“No, my dearest wife; once, indeed, when I beheld you in fancy about to sink beneath the accumulation of misery and anxiety both Edward and Ellen’s conduct occasioned, I did in secret murmur that the will of my heavenly Father had consigned to us the care of such misguided ones; I fear I looked on them as the disturbers of family peace and harmony, when it was the will of my God.  I felt indignant and provoked with them, when I should have bowed submissively to Him.  I have been blessed in them when I deserved it not.  You ever trusted, my Emmeline, though far greater distress was your lot than mine.  You never repented of that kindness which bade your heart bleed for their orphan state, and urged you to take them to your gentle bosom, and soothe them as your own.  I know that at this moment you have your reward.”

Mrs. Hamilton was prevented from replying by the entrance of Edward, who eagerly inquired for his sister, alleging he had searched every room in the house and could not find her.

“She has gone with Herbert to the village to take the fruits of her own work, some baby linen, to the poor woman in whose fate I am so interested,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, and turning to her husband, added—­“Now we really are alone, my dear Arthur, will you give a little of your time to inform me in what manner I can best lay out, for this unfortunate being’s advantage, the sum my Ellen has placed in my hands?  Do not look at me, Edward, as if to implore me to take yours also, for I mean to be very positive, and say at once I will not.”

“Come with me, my young friend, and we will go and meet Herbert and Ellen,” Mr. Howard said, smiling; “a walk is the best remedy for nerves fevered as yours are at present, and I should be glad of your company.”  And Edward, with eager pleasure, banishing all traces of former agitation, departed arm in arm with a companion whom he still so revered and loved, recalling with him reminiscences of his boyhood, and detailing with animation many incidents of his late trip.  This walk, quiet as it was, was productive, both to Mr. Howard and his pupil, of extreme pleasure; the former, while he retained all the gravity and dignity of his holy profession, knew well how to sympathise with youth.  Increased duties in the ministry had caused him to resign the school which he had kept when we first knew him, to the extreme regret of both master and pupils.  Mr. Howard regarded young people as the tender lambs of his fold, whom it was his especial charge to train up in the paths of grace, and guard from all the dangerous and hidden pitfalls of sin; their parents might neglect, or, ignorant themselves, pursue a mistaken method, but he was the shepherd placed over the flock, and while untiringly, zealously, he endeavoured to lead the older members of his congregation to the only rock of salvation, the younger were the objects of his especial care.  To them all was bright, the world in all its dangerous, because more pleasurable, labyrinths was before them.  He saw, he knew their perfect ignorance, and he trembled, while he prayed so to lead them, that the lessons of their minister might check them in the career of imprudence or of sin.