IN the days of King James the Second, there lived at Burnley Manor "a right loyal gentleman," as he was called at that period. His ancestors, from time immemorial, had lived in the old house. I need not go through the long pedigree, to show how one of the "Burnleighs of Burnleigh" had been to the Holy Land (was not his long red-cross shield hanging up in the old ball?) or how one of them sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh, or how, in later years, Geoffry Burnley was killed at the battle of Naseby that fatal fight, when so many noble English families perished. Burnley's son, concealed by the friendship of a Puritan called Crane, who lived at Burnley, had returned to his estates at the time of the Restoration, and, in turn, extended his protection to Crane's son, who was nearly suffering imprisonment. One would have thought that such mutual kindness would have bound their descendants together for ever; but, as will be seen hereafter, avarice stepped in, and broke up friendship that promised to be so lasting.

The Burnley we last mentioned married a lady of good family, who bore him one son. While the merrymaking and carousing were going on at the Manor House for the birth of the heir, the wife of the rescued Crane died in giving birth to a male child. The two infants thus ushered into the world on the same day, and almost at the same hour, seemed as if born to be playmates and friends-a still stronger

tie between the two families-but fate had destined them to play a different part in the great drama of life. Young Cyril Burnley and Roger Crane went to the same school, where the latter soon outstripped his schoolmate, not less in learning than in intelligence, for Cyril was an easy, quiet lad, not remarkable for shrewdness. His friends called him a "good-natured fellow," that being the euphuism for the epithet "fool," accorded him by his enemies; while Roger, far from being a "fool," inclined a little more to the "knave." After spending some time at school, the two youths went to Oxford, where Cyril entered at Christ Church, while Roger obtained a scholarship at the neighbouring Hall of Broadgates, which some before had been raised to the dignity of a college. Here he progressed rapidly, and after leaving college, became a studious Templar.

time

Cyril led a jolly life at Oxford, but was at length expelled by the college authorities for some irregularity-I believe, for a dispute with a Puritan Doctor of Divinity, which ended in his flooring the worthy divine-after which exploit he retired to his native village, and, his father being dead, began the life of a country squire. About the same time Crane, having arrived at the dignity of a "Counsellor," came down to Burnley, and from that period our history com

mences.

Discords and dissensions soon began, and King James was driven from his

throne, and in the struggles and troubles that followed, Cyril was suspected of assisting the celebrated Dundee. Certain it is that he raised a small body of men, and disappeared from the neighbourhood, only reappearing some time after the fatal battle of Killiekrankie, when, with the shattered remnants of his followers, he returned to Burnley; but the few who went with him on that secret expedition were tried, and faithful, and kept their own counsel, so that, in spite of the lectures and cross-questionings of their respective wives, the truth was never elicited, and, though dangerously compromised, Cyril escaped unpunished.

But his heart was with King James, and not to be behind his ancestors in loyalty, he determined not to take the oath of fealty to the usurper, as he invariably called William of Orange.

He was not a man of great moral courage, so he laid a plan by which he might escape an open refusal, and yet satisfy his conscience-he was sensible enough to see that open resistance was useless, and there was no hope left for James.

In the year 1688, then, or the year following, Cyril, while in London, fell in with William Penn, the well-known Quaker. Penn about this time was suffering for his close friendship with the exiled King. Four several times was he carried before King William in council, and accused of being in secret correspondence with James. His own people cried out against him as a Romanist, nay, as a Jesuit in disguise-and numerous rumours of the most horrible description were circulated about him. Cyril was irresistibly attracted towards him by his real goodness and sterling worth, which all the calumnies in the world could not destroy. He communicated his difficulties, and Penn advised him, rather unwisely, perhaps, to start for the new colony on the banks of the Delaware. After talking it over, Cyril returned to Burnley, and sent down early on the morning after his arrival to beg Roger Crane to come up, as he had important business to communicate to him.

A close friendship still existed between the two, although the Puritan seldom visited the Manor House, for the jolly life of the Cavalier, and his

revelries and merry-makings, were hardly suited to his taste.

