little children, and all the unpurchasable pleasures. 139 Mrs. Lovejoy was by no means a bad woman; she was not even a coarse woman, but she had not a spark of imagination. He, weak as he was, had abundance of that Divine gift; it was this that had redeemed him, and not as his wife thought befooled him. Without it he would have been equally weak and far more worthless; and as men cannot live without pleasure of some sort, he might have been such another as his son Albert. The haggard couple sat and talked at intervals throughout the bitter night; they talked of him, and of their other children, whom the mother alternately defended and abused. They were of very mixed characteristics, from hard, cold, selfish Beatrice, to Ada, whose affections centred in her father, and were of passionate intensity. The mother's favourite was Geraldine, who had a strong sense of duty, quickened by imagination-a sense of duty which was always triumphing over her inclinations. "I don't know what's come to Beatrice," her mother murmured on; "I think there is some young man in the case, and that she wants to get married. God forgive me, but I wish almost that her child may give her as sore a heart as she has given me." Hush, Susan!" said her husband, "don't wish ill to your own child.” "There's Jerry," she replied, "the best of the lot; she's got a cough like to split, through wearing a thin jacket, and Beatrice might have given us the money to get her a thick one, and wouldn't." Mr. Lovejoy could only moan his grief: these children were breaking his heart. Towards morning Mrs. Lovejoy made a cup of tea, cheerfully informing her husband that the coals would not last the day, and there was no money in the house to get more. They did not wake the girls till their usual hour; but they were thankful when that hour came and the house was again astir, and the voices of Albert's children were heard up-stairs. Emily brought them down and came herself to see what was to be done for Albert. The first thing was to see him if possible, for Emily did not even know at whose instance he had been imprisoned. On this mission Mr. Lovejoy went forth as soon as it was thought advisable. He wasted several hours among a miserable little crowd, chiefly women, waiting to see his son, which he at length accomplished, and learnt what he chiefly wanted to know-the name of his accuser, and the extent of his guilt. The story which Albert told his father was substantially true, with the exception of the way in which the money had been spent, and which he persisted in saying he had lost. He was full of the injury which Mr. Tenterden had done him in refusing to lend him his cousin's money. Indeed, according to him, the entire calamity rested on Philip's shoulders. Mr. Lovejoy next went to his son's late employer and explained the circumstances. He did it in perfect good faith, for he had taken to himself as a child, and left in silence if she did not choose to talk. The interview in the next room was, however, prolonged, and Ada's pent-up feelings found relief in an angry sob. immense comfort from his son's statement, that he had not the slightest intention of keeping the money; but the man was inexorable, and swore that, unless the ten pounds were paid down, the law must take its course. It was a case of embezzlement, and he had had too much of it lately, and was determined to make an example. At that very hour he was send-going over to her. "What has distressed you? Are ing out a short tale of goods to a great company, whose manager and storekeeper he had bribed. Mr. Lovejoy came away as miserable as he had been hopeful in going to this man. He was faint, for he had traversed dreary miles on foot, and he returned to the penniless little household utterly exhausted. Emily got him some food; but he was unable to eat it. He seemed completely broken down, and his daughter-in-law took him up-stairs and made him lie down. Ada's coming on that afternoon was hailed with joy by all the family. Ada was soft and almost supine on ordinary occasions, but she had a way of rising to emergencies. She went and sat beside her father, and made herself mistress of the whole story. Then she proceeded to act. She took up a burning hatred against Philip Tenterden as the cause of all this suffering, and seeing that the immediate issue was the getting of this ten pounds, she set off, determined that he should be made to disburse it, with every possible ignominy. She was but a child, without notion of complicated motives, and with a pure and passionate will, which on occasion could carry all before it. She had no sooner got home than she poured her story into Fanny's ears, and Fanny, knowing where Philip was to be found, permitted herself to be dragged at once into his presence. CHAPTER XVIII. NEGATIVES AND POSITIVES. "What is the matter, dear?" said Mrs. Austin, you ill? Can I do anything for you?" She asked her questions out of simple tenderness, not at all anticipating the embarrassing answer. "He has all my cousin's money, and he will not let her have any of it,” burst from the girl's pale lips. "Who?" said Mrs. Austin, mechanically; "Mr. Tenterden ?" "Yes, Mr. Tenterden." "You do not understand matters of business," said Mrs. Austin, soothingly. "Mr. Tenterden will do what is right." "My brother is in prison, all through his fault!" said Ada. Mrs. Austin was aghast at the girl's unexpected revelations. She would have kept them back if she could; and she hastened at once to put a stop to them. "I think you must be mistaken," she said; "but at any rate you must not speak in this way: it might do more harm than you are aware of.” Just then Fanny returned with Philip, the latter looking deeply annoyed, the former very subdued. She called to Ada to follow her at once, and went off as she had come; and Philip only stayed to explain that he had some unpleasant business before him, and left also. His manner was constrained and unnatural, and went far to deepen the impression which Ada's words had made on the mind of Mrs. Austin. Had she been standing on the brink of a precipice?. Was Philip guilty of some secret wrong, and unworthy to be loved or trusted? She had caught glimpses of his mind which revealed a higher and purer standard of right than most. If he was not "I CAME in to speak to you, Philip," gasped Fanny; to be trusted, there was no one worthy to be trusted. "I knew you were here. All life was a lie-nothing was true, nothing was "You could have sent for me," he replied, not