Mrs. Tubbs-fifty, fat, and frosty, dressed in black satin and flowery cap-comes from her housekeeping-room (where she has been consulting Betty, her cook), into the study of Dr. Tubbs, her husband, who, up later than his amiable spouse, breakfasts leisurely, and reads his letters grimly, on this snowy Christmas morning. He is by no means a prepossessinglooking gentleman, though his coat is superfine and his waistcoat large.

"I've ordered Betty," says Mrs. Tubbs, sinking into a chair, "to make the fellow a small suet-dumpling-no plums or currants in it, Dr. Tubbs; and send it in with a rasher of bacon. The fat bacon, Dr. Tubbs; the ham-like lean I keep for the parlour; for if ushers will stop during the holidays where they ain't wanted, they must take the consequences.' "Of course, my dear," answers Tubbs, pompously, and at the same time winking terribly (for he has a visional defect which always keeps his eyelids moving). "Your remark is most judicious. Indeed, if the truth be spoken, even this prudential arrangement will be unnecessary; for I think of giving Gray notice at once, and getting rid of him this very morning. For for-this getting-on-rapid system of his will never do. If it continues, Mrs. Tubbs, we shall soon cease to be master and mistress of Goshen House; for here's a letter from the Baileys' father, praising his boy's rapid progress in arithmetic. Here's another from Wigget's uncle, to say that Tom's general advance is excellent; and to crown all, here's a third letter, from the Rev. Dr. Pike, canon of Diddlebury cathedral, to say that his grandsons' progress in the classics is remarkable (you'll remember, my dear, that there are four of these lads!) and that they've learnt as much Greek and Latin in the half as at some schools they would have done in three years. Mind this, my dear! Now of course boys getting on this way will soon leave. Instead of having six years out of 'em apiece, two will be enough under such a forcing plan. There were the Fieldings, too; why did they leave? Why, that they could draw trees well when they should have been still in lines

and cubes. I've told Gray of all this, times and often; but-but," adds Dr. Tubbs, with pathetic dignity, "he minds me no more than those boys who call me 'Old Winker.' He talks about 'moral honesty' and trash of that sort, instead of paying attention to my behests. So as this is the case-and it don't do to let boys' education get on like a steam-engine-I'll dismiss him, and-and-this very morning. True, I must give some equivalent, as our arrangement was a month's notice on either side, and gratis board and lodging during the winter vacation. But better a lost pound than that this evil should make further head."

"A pound! We shall save double that in the fellow's board. Why! it wants yet five weeks to the end of the vacation, and this-say at ten shillings a week-will be two pounds ten. Go and do it at once, Dr. Tubbs, whilst I dress for church. And make haste: we can then drive off, and be spared the nonsense of goodbyes.' On my way up-stairs, doctor, I shall countermand the suet-dumpling."

Not without some little hesitation when his wife's eye is off him-for his conscience, seared as it is, points how base his conduct is to one like Robert Gray-Dr. Tubbs draws certain sovereigns and shillings from his private drawer, and goes forth to the school-room, where, by a most economical scrap of fire, sits the gentlemanly usher. His slippered feet are on the hob, a little pocket Eschylus in his hand, a short pipe in his mouth; behind him lies the wide high school-room, beyond that the bare windows and the snowy Yorkshire landscape of wooded heights and barren moors.

