there seemed to be no recognition of the divine precept of acting toward others as he would have others act towards him, and his heart seemed hardened against

mercy.

When Sybil, who was a witness of the scene, beheld that the boy's agonized pleading fell unregarded upon his ears, she took up the offender's cause herself, and besought him in pitying tones for a reprieve. Sybil, whose voice had scarcely dare raise itself hitherto in that grand homestead, was now almost eloquent in another's behalf. She urged Vernon to give him one more trial, she appealed in every possible way to his clemency, even describing the culprit's whole appearance, his white, innocent brow and the clustering curls that lay above it, his intelligent eyes, and the firm, compressed lips which bespoke resolve and character.

"Can these," she pleaded with tearful eyes, "belong to a thief, a hardened determined thief? Oh, no, Mr. Vernon, no; it was his first fault, and may never again be repeated, will never again be repeated, only forgive him and let him go."

She might as well have spoken to the cold midnight stars and have asked their sympathy, or have tried to stay the onward rushing wind. Her interference, her passionate appeal for mercy only exasperated Vernon the more, and with a voice thick with passion, he angrily repeated his order for the boy to be punished, and the lad, with a crushed and broken spirit, was led out to his disgrace.

Sybil turned away from the scene with a shudder; interest in Vernon had been followed by fear; she looked back once ere she departed, and drew a picture mentally of his outward form and inner nature, the one, brave and beautiful, with the nobility of manliness about it, the other so black and hideous. Life grew suddenly dark to her, she could not be quite happy in such companionship, it would seem to her like holding the hand of a demon who was dwelling in an angelic form. Slowly she retired to her chamber to weep for the pleading, suffering boy, and yet more bitter tears were given to the man who was a stranger to forgiveness. Then she knelt and prayed

for both, and felt comforted that at the higher Mercy-Seat forgiveness would be found for the penitent.

Then the morrow came, and passed, and other morrows went calmly by, and as nothing occurred in all those happy days of study to ruffle that seemingly gentle nature of Vernon, Sybil remembered what had passed only as a frightful dream, or if it ever did come to her as a reality, she had but to look at his composed mien and placid face to assure herself that such an event could not, would not occur again. Such a fiendish state of mind might overtake a man once.

So likewise say they, who dwelling at the foot of a volcano, have seen the melted lava rush once in destructive torrents down the mountain's side—and yet they have lived to see it again.

As might have been expected from Sybil's quick intelligence, she improved daily in all that she undertook. Vernon personally attended to her English studies, as far as he was able, in directing her tasks, giving her subjects for compositions, and teaching her, almost selfishly, inasmuch as it concerned him so nearly, to read well. As for music it was almost a plaything for her, and soon the voices of the blind man and his young charge mingled in song, and no sweeter melody could be imagined than the united harmony.

Mrs. Gordon, when she saw Sybil's progress, forgot her terror of learning in her delight at her grandchild's improvement, and as her cheek still glowed with health, and her form lost none of its roundness, she looked smilingly on when she was appealed to for sympathy or counsel, and left all unreservedly to Vernon's judgment. She was not wrong apparently in so doing, for he was ever watchful of his charge and judicious in his requirements, dividing the hours so faithfully between study and recreation, that it left her no cause for complaint.

Mrs. Gordon saw, too, with pleasure, that Mr. Vernon's manner had changed towards Sybil, and although he still regarded her as a child, he looked upon her as a companion, and though she knew his faults of character and condemned

them, she trusted that Sybil's gentleness would exercise a salutary and refining influence over him, while she would be the gainer, too, by the daily intercourse with a mind so cultivated as his, and in listening to his conversation which was at once choice and instructive. Perhaps the thought which reconciled her most to the existing state of things, was, that Sybil would find a friend in Vernon after the grave had closed over her, as she felt before many years must be the case.

There was, at the time of which we are speaking, a great contrast in their evenings to those of the past-once Sybil closed her young eyes in sleep, but now while she read to Vernon in a soft voice, which was modulated in obedience to his fastidious ear, Mrs. Gordon's knitting would fall from her fingers, and lulled by Sybil's tone, she, in her turn, wandered in the land of dreams.

