room, with the falling-away windows, pause, look round, and think.

A whole rush of influence comes over you that intense longing to know some of the scenes gone through in that very room, acted by those whose portraits hang above you, that carved ceiling and those rotting panels looking calmly on the

while.

The oaks, too, about the old Hall have grown up, seeing generations live their day and pass away; and then they, too, in their turn, were felled. Two long rows of noble oaks, with very few exceptions, came crashing on to the fresh green grass. When was that? They tell us in the time of Queen Elizabeth, when the house was built, where a still older one had stood before it; and the oaks were cut down to pay the young heir's debts.

And this is all we know of that young heir; yet take this deed, and read the rest from our own lives, and we know all about the young heir. There are four venerable cedar-trees yet standing, and we are told that they once stood a goodly row of six, but two were cut down. When was that?

At the Restoration, when a young bride was brought home to the old Hall, two cedar-trees were cut down to clear the way to the wide view of the surrounding country. This is all we know of the young bride; for she and her children's children have passed away.

We wandered about the house silently, sadly, thoughtfully-my love and I; she, at last, paused before a large casement window, saying, "Oh, let us wait here and think of all the things that have happened in this strange little room with the great window! See, it looks down the avenue. I can fancy, in days long gone by, some bright young girl waiting and watching at this window for her lover to come riding down that avenue; and he came, by-and-by-he came gallantly, and the girl at the window waved her hand with a flush of love and joy as the young knight came riding his charger and dashing through the wind, which caught his short, full cloak and waved the long feather in his velvet cap; and the wind bent the avenue trees into arches above his head, and blew him on his way to his watching ladye-love. And he knew to which window he must look for the welcome he came for. And this little room was dearer to the bright young girl than any in the great hall; for it was from this room that she always saw the first approach of him she loved."

So spoke my love, and doubtless she was right; but, alas! connected with this very room hangs a dark tale a tale of murder. It was told to us then, as we stood on the very spot where probably the deed had been determined on.

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And as the tale was told to us, gradually the influence of the place crept over us, and we lost ourselves in it, and were carried back to the longdead days of Queen Bess in the good old times.

The Hall, then a splendid modern mansion, was in full glory. In at the massive gateways, the whole façade of the imposing pile of building told of merriment and gay festivity. Banners were flying, the sounds of music came from under the trees, and through the open windows sounded the merry laugh and the clashing of wine-cups. The long board in the great hall was gaily decked, flowers were strewn over the red-tiled floor, and evergreens were decorating the walls. At the festive board the gay company were drinking health and long life to the newly-married pairthe young, handsome Sir Guy Percival, and the beautiful Gwendoline, youngest daughter of Sir Geoffry Buckle.

Sir Geoffry, the widower, sat proud and glad at one end of the richly-decked board, with his jester and pages around him; at the other end of the board sat Hugh, the young heir of the Buckles.

Near to him, and opposite to the bridal pair, sat Elizabeth, proud and stately, the elder daughter of Sir Geoffry Buckle.

Beautiful golden-haired Gwendoline, too heavy for you must have been the weight of those flashing jewels, and too stiff for your rounded form that standing-out ruff, the long pointed waist, and the huge hooped petticoat. The bright hair was dragged from the childish face and rolled over cushions and bedecked with jewels; but even all this could not mar that exquisite beauty.

bride.

And he who was now her husband; in all England was none so brave, so handsome, so valiant as this stalwart young knight, who had ridden down from the border-land to claim his There was something about the young knight-whether it was his knightly bearing, his manly courage, the dark beauty of his face, his high health and splendid form, or the true knightly soul which showed in every action of his life; but it gained him the love of all womankind.

There were sounds of revelry from the courtyard, and the whole company rose, and, led by Sir Geoffry, approached the windows. Sir Guy handed the little bride from her seat to the open window; and there they two stood, the observed of every eye, to receive the acclamations of the men-at-arms in the court-yard.

