LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2271, 13 July 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

ECHOES OF THE PAST. J By Dosalji Cambron. WATTLE FARM. AN IDYU, OF LAVCT.FIELD, (Continued.) ' You must know, Mrs Cilder,' said Mrs Xoach, ' that when Lament died the farm wont to ruin. He had settled his eldest son at Shepparton, and his daughter was married to a substantial man at Tullamarlne. Only the youngest B' n, lick, remained at home.' • Ay,'said Mra Gaidar; 'I remember —a grw.len haired laddie, at brisk at a bee. and ver<- clover.' •Well.* rcsnmrd Mrs Leach, ' Alick dm not like farming, and gavo his mother little help, and. pool womas, sho was able to do litt e, ard knew less. So things went from bad to wo;-3e, and Alick fell into bad company, and became a scapegrace, breaking hii old mother's heart. At last he wa3 tsken up for horae stealing, and though he waa acquitted he was too proud to stav hero, and left the district. Since then his mother's affairs have become more critical, and Bho had to borrow money from Sandy on the farm To-morrow he forecloses, and the poor old woman will have to leave her home." « She shall come out with me,' said Mrs Calder energetically, ' an' live at the Mount for the remainder of her days. Poor .Agnes !' 4 You d*n't know Mrs Lamont,' was Mrs Leach's reply. 'She is of Highland blood, and would die sooner than accept charity, evan if given in the moat delicate form ' ' An' what is she going to do V queried a listener. ' She'd goinp to Melbourne,' said Mrs Leanh, 'to tnke a little cottage, and live by washing, or anything she can get. Her son's sweetheart. Flora, goes with her—another Ruth.' All the women held up their hands in astonishment. ' But sorely,' said Mis Calder, 'her son or her daughter will take her.' «Not they,' replied Mrs Leach ; ' they quarrelled with her over Alick, on the ground that, in humouring him,_ she was defrauding them of the farm, which should go to them at her death, if kept without encumbrance. She would die sooner than ask her ungrateful children for charity." 'And Alick?' queried Mrs Calder; ' he has turnei out a bad one.' 'A bad man he never could become,? aaid Mra Leach, ' but light and thoughtless, ha ever was, and I suppose he is a poor wanderer in Queensland, and unable to help hia mother, even if he were aware of her circumstances. There is ono who will, no doubt, wait in vain for him—Flora Gray—to whom he wa3 to be married." 'Mercy on us!' exclaimed a farmer's wife ; ' whose is that grand carriage and pair ? We haven't seen the like in Lancefield for come time.' « That must belong to the strange gentleman who came to Mack's Hotel this morning,' replied another gossip. 'He hasn't moved out till now, and he sent for the lawyer.' All the ladies crowded to the window to have a look at the new comer, who was driving a spirited pair of bays, a servant by hia side. The stringer waa a tall, massively made but graceful man, of about thirty years of age., with sunny hair and a full, brownish beard. Hia face was tanned with exposure to the sun of warm climes. A fine face it was, regular in features, good humored, and and piquant in expression. In fact, he was a man to whom anyone's heart would warm. The ladies followed him with their eyes until he was out of sight ' A splendid looking man, is he not V said Mra Leach. 'He reminds me of someone,' said Mrs Calder, wiping her glasses, ' but I canna see very plainly now. But I think I can tell you something about Mrs Lamont you don't know. I livad next to her before she was married.' ' Indeed,' exclaimed all in a breath. 'She had two sweethearts,' said Mrs Calder. ' One was Angus Lamont, the other, Sandy Mcßean. They were as unlike as could be ; Angus, strong and handsome, Sandy, even then, lean, withered and misorly. Of course, Agnes must take to the handsome young Angus, and refuse Sandy, that was natural. But Sandy went nearly mad over it, and he bore hatred and malice to the poor girl and her husband and did all his best to annoy them. Many a cruel deed he has done; many a poor creature he caat forth from house and homo for love of gold and gain; and, in turning oat Agnes in her old age. he only carries out the promptings of his black, revengeful heart. After many years he has hii revenge. That is why he has been so hard to her." ' What a villain !' chorussed the ladles.

