The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1881-12-24 00:00:00

MY CHRISTMAS VISITOR,

BY W. C. M.

Mx events of which I am about to speak occurred
upwards of forty years ago; but they were of such
momentous consequence to me at the time and they
exercised so important an influence upon my whole
future life that they stamped themselves indelibly
upon my memory; so that, as I pen this narrative,
Crory incident connected with them presents itself as
vividly to my mind as though it had happened but
yesterday.
My mother was the widow of a gentleman who had
held an appointment in the Civil Service of the East
India Company. He died when I was a child, leaving
her very slenderly provided for. In fact, besides her
pension, the only property she possessed was the house
'we lived in, which was situated on the banks of the
Thames, a few miles from London. When, therefore,
my education was completed, it became necessary for
me to earn my own living. My mother, consequently,
obtained for me a situation in a commercial house,
the senior member of which was an old friend of our
family.
Entering the office as junior clerk, I rose, step by step
until at the age of four and twenty I filled the post
of principal bookkeeper. Just at this time my god-
father died, leaving me a legacy c five thousand
pounds. Scarcely had I congratulaten myself upon
this piece of unexpected good fortune than I was sur-
prised by receiving a letter from a legal firm stating
that they were authorized by their client, Mr.
Seymour, the nephew and heir at•law of the late Mr.
Lawrence, to dispute the bequest upon the double
ground of undue influence and the mental incapacity
of the deceased to`make a testamentary disposition of
his property. I was not a little indignant when I
had perused this most unwelcome and unexpected
communication, especially at that portion of it which
referred to "undue influence." I had seen my god-
father but seldom, perhaps not more than twice or
three times in a year, and he had never breathed to me
a syllable of his intention of leaving me a legacy. The
knowledge that he had done so, had, in fact, taken me
completely by surprise, and I felt how unjust was
the imputation that I had, in any way, sought to
derive an advantage from the manner in which he
might dispose of his property. As regarded the other
allegation, I could not, of course, be absolutely cer-
tain that it was unfounded. But, whenever, I had
visited Mr. Lawrence he had appeared to me to be—
although somewhat odd and eccentric in his habits—
in the perfect possession of all his faculties.
It so happened that when the letter of which I have
spoken was received by me, my mother was tem-
porarfly absent from home, having gone, for a couple
of dayg, on a visit to a sick friend. I had, conse-
quently, no immediate opportunity of consulting with
her what had best be done under the circumstances,
and as the business was one which it appeared to me
admitted of no delay, I went at once, to the solicitors
who had had charge of my fathers affairs and sought
their advice as to what was the proper legal course for
me to pursue in the awkward position in which I was
placed. When I laid the letter before these gentlemen
they expressed their surprise at its contents. They
knew, they said, Mr. Seymour by reputation, although
not personally, and he enjoyed the character of being
not only a just but a generous man. Already
possessed of a handsome property of his own,
the estate he had inherited from his uncle in
addition would render him a very wealthy man. It
apearaj strange, therefore, that, if the estimation in
which he was generally held were the true one, he
should be disposed to dispute a bequest of what, to
him, must be comparatively but a small sum. My
legal friends agreed with me that the plea of "undue
Influence" could not be sustained in a court of justice;
but they expressed themselves more guardedly on the
point of the mental condition of the late Mr. Lawrence
when he executed his will, it being a matter with
respect to which it would be absolutely necessary to
collect some evidence before deciding whether or not
it would be advisable to go to law in support of my
claim. The firm added that they would make the
requisite inquiries on my behalf, and so soon as the
Information was in their possession the course to be
pursued could, without further delay, be decided upon.
I assented to this arrangement; and it was settled
that I should call again at the expiration of a few days
to learn their opinion of my case.
When my mother returned home. I showed her the
letter I had received from Mr. Seymour's solicitors.
After she had completed the perusal of it, she turned
very pale, and, as it dropped from her hand, she ex-
claimed with emotion—
" So, this is his revenge ! "
"Whose revenge?" I inquired, with astonishment.
"I do not understand you. Why are you so
agitated ?"
My mother, making an effort to regain her usual
composure, said, after a brief pause—
" Listen to me, Horace. 1- have a story to tell you
Which will throw light upon what appears, at present,
dark and obscure. I once did Mr. Seymour a wrong,
and he now evidently seeks to punish me through
You."
"You knew him then " I exclaimed. "How is it
that I have never heard you mention even his name
before?"
"There were reasons for my not doing so, as you
Will !earn," was the reply. "I first met Mr. Seymour
upwards of six-and twenty years ago, at a party given
hY my aunt. He appeared much attracted by me,
obtained an introduction, and danced with me several
times in the course of the evening. He subsequently
became a frequent visitor at my father's house, and the
attentions he paid me left no doubt of his ulterior inten-
tions. We were not, indeed, actually engaged, but I fear
I must admit that I lent a favourable ear to his suit,
