CHAPTER I.

HE sun had set upon the last evening of a cold and bleak December, and from the frosty sky, a few stars looked down upon the crowded streets of one of the largest towns in England; a motley scene, in which the actors, both gay and sorrowful, went whirling and winding onwards, altogether unconscious of other scrutiny than from the busy eyes of their fellows. It was still early, and the whole scrambling restless world of the great town was astir, pouring out its many-tongued din over the cheerful pavements,{10} bright with the light from its open shops and warehouses, and throwing its wide stream, in ceaseless and ever-spreading volumes, through street and lane and alley. Working men were hastening homewards, with baskets of tools slung over their stalwart shoulders, and empty pitchers dangling “at the cold finger’s end.” Dignified merchants, lean men of arts and letters, spruce commercial gentlemen, blended among each other like ripples in a river. Here there was an eddy, where the stream, branching out, swept off in

another direction; there a whirlpool, where the flood pouring in, from a world of converging ways, involved itself for a moment in mazy bewilderment, before it found its purposed channel once more: but everywhere there was the same full and incessant flow, bearing in its broad bosom the unfailing concomitants of loud-voiced mirth and secret misery, of anger and of peacefulness, poverty and wealth,{11} apathy and ambition, which marked its stream for human.

It is not with these many-voiced brilliant streets we have to do to-night, but with a household in one of them. A very quiet house you may see it is, though not a gloomy one, for light is shining from the yet uncurtained windows, pleasant thoughtful cheering fire-light, and the room has about it the indefinable comfort and brightness of home. It has at present but one occupant, and she—there is nothing about her appearance at all extraordinary—she is not very young—not less than thirty summers have past over those grave and thoughtful features, and given experience to the quiet intelligence of those clear eyes—nor beautiful, though those who knew it, loved to look upon her face, and thought there was there something higher than beauty. You would not think, to see her now, how blithe her nature was, and how unusual this sadness;{12} but she is sorrowful to-night. It may be, that in her cheerful out-goings and in-comings, she has not time to indulge in any sad recollections, but that they have overcome her, in such a quiet

evening hour as this. The shadows are gathering thicker and deeper, and the windows of neighbouring houses are all bright, but this room retains its twilight still. Its solitary tenant leans her head upon her hand, and gazes into the vacant air, as though she sought for some retiring figure and found it not. And why may she not be sad? She is a Christian thoughtful and pure-minded, and the last hours of another year are wearing themselves away, and is there no food for sadness here?

But there are voices that breathe no sorrow nor sadness coming in through the half-open door. There is one, a sweet indefinite tone, which speaks half of childhood, and half of graver years; there is boisterous rejoicing and{13} obstreperous boyishness in another, and there is a grave voice, as joyful, but deep and quiet; and, here they come, each one more mirthful than the other. There is a sprightly girl of some fifteen summers, a youth her proud superior by two undoubted twelvemonths, and an elder brother, whose maturer features bear a yet more striking resemblance to the silent sister, the eldest of them all, about whose ears a storm of fun and reproof comes rattling down.

“Christian had no time!” says the sage wisdom of seventeen; “yet here is grave Christian dreaming away her hours in the dim fire-light.”

“You were too busy, Christian, to go out with me,” remonstrates little Mary—for the endearing caressing epithet “little,” though often protested against, was still in use in the household—“and you are doing nothing now.{14}”

But Christian only smiles: strange it seems, that Christian should smile so sadly!

Now the youthful tongues are loosed. They have been on an important visit: to-morrow is to see that grave and blushing brother the master of another house, and that house has this night been subjected to the admiration and criticism of the younger members of the family, and all they have seen and wondered at must needs be told now for Christian’s information; but the elder sister listens with vacant inattentive ear, and irresponsive eye, until Robert grows indignant, and protests with boyish fervour, that “It’s a shame for her to be so grave and sad, and James going to be married to-morrow!” James, the bridegroom, does not however seem to think so, for he checks his youthful brother, and bends over Christian tenderly, and Christian’s eyes grow full, and tears hang on the long lashes. What can make Christian so sad? Let{15} us go with her to her chamber, and we shall see.

