THE

TRACT MAGAZINE.

"IT SHALL BE MINE.”

"Ir shall be mine, Ellen! it shall not have passed away from me for ever! it shall be mine!" The speaker was a young man, and his words and tones were earnest and excited. He tightly grasped the arm of his sister as he spoke.

Ellen smiled as she gently withdrew her captive arm. "You need not have been quite so forcible, Fred, even though it shall be yours," she said gently.

"Pardon me, my dear sister; I was too energetic. I was thinking-thinking of old times, Ellen, before all these troubles came upon us.'

The brother and sister were standing together on the side of a hill crowned with trees of ancient growth; and their eyes were cast over a fine and fertile valley which lay beneath, brightened up with the rays of an afternoon sun in spring time. The prospect was varied: there were meadows, with flocks of sheep quietly feeding; pleasant hedgerows in vernal beauty and pride; fields with myriads of blades of newly-sprung corn gently moving under the influence of a fresh breeze. There were happy-looking cottages interspersed with trim gardens and rich orchards, glorious in their gorgeous array of pink and white blossoms. There was a silvery river which glistened and sparkled as it ran on between margins of rushes and water flags; and on its bank was a mill, the large wheel of which slowly but steadily revolved beneath the pressure of a waterfall. There was a rustic church, too, with its ample grave-yard, uneven with grassy mounds, and here and there a headstone to tell in legible language of the ravages of death.

And near to this enclosure-separated from it, indeed, only by the village road, - was a mansion of greater pretensions than any other habitation visible from the

JANUARY, 1865.

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spot on which the sister and brother stood. It was an old house of red-brick and stone, with deeply embrasured windows, a high tiled roof, and turreted chimneys. It was partly hidden by large and luxuriant shrubberies which had put forth their fresh spring leaves of various shades, and blossoms of many a rich and beautiful hue.

But the mansion, so inviting in appearance, was evidently uninhabited. Many indescribable signs of desertion and neglect met the eye, besides those of smokeless chimneys and undraped windows. A house thus left empty and neglected is always a sad sight, suggesting thoughts of scattered families and disappointed hopes.

On this deserted mansion Frederick Mowbray was gazing almost fiercely as once more he reiterated in deep and passionate tones, "It shall be mine yet, Ellen. I will not give it up. It shall come back again.'

"How, dear Fred?" asked Ellen.

I will win it back," he replied, proudly.

The sister made no audible reply: but it may be a slight change in her countenance conveyed to Frederick Mowbray an indication of incredulity or dissent; for he presently added,―

You think, Ellen, because I have hitherto been contented with leading the life of a butterfly or a drone, that I can do nothing."

"Dear Fred, I do not say this, nor do I think it. You a drone or a butterfly! Surely your college would tell a different tale."

"You think, at least, that mine is a foolish boast, or an impossible determination. Ellen, you don't know what a man can do, give him but a sufficient motive for determination. My motive lies there;" and he pointed to the untenanted house.

"Your lost inheritance, dear Fred!" said Ellen, softly.

It is an old story, and may soon be told. Frederick and Ellen Mowbray were orphans. Their mother died when they were children; for their father they had not yet laid aside their mourning garb. Father and mother reposed together beneath one of the tombstones in the churchyard; and brother and sister were alone in the world. The deserted habitation on which they were sorrowfully looking was their childhood's home; and, with much of the fertile land in that pleasant valley, had been their anticipated in

heritance. But (yes, it is an old story)-riches had taken to themselves wings and flown away, as an eagle towards heaven; and of all their expected possessions, nothing remained for them at their father's death, beyond a scanty residue after the family estate had been sold.

Since then, Frederick and his sister had lived together in some small lodgings in the village, waiting the final settlement of their affairs, and planning meanwhile their future course in life. These plans were now formed, as certainly as earthly plans can be formed; and thenceforward (dating from the following day) Ellen and her brother would have to tread their separate and rugged paths, unaided by each other's presence.

No wonder then, that, in casting a last, fond, lingering look at the scene of their former young and unforeboding enjoyments, they felt very mournful. There were the meadows where, in the days of childhood, they had gathered wild flowers which Frederick had woven into garlands for his little sister's brow; there was the stream in which he had bathed and angled. There was the house itself, with its high gabled roof, and the sun shining brightly on its window panes. All this had passed away, and no wonder they were sorrowful; but in the midst of this natural sorrow, sprang up in the brother's mind the strong determination, couched in his passionate words,66 It shall be mine."

And again he repeated them, as his sister took his arm, and they slowly descended into the valley.

"Are you so very sure, Frederick ?" interposed Ellen, gently.

"Sure! nothing is positively sure of course, my dear; I know that very well."

"But you speak so very, very decisively, as though you entertained no doubt or misgiving. It is only if the Lord will, Frederick, we shall do this or that."

"My darling little preacher! we take that for granted, of

"Are you sure that you take it for granted, Fred? Forgive me, my dear brother," Ellen continued, speaking gently, but earnestly; "but when you speak so strongly and almost proudly of what you will do in the future, I cannot help remembering the warning words, Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." "

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"Well, dear Ellen, well," rejoined the brother, rather impatiently; "I did not mean to boast. I know very well that a thousand accidents may prevent the accomplishment of any design. All I say is, give me life and health and strength, and I will do the rest.'

66 Is there not a little boasting even in that, dear Frederick?" said Ellen, appealingly. "And then,-oh Fred! if life and health and strength should not be given!"

"Why then, darling," replied the brother, with a light laugh,-"why then, all my proud resolutions will be scattered to the winds, you know. But, Ellen," added Frederick; "you are in an unusually grave and moralizing mood this afternoon."

"I may well be grave, Fred: do you wonder that I am grave, when we are so soon to be parted? And who can tell how or when we shall meet again? Perhaps never in this life, my dear, dear brother." And the tears which had hitherto been restrained, flowed for a little while freely.

Of course her brother comforted Ellen with encouraging words, thanked her for her kind sisterly affection, bade her cheer up and take courage, and promised that whatever might betide, he should never forget his darling sister— would make her interests his care; and so far from fearing that they might never meet again, he told her to hope for many happy reunions.

Of course, also, Ellen (being brave-hearted and unselfish) made a strong effort to subdue her heartache: "It is very foolish, very weak, in me to give way to such gloomy fancies and forebodings," she said, as she hastily wiped away her tears. She would not, if she could help it, create a sorrowful remembrance of this last evening, for Fred's mind to dwell upon when he was gone. And she succeeded. That evening was passed almost cheerfully in the little parlour of their lodgings. They lingered over their simple meal till it was growing dark: and then when lights were brought and the "tea-things," as Mrs. Price, their landlady, called them, were removed, Ellen sat down to her piano, and her fingers ran over the keys, and she and her brother sang together the strains which they had learned in happier and more prosperous days. Then they walked out again in the moonlight, and by the river side; and when they returned to their room, they sat and talked soberly of their prospects-without referring to the painful past