and that he had every right to assume that when, in
_ due time, he made me an offer, it would be accepted.
Your father and Mr. Seymour had known each other
from boyhood, and an unusually warm attachment
subsisted between them. Proud of his choice and
• desirous that his friend should approve of it, my
lover, in, for him, an evil hour, introduced your father
,to me. I had been flattered and my vanity gratified,
by the devotion of my suitor, but no warmer feeling
existed towards him. When I met your father I first
realized what it really was to love, and he, on his part,
I soon discovered, was equally attached to me. He was
....ignorant that his friend's affections were engaged, for
_,°ll-r• Seymour, who was a quiet, reserved man, had
Jim, ply spoken of me to him as a young lady with whose
family he was intimate, and whom he thought a pretty
and amiable girl. Your father, therefore, considered
himself at liberty to woo and win me if he could. He
did so, and during the whole period of our married
life I had never one moment's cause even to repent
bfly choice. Still, I acknowledge that I did not behave
Well to Mr. Seymour, the only palliation I can offer for
121 y conduct being that I was a young, giddy girl at
the time, and had no adequate conception of the pain
4 was inflicting. Conscious that your father, with his
high sense of honour, would never have avowed him-
self my lover had he had any suspicion that his pre-
tensions conflicted with those of his friend, I concealed
from him the fact that Mr. Seymour also was at-
taelied to me. Thus matters went on until your
father proposed for and was accepted by me, some-
what to the disappointment of my parents, who would
have preferred my marrying my other admirer, he
being, as regards worldly possessions, by far the more
eligible suitor of the two. When Mr. Seymour learnt
that I was engaged to your father, his usual quiet
nature was roused to an intensity" of bitterness which
would not be appeased. He first sought me, and our
interview was of so painful a character that, even
now, after the lapse of so many years, my mind
shrinks from recalling the details of it. Suffice it to say
that—whilst never forgetting that he was a gentleman
and speaking to a lady—he made me feel how cruelly
I had deceived him. He then sought your father,
whom he overwhelmed with reproaches for what he
termed his perfidy. Blinded by anger he scouted
your father's protestations that until then, he had
been unaware of his friend's attachment. So serious
in fact, was the quarrel that it threatened, at one time,
to end in actual violence, but happily, the matter did
not go so far as this. Still in the bitterness of his
resentment Mr. Seymour rejected all the reconcilia-
t4ry efforts made by your father, and swore never to
look upon his face again. He kept his word,
England almost immediately after his interview
With 'him, and remained abroad for many years.
I believe, indeed, that it is only since the death
V. his uncle that he has returned to this country.
ou can understand now why it is that with the
Painful reminiscences his name necessarily evokes,
you have never heard it from my lips ; you can per-
rive too, Mr. Seymour's object in disputing your
e?acY• It is evident that my offence still rankles in his
Mind, and he strikes at me through you. I will do him
this justice, however ; I believe he has, or thinks he
as, grounds for doubting his uncle's mental capacity
to dispose of his property at the time he made his
will, for when I knew Mr. Seymour be was a man of
rigid honour, and unless he be very much changed
laluee then, he is utterly incapable of making any
eAsertion of the truth of which he is not, in his own
Mind, fully convinced."
, I made no comment upon my mother's narrative;
indeed it would have been unbecoming in a son to do
10; but certainly, by her own admission, she had
treated Mr. Seymour very badly. Nevertheless it
seemed to me that in adopting his present course he
wae taking an ignoble revenge and one unworthy of a
generous nature. But, in arguing in this way, a
Wider experience of life has since taught me, I did
not make sufficient allowance for the circumstance
that a man's mind may—by long brooding over a real,
°r Supposed injury—become so warped and distorted
that he will grasp at any opportunity, fair or unfair,
of punishing the individual whom he believes has
Wronged him. After a few moments pause I said—
How is it that if Mr. Seymour considered himself
so much aggrieved by your treatment of him, his uncle
Showed so little sympathy with his wrongs that he
!_lot only continued his acquaintance with your
family, but actually was godfather to the child of his
nephew's successful rival 1"
"That is explained easily enough," replied my
mo
ther, "Mr. Seymour was a proud man, a very
a
ud_man, and keenly as lie felt my conduct towards
uer
I do not suppose, with the exception of your
--s
diaa_ and myself, he ever breathed a word of the
iiviniLP?intment his affections had sustained to any
for ielt Zing- His uncle was entirely ignorant of it,
had aecom Present at my wedding, and when, after I
period, itnPanied your father to India, he, at a later
father t:arnt that I had a son he offered to be a god-
diePlayed He has, as you are aware, always
legacy he bell
yeollinterest in your welfare, of which the
"Wa clueathed to you is a substantial proof."
Which Mr. s / rejoined, "the cause of the proceedings by
raosnowtdperoarbl
eYinour threatens to upset his uncle's will is
enough, and it leads me io believe that he has,
ba
ybno substantial grounds for endeavour-
big do so,Whiokblid' hat' is acting under a sense of injury
then . to the real facts of the case; under
gxtraYweseekl,ictitoe7 , I shall not hesitate, if the report
ease favourable, 'when I see them
nstrtiet thesis tenaaka -the ,neceasary
legal
atePe to 211PPOrt my claim to the legacy."