It is a quiet airy pleasant room, rich enough to please even an Oxford scholar of the olden time, for there are more than “twenty books clothed in black and red” within its restricted space. There is one windowed corner, at which, in the summer time, the setting sun streams in, and for this cause Christian has chosen it, as the depository of her treasures. There is a portrait hanging on the wall; a mild apostolic face, with rare benignity in its pensive smile, and genius stamped upon its pale and spiritual forehead: too pale, alas! and spiritual; for the first glance tells you, that the original can no longer be in the land of the living. A little table stands below it, covered with books—a few old volumes worthy to be laid beneath the word of truth—and there too lies a Bible. It has a name upon it, and a far-past date, and its pages tell of careful{16} perusal, and its margin is rich with written comments, and brief, yet clear, and forcible remarks. Below the name, a trembling hand has marked another date—you can see it is this day five years—and

a text, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they have entered into their rest, and their works do follow them.” The faltering hand was that of Christian Melville, and thus you have the story of her sadness. This place is the favourite sanctuary of that subdued and chastened spirit; a holy trysting-place, that has been filled often with a presence greater than that of earthly king or lord, and Christian is always happy here, even though—yea, verily, because—she does sit among these relics of a bygone time, of youthful hopes and expectations which long ago have come to an end and passed away for ever.

But Christian has other duties now. A heavier step has entered the dwelling, and she{17} goes calm and cheerful again, and hastens to take her seat at the merry table, where the father of the family now sits; their only parent, for they are motherless. Mr. Melville is a good man. There are none more regular, more exemplary, in the whole ranks of the town’s respectability; his pew has never been vacant in the memory of church-going men; his neighbours have not the shadow of an accusation to bring against him; his character is as upright as his bearing; his conscience as pure as his own linen. It has been whispered, that his heart has more affinity to stone than is befitting the heart of a living man; but Mr. Melville is a gentleman of the highest respectability, and doubtless that is a slander. He is of good means, he is just in all his relations, he is courteous, and if he be not pitiful withal, how can so small an omission detract from a character otherwise so unexceptionable? His wife has been dead for two or three years, and{18} he speaks of her, as

“his excellent deceased partner.” Christian says, her mother had the spirit of an angel, and her memory is yet adored by all the household; but Mr. Melville is a calm person, and does not like raptures. His family consists of five children. Christian—whose history we have already glanced at, summed up in her precious relics—is the eldest; then, there is the bridegroom, James, an excellent well-disposed young man, just about to form a connection after his father’s own heart; next in order comes the genius of the family, gay, talented, excitable, generous Halbert, over whose exuberance of heart his correct parent shakes his head ominously. This Halbert is a student, and absent from home at present, so we cannot present him to our readers just now. Robert is the next in order, a blithe careless youth, having beneath his boyish gaiety, however, a good deal of the worldly prudence and calculating foresight of{19} his father and eldest brother; and little Mary, the flower of all, finishes the list. Mary is the feminine and

softened counterpart of her genius-brother; there is light flashing and sparkling in her eyes that owns no kindred with the dull settled gleam of the paternal orbs. There is a generous fire and strength in her spirit which shoots far beyond the coolness and discretion of prudent calculating James, and in her school attainments she has already far surpassed Robert—much to the latter’s chagrin and annoyance at being beaten by a girl—and these two, Halbert and Mary, are Christian’s special care.

