it.'

'Well, perhaps so. But Colonel Lawrence wishes

'Yes, sir; yes, of course. Then shall I have everything ready early next week?'

Yes, I suppose so, Robins, since thus it must be!'

And Robins left the room.

'That is all settled,' said Miss Lawrence with a sigh. Will you write, brother, and say so?'

'Yes, I will. What a change it will be for us, Mary! I hope we may get on well!'

'I hope so; if not, they must go to school. You must not be made ill, brother.'

'Nor you worn out, sister. But we will hope for better things.'

CHAPTER II.

ALONE ON. THE QUAY.

WBOUT a week after this perturbation in the family at the Refuge, three little

mournful lads were standing together

on Southampton Docks, sadly watching the departure of the steamer that had just been warped out on her way to a foreign land. She was fast disappearing down Southampton Water, bearing with her, father, mother, and sisters of the disconsolate boys, who were gathered close together in a melancholy group watching her. Not for five long years were they likely to see any of their dear ones again. They were strangers to English relatives, English climate, and English ways. Except a servant, who had accompanied them on the homeward voyage,-thus unexpectedly terminated by an order to return, they knew no one at

Southampton. They had only arrived there the day before from London, to pass the last evening with their family; and a most melancholy last evening it had been. Mrs. Lawrence, poor soul, had striven her utmost not to give in, for the sake of her husband and children; but her efforts had not been too successful. Her husband had taken the boys for a walk, in the hopes of cheating himself and them into forgetfulness of the coming separation. But the poor little sisters had proved quite inconsolable, and their example had fairly upset all the others. It was a wretched evening; and it occasioned afterwards much self-reproof to both Colonel and Mrs. Lawrence, that they should have allowed their boys to separate from them with so sad a remembrance. But it could not

now be helped. It was of the past, when the three children-for they were nothing else-stood alone on that black, coal-strewn wharf,-Edward, a thoughtful, healthy lad of twelve; Richard, his next brother, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, giddy-pated pickle; and little Tom, a quaint, fair-haired boy of eight.

Richard was the first to break silence.

'Oh Ted! Five years! it will never be over,'

he cried, and his lips quivered. 'It was a shame sending them away.'

'What are we to do?' inquired poor little Tom, whose eyes were red, and whose head ached with crying. What are we to do now, Ted?'

'We are to try and act like men!' repeated Edward, trying to impress upon himself his father's almost last words. But the effort failed, and he burst into an uncontrollable fit of sobbing.

'Don't, Ted, don't,' exclaimed his brother, crying for company, and half frightened. 'Richard, look at Ted; come to Ted!'

But poor Dick was down on his own account, striving to check his misery over a stone pillar close by, and could offer no assistance to his brothers.

'Oh don't, Ted, don't!' implored Tommy. 'Mamma is not here; oh don't!'

Edward roused himself at this appeal; he had somewhat exhausted his sorrow, and he remembered that poor Tommy had no mother near to dry his tears. He did therefore rouse himself manfully.

'We ought to go,' he said; 'we shall lose the train if we don't. Dobbs said we must be back by halfpast twelve, to get some dinner and be off.'

'I don't want any dinner!' protested Richard

stoutly. 'I can't eat, and I shan't go while I can see the ship.'

'That won't be much longer, my boy,' said a kind voice behind them; 'she will be out of sight in another quarter of an hour.'

The speaker was a clergyman, who, unperceived, had drawn near the forlorn trio, struck by their evident grief; and who now very kindly seated himself on Richard's pillar, and taking wee Tom on his knees, drew from them the cause of their sorrow.

'Poor lads, poor lads!' he pitifully exclaimed. 'It is hard for you-very hard. But what are you to do now? Are you going to school to-night? It was sad to leave you here alone.'

'Oh, sir,' replied Edward, 'this was our own doing. Papa offered to take us to Uncle Lawrence's house, if we liked, before he left; but we had rather see the last of them-much rather. And we have Dobbs. He is going with us.'

'And Dobbs can take care of you?' said the clergyman, smiling.

'Oh yes, quite well. I am afraid, sir, we ought to be going. Dobbs said we were to be back by halfpast twelve at the inn.'

'To catch the train then? or for dinner?'