I

When I again saw my soliciiors they informed me
that the evidence they had collected from members of
the late Mr. Lawrence's household and others had
been of such a character as to satisfy them that I
might go to law with a fair chance of success,
although, of course, they could not be absolutely con-
fident that the decision of a jury would be in my
favour.

I resolved to follow the advice given me, and at the
expiration of a few months, the case came on for
trial. As frequently occurs on such occasions, there
was a very decided conflict of testimony as to the state
of mind of Mr. Lawrence when he made his will, and
to this issue the suit was confined, the plea of undue in-
fluence being withdrawn, at an early stage of the case,
as utterly untenable. On the whole, the preponder-
ance of the evidence seemed tome to be in my fa.vour,and
the summing-up of the judge was certainly not to my dis-
advantage. Nevertheless, the jury, after being out up-
wards of three hours, returned a verdictagainstthe will.
I was completely stunned by the result of the trial, for,
firmly convinced of the justice of my cause, I had,
With the sanguineness of youth, confidently antici-
pated a decision in my favour. The law costs would
be, I was aware, very heavy; and my own slender
savings, together with those of my mother, had been
swallowed up by the expenses already incurred. To
meet the charges still to be defrayed would require
several bundled pounds at least. The only available
resource to raise the money would be to sell the house
in which my mother and myself lived. The property
was freehold, and had been in our family for several
generations. To part with it would be, I knew, a
severe blow to my mother; still no other alternative
presented itself. It was therefore, with a heavy heart
that I wended my way home and communicated the
events of the day to her. When she had got over the
first shock of the bad tidings I had brought, we spent
some time in discussing our future plans. The next
day but one would be Christmas, and we had accepted
an invitation to dine with some friends in the neigh-
bourhood, but the misfortune we had just sustained
rendered us but little disposed to participate in the
festivities appropriate to the season. We, conse-
quently, decided to excuse ourselves from attending
the dinner party in question, resolving that, as we
should shortly be compelled to leave our old home for
ever, we would, at least, pass the Christmas day in it
together.
The following morning, as there were various
matters to settle with my lawyers, I obtained leave of
absence from my employers and spent some hours in
arranging with my solicitors the-necessary steps to be
taken to raise the money required to meet the costs of
the trial. It was, however, still early in the afternoon
when my business in London was concluded and I
returned hone. With that physical restlessness which
frequently accompanies mental disquietude, I found it
irksome to remain in the house, and, as it would not
be dark for another three or four hours, I set Out for a
long walk. The day was, for the season o ithe year an
unusually fine one, though cold; and there was a,
clear bright sky overhead not often seen in Decem-
ber. I had extended my walk some distance from
home, and had chosen for my stroll the pathway along
the bank of the river, with which I had, from boy-
hood, been familiar. I casually noticed as I passed
one spot that a large old fashioned red brick house,
which had been unoccupied for the last two years or
more, and which had recently been undergoing exten-
sive repairs, appeared at last to have found a tenant,
for smoke was ascending from several of the chimneys.
A little furthur on I met, coming in the opposite
direction, a middle-aged, well-dressed man, accom-
panied by a little girl about six years of age. The
pathway at this part of the river sloped on one side
rather precipitately down to the stream, the child was
running along the verge of the bank and I heard the
gentleman say—
"Do not go so near the water, Lacy."
Scarcely had the words left the speaker's lips than the
child's foot slipped on the soft wet grass and losing her
balance, she fell from the bank into the river. Her
father—for such he evidently was—appeared for the
moment utterly unnerved by the accident, as he rushed
headlong down the bank only to see his little one
borne past him by the rapid current. Not so myself;
familiar with the river from my earliest youth, I was
an expert swimmer, and perfectly at home in the
water. In one moment I had cast from me my hat,
thrown off my heavy overcoat,. and plunged into the
stream. It was icy cold and almost took my breath
away; but, as I rose to the surface, I saw the child,
who was being carried down by the tide, only a
few yards from me. I swam to her, grasped her by
the shoulder, and then, with a few vigorous strokes,
regained the shore. The whole affair was over in less
than three minutes, and the little girl was evidently
more frightened than hurt, for, buoyed up by her
dress, she had not even sunk for the first time. As I
handed her to her father, he said, with emotion—

