LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 829, 19 February 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ONCE, AND A LIFETIME.

( Continued.)

'He is the first Barclay in whom a sense of honor is wanting,' Bert flared out wrathfully. ' Now you do him dire injustice,' the girl exclaimed angrily. ' Oswald does not think that he is in any way bound in honor. You see, you are not a man of the world, and therefore you are not competent to judge this matter. I alone am to blame. I should not have allowed myself to dream as I have done. "It is folly to remember and wisdom to forget," someone says; and what is to be borne I shall bear, no matter how hard the ordeal. I shall go through it bravely, you may be quite sure of that, Bert.' ' I have the fullest faith in you, Agnes,' he replied frankly. ' And, Bert, pray do not allow yourself to cherish any ill-feeling or prejudice against Mis 3 Gascoigne when she comes. I shall welcome her warmly as all Oswald's kindred should welcome Oswald's future wife.'

'I, for one of Oswald's kindred, shall not welcome her at all,' was his bold answer. ' It is not because I am one whit prejudiced. I am a philosopher, my fair Agnes, and philosophy allows of no prejudices. You are only a woman—though a very lovely and lovable one—and of course you cannot be expected to comprehend the calm dispassionate mode of judging that puts any bias of like or dislike entirely aside.' She laughed faintly. 'Philosophy or no philosophy, you must promise me one thing, Bert;' and she caught hold of his thin hot hands, and gazed imploringly up at his face. ' You must meet Miss Gascoigne kindly, and not chill her by your manner as you often chill people.' ' Somehow I dread this girl's visit,' he said gravely. ' I am not given to superstition, but an instinct tells me that harm will come of it.'

' No harm to me, if that is what you fear. I know how to hold my own,' Agnes remarked, with a bright flush. ' I have no fear that you will ever forget what is due to yourself, or that you will ever do or say what is not right, dear ;' and having made this assertion Bert grew silent —silent and reflective both. The fact is that it was one thing to make an assertion and quite another to fulfil it in spirit and in letter. Bert would have scorned himself if he had suspected for half a moment that there wa3 any need to be afraid for Agnes, on whom he looked as about the most perfect of created beings ; but his heart yearned over the pain he 3aw she was suffering, and hourly he grew more nervous and irritable as the time for his elder brother's return home approached. It came. Oswald arrived very late one night, and was seen by none of the family till the following morniug, when, descending to the breakfast-room, lie found Bert in solitary possession. There had never been an excess of fraternal affection between the two, and the greeting between them was characteristically cold, though Oswald's absence had extended over a twelvemonth.

' So you aro back at last,' Bert remarked frigidly. ' Yes; how are they all ? How is Agnes V ' Very well.' The answer was curt, but Oswald was used to it. Turning away, he glanced out of the window.

' It looks nice in the garden,' he remarked, after a moment or two. 'As no one is down, I think I will take a breath of fresh air.'

To hia surprise the younger brother volunteered to accompany him. ' You will not have time to go very far before the bell rings for breakfast, and with the aid of these I think I can manage to go with you;' and taking his crutches, he limped along, his frail slight figure forming a strange and painful contrast to the tall athletic form beside him.

The summer morning met them with a burst of freshness and fragrance; roses were climbing and clustering everywhere, while beyond them the smooth lawn, the park like grounds, and farther still, over beyond orchards and meadows, a curtain of eoft purple mist that marked the river, as it wound along the rich lowlands, the blue hills melting in the distance on either side of it. The elder Barclay paused and looked round in pleasure and admiration. Even a twelvemonth's absence had obliterated the beauty of his home, for his was a mind on which all impressions faded quickly and easily. 'Bert,' he cried, almost enthusiastically, ' I did not think Deerswood was so lovely. I believe no place in the country can equal it.'

{To be continued.)