him, and their children, so that theirs was universally considered the happiest domestic circle in the county.

Many were the speculations entered into by all the party, as to the appearance and height of Horace-what he would say--what he would think of their new garden-their pet rabbitstheir books-if he would still like riding, and would ride with them, and a thousand other trifles so interesting to loving hearts when they regard the beloved-and ever and anon the attentive ear was bent to catch some imaginary sound, each being eager to be the first to catch a glimpse of the traveller: but time wore away, and still he did not come they were about to relinquish, very reluctantly, the hope of seeing him that night, when carriage wheels were heard in the distance then the pawing of horses' feet-the crack of the whip-and now came the delighted exclamation, "Here he is!" One instant more and Horace was

folded in his mother's arms, and had forgotten, in his joy at seeing her, and hearing once more her fervent blessing, that there were other near and dear ones around him. But now his father shook his hand, and welcomed him home, and his sisters clung round him, on every side, like branches of woodbine round the oak, embracing him so warmly that he could not disengage himself. He, at length, playfully shook them from him, and going up to his mother, whispered a few words in her ear, then returned to the chaise, which had driven up to the door, and on rejoining the group, presented a young companion to Sir Lewis, saying

"You already know so much of Rochampton that I need scarcely introduce you to him."

"Indeed, you are right, my boy,' said his father, shaking Rochampton's hand very cordially; " you are welcome, sir, most wel

come!"

"You are indeed no stranger," added Lady Helen," and your kindness to Horace has made us almost regard you as another son,"

The young man took her offered hand, and raising it to his lips, assured her of his ardent wish to be ever so considered by her. It might be a mistake of Lady Helen's, but she certainly fancied that as he spoke his eyes were rivetted on Fanny, who with her arm within her brother's, was proceeding to the house.

William Rochampton, whose seniority to to Horace of a year gives him a prior claim to our attention, was the only son of a very rich but eccentric man, who indeed loved him, and with warmth; and who was proud of his character and talents, but had never sought to prove his attachment. He was a person who held the doctrine of passive obedience in all its rigour; of stern and severe manners, and holding every exhibition of warm feeling in supreme contempt. The death of a wife to whom he was tenderly attached, just at the

conclusion of the first year of their union, had probably caused much of his apparent bitterness, as well as left his son more exposed to the consequence of it. Be this as it may, one thing is certain: that he had kept up a formal distance and reserve with William, which had rendered them complete strangers to each other; so that the current of warm affections which the youth possessed had flowed altogether away from his own home, and Horace, his companion at school, was the person for whom he felt the deepest regard: his father claiming, and desiring, only his cold respect. Besides, neither William nor Horace had a brother, and they loved each other far better than brothers are often found to do.

Horace, well assured of his welcome, had invited him to remain at Rawdon Court during the short stay he proposed making in England, before he sailed to join his regiment in India, to which, after some scruples he agreed, and the kind manner in which he had been received

rendered him entirely happy, though it also excited painful comparisons in his mind.

In person he was remarkably tall-indeed almost gigantic—and though he could not be called strikingly handsome, he had the air and manner of a gentleman, and a countenance which assured you that any enterprise which hardihood might prompt him to undertake, he would have resolution to accomplish. He inspired you with confidence.

Horace was cast in a different mould: by no means tall, he was remarkably well-formed, and his frank, open countenance was a perpetual letter of recommendation; his hair and incipient moustache were jet black, if excited, his brilliant dark eyes seemed to flash fire, yet at other times possessed sufficient softness to commit much mischief among his fair friends, who after any ball in which he had been their partner, were certain to be haunted in their sleep by visions of les beaux yeux noirs of Horace Rawdon. His face reflected every feeling that