the Sabbath-day, when I accompanied her to church, and spent the whole day with her and her only son—a cross, peevish boy, some four years older than myself—but of him anon. During the winter, she always sent for me into the parlour, during the dark hour between dinner and tea, when I recited to her the lessons I had learned with my cousin's tutor during the day. My uncle was always absent at that hour, and these were precious moments to the young heart, which knew no companionship, and pined for affection and sympathy.

My worthy aunt! it is with heartfelt gratitude I pay this slight tribute to your memory. But for your gentle love and kind teachings, I might have become as cold and tyrannical as your harsh lord—as selfish and unfeeling as your unnatural son.

How I delighted to sit by your side, in the warm, red light of a cheerful fire, in that large, dusky room, and hold your small white hand in mine, while I recounted to you all the beautiful and shadowy reminiscences of my happy infancy—to watch the pensive smile steal over your lips, as I described the garden in which I played, the dear little white bed in which I slept, and where my own dear mother nightly knelt beside me, to hear me repeat my simple prayers and hymns, before she kissed and blessed me, and left me to the protecting care of the great Father in Heaven.

"Ah!" I exclaimed one evening, while sitting at my aunt's feet, "why did she die and leave me for ever? I am nobody's child. Other little boys have kind mothers to love them, but I am alone in the world. Aunt, let me be your boy—your own dear little boy, and I will love you almost as well as I did my poor mamma!"

The good woman caught me to her heart, tears were streaming down her kind, benevolent face, she kissed me passionately, as she sobbed out,

"Geoffrey, you will never know how much I love you—more, my poor boy, than I dare own. But rest assured that you shall never want a mother's love while I live."

Well and conscientiously did she perform her promise. She has long been dead, but time will never efface from my mind a tender recollection of her kindness. Since I arrived at man's estate, I have knelt beside her grave, and moistened the turf which enfolds that warm, noble heart with grateful tears.

She had, as I before stated, one son—the first-born and only survivor of a large family. This boy was a great source of anxiety to his mother; a sullen, unmanageable, ill-tempered child. Cruel and cowardly, he united with the cold, selfish disposition of the father, a jealous, proud and vindictive spirit peculiarly his own. It was impossible to keep on friendly terms with Theophilus Moncton: he was always taking affronts, and ever on the alert to dispute and contradict every word or opinion advanced by another. He would take offence at every look and gesture, which he fancied derogatory to his dignity; and if you refused to speak to him, he considered that you did not pay him proper respect—that you slighted and insulted him.

He was afraid of his father, for whom he entertained little esteem or affection; and to his gentle mother he was always surly and disobedient; ridiculing her maternal admonitions, and thwarting and opposing her commands, because he knew that his opposition pained and annoyed her.

Me—he hated; and not only told me so to my face, both in public and private, but encouraged the servants to treat me with insolence and neglect. This class of individuals are seldom actuated by high and generous motives; and anxious to court the favour of their wealthy master's heir, they soon found that the best way to worm themselves into his good graces, was to treat me with disrespect. The taunts and blows of my tyrannical cousin, though hard to bear, never wounded me so keenly as the sneers and whispered remarks of these worldly, low-bred domestics. Their conduct clenched the iron of dependence into my very soul.

It was vain for my aunt to remonstrate with her son on his ungenerous conduct: her authority with him was a mere cipher, he had his father upon his side, and for my aunt's sake, I forebore to complain.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TUTOR.

My uncle did not send us to school, but engaged a young man of humble birth, but good classical attainments, to act in the capacity of tutor to his son, and as an act of especial favour, which fact was duly impressed upon me from day to day, I was allowed the benefit of his instructions.

Mr. Jones, though a good practical teacher, was a weak, mean creature, possessing the very soul of a sneak. He soon discovered that the best way to please his elder pupil was to neglect and treat me ill. He had been engaged on a very moderate salary to teach one lad, and he was greatly annoyed when Mr. Moncton introduced me into his presence, coldly remarking, "that I was an orphan son of his brother—a lad thrown upon his charity, and it would add very little to Mr. Jones's labours to associate me with Theophilus in his studies."

Mr. Jones was poor and friendless, and had to make his own way in the world. He dared not resent the imposition, for fear of losing his situation, and while outwardly he cheerfully acquiesced in Mr. Moncton's proposition, he conceived a violent prejudice against me, as being the cause of it.

He was spiteful, irritable, narrow-minded man; and I soon found that any attempt to win his regard, or conciliate him, was futile: he had made up his mind to dislike me, and he did so with a hearty good will which no attention or assiduity on my part could overcome.

Theophilus, who, like his father, professed a great insight into character, read that of his instructor at a glance; and despised him accordingly. But Theophilus was vain and fond of admiration, and could not exist without satellites to move around him, and render him their homage as to a superior luminary. He was a magnificent paymaster to his sneaks; and bound them to him with the strongest of all ties—his purse-strings.

Mr. Moncton, allowed this lad a handsome sum monthly for his own private expenses; and fond as he was of money, he never inquired of the haughty arrogant boy, the manner in which he disposed of his pocket-money. He might save or spend it as inclination prompted—he considered it a necessary outlay to give his son weight and influence with others; and never troubled himself about it again.

Theophilus soon won over Mr. Jones to his interest, by a few judicious presents; while he fostered his dislike to me, by informing him of circumstances regarding my birth and family, with which I never became acquainted until some years afterwards. At this distance of time, I can almost forgive Mr. Jones, for the indifference and contempt he felt for his junior pupil.

Influenced by these feelings, he taught me as little as he could; but I had a thirst for knowledge, and he could not hinder me from listening and profiting by his instructions to my cousin. Fortunately for me, Theophilus did not possess either a brilliant or inquiring mind. Learning was very distasteful to him; and Mr. Jones had to repeat his instructions so often, that it enabled me to learn them by heart. Mr. Jones flattered and coaxed his indolent pupil; but could not induce him to take any interest in his studies, so that I soon shot far ahead of him, greatly to the annoyance of both master and pupil; the former doing his best to throw every impediment in my way.

I resented the injustice of this conduct with much warmth, and told him, "that I would learn in spite of him; I had mastered the first rudiments of Latin and Mathematics, and I could now teach myself all I wanted to know."

This boast was rather premature. I found the task of self-instruction less easy than I anticipated. I was in Mr. Jones's power—and he meanly withheld from me the books necessary to my further advancement. I now found myself at a stand-still. I threatened Mr. Jones that I would complain to my uncle of his unjustifiable conduct. The idea seemed