"HOW can I ever sufficiently thank you for the
very great service you have rendered me?"
"I esteem myself fortunate," I replied, "in having
been so opportunely on the spot. I trust your daughter
will experience no ill effects from her accident. But,
excuse me, I have rather a long walk before me, and
I should like to change my wet clothes as soon as pos-
Bible."
As I spoke, I bowed to my companion, and was
about to bend my steps homeward, when he ex-
claimed—
' " Pardon me ! I cannot permit myself to part thus
with the man who has just saved my child's life. I
I live close here, in the house you see standing back
from the road a little further on. If you will accom-
pany rne „home, you shall be provided with a change of
dress; and afterwards I hope more fittingly to express
my sense of the obligation under which you have laid
me. Pray do not refuse my request," he added, as I
made a gesture of dissent, "I shall be much pained if
you do so.'
These words were spoken so earnestly, and with
such evident sincei ity, that I felt it would be churlish
on my part to offer any further opposition to accepting
the proffered hospitality of my new acquaintance,
although the trouble weighing upon my mind rendered
me but little disposed for other companionship than
my own sad thoughts.
We walked in silence to the house indicated, which
was the one of which I have already spoken. As my
companion and myself entered the mansion he desired
the footman who opened the door to send one of the
chambermaids •to him. When the young woman
made her appearance, my host gave instructions for
the ohild to have a warm bath, and directed that after-
wards she should remain in bed for the remainder of
the day. Then, turning to me, he said:
"You will, I am sure, excuse my daughter claim-
•ing my first consideration: she is rather a delicate
child, and if she have taken a severe cold, the conse-
quences may prove serious. John," he continued to
the man-servant, who had returned to the room and
was awaiting his orders, " show this gentleman into
one of the spare bedrooms and provide him with a
change of apparel. "I am stouter than you are," he
added, again addressing me; "but we are about the
same height, and I think that my clothes will very
nearly fit you. When you have made your toilet, you
will find me in the drawing-room, and I hope we shall
then become better acquainted."
I bowed in silence to this last observation, and fol-
lowed the footman to the chamber placed at my dis-
posal, which was a large and handsomely-furnished
apartment. Indeed, from what I had so far seen of
the house, it was evident that the owner of it was a
man of wealth and refinement.