We will take a look at Cyril while he is waiting for Crane in the little library, for, although the former thought it necessary to have a library, seeing that he had been a magistrate and justice of the peace under King James, he adorned the walls with only just enough books to give it a right to that title; and, of those books most were works of no very justiciary weight-Philip Sidney's "Arcadia," "The Faerie Queene," a mighty gathering of jovial Cavalier song books, with a scanty, very scanty, sprinkling of sermons, most of them being upon the King's Supremacy. Cyril had now grown a fine man, just in the prime of life; his long dark hair hung in curls upon his shoulders, for he despised the idea of a wig; his moustache had in it a slight tinge of auburn, that contrasted well with his black love-locks. His face was marked, not disfigured, by a scarcely-healed scar that he had brought back with him from the mysterious expedition we have mentioned. He was tall, and straight, though his stout, well-formed limbs took away slightly from his height.

Very different was the figure that now entered the room. Roger Crane, although of the same age as Cyril, seemed twenty years his senior. His figure was bowed with long study, and deep furrows and lines, arising from the same cause, did not add beauty to a face that in itself was not pleasant. His hair was already grizzled, and his figure was lean and spare. At his knee toddled a little girl of about five years of age-his daughter for Roger was married, and though folks said he was a cruel husband, and a hard lawyer, it would have been difficult to have found a more kind and loving father.

Putting the child on a chair, whence she could look out of the window down a long avenue of elms, where the little grey rabbits kept darting about from among the ferns on either side of the drive, Roger seated himself in an arm-chair, and waited for Cyril to speak.

Cyril was striding up and down with a sort of desperate air, whistling the tune of one of his favourite songs, the first verse of which ran as follows:

The stars were winking in the sky,
And the moon went dancing along,
When we fell on the Roundhead rebel's
camp,

Full fifteen hundred strong.

Come carol us a carol oh! *
The Roundheads to the devil go,
And God save our good King!

Suddenly recollecting that perhaps Crane might not relish the ditty, he stopped short, threw himself into a chair, and filling a glass of claret, tossed it off, and began business.

'Roger, old friend, I've made up my mind to leave the old country. Odds fish, man! do you think that after swearing fealty to our good King James-whom God restore to his throne say I-I can turn about, weather-cock fashion, and bow down to a fat Dutch herring. Phsaw !" he continued, as he saw that Crane was about to protest against this abuse of William of Orange; "I do not often run a-tilt at your prejudices, but I must have my say out now, and you must e'en bear with me this once, for you may never see me again. While I was staying in London, I fell in with the worthy Penn, and have made up my mind to set out for his settlement, that he has named after him-Pennsylvania. Now seeing, Roger, that I have neither chit nor child, I bethought me of the old friendship of our families; and, albeit, since we left Oxford you have seldom come up here, still I have much friendship for my old college friend, and respect your scruples, though odd's life! I cannot see iniquity in cracking a joke, or a bottle of claret, or sin in singing a roaring song. But let that pass, old friend, we have all our hobbies. So now to tell you why I required to see you. Seeing, as I have said, that I have no children, I have determined to leave my estates in your hands, if you will undertake the charge, until I either settle down in the new country, as is most probable, or return to England. I will not insult you, old friend, by offering to pay you as a steward, but do you live on the income of the property as it falls in. Bring up your wife and youngster, and live here. By my soul! the old house wants some piety to air it, for

it has been the scene of roystering and mirth these many long years. Well, what say you Roger? Will you undertake the trouble on these conditions ?"

"In sooth, Cyril Burnley," answered Roger, "sith you wish it to bethough I like not the thought of being an hireling."

"Pish, man," interrupted the Cavalier; "I do not ask thee to do so, but I had rather an old friend lived in my father's house, than a stranger or a steward, who would defraud me of the moneys that I offer you as a gift. So no more words to the bargain. If you will get ready your chattels, the house shall be vacant to-morrow at sunset."

So saying, Cyril shook Crane by the hand, who, seeing that the other seemed to wish to say no more on the subject, did not oppose him longer. The Cavalier, having called together his servants, told them that he was about to set out for a far country, and amply paid them their wages, thanking them for their good services. There was many a moist eye among them, for rough and hotheaded though he was, there never breathed a kinder or better master. So the domestics packed up their baggage, and departed to their homes.

The next day, Cyril and the Counsellor were walking up and down the avenue in deep conversation. Cyril now spoke more freely, and, the first plunge taken, seemed able to think and act more freely.

"There is much to be feared, mind you," said Roger; "tis marvellous unhealthy, this same America they tell me, where there be numbers of savage beasts, besides savage men, of which there be tribes, and exceeding fierce, too, for did they not kill my worthy uncle Joash Wax-confident-inbonds, who went forth among them to preach the Gospel."