"Faugh! smoke-smelling like a tavern!" are Dr. Tubbs's introductory words; and then, taking a distant chair, he proceeds to business. It is soon effected-as most base things areand to his infinite but secret chagrin; for he expected demur and entreaty. His usher's manner expresses a sense of relief and release. True, were the pompous pedagogue a reader of human hearts, he might have detected one vibration of desolate despair cross the clear bright manly eye when the first words of dismissal

B

came; but it is gone like an electric flash, and he sees nothing before him but the serenity of self-reliant manhood. Hurrying over his gruff adieu, pocketing his receipt, and basely oblivious of all Gray's noble efforts to increase his school, which when he came a year ago was sinking to the verge of ruin, the pompous and shallow pedagogue makes his exit, to go to church-a hollow conventionalist, not a sincere worshipper. Resolute and brief as young men are, Gray gathers up his few books from off the schoolroom shelves, hastens up-stairs, packs his portmanteau, and directs it to the nearest railwaystation, puts the rest of his things in a knapsack; and then going down-stairs he scatters a few shillings amongst the servants, visits the old yard-dog in his kennel, gives one look round the playground where he has passed so many sad and weary hours, and then goes his way, his knapsack on his shoulder, a good oaken stick in his hand. There are some worthy souls to speak to, in this primitive Yorkshire villagethe parish-clerk, the cobbler, the carrier; then he hurries onward with a brisk step towards the moors, which lie so high and far away; they must be crossed to reach the railway by which he intends to go.

Turning by-and-by out of the more beaten highway, he proceeds down a lane with high banks and hedge-rows on either side. It lies deep in snow, though traversed by recent wheels, and winds away presently towards woodland and river scenery of exquisite beauty, though wreathed in snow and crisped by frost. Here is a cottage, old-fashioned and substantial, an exquisite garden round it, and clothed with a glowing pyracanthus. The berries are massed in coronals; the leaves lie around in beds of richest green. But the windows-at least towards the lane-are shuttered; no one seems keeping Christmas within.

But as Robert Gray leans upon the paling, looking towards a little window that now is bowery with scarlet and green-in summer with the myriad waxen trumpets of the yellow jasmine-a man plods by, and touches his hat.

"If yer a wanting Mr. Watson, sir," he says, "you won't find him at home to-day. Him and the missis be gone to see their youngest son. Old Tab the maid's minding the house; but she's up-stairs dressing I dussay now."

"Well, Mr. Watson deserves a holiday. Gone for long?"

"No: I reckon they'll be home to-morrow. Miss Marrianna, the daughter, ain't wi' 'em. She's gone to Master Fielding's, across the moors, to keep holiday wi' the children. She's a partic'lar favourite there-a sort o' coosin to th' missis."

So saying, Hodge again touches his hat, and proceeds.

When the honest fellow is out of sight, Gray opens the gate gently, and steals in. Then from the before-mentioned bowery window he cuts a spray of pyracanthus with his pocket-knife, and coming forth again, hurries away like one guilty of a serious sin. When he is far out of

sight of the cottage, on his path again to the highway, he looks at it long and tenderly, and then opening his knapsack, lays it within. This shall go with him far and far away; it grew about her bowery window-she whom he has met once or twice in country homes-she whom he has spoken to a few times-she whom he has looked upon and loved.

Like a man who has accomplished a mission, he now walks steadily onwards, regains the highway, and begins the ascent towards the moors-to the lower ones, which lie at the base of the higher and more remote. Deeper became the snow, wilder the scene, neither man nor bird nor beast giving life to the whitened waste. By-and-bye he comes to a few solitary homesteads, and beyond these to a lonely grave-yard, where the dead sleep eternally amidst the great hush of nature. He must pause a moment; for here lies a poor schoolboy who died of cold and fever. Gray nursed him, Gray loved him, Gray cannot turn away-perhaps for ever-without saying farewell to the insentient dust.

As he diverges to the gate of entrance into this lone burial-ground, a middle-aged gentleman comes towards it, from the rear of the small thatched church, and striving to undo the latch, cannot; his fingers may be cold. He may have entered the grave-yard by some other path. For days possibly there has been no passer-in. Be this as it may, the gentleman cannot make egress. Gray hurries forward, and from his side undoes the latch.