Every eye beamed and rejoiced, as well it might, at the pretty sight; all eyes, save one pair, darkly beautiful, dangerously flashing, as they rested on the two at the window. Could it be displeasure? No-worse: it was jealousy. Jealousy eating away at the core of that young heart, and flashing with uncontrollable passion from those dark eyes; and Elizabeth, elder sister of the bride,

URRAH-hurrah! a holiday!" exclaimed Nat Sturdy, a bright-looking lad of about fourteen, bursting into the schoolroom of Dr. Sharpe's academy at Wearmouth; "we've got a holiday, and we're going to spend it at Bayside. It's Colman's birthday, and his father has sent two hampers full of good things to give us a treat."

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"hurrah for Colman senior!"

"But who told you ?"

"Why, Colman himself; and here he is."

The entrance of the hero of the day was greeted by another shout, followed by a still louder one when the doctor himself entered and announced that, at Mr. Colman's request, he had granted a holiday, it being the birthday of their schoolfellow Edward Colman.

A scramble to put away books and slates ensued, and bats, balls, and wickets were speedily collected, causing a scene of confusion for some minutes, during which we will pause to mention that Edward Colman was the only son of a gentleman of large landed property, who lived at a place called Querce Park, a few miles distant from Wearmouth. As he had been brought up at home amidst a train of domestics who did not fail to impress upon him that he was heir to vast property, he had imbibed an idea that he was a person of great consequence, and being a boy of some talent, had been flattered by a mercenary tutor, and spoiled by a doting mamma, till he had become so arrogant that he fancied his own judgment superior, not only to that of his companions, but even to that of his parents and elders. To endeavour to counteract this self-sufficiency, his father, who was a wise and sensible had placed him at Dr. Sharpe's academy, where his favourite companion was Nat Sturdy, the son of Lieutenant Sturdy, who had a short time since been appointed to the command of the Coastguard station at Bayside.

man,

Having been two voyages to India with his father, Nat's education had been somewhat neglected, to remedy which he was now attending Dr. Sharpe's establishment as a day pupil, previous to his joining the Worcester training-ship. Nat was a perfect contrast to Edward Colman. Accustomed to the strict discipline of a ship, he was modest and obedient, though many a wild frolic betrayed the joyous spirit of the young sailor.

"What are you about, Sturdy? You are surely not going to take that leather strap with you?" asked Edward.

"

"My father is my captain and parent too; he knows better than I do, and I mean to mind him here and everywhere."

Finding he could not argue Nat out of his seafaring notions, as he called them, Edward Colman walked on in silence. It was not the first time that he had been conquered, if not convinced of error of judgment, since he had been at school, but he was to receive a lesson that day which he would not be likely to forget.

The day was beautiful; the autumn tints were in full glow; the golden leaves of the beeches and the scarlet hue of the sycamores contrasted with the deep green of the Scotch firs, and the russet of the fading oaks and elms. The hips and haws were fully ripe, and in this secluded spot the blackberry-bushes were laden with their luscious berries, tempting the boys to a feast. However, they soon assembled on a large tract of greensward, smooth enough to serve for a cricket-field. After playing for a couple of hours, the doctor's servant, who had accompanied them, spread the contents of Mr. Colman's hampers on a grassy knoll which served for a dinner-table, and a substantial joint of beef, having, by Dr. Sharpe's orders, been added to the provisions sent by Mr. Colman, the boys dined heartily, and many a merry joke was passed, though Edward Colman, who was of a grave turn, did not always enjoy it.

The repast over, the boys dispersed, and in groups of two or three together sought whatever amusement best pleased them. Edward Colman and Nat Sturdy rambled towards the cliffs, and after chasing an Emperor of Morocco till they had lost sight both of the butterfly and of the rest of the boys, Edward said, "Let us go to the top of St. Leonard's Crag, and see the sun set behind the Castle Hill.”

Nat assenting, they were not long in climbing the rugged ascent, and having reached the summit of the lofty cliff, they stood gazing on the vast expanse of ocean which spread beyond the circling bay.

"Look, Nat," said Edward, "there is a fine steamer yonder-going to Australia, perhaps. How should you like to command such a one ?" "Glorious!" replied Nat, a fine glow overspreading "But do not go so near the

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'Back-back! I say," shouted Nat; but he was too late: a wild cry and a thundering sound, and the piece of rock upon which Edward had just placed his foot had given way, and he was precipitated into the abyss below.

