September 1st. - No Mr. Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will stay amonghis friends till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be offagain. If he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay atGrassdale well enough - that is, I shall be able to stay, and thatis enough; even an occasional bevy of friends at the shootingseason may be borne, if Arthur get so firmly attached to me, sowell established in good sense and principles before they come thatI shall be able, by reason and affection, to keep him pure fromtheir contaminations. Vain hope, I fear! but still, till such atime of trial comes I will forbear to think of my quiet asylum inthe beloved old hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight:and as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkablyfine, I never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicentand Esther, either there or here. On one occasion, when Mr.Hattersley had driven them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, withlittle Helen and Ralph, and we were all enjoying ourselves in thegarden - I had a few minutes' conversation with that gentleman,while the ladies were amusing themselves with the children.

'Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?'said he.

'No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.'

'I can't. - You don't want him, do you?' said he, with a broadgrin.

'No.'

'Well, I think you're better without him, sure enough - for mypart, I'm downright weary of him. I told him I'd leave him if hedidn't mend his manners, and he wouldn't; so I left him. You see,I'm a better man than you think me; and, what's more, I haveserious thoughts of washing my hands of him entirely, and the wholeset of 'em, and comporting myself from this day forward with alldecency and sobriety, as a Christian and the father of a familyshould do. What do you think of that?'

'It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.'

'Well, I'm not thirty yet; it isn't too late, is it?'

'No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the senseto desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.'

'Well, to tell you the truth, I've thought of it often and oftenbefore; but he's such devilish good company, is Huntingdon, afterall. You can't imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he'snot fairly drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over. We all havea bit of a liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though wecan't respect him.'

'But should you wish yourself to be like him?'

'No, I'd rather be like myself, bad as I am.'

'You can't continue as bad as you are without getting worse andmore brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.'

I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.

'Never mind my plain speaking,' said I; 'it is from the best ofmotives. But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr.Huntingdon - or even like yourself?'

'Hang it! no.'

'Should you wish your daughter to despise you - or, at least, tofeel no vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what ismingled with the bitterest regret?'

'Oh, no! I couldn't stand that.'

'And, finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink intothe earth when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the verysound of your voice, and shudder at your approach?'

'She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.'

'Impossible, Mr. Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission foraffection.'

'Fire and fury - '

'Now don't burst into a tempest at that. I don't mean to say shedoes not love you - she does, I know, a great deal better than youdeserve; but I am quite sure, that if you behave better, she willlove you more, and if you behave worse, she will love you less andless, till all is lost in fear, aversion, and bitterness of soul,if not in secret hatred and contempt. But, dropping the subject ofaffection, should you wish to be the tyrant of her life - to takeaway all the sunshine from her existence, and make her thoroughlymiserable?'

'Of course not; and I don't, and I'm not going to.'

'You have done more towards it than you suppose.'

'Pooh, pooh! she's not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creatureyou imagine: she's a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body;apt to be rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main,and ready to take things as they come.'

'Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, andwhat she is now.'

'I know she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink andwhite face: now she's a poor little bit of a creature, fading andmelting away like a snow-wreath. But hang it! - that's not myfault.'

'What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she's only five-and-twenty.'

'It's her own delicate health, and confound it, madam! what wouldyou make of me? - and the children, to be sure, that worry her todeath between them.'

'No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain:they are fine, well-dispositioned children - '

'I know they are - bless them!'

'Then why lay the blame on them? - I'll tell you what it is: it'ssilent fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled, Isuspect, with something of bodily fear on her own. When you behavewell, she can only rejoice with trembling; she has no security, noconfidence in your judgment or principles; but is continuallydreading the close of such short-lived felicity; when you behaveill, her causes of terror and misery are more than any one can tellbut herself. In patient endurance of evil, she forgets it is ourduty to admonish our neighbours of their transgressions. Since youwill mistake her silence for indifference, come with me, and I'llshow you one or two of her letters - no breach of confidence, Ihope, since you are her other half.'

He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into hishands two of Milicent's letters: one dated from London, andwritten during one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation;the other in the country, during a lucid interval. The former wasfull of trouble and anguish; not accusing him, but deeplyregretting his connection with his profligate companions, abusingMr. Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things against Mr.Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of herhusband's misconduct on to other men's shoulders. The latter wasfull of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness that thishappiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies, butwith an evident, though but half-expressed wish, that it were basedon a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and ahalf-prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on thesand, - which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersleymust have been conscious while he read.

Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpectedpleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back tome, and finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I sawhim, once or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it acrosshis face. Could it be to dash away a tear? When he had done,there was an interval spent in clearing his throat and staring outof the window, and then, after whistling a few bars of a favouriteair, he turned round, gave me back the letters, and silently shookme by the hand.

'I've been a cursed rascal, God knows,' said he, as he gave it ahearty squeeze, 'but you see if I don't make amends for it - d-n meif I don't!'

'Don't curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half yourinvocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long beforenow - and you cannot make amends for the past by doing your dutyfor the future, inasmuch as your duty is only what you owe to yourMaker, and you cannot do more than fulfil it: another must makeamends for your past delinquencies. If you intend to reform,invoke God's blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not His curse.'

'God help me, then - for I'm sure I need it. Where's Milicent?'

'She's there, just coming in with her sister.'

He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. Ifollowed at a little distance. Somewhat to his wife'sastonishment, he lifted her off from the ground, and saluted herwith a hearty kiss and a strong embrace; then placing his two handson her shoulders, he gave her, I suppose, a sketch of the greatthings he meant to do, for she suddenly threw her arms round him,and burst into tears, exclaiming, - 'Do, do, Ralph - we shall be sohappy! How very, very good you are!'

'Nay, not I,' said he, turning her round, and pushing her towardsme. 'Thank her; it's her doing.'

Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude. Idisclaimed all title to it, telling her her husband was predisposedto amendment before I added my mite of exhortation andencouragement, and that I had only done what she might, and oughtto have done herself.

'Oh, no!' cried she; 'I couldn't have influenced him, I'm sure, byanything that I could have said. I should only have bothered himby my clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.'

'You never tried me, Milly,' said he.

Shortly after they took their leave. They are now gone on a visitto Hattersley's father. After that they will repair to theircountry home. I hope his good resolutions will not fall through,and poor Milicent will not be again disappointed. Her last letterwas full of present bliss, and pleasing anticipations for thefuture; but no particular temptation has yet occurred to put hisvirtue to the test. Henceforth, however, she will doubtless besomewhat less timid and reserved, and he more kind and thoughtful.- Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded; and I have one brightspot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.