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WASSAIL: A CHRISTMAS STORY.

CONCLUSION.-CHAPTER VIII.

AND where was Lily? ah! where was Lily The salts of the earth, the great priestesses of propriety, would have blushed to see her-the Martineaus would have pitied, perhaps lectured on her. "Fie, fie! Lily!" There she sat in the summer-house with her head resting on the prodigal Tom's shoulder, her light locks tangling with his bushy whiskers, and her eyes looking up at him. "Shame on you, Lily!" Strange to say, Lily, in her innocence and simplicity, did not feel her own depravity. Shamed! why should she feel shamed? shamed at laying her head on dear old Tom's shoulder-old Tom, whom she had loved as a child, loved as a girl, loved as a woman; whom she had loved naturally without going through any spasmodic sensations, or experiencing any sudden sympathetic influences. Instead of being ashamed, she seemed to be well pleased with her position, and was making a little purring noise expressive of extreme satisfaction. "So he's come back-the dear, dear old Tom, and how we've been longing to see his dear face again. We did hope for a letter, and I thought one had come when James beckoned me out; but to think of its being dear old Tom himself! What a shame of you, though, to steal upon us in disguise, just like the knights when they came back to their castles from the wars dressed like palmers or minstrels."

"My disguise was more of the gaberlunzie stamp, I think, and more fitting a rough old sheepfeeder. However, I didn't repent my little bit of masquerading, for didn't it give me an opportunity of sitting quietly looking at the dear group of looking at my Lily grown lovelier than ever-at the dear old father beaming with heartiness as usual, amid the joints and the

cans-and at the dear mother too, placid and sweet as of old. I thought, though, that she looked a little pensive."

"Yes, Tom, she has pined a good deal at your absence, and the father too has fretted a good deal; your return will be joy to his heart spite of all that's past-I know he prays nightly that he may live to see it; but you know he will expect you to appear in the character of a prodigal, very famine-stricken and very penitent.'

"What an impostor I should be in the character of a prodigal!" said Tom, laughing and looking down over his broad frame and lusty limbs. "Do I look like a prodigal?"

Lily thought not. As she looked in his face she saw no sign there of riotous living-of feeding with swine-no sign of the remorse begotten of sin and famine; she saw nothing but manliness and honesty in that broad open brow and the deep blue eyes-nothing save the will of endeavour in the firm lip and strong chin. No; she felt instinctively as she looked, that he had come back heart-sound-the same good, strong, gentle, honest Tom as ever.

"No, Lily, I shall never pass for a prodigal, or a famine-stricken one at any rate. Why, I'm strong as a young lion, and have health enough to stock a whole college of physicians with. There's an arm, a pretty thing that to put around a girl's waist."

Lily did not altogether seem to perceive the incongruity of such a proceeding.

"But there were other reasons, Lily, why I wished to see you and make inquiries before I appeared in character-they related to poor Emily."

"Why, you don't mean, Tom, that

you have seen or found out anything about her! Oh! do, do tell me."

"Softly, softly, my little fairy; I have grown a methodical old fellow, and must go on regularly with my story, and let one part lead to another. I must tell somewhat first of my own doings, my Lily."

"Yes, yes, tell me all-all your adventures - all your story from beginning to end."

"Well, there is not much adventure in it; but I must tell just as much as will explain what follows."

Lily nestled herself on his shoulder, half listening, half wrapt in the sense of enjoying his pre

sence.

"You will recollect, from my letters," commenced Tom, fumbling with his pipe, and then, as he looked at his delicate Lily, hastily putting it back into his pocket, "how, soon after my arrival at Sydney, I met with the owner of one of the largest sheep-farms in the country, and how he offered me to become a sort of partner, paying in a small capital and making up the rest by labour. This suited me well, as I wished to reserve my money until I could see my way to a good investment, and I wished, too, to get a large experience in my future work. The farm was a long way off, far away in the bush-far away from all civilisation -a very lonesome place. My partner, or rather master, stuck most rigorously to his bargain; he was a severe task-master, and exacted his pound of flesh to the ounce. I now began to know what work was. thought that I had worked hard at Tregarrow, but that was nothing. I could take off my coat and put it on as I liked, go in for a spell of work as an excitement, and then there was behind all the plentiful larder and the cheerful hearth. Now I found out what it was to toil toil incessantly, body and mind, with little respite, little rest, and with very poor and irregular food. However, it seemed to agree with me; it kept me in fine health

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and out of all harm-made me think and act for myself. The nature of the work, too, seemed to draw out my powers and give me more selfreliance. The difficulties and hardships, too, which I underwent, made me ashamed of the trifles and molehills at which I used to grumble and stumble. 'Twas a good life to make a man, still 'twas a hard life; and I don't know what I should I have done without the few books you lent me. They were a great solace in the lone nights sometimes spent in the bush, sometimes in a shepherd's hut, or in the lone room at home-my only solace except the pipe. No! you need not look up,

I had no other. I am almost a water-drinker now, and shall be a most degenerate inheritor of the tankard."

"Then you shall change with the uncle, and have the snuff-box, Tom," said Lily.