Nat stood a moment in utter horror. Then his first thought was to descend to the sands, but an impulse seized him to look down, and ascertain the fate of his friend; so, creeping to a part a little farther to the left of where they had been standing, he lay down and looked over the edge of the cliff. He fully expected to see the mangled form of Edward on the sands below; but, to his surprise, he saw only the great fragment of rock shattered into several pieces by the fall. He fancied he heard a faint cry, and looking down, discerned a white face among the foliage of a stunted tree, which grew out of a fissure in the rock. Was it possible? Yes: Edward's fall had been arrested by the boughs of the tree.

Nat's first impulse was to run at full speed to the Coastguard station for help; but that was at some distance, and before help arrived, the unfortunate boy might be lost by the breaking away of the branches which sustained him.

A sudden idea struck him. He cast a keen glance around, and discerned a narrow zigzag path on the face of the cliff. Perilous, indeed, was the descent; but the active sailor-boy, by clinging to the plants which grew on the face of the rock, accomplished it, and placed himself firmly astride of a strong branch of the tree, to which Edward was suspended by a sharp twig having penetrated the shoulder of his jacket, and his arms clinging convulsively to the branches.

"Courage! it will be all right," said Nat, and taking his strong leather strap from his pocket, he passed it round Edward's waist and the trunk of the tree, which grew out almost horizontally from the rock.

Well was it that he did so, for the cloth of Edward's jacket was slowly giving way, but the strap being tough as well as long, and fastened by a large iron buckle, was sufficient to sustain his weight while Nat re-ascended the narrow path, and ran full speed to the Coastguard station to obtain help.

It arrived, after a time, which to Edward in his perilous position must have seemed endless, though it was not more than ten minutes at farthest. Nat's father and three sailors came, accompanied by a crowd of people who had heard of the accident.

One of the sailors, with a rope fastened round his waist, descended, as Nat had done, to the tree, and

firmly attaching a still longer rope to Edward's waist and shoulders, so as to form a sort of cradle, detached the leather strap, and Edward was hoisted safely to firm ground.

At the sight of his white face-for he was insensible-a thrill ran through the spectators; but when he was laid safely on the grass at some distance from the dreadful chasm, a loud cheer rent the air, and all turned to Nat, who had stood, pale almost as Edward himself, watching his ascent in breathless anxiety. When the young sailor who had fastened the rope had also re-ascended, Nat threw himself on the grass by the side of his still insensible friend, and chafed his cold hands with both his, then turning to his father, said, "Oh, father! is it all in vain ; will he die of it ?”

"No, my boy; we must carry him to the station, and put him to bed: with God's help, I trust we shall be able to revive him."

As they were preparing to do this, a man was seen riding furiously. It proved to be Edward's father, who had heard that his son had fallen over the cliff, but not that he was saved. No words can describe his emotion on finding that Edward had been rescued from such an awful death.

In a short time, a doctor having arrived at the station, Edward recovered his senses, and his father, after liberally rewarding the sailors, had him conveyed home. But how could he reward the father and the son, who had not only saved him from such imminent peril, but taught him a lesson that changed the character of his life? for he became as remarkable for his modesty and Christian humility, as he had formerly been for his self-sufficiency and arrogance.

"THE QUIVER" BIBLE CLASS. 290. Mention a tree that was named from the circumstance connected with it.

291. Name two Hebrew leaders whose strength did not abate with age.

292. In what book and verse have we the com bination of persons particularised who condemned our Lord?

293. What book of the Bible bears a name almost similar in meaning to that of Moses?

294. When was silver reckoned of little value? 295. Who, though not a king, is said to have acted in a kingly manner ?

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 639. 282. Nunc Dimittis (Luke ii. 29).

283. By revealing himself (Gen. xxxii. 29; Exod. iii. 6, 14; Job xlii. 5; Dan. x. 10—21; Luke v. 8; Acts ix. 4; Rev. i. 17).

284. The Amalekite, in hope of winning David's favour, declared falsely that he had slain Saul. Probably he had followed the camp to plunder the slain 2. Sam. i. 1-15).