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The re I knew of the intes of Moor House, the better I liked the In a few days I had so far ered heah that uld sit up all day, and walk out sotis. uld join with Diana and Mary in all their oupations; erse with theas ch as they wished, and aid thewhen and where they would allow . There was a reiing pleasure in this inturse, of a kind now tasted by for the first ti-the pleasure arising froperfect geniality of tastes, ses, and principles.
I liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed, delighted ; what they approed, I reerehey loed their sequestered ho. I, too, in the grey, sll, antique structure, with its low roof, its tticed ts, its uldering walls, its aenue of aged firs—all grown asnt uhe stress of untain winds; its garden, dark with yew and holly—and where no flowers but of the hardiest species would bloofound a charboth potent ahey g to the purple ors behind and around their dwelling—to the hollow ale into which the pebbly bridle-path leading frotheir gate desded, and which wouween fern- banks first, and then angst a few of the wildest little pasture- fields that eer bordered a wilderness of heath, ae susteo a flock of grey ornd sheep, with their little ssy-faced s:- they g to this se, I say, with a perfethusiasof attat. uld prehend the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw the fasation of the locality. I fe the secration of its loneliness: eye feasted oline of swell and sweep—on the wild icated te and dell by ss, by heath-bell, by flower-spriurf, by brilliant bra, and llow granite crag. These details were just to what they were to theso ny pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong bst and the soft breeze; the rough and the hal day; the hours of sunrise and suhe onlight and the clouded night, deeloped for , in these regions, the sa attra as for thewound round facuies the sa spell that entraheirs.
Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both re aplished aer read than I was; but with eagerness I followed ih of knowledge they had trodden before . I deoured the books they lehen it was full satisfa to discuss with thein the eening what I had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinio opinion: we cided, in short, perfectly.
If in our trio there erior and a leader, it was Diana. Physically, she far ecelled : she was handso; she was igorous. In her anil spirits there was an affluence of life aainty of flow, such as ecited wonder, while it baffled  rehension. uld talk a while when the eening enced, but the first gush of iacity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana’s feet, to rest head on her knee, and listen aero her and Mary, while they souhhly the topi which I had but touched. Diana offered to teabsp; Gern. I liked to learn of her: I saw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of schor pleased and suited no less. Our natures doetailed: tual affe—of the stro kind—was the resu. They dered uld draw: their pencils anlour-boes were iediately at serice. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and chard the Mary would sit and watbsp; by the hether: then she would take lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she de. Thus oupied, and tually eained, days passed like hours, and weeks like days.
As to Mr. St John, the inticy which had arisen so naturally and rapidly between and his sisters did end to hi One reason of the dista obsered between us was, that he aratiely seldoat ho: a rge proportion of his ti appeared deoted to isiting the sid p the scattered popution of his parish.
her seed to hinder hiin these pastoral ecursions: rain or fair, he would, when his hours of study were oer, take his hat, and, followed by his father’s old pointer, Carlo, go out on his ssion of loe or duty—I scarcely know in which light he regarded it. Sotis, when the day was ery unfaourable, his sisters would epostute. He would then say, with a peculiar sle, re sole than cheerful—
“And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn aside frothese easy tasks, reparation would such sloth be for the future I propose to self?”
Diana and Mary’s general ao this question was a sigh, and so nutes of apparently urnful ditation.
But besides his frequent absehere was another barrier to friendship with hi he seed of a resered, an abstracted, and een of a brooding nature. Zealous in his nisterial bours, bless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that ntal serenity, that inward tent, which should bet he reward of eery sincere Christian and practical phinthropist. Often, of an eening, whe at the window, his desk and papers before hi he would cease reading or writing, rest his on his hand, and delier hielf up to I know not whaurse of thought; but that it erturbed aing ght be seen in the frequent fsh and geful dition of his eye.
I think, reoer, that Nature was not to hithat treasury of delight it was to his sisters. He epressed once, and but on hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charof the hills, and an inborn affe for the dark roof and hoary walls he called his ho; but there was re of gloothan pleasure ione and words in which the se was ed; and neer did he seeto roathe ors for the sake of their soothing sileneer seek out or dwell upohousand peaceful delights theuld yield.
Inunicatie as he was, so ti epsed before I had an opportunity of gauging his nd. I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard hiprea his own church at Morton. I wish uld describe that sern: but it is past  ower. I ot een render faithfully the effect it produe.
It began d indeed, as far as deliery and pitch of oice went, it was cao the end: an early fe, yet strictly restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct ats, and proted the ner..ous nguage. This grew to forpressed, derolled. The heart was thrilled, the nd astonished, by the power of the preacher: her were softehroughout there was a straterness; an absence of sotentleness; stern allusions to istic does—ele, predestination, reprobation—were frequent; and each refereo these points sounded like a sentence pronounced for doo When he had done, instead of feelier, calr, re enlightened by his durse, I eperienced an inepressible sadness; for it seed to —I know not whether equally so to others—that the eloqueo which I had been listening had sprung froa depth where y turbid dregs of disappoi—where ed troubling iulses of insatiate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Riers— pure-lied, stious, zealous as he was—had not yet found that peace of God which passeth all uanding: he had no re found it, I thought, than had I with cealed and rag regrets for broken idol and lost elysiuregrets to which I hae tterly aoided referring, but which possessed and tyrannised oer ruthlessly.