"Thank you," says the gentleman, raising his hat, "a courtesy is always pleasant, even on a lonely Yorkshire moor. I thank you-a happy Christmas-good day." He is a handsome, thoughtful man of middle life; his hair just touched with grey, his manner prompt, his words curt, like one whose dealings are many with men and the world. Perhaps he is a Yorkshire manufacturer-who knows?—many have factories in the hollows of these moors-rich, exact, earnest men-gathering whole populations round them, and making steam their willing slave.

When the stranger is out of sight Gray passes in, and following the footsteps in the snow, they lead him to a simple gravestone at the rear of the church, off which the snow has been recently brushed; on it is recorded the death of two old persons-man and wife-who died some five years before. Their names were Fielding; their married life a long one, considering the years they lived.

"I thought as much," says Gray to himself, "that gentleman was Mr. Fielding-the rich spinner-and this the grave of his father and mother. I have heard that he was as noble a son as he is a noble father, husband, master, and man. Yes! I thought there was a likeness in his face to the boys that came to Tubbs's, to be taught drawing, half a year ago. How often does the prosaic hide the depths of a poetic nature! This is his visit to his parents' grave, on the anniversary of their death; and who knows of what worth such visitation and self

communion may be? The virtues of a year may be sown thus in a single hour!"

"Gentlemen," calls the servant, "there is the first dinner-bell; you had better return now." They prepare as it seems to obey, by skating

The poor usher resumes his walk presently, for he has far to go. The cold is benumbing, the snow deeper, yet he presses on; and he stops to find a small flask in the pocket of his outer coat; from this he sips a drop of brandy (it holds but very little), and then plods on. The day begins to fade-the distance is yet considerable-he grows anxious.

At length the moor dips downward into a valley, and beyond this is the higher, bleaker, lonelier moor, across which lies the station he wishes to reach; through the valley sweeps a vast water-power, and here stands the wondrous mill, in which daily work three thousand people, employed by John Fielding, the great cotton lord. But the mighty giant of spindle and mule sleeps to-day, the fires are low, and labour rests her hands! Some mile from the mill the mansion of the cotton lord stands embosomed in woods, and here at the foot of the fell is a cluster of cottages.

Descending to one of these, he asks a woman standing at a door, the nearest way to the opposite fell.

"Why, cross the beck by the bridge, and take the road afore thee. But eh, sir! it's coming on a wild night for the moors; and now I'm thinking, if ye go by Graystones-Mr. Fielding's park anent there-you'd find it more shelteredlike, and a bit nigher still. You can't miss the way, if ye keep this side the beck to the mill; then cross it, and a bit beyond, get into the park by a stile; the path then 'll take thee by Graystone-pool-a mighty piece of water, all frozen over now-and towards the end leads up the way on to the moors. You cant' miss it, though it's coming on a wild night, I fear."

willing to be recognized and detained, for he feels desolate and low in heart. For him no welcoming feast is spread, no ear listens for him, no eye expects him. Snow before him, snow behind him-a sad and solemn Christmas day to him! Yet the snows of winter hide the buds of spring, and out of our sorrows our truest joys are oftenest born.

He has turned his face and his steps away from the pool towards the moor, when a crash, followed by awful cries, meet his ear. Looking round, hurrying towards the pool, he sees that the tallest youth, in skating towards the shore, grounded dangerous ice: it cracked, and he fell through. He is now struggling in the waterhis head above it, his hands battling with the ice; whilst his brothers, hastening to his rescue, seem in peril too. The poor demented servant -a coward, perhaps, by nature-stands on the shore, wringing his hands and shouting.

At a dozen athletic bounds Gray has reached the spot. In another moment he has throwu off his coat, hat, and knapsack.

Stephen! Walter! Falkland!" he calls; "don't attempt that: I'll come to Harry's rescue." Even whilst he speaks he dashes his way across the ice, goes through it, is in the pool: not a minute too soon-the lad is spent, and benumbed with cold, is sinking.