When I had changed my dress I descended to the
drawing-room, where I found my host awaiting me.
He courteously motioned me to a seat, saying as he
did so—
"May I inquire the name of the gentleman to whom
I am so deeply indebted?"
"Egerton," I replied, " Horace Egerton."
As I spoke a slight shade passed over the face of my
companion.
"The name is one," he rejoined, "which for many
reasons has not hitherto been grateful to my ears. In
future, however, the associations connected with it
will be of a more agreeable character."
I was not a little surprised at this odd remark, but
made no comment upon it. Deeming it only proper
on my part to afford the gentleman of whom I was
the guest evidence of my respectability, I continued
the conversation by saying—
"My father, the late George Egerton, was for many
years in the service of the East India Company, and I
myself hold an appointment in the establishment of
Messrs. C— and Co., a firm in the City, trading
with China and the East."
As I
disturbed uttered these words my host appeared much
.
"Can it be !" he ejaculated in disjointed sentences,
as if unconscious of my presence. "But, no; it is not
probable. And yet there is a resemblance—" Then
breaking off his soliloquy abruptly, he continued,
addressing me. "Pardon the apparent indelicacy of
the question, but I have a motive for making the
inquiry, which I will presently explain to you. What
was your mother's maiden name?'
" Merton !" I replied. " Caroline Merton !"

No sooner had the name passed my lips than my
companion turned very pale. For a moment or two
he was silent, and then slowly, and with evident
effort, said—
"l never expected to see the day when your father's
son would stand beneath my roof." - - . _

Already a vague premonition of the identity of
the individual before me had formed itself in my
mind and this last observation of his confirmed my
suzp!cions.
Rising from my seat I exclaimed.
"You are then—"

-
" Charles Seymour " was the response before I
could complete the sentence. " Yes, Mr. Egerton,
I am the man who yesterday won the law-suit in
which you were my opponent and thus punished
indirectly at least, one of the two human beings who
in early life most cruelly wronged me." Rising
passion showed itself in every lineament as he con-
tinued. You do not know my story, possibly, I will
tell it to you. Your father was once my dearest
friend. First, schoolmates at Eton, and then, later,
fellow collegians at Cambridge, for years we were
almost inseparable companions. When, as young men,
we entered life together I waa rich, he poor ; and I
neglected no opportunity of promoting his advance-
ment. My purse and my interest were ever at his dis-
posal. The very appointment he obtained in India
he owed to the influence of my family. And how
did he repay me. Why, by robbing me of the woman
I loved." The speaker paused for an instant and
then added bitterly " I can say with Shakespeare I
would you had told me of another father.'"
"Something of what you now tell me I have already
heard," I said, coldly; "but whatever the wrongs you
have to complain of at my father's hands methinks you
might have buried them in his grave. In any case it
does not become his son to listen to the recital of them.
I feel how unwelcome must be my presence in this
house, and I relieve you of it. I need scarcely add
that I. should never have crossed your threshold had I
for one moment conjectured whose hospitality I was
accepting."
As I finished cpeaking, I proceeded to leave the
room. Mr. Seymour exclaimed as I did so—
" Stay ! stay! I have been too hasty. I would
not part thus with the preserver of my child. Let me
speak further with you!
I Made no reply, put bowing coldly, I passed quickly
from the apartment, down the stairs, and out of the
house, I walked briskly home, but it was quite

dark when I got there, and my mother had
begun to feel alarmed at my prolonged absence.
I related the adventure I had met with, so far
as the rescue of the child was concerned; but did
not mention the name of her father, aware that any
allusion to Mr. Seymour must necessarily awaken
painful reminiscences. I simply stated that the little
girl proved to be the daughter of the present tenant of
the old mansion my mother and myself had often
noticed during our summer walks by the banks of the
river. I added that he had kindly lent me a change
of clothes, which I intended to return to him the fol-
lowing morning.

Early the next day I made up a parcel containing
the garments lent me, and despatched it (by the
gardener's boy), with a formal note of acknowledgment,
to Mr. Seymour.
In less than an hour afterwards, and before the lad
had time to return I was not a little surprised to see
from the window of the front drawing-room in which I
was seated with my mother, a close carriage drive up
to the door, the occupant of which, when he alighted,
proved to be Mr. Seymour. My mother also saw him,
but the lapse of upwards of a quarter of a century had
made such changes in the personal appearance of her
former admirer that she did not recognise him. She
simply said—
"A visitor, and at this hour, on such a day as this
Surely it must be a mistake!"

_
Scarcely had she spoken than our maid-servant
entered the room and announced that the gentleman
who had just called and who was then in the parlour
had desired her to say that he particularly solicited an
interview with me.