Meanti a nth was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leae Moor House, aurn to the far different life and se which awaited the as goernesses in a rge, fashionable, south-of-Engnd city, where each held a situation in falies by whose weahy and haughty ers they were regarded only as hule dependants, and who her knew nor sought out their innate ecellences, and appreciated only their acquired aplishnts as they appreciated the skill of theiok or the taste of their waiting-won. Mr. St. John had said nothing to yet about the eloynt he had prosed to obtain for ; yet it beca urgent that I should hae a ocation of so kind. One bei aloh hia few nutes in the parlour, I eo approach the window-recess— which his table, chair, and desk secrated as a kind of study—and I was going to speak, though not ery well knowing in what words to fra inquiry—for it is at all tis difficu to break the ice of resere gssing oer suatures as his—when he saed the trouble by being the first to ence a dialogue.
Looking up as I drew near—“You hae a question to ask of ?” he said.
“Yes; I wish to know whether you hae heard of any serice I offer self to uake?”
“I found or deised sothing for you three weeks ago; but as you seed both useful and happy here—as sisters had eidently bee attached to you, and your society gae theunusual pleasure—I deed it inepedient to break in on your tual fort till their approag departure froMarsh End should render yours necessary.”
“And they will go in three days now?” I said.
“Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parso Morton: Hannah will apany ; and this old house will be shut up.”
I waited a few nts, epeg he would go on with the subject first broached: but he seed to hae entered arain of refle: his look denoted abstra fro and business. I was obliged to recall hito a the which was of y one of close and anious io .
“What is the eloynt you had in iew, Mr. Riers? I hope this dey will not hae increased the difficuy of seg it.”
“Oh, no; si is in eloynt which depends only oo gie, and you to aept.”
He again paused: there seed a reluce to tinue. I grew iatient: a restless ent or two, and an eager aing gnce fastened on his face, eyed the feeling to hias effectually as worduld hae done, and with less trouble.
“You need be in no hurry to hear,” he said: “let frankly tell you, I hae nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I epin, recall, if you please, notice, clearly gien, that if I helped you, it st be as the blind n would help the . I apoor; for I find that, when I hae paid father’s debts, all the patriny reining to will be this cruling grahe row of scathed firs behind, and the patoorish soil, with the yew- trees and holly-bushes in front. I aobscure: Riers is an old n but of the three sole desdants of the race, two earn the dependant’s crust ang strangers, and the third siders hielf an alien frohis ry—not only for life, but ih. Yes, and dee, and is bound to dee hielf honoured by the lot, and aspires but after the day when the cross of separation frofleshly ties shall be id on his shoulders, and when the Head of that church-litant of whose hulest ers he is one, shall gie the word, ‘Rise, follow Me!’”
St. John said these words as he pronounced his serns, with a quiet, deep oice; with an unflushed cheek, and a c radiance of gnce. He resud—
“And since I aself poor and obscure, I offer you but a serice of poerty and obscurity. You y een think it degrading— for I see now your habits hae been what the world calls refined: your tastes lean to the ideal, and your society has at least been angst the educated; but I sider that no serice degrades whibsp; better our race. I hold that the re arid and unrecid the soil where the Christian bourer’s task of tilge is appointed hithe stier the ed his toil brings—the higher the honour. His, under such circes, is the destiny of the pioneer; and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles—their captain was Jesus, the Redeer, Hielf.”
“Well?” I said, as he again paused—“proceed.”
He looked at before he proceeded: indeed, he seed leisurely to read face, as if its features and lines were characters on a page. The clusions drawn frothis scrutiny he partially epressed in his sueeding obserations.
“I beliee you will aept the post I offer you,” said he, “and hold it for a while: not perly, though: ahan uld perly keep the narrow and narrowing—the tranquil, hidden office of English try i; for in your nature is an alloy as detrintal to repose as that in hough of a different kind.”
“Do epin,” I urged, when he haed once re.
“I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is,—how triial— hoing. I shall not stay long at Morton, now that father is dead, and that I a own ster. I shall leae the pce probably in thurse of a twele-nth; but while I do stay, I will eert self to the utst for its iroent. Morton, when I ca to it two years ago, had no school: the children of the poor were ecluded froeery hope ress. I established one for boys: I an now to open a sed school firls. I hae hired a building for the purpose, with ttage of two roo attached to it for the stress’s house. Her sary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is already furnished, ery sily, but suffitly, by the kindness of a dy, Miss Olier; the only daughter of the sole ri in  arish—Mr. Olier, the proprietor of a needle- factory and iron-foundry in the alley. The sa dy pays for the education and clothing of an orphan frothe workhouse, on dition that she shall aid the stress in suial offices ected with her own house and the school as her oupation of teag will preent her haing ti to discharge in person. Will you be this stress?”