"A brave heart, Harry--a hand here-there, now my arm's around you-bear up. I'm Gray, your old drawing-master." Holding the lad's head above water, swimming dexterously, battling with the ice, in an anxious moment or two he has reached the shore. Having heeded Gray's warning, the other boys are safe too, and now crowd round.

"Harry is not much the worse," says Gray, kindly, as the spent and benumbed lad leans on him and begins to recover. "A near chance; but a drop of brandy, with a run home, and a warm bath will set him all right. Walter, feel in my coat pocket, you'll find my brandy-flask; it holds but a drop, but it'll do good." So saying, when the flask is found, Gray makes Harry take what it holds, and then hurries him

"But you'll come, Gray?" says Stephen, who is the next eldest to Harry, "papa will never forgive us, if you don't come, after having saved us our dear Harry. We always liked you, Gray, and were talking of you this very morning. Come on; you're dripping like a dog."

"Thank you; I want to be at -station by eight o'clock to-night, and at Leeds to-morrow; so I can't. I have dry undergarments in my knapsack here, which I can change in that fodder shed yonder. Goodbye, I want to cross the moor before it is too late."

"The moor, Gray! Why, you'll have a hard fight with the snow. Our shepherds report it as very deep. But why are you tied for a few hours ?"

"I have left Tubbs: I taught too fast for him; but if I reach Leeds by to-morrow I may get a tutorship; for there was an advertisement relating to one in the last paper. So run home, Stephen; I'll write to you thence."

Gray does not stay for any reply; but, seizing his coat and knapsack, hurries to the distant shed: here he changes his shoes and nether garments, and then, to get warm, sets off at a run, as soon as he has dressed and swung his knapsack on. Up the snowy road, by the moorland crags, on to the moor itself—a wide, wild waste of whitened desolation.

Yet some traffic through the day marks the road sufficiently for it to be easy to find, whilst light lasts and the snow holds off; so he keeps on at a rapid pace; for the whole distance now to traverse is but some six miles, and he is not without hope that it will be easily effected. But presently the snow drifts get deeper, and baffle him more and more at every step. The clouds charged with snow bring day suddenly to a close; and at last it begins to snow heavily, as though the clouds had burst. Still he keeps his way, not without hope. But when the road becomes more and more indistinct, when the snow comes down heavier and heavier still, when the rising wind whirls it round and round, when the cold becomes so intense as to benumb him, even whilst he moves, then he regrets his folly in having slighted the kindly invitation to Mr. Fielding's house. But Gray is a proud man, he has had the birth and education of a gentleinan, and he cannot go fawning anywhere, uninvited, like a beggar.

At last, hopeless of regaining the track, thoroughly spent, and growing drowsy, he sits down on a crag; the storm whirling round him and freezing his blood. Then he closes his eyes, lost in that dreamy enthanasia which precedes death from cold. From this he is aroused by something warm and wet touching his hand -something lying heavy on his knee. Reluctantly-almost with difficulty-he asserts sufficient will and volition to open his eyes; and then he sees a shepherd's dog rests its paws upon his knees and licks his hands. At the same moment a loud halloa is heard. With still more difficulty than he has opened his eyes, he makes a faint reply, for he is conscious the rescue is at hand. It is scarcely uttered, before a shepherd casts back the blinding snow, and stands beside him.

"If you please, sir, you must come with us. As soon as he heard of the matter, Mr. Fielding sent me and another off, with a horse and the dogs, on to the moor after you; for no one, he knew, could live out such a night."

late waste they get at last, and by eight o'clock reach the Hall.

man.

66

There, in the wide porch, a whole group of sympathizing friends welcome the poor gentleHe cannot talk much, but he replies to the pressure of their warm and kindly words. There, take my arm and lean on me," says the same gentleman for whom Gray opened the gate of the little, lonely burial-ground this very morn: "you have twice served me to-day, once in a manner irrepayable; so let me serve in turn." Thus saying, Gray is led up-stairs to a chamber, where a warm bath and dry clothes await him. Cherished and refreshed he lies down on a sofa, and has soup and wine and other restoratives. These taken he sinks into a sleep. When he awakes it is ten o'clock or more; yet he finds Mr. Fielding seated beside him.