My mother exclaimed, "What can this person pos-
sibly want with you, Horace? If his business be con-
nected with our unfortunate law-suit, it might wait
methinks, until after to-day, Christmas Day, at all
events."

"The gentleman" I replied, "is the father of the
little girl of whom I spoke last night. It is a strange
time to call, but I suppose I cannot very well refuse
to see him."

"Certainly not," rejoined my mother. "If he be,
as you conjecture, a man of position in society, it may
be to your advantage to cultivate his acquaintance,
since it might be in his power to promote your advance-
ment in life."

"That is scarcely probable," I thought. "His
former exertions on behalf of a member of our family
hardly met with such a return as to lead him to try
the experiment a second time." I made no reply,
however, to my mother's nhEtArvsainn, but quitting the
apartment, I descended to the parlour, where I
found Mr. Seymour standing by the mantel-piece.
The terms on which we had parted had been such as
to render our meeting on this occasion embarrassing
to both parties, but, of course, far more so to my
visitor than to myself, since upon him devolved the
task of taking the initiative in the conversation.

"Mr. Egerton," he said, as I bowed distantly to
him, "I feel that I owe you an apology for the manner
in which I spoke to you, yesterday, of your father;
and lam here to offer it. In the first surprise of dis-
covering who you were, old recollections pressed them-
selves upon my mind, and I expressed myself with
what, under the circumstances, was unpardonable
warmth, for I should not have forgotten that you had
just saved the life of my only child. It is not a
pleasant thing for a man of my years to admit to one
young enough to be his son, that he is in the wrong;
Ido so. Frankly, I have come to ask your pardon
and to express a hope that we may be better friends
in future."

As Mr. Seymour uttered these words there was a
dignity and at the same time, a frankness and
cordiality in his manner which so strongly impressed
me that I instinctively grasped his proffered hand.
He seemed touched by the readiness with which I had
met his advances; and there was silence between us
for a few moments, which he broke by saying :
"Is your mother aware that I am here?"
"No," I replied, "she knows that I have a
visitor, but she is ignorant who it is."
"I should like to see her," rejoined Mr. Seymour,
"if you think you she would not regard my presence
here as an intrusion."
Before I could reply my mother entered the room
on some domestic business. She bowed slightly to Mr.
Seymour, as to a perfect stranger, and was unlooking
the cheffonier which ctood near the window, when my
guest suddenly exclaimed—
"Caroline—Mrs. Egerton, Ishould say—do you not
remember me?"
At the sound of the voice which had been so
familiar to her ears, my mother started slightly, but
recovering her self-possession instantly, she said
courteously, although distantly—
" Pray accept my apologies, Mr. Seymour. It is so
many years since we last met that I did not imme-
diately recognise you. May I inquire to what circum-
stance I am indebted for your presence here to-day?"
Then recollecting that I had informed her that my
visitor was the father of the little girl I had saved
from drowning the previous afternoon, she added "Is
it possible that it was your daughter whose life Horace
preserved?"
" Even so ! " was the respon,e,
aware of it?"

" Were you not

" No ; Horace told me that a child had fallen into
he river, and that he had rescued her; but he did not
ay who her father was." _ _

-"Being mine," rejoined Mr. Seymour, "my object
in presenting myself here to•day has been to express,
more suitably than I had an opportunity of doing at
the time, my sense of the service your son has
rendered MP."

"Indeed !" said my mother, with some bitterness in
her tone, the recollection of our lost law-suit rankling
in her mind. "You are very good."