' I !-elicve you are right, Mrs Calder,' said the minister'* wife ; ' Sandy Mcßean lives a lone, misanthropical life, and shuts himself out from human influence and sympathy, otherwise he would not be the callous, revengeful creature he 13. The man's end wiil be fearful if he does not repent. Poor Mrs Lamont!'

Agn a Lamont still Bat in front of the house, gazing with tear-dimmed eyes upon the lovely panorama that had been her delight for long l years—a panorama associated with all that was sweet and bitter in her life, every feature of which recalled the incidents of the past, every portion of which was consecrated to some memory. The sun Bank behind Mount Macedon, the deep golden rays gradually f <ded even from th<i summit of Mount William, lingering like a parent's fiugers upon its dusky head. The mystic light of twilight fell upon the world, interfered with by a faint, silver aureole, that grew and strengthed in the east, forerunniog the rising of the moan. sweet, is the twilight hour; sad, sad, but sweetly sad, its thoughts. 'Tis a moment snatched from Dreamland; 'tis the myotic boundary-land that lies between the garish, scorching light of day and the phantasmal radlanco of the Queen of Night, And in its dim, mysterious light, listening to the drowsy hum that ever accompanies the soothing hour, Mrs Lamont sat and dreamed uniil the tears welled from her eye?, and Bhe sobbed like a ohild.

She was awakened from her reverie by the whirr of wheels, and, looking up, saw a carriage and pair stop at the broken-down gate, and a tall man Btep out. Mrs Lamont rose to receive the visitor, wonderlag who could come to see her now, and what possible fresh misfortune he had to tell ; for she had got into the habit, formed by sad experience, of ever expecting the worst.

'Good evening, madam,'said the stranger, in a deep, musical voice, which seemed broken by scm9 strange emotion. ' Gcod evening, sir,' replied Mrs Lamont. ' Do you want to see me ?' ' For a fow minutes,' was the answer, in the aiiTiO etrarjge and somewhat affected voico. ' I bring good news." ' You are the first [that has entered this house with goad news,' replied the poor o'd kdy, tremulously, ' for many a long day.' She went into the house, which was now in darkness, followed by the stranger. ' Yeu'll excuse me until I have lit the lamp ?' she said. 'Have you no tervants?' inquired the stranger. ' No, sir,' said Mrs Lamont, almost with a st.b. ' I once had,' she added, 'but that is paat now; to-morrow I leave this house. Sometimes poor Flora Gray comes over at night and helps me a little. Poor lass ! She has to work hard enough She is a servant at rcy neighbours, ard was to have been—' Bore she stopped suddenly, and tears blinded her no that she could hardly light the lamp. She turned it up only a little way, so as not to heat the globe too quickly, acd, therefore, the room was almost in «ha J ow. ' I told you I. brought good news,' said the stranger, ' and 1 know a little about your affairs. Your son Alick told me of them, and he mentioned Flora—he was to have married her—' 'My con!' cried Mrs Lamont, tottering to the stranger, and seizing his arm. ' My Alick, my boy, my loved child! Is he •well, is ha olive, does he remember his mother ?' ' He is well," was the reply, in a voice almost inarticulate with emotion, ' and remembers flnd loves his dear mother. But ho told me Flora's people were well to-do. How is it sho is a servant '•' ' Things went wrong with them,'' replied the old lady; ' the fathar died, the family

scattered, and Flora alone remains in this distriot. She would not leave me ; she was a Ruth to me In the days of darkness and distrreas ; she leaves her place and goes with ino to Melbourne, whero wo will try to make a living. But my son 1 my son ! where is my eon ?' Throughout this short speech the stranger's breiat had been heaving with emotion, and his breath came in short gaaps. At the close ho throw open his arms, and cla3ped the old lady in them 'He 13 here, dourest mother \' he criotl, kissing the venerable face in his love and rapture. She fainted away from sheer joy in his arms.

(To le Continued.)