"God ever love and bless you, sir," he says, taking Gray's hand; "for to you I owe the life of my priceless boy. I can never repay you, for they have told me all-your bravery, your goodness-everything. But you must not leave us, Mr. Gray, not for a long time. It was I who advertised in the last Leeds newspaper; for my boys want a master, and you were the one I thought of, and should have liked; but I did not know you were leaving that mean, pompous, shallow hypocrite, Tubbs. Make your mind happy, sir; you have a home here; to-morrow we will talk of money affairs; but be sure, even when your office ends, you shall find me a sincere friend. Now, do you think you are strong enough to come down and see the Christmas tree, and Sir Roger de Coverley danced? Mrs. Fielding and all my people want to thank you too."

Oh yes, he is strong enough; for shall he not see the pretty Marrianna, the idol of his dreams!

So they go down arm-in-arm together, and Mrs. Fielding and all the guests are earnest and warm in saying grateful and kindly words; and there is Marrianna, a little tremulous and timid; and still more so, when Gray gives her off the Christmas tree a small needlebook, on which is finely wrought-" Love me, and I'll love thee."

fires, whilst they dance Sir Roger de Coverley. Gray sits down beside one of the glowing But by-and-by she leaves the dance and sits down beside him.

"I was so sorry for you, Mr. Gray," she says, thinking of you on the bleak moor."

"Were you? that is good news, Marrianna. Before I ascended the moor I had had a long walk. I had been past a certain cottage, and cut off a spray of its ruddy pyracanthus; it is now up-stairs in my wallet. But I am going to stay here as tutor. It is a piece of richer fortune than I thought of, particularly if the little one, whose face I first saw beside those cottage window-panes, is glad."

Sir Roger), and looks up with tear-dimmed eyes in his.

So he came through the snow; for this and this: he is no longer desolate, but richly loved. By sorrows we are baptized to holier duties and to happier lives!

STANZAS.

BY ANNE A. FREMONT.

"Seek ye first the kingdom of heaven."

Wealth is mighty, knowledge glorious-
Rulers both of vast domains;
One o'er want's keen pangs victorious,
The other's god-like hand unchains
Nature's holy, wondrous secrets;
Which shall blessings rich and rare
Prove to man, if he but striveth
Them to win with patient care.

Power wields a lordly sceptre,
And 'tis sweet to human pride
To think the hand that seems so puny
Yet can grasp and turn aside
From its fellows good or evil—
Can withhold, or can bestow;
With angel love or demon hatred

Shed forth bliss or scatter woe!

Pleasure owns a fairy kingdom,

Full of all things that delight; And she hath a voice like music,

With lip all smiles and eye all light. If all these glorious gifts were thine

Knowledge, Power, Riches, Pleasure, Yet would thy joy, with one thing wanting, Be marr'd in beauty, stint in measure.

Let heaven, with its eternal glory,

Be the first thought of thy heart; Then if earth's good or ill surrounds thee, Calm and true thou'lt act thy part. "Twill prove to thee a priceless jewel When bankrupt in the wealth of earth; And when life's happiness shall crown thee, 'Twill give it purer, truer worth!

LINES.

(Suggested by finding a dead butterfly on the summit of Mont Blanc.)

BY F. LOUIS JAQUEROD.

O creature frail! call'd by th' ordaining pow'rs,
For some wise end, to bear thy part in life-
Why didst thou flee the valley and its flow'rs
To dare a course of elemental strife?

Twas not that thou could'st aim to proudly scan
Those wond'rous heights, all-dreary, yet sublime,
To share the deeds of all-enquiring man,

By Fame inscrib'd on the bright rolls of Time?