It is quite true, that her watchful attention hovers about her cold father in a thousand different ways. It is quite true, that there cannot be a more affectionate sister than Christian to her elder and younger brothers; but little anxiety mingles with her affection for, and care of, them. Their names are not forgotten in her{20} frequent prayers, and her voice is earnest and fervent, and her heart loving, when she craves for them the promised blessings and mercies of the Almighty; but her accents tremble in her supplications when those other names are on her lips, for visions of snares and pitfalls laid for their beloved feet have darkened her foreboding fancy with visions of shipwrecked faith and failing virtue, of ruined hopes and perverted talents, until the very agony of apprehensive love has invested its objects with a higher interest than even that of closest kindred. It is hers to watch over, to lead, to direct, to preserve the purity, to restrain the exuberance of these gifted spirits, and therefore is there a dignity in Christian’s

eye when she looks on these children of her affections, that beams not from its clear depths at any other time, and an unconscious solemnity in her pleasant voice when her kind and gentle counsel falls upon their ears, that strangers{21} wonder at—for Christian is young—to be so like a mother.

Such is the family of Mr. Melville, of the prosperous firm of Rutherford and Melville, merchants, in the great English town, to whom we beg to introduce our readers.

{22}

CHAPTER II.

T is New Year’s Eve. There is no twilight now in Mr. Melville’s cheery parlour, the light is glimmering in the polished furniture, leaping and dancing in the merry eyes that surround it, and even the grave features of the head of the house have relaxed into an unwonted smile. The young people have not forgotten the old Scottish celebration of “Hogmanay,” in all its observances, and Christian’s stores have been plundered, and James has fled blushing from their raillery,{23} pursued by the glad echo of their ringing laughter. How pleasantly it sounds! the passengers without on the cold pavement linger at the bright window, arrested by its spell; involuntary smiles steal over grave sober faces, as it rings out in its frank youthfulness challenging their sympathy, and younger passers-by echo it with interest in a chorus of their own, and send it on, louder and louder, through the cold brisk air. How merrily it sounds!

And Christian is smiling too, but her smile is like the first April sunbeam, whose fleeting brightness tells of tears at hand. Her thoughts are solemn; this evening is sacred to the dead, whose image floats before her pensive eyes, and whose cherished memory hangs about her inmost heart. She sees the worn and weary frame, so long since laid down in peace, to sleep and be at rest within the bosom of its mother earth. She holds communion with{24} the immortal nature so long since perfected. She is alone amid that mirth, surrounded by mournful remembrances; among them, but united to the dead.

But “James is to be married to-morrow!” and there are household preparations to make, and when these are finished the hour has come for their usual evening worship; a pleasant hour at all times to Christian Melville. Her father has chosen his Psalm appropriately this night, and the solemn and simple melody swells up, full and clear, through their quiet habitation.

How vivid is the realisation of Christian, as she sings the words of that solemn acknow{25}ledgment of God’s power and man’s dependence, and, in true heartfelt appreciation of the Lord’s providential loving-kindness on the closing night of the year, recognises and gives thanks for His great goodness. And there is a quivering aged voice blending with the sweet youthful accents in the song of gratitude; Christian knows right well that it comes from a heart, a very babe’s in godly simplicity, which, in the meek confidence of faith, is enabled and privileged to take the inspired words of the Psalmist for its own. It is old Ailie, her dead mother’s faithful and trusted servant, and her own humble friend and counsellor. The reading of the Word is past, the voice of supplication has ceased, and, gathering round the warm fireside, they wait the advent of the new year; happily and with cheerfulness wait for it,—for it, for the breath of praise and prayer has driven away the gloom from the calm horizon of Christia{26}n’s gentle spirit, like a cloud

before the freshening gale, and the young faces that know no sorrow are shining with the very sunlight of happiness. Robert’s eye is on the time-piece, watching its slow fingers as they creep along to midnight, and Mary has clasped Christian’s hand in her own, that none may be before her in her joyful greeting, and the father lingers in his seat half disposed to melt into momentary kindness, and half ashamed of the inclination. Twelve! Listen how it peals from a hundred noisy monitors, filling the quiet midnight air with clamour, and followed by a storm of gratulation and good wishes in this cheerful room, and out of doors from so many human tongues, and so often insincere. There is no feigned affection, however, in this little circle; hand clasps hand warmly, and voice responds to voice with genuine heartiness. Even Mr. Melville has foregone his frost, and hurries away that nobody may see him in his{27} molten state, and Christian calls in Ailie and her younger assistants to give and receive the “happy new year.” Christian is no niggard in her

annual dainties, and she has risen now with her eyes sparkling:

“A happy new year to Halbert!”

