end all this misery ere I go hence and be no more
seen."

"Oh, my child, don't talk so," cried Mr. Hardie,
trembling. "Think of your poor father."

"I do," she cried, "I do. Oh, papa, I lie
here between two worlds, and see them both so
clear. Trust to me: and, if you love me——"

"If I love you, Jane? better than all the world
twice told."

"Then don't refuse me this one favour: the
last, perhaps, I shall ever ask you. I want my
brother here before it is too late. Tell him he
must come to his little sister, who loves him
dearly, and— is dying."

"Oh no! no! no!" cried the agonised father,
casting everything to the winds. "I will. He
shall be here in twelve hours. Only promise me
to bear up. Have a strong will; have courage.
You shall have Alfred, you shall have anything
you like on earth, anything that money can get
you? What am I saying? I have no money;
it is all gone. But I have a father's heart.
Madam, Mrs. Dodd!" She came directly.

"Can you give me paper? No, I won't trust
to a letter. I'll send off a special messenger
this moment. It is for my son, madam. He
will be here to-morrow morning. God knows
how it will all end. But how can I refuse
my dying child? Oh, madam, you are good,
kind, forgiving; keep my poor girl alive for
me: keep telling her Alfred is coming; she
cares more for him than for her poor heartbroken
father."

And the miserable man rushed out, leaving
Mrs. Dodd in tears for him.

He was no sooner gone than Julia came in;
and clasped her mother, and trembled on her
bosom. Then Mrs. Dodd knew she had overheard
Mr. Hardie' s last words.

Jane Hardie, too, though much exhausted by
the scene with her father, put out her hand to
Julia, and took hers, and said feebly, but with a
sweet smile, "He is coming, love; all shall be
well." Then to herself as it were, and looking
up with a gentle rapture in her pale face:

"Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall
be called the children of God."

On this thought she seemed to feed with innocent
joy; but for a long time was too weak to
speak again.

Mr. Hardie, rushing from the house, found
Edward at work outside; he was crying
undisguisedly, and with his coat off working harder
at spreading the straw than both the two men
together he had got to help him. Mr. Hardie took
his hand and wrung it, but could not speak.

In half an hour a trusty agent he had often
employed was at the station waiting for the uptrain,
nearly due.

He came back to Albion Villa. Julia met him
on the stairs with her finger to her lips. She is
sleeping; the doctor has hopes. Oh, sir, let us
all pray for her day and night."

Mr. Hardie blessed her; it seemed the face of
an angel, so earnest, so lovely, so pious. He
went home: and at the door of his own house
Peggy met him with anxious looks. He told
her what he had done.

"Good Heavens!" said she: "have you
forgotten? He says he will kill you the first day
he gets out. You told me so yourself."

"Yes, Baker said so. I can't help it. I don't
care what becomes of me; I care only for my
child. Leave me, Peggy; there, go; go."

He was no sooner alone than he fell upon his
knees, and offered the Great Author of life and
death—a bargain, "Oh God," he cried, "I own
my sins, and I repent them. Spare but my
child, who never sinned against Thee, and I will
undo all I have done amiss in Thy sight. I will
refund that money on which Thy curse lies. I
will throw myself on their mercy, I will set my
son free. I will live on a pittance. I will part
with Peggy. I will serve Mammon no more.
I will attend Thine ordinances. I will live
soberly, honestly, and godly all the remainder of
my days; only do Thou spare my child. She
is Thy servant, and does Thy work on earth, and
there is nothing on earth I love but her."

And now the whistle sounded, the train moved,
and his messenger was flying fast to London,
with a note to Dr. Wycherley:

"Dear Sir,—My poor daughter lies dangerously
wounded, and perhaps at the point of death.
She cries for her brother. He must come down
to us instantly, with the bearer of this. Send
one of your people with him if you like. But it
is not necessary. I enclose a blank cheque,
signed, which please fill at your discretion.

"I am, with thanks,

"Yours in deep distress,

"RICHARD HARDIE."

THE BUSINESS OF PLEASURE.

IF, as Froissart says, we English take our
pleasure sadly after our fashion, it is very
certain that we take it coolly. We will have it, be
it in what shape it may, though dressmakers die
in working against time for the preparation of
our court robes, and bakers' lives are sacrificed
to our partiality for hot rolls. But, when
we have got it we think very little of it, and
very much less of those who, some by great
natural gifts, combined with much labour,
industry and perseverance, minister to the
pleasure of which we make so light. Great
actors and singers are, by a certain portion of
society, classed with cooks, mountebanks, and
horse-jockeys. "That man who wrote the
book, you know," is the phrase by which Mr.
Tennyson or Dr. Darwin would be designated,
and world-renowned artists are "odd persons,
whom one does not meet about." With that
wretched imposition which occasionally in England
is known as society—that gathering of
vapidity to each component part of which the
laws which guide it prescribe a blank ignorance