"Yes," replied Mr. Seymour, "and I trust that
you will on this day—a day that should be one of
peace and goodwill—consent to bury in oblivion the
memory of our former differences. Let me add—for
I can conjecture what is passing in your mind—that
notwithstanding the question of the validity of my
uncle's will has been decided in my favour, it is my
intention that your son shall be no loser by the result
of the trial. I shall give instructions at once, to my
solicitors to pay him the lgAcy in full, and will myself
bear the costs of the suit."
• 1.-oa.
"Not 80 1" I interposed, "I am grateful
for your generous offer, but I cannot consent to accept
as a gift what I believed myself entitled to claim as a
right."
"And will you," said Mr. Seymour earnestly,
"from a sentiment of pride, inflict on me the pain of
knowing that you have refused to accept at my hands
—the hands of the man the life of whose only child
you have saved—a partial atonement for the wrong,
he has, he fears, done you ? "
"'Wrong ! " I exclaimed, with some surprise.
"Yes, wrong," was the response; "for although as
originally advised, I had every reason to believe that
my uncle was of unsound mind (I had not myself seen
him for some considerable time previous to his decease
having resided for many years on the continent), yet
the evidence produced at the trial was of so conflicting
a character, that I even then regretted that I had
taken the course I had done. Indeed, no one was
more surprised at the nature of the verdict than
myself, for there being a doubt, I felt that you should
have had the benefit of it. It is not then a gift that I
proffer, but a reparation that I seek to make. Will
you not," he continued, turning to my mother, "join
with me in persuading your son to reconsider his
decision."

My mother at this appeal said—
" Horace, I think that, under the circumstances,
and considering the very handsome manner in which
Mr. Seymour has expressed his regret for the past,
you ought not longer to decline acceding to his re-
quest."
"The advantages to myself of embracing the pro
posal are obvious," I replied, "and my hesitation in
doing so has arisen solely from a feeling that it might
involve a sacrifice of principle to self-interest. How-
ever, after what Mr. Seymour has just stated I con-
sider myself justified in accepting his offer."
"That is right!" exclaimed Mr. Seymour, grasping
my hand warmly as he spoke. "Your last words have
removed a weight from my mind. And now let us
speak of something else."
The conversation then turnect upon other topics,
and I learnt incidentally that our guest was a widower,
having lost his wife some four years previously, and
that his establishment was presided over by his sister.
Before he took his leave he had extended an invitation
to my. mother and myself to dine at his house the
followmg.week, which we had accepted.
After Mr. Seymour had gone, my mother expressed
her gratification at the result of his visit. She
added—

"It is evident that—independent of the fact that
you have saved his daughter's life—he has taken a
decided liking to you, and I feel confident will seek to
promote your interests by every means in his power."
This, indeed, proved subsequently to be the case,
as will presently appear.
We dined alone that Christmas day, but we were
very happy notwithstanding, for all our gloomy anti-
cipations for the future had been dispelled. I could
scarcely realise, in fact, the difference that a few
short hours had made in our position and prospects.
Not only should we not be obliged to leave our old
home, but my legacy would add considerably to our
income. The walk I had taken the previous day had
proved a lucky one indeed for me; and I could not
help reflecting by what mere accident the whole
current of our future lives may frequently be
directed.
When my mother and mySelf paid our promised
visit to Mr. Seymour, I found that there resided with
him, also, the daughter of his sister (who was a widow),
a young lady about nineteen years of age. Julia Somers
was a lovely girl ,and subsequent acquaintance revealed
to me that she was as amiable in disposition as she
was charming in person. Briefly, before many months
had elapsed I was much in love with her, and she, on
her part, I had the happiness of knowing, reciprocated
my regard. Mr. Seymour when he discovered the
state of affairs, acted with characteri,tic kindness. He
not only signified his approval of my suit, but he
strongly interceded with his sister on my behalf. The
latter being unwilling to give her consent to my marry-
ing her daughter on the ground that I occupied only a
subordinate position in a commercial house, her
brother at once proposed to advance the capital re-
quisite for me to establish myself in business on m
own account. He did so; I prospered in my under-
taking; and Julia became ray wife,
Thus the Christmas Day which had seemed at one
time destined to be one of the unhappiest epochs of
my life had not only proved in its immediate incidents
to be one of the happiest; but its ultimate results had
been more favourable than my most sanguine hopes
could have anticipated. I had, indeed, every cause
to remember the lucky hour in which my doors had,
on that eventful occasion, opened to receive my
CHRISTMAS VISITOR.

The Director General of the Italian telegraphs, has
published a statistical account for last year of the lines
under his control. The total length of the telegraphs in the
kingdom at the end of 1880 was 25,114 kilometres, showing
an increase of 581_ kilometres in 12 months. The total
length.„: of wires was 85,733 kilometres, against 84,101 kilo-
metre' Theinunbtf of telegranis for the tear was 6,163,200
or 628,278 more than in 1879.