host of abuses that he had discovered, and
make himself enemies; so, all his fine schemes
came to nought, and he died as much from
heart-break as neglect."

"No, Aunt Anna; his schemes have not
come to nought; for what he began, other
people have taken up and finished. Dr.
Monson says so."

"Don't be Dr. Anybody's mouthpiece;
give me your own words or none," rejoined
my aunt, stooping to her task again.

"They are my words, too."

"Very silly ones they are, then. I don't
want to see any of you wiser or better men
than your father or grandfather before you.
They have always been respected, and Paul
was more laughed at than anything else."

"People don't laugh at him now. They
honour him."

"Lip-worship. What is it worth, when he
has been dead these thirty years? He would
have starved to death, if your father had not
fetched him home. What is the good of
looking at a man's grave? He is a warning,
not an example, nephew Robert."

"Was he happy, Aunt Anna?"

"Happy? I can't tell. He said to me,
the night before he died, that nobody should
take the post of an apostle of reform whose
heart was not prepared for martyrdom. He
did hope to do good at first, and hope kept
him up while it lasted; but he had not pith
enough: he was soon worn out."

The camomile gathering was over, and
with a retrospective sigh to the memory of
her brother, Aunt Anna took up her basket,
and went into the house. Robert and I,
after strolling a few minutes longer in the
garden, passed through the wicket-gate and
across the bridge, to the church, which stood
about five hundred yards off on the hill-side.
There were, and are, a great many yews in
the grave-yard, and under one Uncle Paul
lay with a plain slab of the gray stone over
him, inscribed only with his name and age.
(My brother Robert's grave is to the right of
it, only marked by a low head-stone). We
sat down on Uncle Paul's grave, and began
to talk about him. We both admired him
sincerely. As I remember my brother
Robert in his boyhood, he was slight and tall,
with a great forehead and bushy brown hair;
his eyes were blue and his skin brown; he
had what one would call a fine countenance.
His temper was cheerful and kind; and with
Uncle Paul's love of true and beautiful
things, he had a character of more muscle
and force. I always loved Robert the best
of my brothers, and sympathised with his
dislike to our torpid state of existence. But
what could we do against the rest?

IV.

FROM fourteen to eighteen Robert went on
fretting, fidgetting, and working alternately,
until one day there was a rumour of a grand
new bridge to be built over the Alster, about
eleven miles above our house; beside it,
where there was a fall in the water, a
manufactory was going to be built for weaving of
stockings. Neither good words nor ill words
would keep Robert from going up there day
after day, and staying till nightfall. It was
in the time of hay harvest, and my father
was often angry at his absence. One day he
said to him in a rage, little thinking his
words would be taken in plain earnest:

"If any of those engineering, architect,
machine fellows will take thee, Robert, thou
may bind thyself to them for life; I never
want to see thy idle face again."

Robert did not come back that night, but
the next morning he fetched his clothes when
his father was out in the fields, and only the
women at home. Aunt Anna was terribly
vexed, and sent to call his father in. My
mother would have had Robert go without
seeing him, but the lad said:

"Nay, I've my father's leave;" and he
stood up with his bonnie young face all
glowing and brave, fearing none of us. "When
I'm a man, Mary shall come and keep my
house—won't you, Mary?" I promised him.

We were amazed to see how my father
took it, when Aunt Anna told him Robert
was set on going, and nothing could stay
him. The two took a long look at each
other, as if measuring their strength; then
they shook hands. My mother cried to see it.

"If the lad will go, let him go in peace,"
said my father; "I can make nothing of
him. Anna, fetch up a bottle of wine to
drink his health at the dinner. Thy
grandfather will be displeased, lad; thou'rt as
wilful as ever Paul, my brother, was, and I
misdoubt me that thou'll prosper as ill;
but thou shall not go with a curse at thy
back, my lad."

And so Robert left us.

I should be twenty-eight or twenty-nine
years old at that time, and in my own mind I
had a strange hankering to go after the lad
and take care of him; and as if to give me
my liberty, in the year that followed the old
grandfather and grandmother were both
taken away, and those who were left were
well able to take tent for themselves. Still I
don't know that I would have left home if
my own mother had not said, one Christmas
night, the first he was away, "Our Robert
will be glad to see you, Mary. Your father
and I were saying, why should you not go
and stop with him for the change." My
mother spoke for me as much or more than
for him; but what for, has nothing to do with
Robert's story; so I pass over that.

I went away to Robert at Birmingham,
where he was—an ugly great town then,
not what it is now—and truly, the lad was
glad to have a face that he knew about him.
I had a little fortune of my own, so that I
was no burden on him; but afterwards, as
things turned out, a help. I took three
rooms in a cottage a good half-mile from the