"It will be as useful to me as the other. The abstinence from all spirits, however, was a blessing to me. It was a lesson from the old partner, and the best he ever gave.

Young fellow, whilst you have strength,' he said, 'never yield to stimulants. I did so, and see what I have come to,-used up, worn out before my time. I am a warning for you.' And a terrible one he was. He had taken fearfully to drink of late, and at the end of the twelve months his mind and strength were so impaired that he was not equal to any business, even of the most trifling kind. So, after a good deal of hesitation, he resolved to retire, and offered me the property and stock. The offer was a fair one, and as I now felt myself equal to the position, I accepted it. I was now my own master-a large proprietor. My labours, however, were not decreased-head-work, anxiety, responsibility, were all doubled. I was in a position which taxed me to the utmost. Things, however, went well with me; my walks were soon enlarged-my flocks multiplied, and my shepherds were like a little regiment. I was fast grow

me.

ing rich. About this time your letters began to tell of the old man's beginning to pine and fret about me, and of his longings for my return. This thought haunted Ever I saw before me the dear old man drooping and dispirited. The memory of the old hearth and all around it grew stronger and stronger, until I could think of nought besides. Now, too, a great dread seized upon me. I began to feel that the love of gain was growing within me, and I feared lest the curse of gold should eat into my heart. You know how I always shuddered at such a fate, and how we used to talk over the misery, and how the old father used to say that a cold heart and grasping hand were the greatest curses which could befall a man. So I resolved to tear it up ere it gained too firm a foothold and had become my master. I felt that I had done enough to prove myself-enough to show myself capable of achieving a purpose -capable of independent action. Time enough, too, had elapsed for the little estrangement betwixt me and the dear old father to pass away, and for the old love to return. I had grown wiser, too, and knew that I could make a happier future for him. So, after thinking it over for a night or two, my mind was made up-I would return home. Next day I started for the house of a proprietor at some distance, whose brother I knew was looking out eagerly for an investment. The bargain was soon struck. 'Twas an easy one on my side. On my return I was overtaken by one of the terrific storms so common in that country. The rain blinded me, the gusts of wind drove my horse al most off his legs, and the thunder and lightning made him shake in every limb; so I was obliged to get off and lead him. We soon lost our way, and stumbled about until the bush grew thicker and thicker, and there seemed no path or way out whatever. At last, however, I hit suddenly on a sort of clearing, and there, in the middle of it,

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stood a better sort of shepherd's hut, though 'twas a poor place, after all. After I had knocked several times, a wretched creature, ragged, dishevelled, and begrimed with dirt, came to the door. 'Och, what are ye awanting on?' he said, gruffly.- Wanting?' I answered, pointing to the sky; 'why, shelter for myself and horse.' Shelter, is it? then ye'll find it in the shed yonder; and ye'd better stay with yer horse, he'll be better company than them's inside; there's worse nor the thunder and lightning here.' Notwithstanding this warning, I returned, and, after making a half-forcible entry, found myself inside. 'Twas certainly a miserable place, squalid with dirt and meanness. The only furniture was a few rickety chairs and a coarse deal table; some sheepskins lay about in corners, and a few sticks were burning on the hearth, over which a tin pot was simmering. Over the chimney were some firearms and powder-horns, but they looked rusty and neglected. 'Well, now ye're in, ye may sit down, if ye plaze; but ye'll be repinting afore long, and wishing yerself outside the dour agin. Och, there, I tould ye so.' At that moment a fearful yell came from the inner room, followed by most horrible curses and blasphemy. 'Good God!' I said, "what's that?'Och, sure,' said the shepherd, unconcernedly, it's only the master; it's jist the time for his divils to come.'-'Devils!' I said.'Oh yis, the divils; he's mighty dilerus the day, and thinks when he wakes that there's a pack of divils come to tormint and car him off.'-' But surely,' I said,

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dhrink.' So I followed into a room if possible more wretched than the other; and there, in the corner, on a rude pallet, with a dirty rug as his only covering, lay a man howling now, and gesticulating with all his might. He was a fearful, a piteous sight. His long bare arms, lying outside the rug, were worn down to bone and muscle; his long hair was matted and tangled, and hung down over his face. He was evidently young, but riot and disease had told fearfully on him. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his cheeks hollow, and his features altogether most ghastly. As the shepherd entered, he turned and yelled at him. 'Well, devil's stoker, have you been heating the pincers, eh? I'm sure the devil employs you to torment me.'-' Och, be asy, master, dear,' said the shepherd, soothingly; here's a jontleman come to see ye.'-'A gentleman!-oh, that's another of them'-and here he turned and glared fiercely at me for a few minutes, then yelled out louder than ever-' Oh, it's Tom Penrice, is it?-so you are turned devil's bailiff, are you, Tom - Good God!' I said, as a sudden recognition burst on me ; it can't be Harry Rankin ?'. 'Yes, it is Harry Rankin,' he yelled again, with an oath; and why shouldn't it be how did you expect to find him?-not well and happy, I suppose?-the devils wouldn't stand that: but you shan't take me yet, Tom: stand off-my time isn't come yet; I've something to say and do before I go. They send all kinds of messengers for me, though. Who do you think they sent last? Why, the babyEmily's baby, you know-the one that died; but it had a ring of gold light round its head-I don't think it could have come from the devil-do you? Then there's the vicar-he comes oftenest. Curse him-curse him, I say; but for his cursed pride and prudery I shouldn't have come to this: he spurned me -he scorned me, didn't he?-he

spurned me from his door-made me feel a coward!-but I've had my revenge. I laid a slow burning fire in his heart; but 'tis hotter here, Tom'-striking his breast 'hotter here !'-and then he went off into incoherent curses and howlings until he fell exhausted on the pallet.