"Tomorrow you are to have a holiday," said Vernon one evening to Sybil, “Donalzi has asked me for the day to attend a religious ceremony. Let us make it a gala day, Sybil."

He paused, but Sybil was silent, while on his too expressive face a shade of disappointment displayed itself.

"You are not half so delighted as I expected you to be," he continued, "only think of a day without any tasks, why at your age my heart would have throbbed wildly at the idei."

"But you know, Mr. Vernon," said Sybil a little reproachfully, "that I shall not be as free as you say, although I must confess that a real holiday would be a great pleasure to me. In the first place, there is that grand overture to practise, then that mystic German tale to translate, and besides, I have my composition to read to you, then"-but Vernon interrupted her in any further enumeration of her stupendous duties.

“All these, but the composition, must be for another day, dear Sybil," he said, "for I have disposed of your time myself for tomorrow in a way which I trust will be acceptable to you. I wish you to go on an excursion with me, a real old fashioned pic-nic, when we will spend the day near a Ruined Church some miles

VOL. XXVI-4

distant. It is so picturesque in its decay that I am told it is well worth the little journey; you must be as thoughtful as Red Riding Hood, and take a basket of good things with you; I will order out the large coach so as to be as comfortable as possible, and John shall be our coachman and attendant."

His voice was so kind, his manner so encouraging, that Sybil, forgetting for a moment how cold and harsh he could be, bounded to his side and clasping one of his hands in her own, told him how she thanked him, and what pleasure the drive would give her, not forgetting the dinner in the woods, where she fancied herself spreading a rural table and presiding over it; then suddenly remembering who and what he was, to whom she was unfolding every nook and corner of her young heart, and how perhaps he was inwardly ridiculing her for her burst of childish feeling, she blushed scarlet and drew back covered with confusion.

"Give me your hand again," he said kindly, as he felt by her abrupt pause something of the truth; then his voice took almost a tone of solemn tenderness as he spoke; "It is a soft hand, a true, good hand, and belongs to a true, good heart; my sister has just such a hand, but the world has spoiled her heart, has taken it piece by piece for its own, and a hand without a heart's truth in it is meaningless; she has forgotten her brother, quite forgotten him, I fear. Until the world has spoiled your heart, will you be my sister, little Sybil ?"

He bent forward earnestly, with that strong yearning for affection in his breast, as if even with his blind eyes he might read her face.

Sybil was silent, she knew not what to answer; she glanced at his strong, powerful frame; his broad, intelligent brow; and then down, as it were, upon her own diminutive self standing by his side; then she hastily compared their mental difference, where the one knew so much, the other so little; and lastly, she remembered his stern, unbending will as opposed to hers, and she was silent still.

"Then you will not promise," said Vernon, moodily, "is it so hard a thing

you

to do and be? Do you forget, Sybil, that years ago, by the cottage porch, you gave me a whole garland which had woven with infinite care,-will you refuse me now the simple flower of sisterly affection?"

We have said that Sybil's was a frank nature; not a shadow of deception appeared in her earnest eyes, but there was trouble in their depths as she glanced at Vernon and tried to frame a reply which would not wound him. No slight excuse would satisfy her, no glossing over of the truth, she could never have forgiven herself for trifling with another, and even her own failings were regarded by her with impartial judgment.

Her motto was,

"To thine own self be true,

And it must follow as the night the day, Thou can'st not then be false to any man.'

Then after a moment's thought she spoke out slowly and distinctly, and Vernon found himself listening with strange eagerness to her words.

66

'No, Mr. Vernon, I cannot be what you require, for a sister must be in a measure, as I understand it, a friend, an adviser whom a brother respects; a sister's wishes and inclinations should be consulted, and I have no right to these requirements at your hands; and then I am too young, too thoughtless, to be anything of a guide to one so experienced, so worldly-wise as you are; your nature too unyielding and imperious to be guided by me."