He put the question rather hurriedly; he seed half to epe indignant, or at least a disdainful reje of the offer: not knowing all thoughts and feelings, though guessing so, huld not tell in what light the lot would appear to . In truth it was hule—but then it was sheered, and I wanted a safe asylu it lodding—but then, pared with that of a goerness in a rich house, it was indepe; and the fear of seritude with strangers entered soul like iron: it was not ig unworthy—not ntally degrading, I de decision.
“I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Riers, and I aept it with all heart.”
“But you prehend ?” he said. “It is a ilge school: your schors will be only pirtagers’ children—at the best, farrs’ daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will be all you will hae to teach. What will you do with your aplishnts? What, with the rgest portion of your nd— ses—tastes?”
“Sae thetill they are wahey will keep.”
“You know what you uake, then?”
“I do.”
He now sled: and not a bitter or a sad sle, but one well pleased and deeply gratified.
“And when will you ehe eercise of your fun?”
“I will go to house to-rrow, and open the school, if you like, week.”
“Very well: so be it.”
He rose and walked through the roo Standing still, he again looked at . He shook his head.
“What do you disapproe of, Mr. Riers?” I asked.
“You will not stay at Morton long: no, no!”
“Why? What is your reason for saying so?”
“I read it in your eye; it is not of that description which proses the intenance of aenor in life.”
“I anot aitious.”
He started at the word “aitious.” He repeated, “No. What de you think of aition? Who is aitious? I know I a but how did you find it out?”
“I eaking of self.”
“Well, if you are not aitious, you are—” He paused.
“What?”
“I was going to say, iassioned: but perhaps you would hae suood the word, and been displeased. I an, that hun affes and syathies hae a st powerful hold on you. I asure you ot loent to pass your leisure in solitude, and to deote your w hours to a notonous bour wholly oid of stilus: ahan I be tent,” he added, with ehasis, “to lie here buried in rass, pent in with untains— nature, that God gae , traened; facuies, heaeowed, paralysed—de usele;cite?;/citess. You hear now how I tradict self. I, who preached te with a hule lot, and justified the ocation een of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God’s serice—I, His ordained nister, alst rae in restlessness. Well, propensities and principles st be reciled by so ans.”
He left the roo In this brief hour I had learnt re of hithan in the whole preious nth: yet still he puzzled .
Diana and Mary Riers beca re sad and silent as the day approached for leaing their brother and their ho. They both tried to appear as usual; bat the sorrow they had tle against was ohauld not be entirely quered or cealed. Diana ihat this would be a different parting froany they had eer yet known. It would probably, as far as St. John was ed, be a parting for years: it ght be a parting for life.
“He will sacrifice all to his long-frad resoles,” she said: “natural affe and feelings re potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane; but he hides a feer in his itals. You would think higentle, yet in so things he is ineorable as death; and the worst of it is, sce will hardly pert to dissuade hifrohis seere decisioainly, I ot for a nt b hifor it. It is right, noble, Christia breaks heart!” And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low oer her work.
“We are now without father: we shall soohout ho and brother,” she rred,
At that nt a little act superened, which seed decreed by fate purposely to proe the truth of the adage, that “sfortunes neer e singly,” and to add to their distresses the eg one of the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window reading a letter. He entered.
“Our uncle John is dead,” said he.
Both the sisters seed struot shocked or appalled; the tidings appeared in their eyes rather ntous than afflig.
“Dead?” repeated Diana.
“Yes.”
She rieted a searg gaze on her brother’s face. “And what then?” she dended, in a low oice.
“What then, Die?” he replied, intaining a rble iobility of feature. “What then? Why—nothing. Read.”
He threw the letter into her p. She gnced oer it, and ha to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, aur to her brother. All three looked at each other, and all three sled—a dreary, pensie sle enough.
“An! We yet lie,” said Diana at st.
“At any rate, it kes us no worse off than we were before,” rerked Mary.
“Only it forces rather strongly on the nd the picture of what ght hae been,” said Mr. Riers, “and trasts it sowhat too iidly with what IS.”
He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and agai out.
For so nutes no one spoke. Diana then turo .
“Jane, you will wo us and our steries,” she said, “and think us hard-hearted beings not to be re ed at the death of so near a retion as an uncle; but we hae neer seen hior known hi He was ther’s brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by his adice that father risked st of his property in the specution that ruined hi Mutual reation passed betweehey parted in anger, and were neer reciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in re prosperous uakings: it appears he realised a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. He was neer rried, and had no near kindred but ourseles and oher person, not re closely reted than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would atone for his error by leaing his possessions to us; that letter infor us that he has bequeathed eery penny to the other retion, with the eception of thirty guineas, to be diided between St. John, Diana, and Mary Riers, for the purchase of three rings. He had a right, ourse, to do as he pleased: a a ntary da is cast on the spirits by the receipt of suews. Mary and I would hae esteed ourseles rich with a thousand pounds each; and to St. John such a suwould hae been aluable, for the good it would hae enabled hito do.”
This epnatiohe subject was dropped, and no further reference de to it by either Mr. Riers or his sisters. The day I left Marsh End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B-. In a week, Mr. Riers and Hannah repaired to the parsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned.
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