There is a glistening look about those cheerful eyes—for they are cheerful now—which shows that their brightness is all the brighter for a tear hovering under the long lashes; and cordially does every voice in the room echo her wish, “A happy new year to Halbert!” if he were only here to give it back!

But the blithe ceremonial is over, the embers are dying on the hearth, and the young eyelids are closed in sleep; why does Christian linger here? The room is dark, save when some expiring flame leaps up in dying energy before it passes away, yet there she bends in silent contemplation, as the dusky red grows darker and darker, and the ashes fall noiselessly{28} upon the hearth. Is she dreaming over the extinguished hopes which she has hid in mournful solitude within her steadfast heart? Is she comparing, in grief’s pathetic power of imagery, these decaying embers with the happy prospects, the abundant promise, which Death’s cold fingers have quenched? Ah! Christian has gone far back through the dim vistas of memory to a chamber of sorrow; a darkened room, where lies in its unconscious majesty the garment of mortality which a saint has laid aside. In imagination she weeps her tears all over again, but they are sweet and gentle now, for Time’s hand is kind, and there is healing in the touch of his rapid fingers; and now that bitterness worse than

death has passed away, and Christian rejoices even in the midst of her sadness, for the one she mourns derived his lineage from the highest blood on earth—the household of faith—and Death has carried him home.{29}

CHAPTER III.

HE morning of the new year is dawning as brightly as winter morning may, and Christian is up again among her household, preparing for the great event of the day. Mary and Robert are still employed in their personal adornments, and James, waiting for his graver sister, watches the door in terror for their entry; but Christian at last leads the bridegroom away, and bids the merry youthful couple follow, and James will not forget, for many a year of the new life on which he is{30} about to enter, the gentle sisterly counsel which he now receives: how unselfish, how generous she is! His future wife may be a sister in name, but she can never be so in spirit; Christian knows that well, but how sweetly she speaks of her, how warmly she encourages her brother’s affection, how gently she leads his thoughts to his new duties, and urges upon him, in admonitory yet tender kindness, their lasting obligation. His home will be a happy one, if he becomes what Christian wishes and presses him to be.

Mr. Melville fancies that there could not, by any chance, be a better arrangement than James’s marriage with Elizabeth Rutherford, the only daughter of his wealthy partner; so natural at once, and business-like, for James of course, will just step into the place vacated by his worthy seniors, when their time comes to depart from Exchange and counting-house:{31} a most excellent arrangement; Elizabeth is a pretty girl too, a little gay perhaps, but time will remedy and quiet that. Christian said some foolish thing about the Rutherfords being vain worldly people, but Christian always spoke foolishly on such subjects. There could not have been a better arrangement, and armed with this deliverance of paternal wisdom, James had been a successful wooer and suitor, and gay Elizabeth Rutherford will be Christian’s sister to-day.

We leave the wedding, with all its vows, and pomps, and ceremony, to the imagination of the gentle reader. It will suffice to say, that James was married, and that all went off as well and as merrily as is usually the case. But it is now the new year’s night and Christian is at home, and there, lying on her own table, at her own corner of the cheerful fireside, lies a prize; “a letter from Halbert!” Christian has thrown herself into{32} a chair, and is busy unfolding the precious document, and little Mary’s bright eyes are sparkling over her shoulder; but we must not describe Halbert’s epistle, we shall rather give it in extenso.

“My dear Christian,