"And suppose that I should subscribe to these all-important requirements," he asked, "what then?"

"You never could," was the serious

answer.

"Tell me why, Sybil?" he said with growing interest and curiosity.

"Because, to engage to be a sister to any one is no light thing," she answered, sitting down as to an important consultation, "if I had a sister she should tell me all my faults and reprove me when she thought needful; we would pray together, weep and smile together; her sorrows should be mine, and mine hers; in fine,

we would be all in all to each other; now, you know that we, you and I, could never be this."

And why?" was the pertinacious question.

"Oh, because," she still truthfully answered, "you are a great deal older than I am, and are too grand, and tall, and cold for such intimate companionship. It seems to me if I had a brother, we would be flying together over the lawn and roaming the fields for flowers, and these you could not do; then he would always smile sweetly on me, but your smile has some. thing scornful in it at times, truly, a cruel smile, and you walk upon the earth, not as if you could not see God's beautiful world, but as proudly as if it were made for you and you had a right to every inch of it. Then there is another reason, and it is this, that I am afraid of you, or have ́ been so until to day, and perfect love, the love of a brother and sister, casteth out fear."

Sybil stopped for breath.

"Thank you," said Vernon, half amused, half angry with her portrait of him, "I really did not know until this moment how formidable I was. Is there no oasis in the desert, no redeeming point that you could mention, to take the sting from your utter condemnation of myself, to soothe my self-love?"

"Oh, yes," answered Sybil, truth still her guiding star, "with all this there is a nobleness about you that seems to belong to no other; a word of praise from you is worth more than a hundred from my teachers, and then though your lips are often

'Curved like an archer's bow to let the bitter arrows out,'

their smile, sometimes, as if in contrast to that cruel, sarcastic smile of yours, is like sunshine. And besides this, when I am reading romances, all the heroes seem to resemble you when you are happiest; they have the same soft, wavy hair, the same perfect features;"-and Sybil was going on to describe some one who was almost ideally perfect in face and form, when Vernon stopped her.

No wonder that her mind was full of romantic notions, when Vernon's library had been daily open to her; no wonder that in her intercourse with a matter-offact old lady, and a morose, disappointed man, she had almost lost the language and ideas of childhood, and like a forced hot-house plant, had expanded before her time. Shut out from the world of children, their sports and simple pleasures, her mind took its colouring only from the company it had kept, and yet the playfulness of childhood had not deserted her, though her judgment belonged to maturer years.

"I did not mean that you should particularize so minutely," said Vernon, somewhat embarrassed by her candor, "but let us return to the old subject. Listen to me, Sybil: after all that you have said I am not discouraged yet; promise to be my sister, and I will act in all things as you desire, because, moreover, I know that you will not abuse your power."

Sybil sighed, for, from his earnest tone she knew that there could be no escape. It was a stupendous undertaking to her young heart; half her liberty would be lost watching over him; but then she owed him so much and he was so lonely, so doubly lonely because of his blindness and the hard-heartedness of the sister

who had forsaken him; what could she do but promise to try at least, and putting her hand in his again, she spoke in a firm voice, but with a beating, faltering heart, the words which had cost her such a struggle.

"I can but try, and I will; but it must not all be on my side, Mr. Vernon; an orphan, brotherless, sisterless, I, too, have need of a brother's care; what I am to be to you, will you in the same spirit be to me?"

"I will, so help me God," he said impulsively but fervently, "guard you, guide you, and sacrifice my own happiness, if by so doing it would benefit you in any way."

And yet

Why do I write that word of doubt, that ominous yet? She trusted him, tears starting to her eyes as she felt the force of his solemn words and realized that she had gained a friend for life. Was not the firm pressure of those clasped hands a seal on the compact? There was nothing chilling in that. She might have been painted as a picture of Faith, as she stood there in her innocent youth with scarcely the knowledge in her heart that there was such a thing in the wide world as a trust betrayed, a confiding heart deceived.