I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one.

Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s departure. The August sky was without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers.

Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school, and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke’s. The very excitement and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart, and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one whit more than he could help; for disappointment might be its ending. In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing’s, has not felt this depression on leaving a beloved home?

The parting had been less sad but for the dark cloud hanging over Arthur. Mr. Channing had no resource but to believe him guilty, and his manner to him had grown cold and stern. It was a pleasing sight—could you have looked in upon it that morning—one that would put you in mind of that happier world where partings are not.

For it was to that world that Mr. Channing had been carrying the thoughts of his children in these, the last moments. The Bible was before him, but all that he had chosen to read was a short psalm. And then he prayed God to bless them; to keep them from evil; to be their all-powerful protector. There was not a dry eye present; and Charles and Annabel—Annabel with all her wildness—sobbed aloud.

He was standing up now, supported by Hamish, his left hand leaning heavily, also for support, on the shoulder of Tom. Oh! Arthur felt it keenly! felt it as if his heart would break. It was Tom whom his father had especially called to his aid; he was passed over. It was hard to bear.

He was giving a word of advice, of charge to all. “Constance, my pretty one, the household is in your charge; you must take care of your brothers’ comforts. And, Hamish, my son, I leave Constance to your care. Tom, let me enjoin you to keep your temper within bounds, particularly with regard to that unsatisfactory matter, the seniorship. Annabel, be obedient to your sister, and give her no care. And Charley, my little darling, be loving and gentle as you always are. Upon my return—if I shall be spared to return—”

“Father,” exclaimed Arthur, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, “have you no word for me?”

Mr. Channing laid his hand upon the head of Arthur. “Bless, oh bless this my son!” he softly murmured. “And may God forgive him, if he be indeed the erring one we fear!”

But a few minutes had elapsed since Mr. Channing had repeated aloud the petition in the prayer taught us by our Saviour—“Lead us not into temptation!” It had come quickly to one of his hearers. If ever temptation assailed a heart, it assailed Arthur’s then. “Not I, father; it is Hamish who is guilty; it is for him I have to bear. Hamish, whom you are caressing, was the true culprit; I, whom you despise, am innocent.” Words such as these might have hovered on Arthur’s lips; he had nearly spoken them, but for the strangely imploring look cast to him from the tearful eyes of Constance, who read his struggle. Arthur remembered One who had endured temptation far greater than this; Who is ever ready to grant the same strength to those who need it. A few moments, and the struggle and temptation passed, and he had not yielded to it.

“Children, I do not like these partings. They always sadden my heart. They make me long for that life where partings shall be no more. Oh, my dear ones, do you all strive on to attain to that blessed life! Think what would be our woeful grief—if such can assail us there; if memory of the past may be allowed us—should we find any one of our dear ones absent—of you who now stand around me! I speak to you all—not more to one than to another—absent through his own fault, his own sin, his own carelessness! Oh, children! you cannot tell my love for you—my anxious care!—lest any of you should lose this inconceivable blessing. Work on; strive on; and if we never meet again here—”

“Oh, papa, papa,” wildly sobbed Annabel, “we shall meet again! You will come back well.”

“I trust we shall! I do trust I ............