hand; "you know you are like a son to us, Irvie."

"Really?" cried he.

She kissed him gently for answer. She was sitting in his wooden chair, more strong than comfortable. The boy threw himself down by her feet, and leaned against her. The air stealing through the open window seemed a caress. He closed his eyes,

and felt that the

that the tears might not fall, whole world was full of love and tenderness for him. Meanwhile his good aunt, with hand resting on his shoulder, wondered why he was not more like other boys. She was so glad that her own Teddie was not so fanciful. She thought of her poor dead brother, and sighed over his imprudent marriage. How lucky it was that she was left to be a mother to his only child! How like he was to his own mother, that nervous, excitable woman, who had died when he was born! Poor boy! Perhaps he was not so strong as he seemed. She would speak to his tutor's wife about a tonic, or some port wine. Sir Joseph had some excellent old port. Thus peacefully musing, aunt and nephew sat together in the untidy little room, until the worthy baronet burst in upon them, somewhat flurried and alarmed about the train. Irvine suf

fered at the station. He did not like being kissed before the porters, nor being tipped before the guard, who was respectfully interested in the operation. He said good-bye shyly to Miss Katharine, who was shy too; he heard his aunt Susan murmur something about a pretty picture, and was full of resentment. Finally, after alternate warnings and embraces of Lady Harefel, many shiftings of windows and rugs to suit the precise state of Mrs Adare's constitution, and some hindrance caused by Miss Susan's assistance, the party were packed into a carriage, and the train started. Irvine felt a load of responsibility lifted from his young shoulders, even while he secretly brushed away a tear. His cousin Ned, regardless of bystanders, was waving his handkerchief to Miss Katharine, whose hair of ruffled gold could still be seen at the window.

"Isn't she awfully pretty?" asked he, with warmth.

"Is she?" said Irvine, absently. He was thinking that if aunt Ellen was to be a mother to him, he might look on the bright, popular Harefel as a brother, and the thought was very pleasant. He did not extend the argument to his uncle, for he was sure that he could not regard him as a father. Yet he feared that it was very wrong not to be

fonder of Sir Joseph. He had been taught from the cradle that it was his duty to love his relations, but it seemed very hard to love anybody because he ought. This was one of the difficulties which often puzzled the young person.

"Come away," he said, impatiently; and Harefel walked down town beside him, recalling the events of the day with eagerness and laughter.

The summer half seems endless to young boys. The days grow longer, and are full of important events. Now and again one is distinguished by a great race or good match. On one delightful afternoon Harefel lay on his rug in the playing-fields, eating cherries, which he had purchased from a stout and kindly dame. Dale was kneeling beside him, to get a better look at the batsman, who was at their tutor's.

"Do you think he will get into the eleven?" he asked, not for the first time.

"Not this year. He is too young,” said Harefel, with authority.

"I hope he will."

"I don't think he cares much. He is a cool fellow." This was said with much admiration.

As Dale was kneeling, came a friend, stepping softly, and pushed him suddenly forward on to his

nose. The prostrate youth turned round fiercely, and then burst out laughing. It was very hard to be angry with Aubrey. Leonard Aubrey was a boy of excessive vitality. His features tended upward, his eyebrows ran up towards his hair, on the top of his head was a dancing feather of hair which defied the brush. Driven by a gadfly into perpetual motion, he was always in mischief when he had nothing better to do, and was always laughing when he was not talking. After a gallant attempt to drag away the rug, he was persuaded to take a place on it. He disposed of Kerisen's chance of the eleven, predicted that he would not get in for another two years, laughed at his indifference and mimicked his manner, stole Harefel's cherries, dropped a dry cherry-stone down Dale's neck, and having made the place too hot to hold him, went off to visit the next rug. He had friends all round the ground, friends who forgave much.

Even after tea-time, the day was not yet old. The grass was still warm at Cuckoo Weir, when the young cousins pulled off their clothes and jumped into the cool water. The bank was full of life, and the air of laughter. Boys, in rowingclothes, in black jackets, in every stage of undress, swarmed on the shore. Friends ducked each other,

and the somewhat sombre stream was beaten bright by splashing. Small, naked forms dashed across the green, or flung themselves headlong into the water. Little people sat thick upon the steps, with their knees drawn up to their chins. There was calling of names, shouts, screams, laughter. To be free of one's clothes after a slow summer day, is a pure ecstasy. It is to return to the childhood of the world. Dale was in the wildest spirits, and

Harefel very jolly.

When they had come out of the water, dried themselves by rubbing and running, and got into their clothes, they walked beside the little stream to the wider river. Far off the slanting sunlight gilded the dark trees which shade the locks, and more nearly touched the figure of a lonely bather at Athens. Boys, in every sort of boat, were passing down the stream; some toiling earnestly in practice for a race, some loitering and lolling at their ease. Young voices, shrilly warning or lightly mocking, made the evening air more pleasant. As the two friends turned back towards the Brocas, the great castle seemed doubly great in the declining day, its greyness warmed to rose, while the red roofs, which throng upward to its base, were already half in shadow. "How beautiful!" whis