very pure, nothing was holy. Ellen passed through hours graciously. "It's about Albert," she returned. "Had you not better wait, and I will come in when I leave Mrs. Austin? It was my intention to do so," he said. Fanny looked at Ada, as if for inspiration; but she had been smitten on entering the room with her usual childish shyness, and shrank behind her cousin. "Go into the dining-room, Fanny, if you want to consult Mr. Tenterden," said Mrs. Austin. She was aware of Fanny's difficulties already. Philip said, "Thank you," and led the way into the opposite room, and Ada was left behind- a proceeding which she did not at all approve. Mrs. Austin tried to find something to say to her, but failed. Nothing but a faint monosyllable could be got out of her. Happily she could still be treated of deepening anguish, tormented by thoughts like these. Hour after hour she sat in her lonely room, like a woman turning to stone, and at length there breathed through her pale lips the prayer—“ Give me something to love, or let me die." Ellen Austin was more to be pitied than blamed for the distrust which had so readily taken possession of her spirit, for she had seen too much of the untrustworthy side of human character; but in the daylight, she reproached herself severely for enter taining such thoughts. She was, however, so depressed and unhappy that she sat down and wrote to her mother, begging her to return as soon as possible; and knowing that she was already heartily tired of "dear Julia's," that might mean earliest train could bring her. Philip immediately set about obtaining the release as soon as the of Albert Lovejoy, which he accomplished without | seated her in a rocking-ohair, and began to talk to much difficulty on the payment of the ten pounds her. Ada was two or three years younger than Lucy, and the legal expenses incurred. The virtuously in- but incalculably older in her knowledge of life. dignant employer considered this a much more satisfactory process than that involving the trouble and worry of prosecution, and the loss of his money besides, and willingly agreed to stop proceedings. Though glad enough to be set at liberty, Albert Lovejoy was by no means grateful to the instrument of his liberation. Of course, he would never have been imprisoned at all if Philip had given him the money, as he ought to have done, therefore the effects of that stain upon his character were to be laid at Philip's door. That was Albert's way of looking at it, and more or less the way in which the whole family looked at it; for though they knew him well enough to be able to give him a full share of private disapprobation, still he was one of them, and it was not in human nature to approve of any one who had injured him, Philip was henceforth to be regarded as the enemy of the house; and he was thus regarded by none more than by Ada, whose antagonism to him was more marked than that of any other member of the family. Fanny had come to be very fond of her young cousin, though the girl at first made not the slightest pretence of affection for her. Indeed she showed plainly that her only care was for those she had left, and she acted as a perfect conduit through which Fanny's money and Fanny's goods might find their way to them. But she gave very little other intimation of what was passing in her mind; questioning endlessly, but very seldom volunteering any opinion. Fanny was never tired of admiring the girl's dexterity in everything that could be accomplished by hand; the multitudinous pieces of fancywork, strewed up and down the house, grew and flourished. There was nothing she couldn't do with needle and thread and scissors, and other like implements, picking up the most elaborate patterns in a moment. And Ada's mind was as dexterous as her fingers; it gave her not the slightest trouble to adapt herself to all her surroundings, to fall in with the minutest requirements of a new code of manners. If she had been suddenly transformed into a princess, it would have been impossible to tell that Ada had not been born to the purple, she took everything about her in the world so simply and grandly. Fanny took her with her everywhere; she had been several times in at Mrs. Tabor's, and Lucy, who had been attracted by the pale, perfect face and great grey eyes, carried her off one day into her own room, where she entertained her particular friends. It was a pretty little room, lined with books and pictures, and filled with every conceivable variety of nicknack; a case of ferns in one window, a tank of gold fish in the other; a lovely azalea blossoming here, and a pot of tulips there. Ada looked round her with interest, and Lucy "Are you fond of music?" said Lucy, making a beginning. Yes," replied Ada, simply. "Perhaps you only like it when it is very good. I like playing and singing to myself, but I am not a first-rate musician. Do you like reading? To this came the unexpected answer, "No," given quite unhesitatingly. "I don't mean hard reading," said Lucy, smiling, "but tales and novels. Perhaps there are some of mine you have not read." "What "I don't care for tales at all," said Ada. is the use of reading what is not true?” Lucy could not know that Ada's experience of tales was confined to those of a rather low kind, patronised by Beatrice. The answer gave Lucy a great respect for her young companion, for reading novels was a weakness which she had to guard against by restricting the enjoyment to the least useful portion of her day. "I like to read useful books," added Ada, still further increasing Lucy's respect. "Oh yes, we have a garden here, and lovely walks all round.” "That is like the little church on the hill," said Ada, pointing to a picture. "It is a drawing of mine," said Lucy. "I should like to learn to draw," said Ada. "I might help you a little," said Lucy; "and here is a little book," (and she took down Mr. Ruskin's "Elements,") "which would help you a great deal." "Thank you," said Ada, quietly, and standing up to examine a statuette. "That is Florence Nightingale with her lamp, and this is a reduced copy of the Venus of Milo." "I like that best," said Ada, pointing to the latter. On the mantelshelf were several photographs on small stand-frames. "Do you know this gentleman?" said Ada, quickly pointing to one of Philip-certainly a very flattering one, for a bright smile illumined the whole face. "Yes; he is my father's partner,” said Lucy. "I hate him," said Ada, coolly. Lucy looked shocked and pained. |