"Now thin,' said the Irish shepherd, 'ye'll get no sinse from him for one while; so if ye're his frind, ye'd better be fetching the docther or spaking to the praist.'

"Having ascertained really where I was, I recollected that some miles distant lived a young fellow who had come out to the country as a medical practitioner, and, finding that unprofitable, had taken to farming; and as the storm had abated, I determined to set out for him.

When we en

"He readily consented to return with me, but 'twas night ere we arrived, and the stars were shining down brightly on the hut and all its wretchedness. tered, Harry was lying quite quiet the eyes were even more sunken now; there was a deadly pallor on his face, and drops of cold sweat stood on his brow. The doctor said he was in a state of collapse, and that though he might rally from this, and be rational for a while, that there was no ultimate hope for him, and that his days-nay, his hours-were numbered. He then proceeded to bathe his brow and administer some brandy from a bottle which stood on the table. After a time he revived a little, opened his eyes and looked round on me with a wild and bewildered gaze. When I spoke to him, however, and placed my hand on him, he seemed to gather up his senses.

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Ah, is it really you, Tom?' he said, in a hollow feeble voice; 'I thought 'twas a dream. Surely a Providence sent you, Tom. Oh, Tom, I wished so much to do justice to poor Emily before I died, and you have come in time to hear all. This takes a terrible load from my heart, for you will right her, I

know you will. Poor, poor Emily, how I have wronged her!—what a ruffian-what a liar have I been to her, Tom! And yet one time it might have been so different. I often think though, that if the vicar had not scorned me so, all would have been well. I should have grown a different man under Emily's influence, and we might have been happy after all. From the time he spurned me, I thought of nothing except revenge: my hatred towards him was stronger than my love to Emily. 'Twas long, however, before I could get her consent to elope, and 'twas only when I promised faithfully that the instant we were married we would come back and ask pardon. So she went and we were married-really married. Then I persuaded her to write before we went back-but I intercepted the letter. She wrote again, and again, and these letters were also stopped; so, of course, no answer came. Mortified by the coldness and silence of her father, and sick with despair, she consented at last to go to Australia and begin a new life, under new auspices. Well, after we came here, things went better, and I stuck to my work and my home. Soon, however, I fell in with the old set, and into the old ways. Emily tried hard to wean me, but 'twas no use; I grew worse and worse. Then our first child died, and that startled me back from my courses. 'Twas only for a while, however. So things went on until two years had passed, and another child was born to us; but nothing had effect on me; drink, drink-gamble, gamble -was all I thought of. Emily now began to lose patience, and would taunt me and speak in her proud way, and this would madden me so, that I have struck her-yes, Tomoften struck her. Still she stayed by me, though God knows my house was then no place for her. night, however, mad with days of drinking, and aggravated by something she said, I told her-God for give me!-that our marriage was a sham one, that she was not my

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wife, and that her child was a bastard. With that she rose up, looked at me as her father had done, took up her child, and left the room. Next morning I went away early, not daring to face her; but when I returned she was gone-gone with her child, and I could get no trace of her. Some months after this I received a letter from her, giving the address of a milliner, beseeching me to tell whether my terrible words were true or not. I never answered it. After she had gone I did nothing but drink: I was always drunk or drinking: I felt that I was killing myself, yet kept ever feeding the fire. But the fire of the blood and the brain was nothing to the fire of the heart, Tom. At last I could bear it no longer, my conscience stung me so; and I set out in search of Emily, to tell her the truth, and see her once more. I had got thus far on my way, when I was taken with one of my attacks; and that devil's stoker, that Irish fellow, gave me brandy instead of keeping it from me, and that finished me. It is a terrible end, Tom, isn't it? But my strength is going, and I must come to the end. Put your band under my pillow, Tom, and take out the box that's there. The certificate of marriage is there, and Emily's letters which she wrote to her father; and there is also my will, giving her all that's left-not much, but enough to take her home and keep her for some time in comfort. Now you must deliver these to her, if she is still alive-promise me that for the sake of old times.' Yes, yes,' I said, 'I will; but how shall I find her? What clue have I to seek her by ?'—

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There is that address she gave, in the box, and Dingo. Dingo there,' pointing to one of the country dogs which lay by the bed, 'will be a great help, a good guide; he was very fond of her, and would know her at once anywhere. But you will find her, Tom; God will guide you; He has sent you here. Poor Emily! I should have wished to ask her forgiveness-but there are so

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