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CHAPTER XIX.

BRANDON.

"Dear papa," said Cicely, "I must take this letter down to read to the Dennises, I can't go out riding with you to-day, I wish Alice would ride with you to see the Grays!"

"My dear Cicely," said her father, laying down as he spoke, "the Chase, the Turf, and the Road," by Nimrod. "That book upon my word ought to be in every gentleman's library ;" and he looked towards the window. "My dear Cicely, can't your mother take the letter down to read to the Dennises; it is very tiresome I cannot get you when I want you. You really work in the parish as if you were a curate."

"Dear papa, I think I ought to go to the Dennises, they must be in such great anxiety about John, and they would so like to hear Leonard's letter, indeed I must go," said Cicely, as she stood in her small straw garden bonnet behind a round table near the door.

"Oh well my dear, of course I can't interfere if you feel it to be your duty to go to these people, but really for my part it does seem to be unnecessary; I don't see why your mother could not do the work as well, and as she is not very well to-day, the walk would do her good, but however-" on which Mr. Loraine resumed Nimrod.

As Cicely closed the door Mr. Loraine said, without taking his eyes off the book, "Cicely, tell Dennis from me that I'll look in this afternoon to his cottage, I want

to speak to him about that new road the men are cutting down at the lodge, and also I should like to say a word to him about his son."

"I will, papa," said Cicely, as she closed the door and was gone. On her way Cicely passed three small cottages, whose narrow gardens ran down towards the road. Out of one of them Jessy Seymour was coming, she had been reading to widow Evans, who was one of her peculiar protegées.

"Well Jessy," said Cicely, pausing before the gate, "I was on my way to Dennis's to read Leonard's letter about John; it is such a sensible and admirable letter, I quite long to impart its cheerful contents to Mrs. Dennis."

Jessy did not know why, but there was not a single word in Cicely's sentence that she liked; they all seemed harsh and cold.

"What, have you heard from Leonard this morning?" said she, as her colour suddenly forsook her cheeks and lips, victim as she was of some ascertained malady, which she knew no more the cause of, than the flower does which droops its head beneath a poisoned atmosphere.

"Did he send any message to me, because he said—” and there was a slight pause, for I believe to this day that Jessy did not know how to finish that sentence.

"Oh yes," said Cicely, "I forgot, he bid us to give his most affectionate love to you, and to say that he was going to write to you that night, and the letter would come by the same post." "None has come this morning," said Jessie, as her eyes were fixed vacantly on the greensward by the side of the road on which they were

walking, "perhaps it will come by the afternoon post, the letters sometimes do that ought to have come in the morning."

"You will come on," said Cicely, "and hear the letter about John Dennis, it is so admirably written."

"I think not, Cicely. Papa wants me at home to go on reading Disraeli's life of Lord George Bentinck, I think I ought to return."

And Jessy turned to go.

It was not that Jessy was selfish in her feelings, or that she was not really interested in the feelings of the Dennises, but some how or other her mind was ever over-sensitive when letters from the Crimea were referred to.

Accordingly Cicely went on and left Jessy to go to the parsonage to read to Mr. Seymour the life of Lord George Bentinck, while she continued her walk toward the Dennises' cottage.

It was now dinner-time and Dennis had just returned from work; a fragment of cold meat and vegetables, the remains of Sunday, stood upon the table.

As Cicely opened the cottage door, Dennis, his wife, and Jane were seated round that well known cut and hacked old table in the middle of the room. As she entered they rose, and she began in her usual decided tone of voice-"Oh! Mrs. Dennis, I have come to read a letter from my brother, which gives a full account of your John."

"Thank you, miss," said Mrs. Dennis, "we were getting very anxious, we had not heard from John more than twice since he was taken prisoner."

Dennis laid down his knife and fork and prepared to receive Cicely's communication.

"Heard from our John," said Dennis, pausing and looking out of the window.

Cicely proceeded to read as follows the account of John's position outside Sebastopol, to which the family in the cottage listened with profound interest.

"My poor faithful servant has reached me, having escaped from Sebastopol, he has gone through intense sufferings for my sake in order to join me, but I earnestly hope he is now recovering by degrees from the wounds he got by his escape. His patience and perfect quietness are wonderful, and I really believe that it is the result of firm religious principle. He is very badly wounded from the glass which the Russians had thrown down outside their town in order to intercept the escape of any prisoners from the fortress. His conduct throughout all he suffers is the admiration of the regiment. He is continually anxious as to what the news may be that may reach his own home in England. Tell them I have little doubt that he will return to his native land. It is most striking to see the way in which the habits of early education have their hold upon his conduct, and influence him through his hours of trouble. I regret to say he has been compelled to leave behind him in his attempted escape many of those who are connected with our village, and whose names you will know, and who, I fear, now will no more be seen by their friends at home; amongst others is Sally's husband, poor fellow, he seemed little fit to meet his awful end. Tell my dear mother that it is my great delight when

sitting by John's sick bed to read some of those stories she gave me to carry out; or to tell those tales from memory which are so mixed up with the recollections of my own childhood and with her voice, I see they have a great effect upon him; who can say what the power of association is in connection with the acts of our childhood, and how much of our after-life is affected by those memories! I hear John constantly referring to the good example of home and the influence of school. Tell Cicely she cannot do better than to go on with those good schemes of which I know she is so fond, in visiting the sick, and teaching the children in dear old Brandon."

"Ah! Master Leonard was ever a gentleman," said Dennis, who had been gazing through the window during the recital of Leonard's letter; "he always was a gentleman; handsome is as handsome does;' and I know there is no one for whom our John would sooner sell his life than for Master Leonard.""

CHAPTER XX.

LEONARD.

THERE are moments in our life in which we are the victims of feelings over which we have no control. They are brief and transitory, uncertain and unaccountable as the source from which they spring; contradictory to the general flow of character, like those ripples which a