"A man must die somewhere, and at some time," said Cyril, "and the bare idea of danger gives a smack to life, like the lemons in a rousing bowl of punch; besides, too, if I like it not, I shall return, and if aught brings me back, why, I shall know where to

find you, and will relieve you of the cares of the stewardship."

"But you may never return, Cyril Burnley.

"Well, if I do not, then you may have the lands, and welcome, for of all the world I shall then want barely six feet of earth, and I may not want even that if I be eaten by the savages, which, they tell me, be mighty eaters of human flesh."

So, with a laugh, Cyril strapped the little valise (containing the money he intended to take with him), to the saddle-bow of his horse, which was just led out from the stable. Flinging himself on its back, he shook Roger warmly by the hand, and rode off at full speed, followed by a servant leading the horse that bore the rest of his baggage.

Cyril did not turn back for a last glance he could not trust himself to look again on his ancestral home. If he had turned he would have seen little, for in spite of his forced gaiety, there was a dimness before his eyes that might almost have been called

tears.

Without any adventure, Cyril reached London, and there embarked on board the John Key, a ship called after the first child born at the settlement of Philadelphia, who died, in 1767, an old man of eighty-five, having gone all his life by the name of First Born.

After a long and tedious voyage, the vessel at length reached the Delaware, and sailing up, dropped anchor off the rising colony of Philadelphia. Here Cyril landed, and here we will leave him.

The old Puritan settled down at Burnley Manor, and brought his child to dwell there-and the house became so familiar to him, that he looked upon it as his own, and forgot all about Cyril Burnley.

CHAPTER II.

YEARS passed by, and Roger, perhaps too readily believing Cyril to be dead, began to act as Lord of the Manor, altering and improving, selling, buying and exchanging at his own pleasure. While this was going on, poor Penn had been brought into disgrace by the false accusations of Fuller, and after years of neglect was only just reinstated in the King's

favour and restored to his government. In the meantime, Cyril had found out how sadly he erred in coming to the settlement. He had bought a farm, which he did not know how to manage, and which, after a struggle of many long years, he was obliged to give up, broken in health and fortunes.

During the first year after his arrival at Philadelphia, he began to discover that the customs of the rigidly simple and often fanatic inhabitantsfor the most part men who, for religious reasons had sought a new home -were little calculated to suit a roystering cavalier; so after vainly seeking for companious after his own heart, he took unto himself a wife, the daughter of a worthy old Dutchman, who parted with her for the slight consideration of a hogshead of tobacco. She, however, did not survive these nuptials many years.

For some years before her death the farm had been going fast to rack, so at last the Cavalier, with a sigh, turned his back upon the settlement, and set out with an only son for England.

Few would have recognised in him the fine hearty man who came there from the old world. Indeed, one or two of the inhabitants confided as much to each other, as they watched him going off to the ship, as the vessel unfolded her white wings, and rounded the woody Cape. Poor Cyril! his hair was grey, and, in contrast to his face, tanned by exposure to the sun, seemed almost white. His limbs were shrunk and wasted, and he had lost his former erect carriage in a fever through which the homely, affectionate little Dutchwoman had nursed him with unceasing

care.

When he reached London, Cyril left his little son in the care of the innkeeper's wife, and travelled with all speed to Burnley. It was a hot summer's day, and Roger Crane was seated at the open library window, watching his two girls tending the flowers on the lawn; for the ferns on either side of the avenue were gone, and with them the timid rabbits that used to flit among them. It was now a trim lawn, dotted over with quaintlyshaped beds filled with gorgeous flowers.

Suddenly a figure sprang in at the window, and before Crane could distinguish who it was, his hand was seized in a firm grasp, and a voice

that he knew only too well, altered though it was, exclaimed

"God bless you, Roger! God bless you! it is a comfort to see an old wellknown face again. Odslife, but you're little changed with all these long years. Art tired of the stewardship? I have come to relieve you, for I have lost every farthing I had in that infernal old psalm-singing settlement, so I have come back to end my days in peace in the home of my childhood. But you shall not budge, man, there's room enough for us all, and your wife must be a mother to my boy, for I've been married, old friend, since I saw you last," and here his voice began to falter; "poor heart, she was a good woman, God bless her. But, by my soul, Roger!"-he exclaimed, observing the cold look of astonishment with which Crane regarded him, "don't you remember me? Cyril, Cyril Burnley! your old friend! surely you've not forgotten ?"

"In good sooth, no, my good man,” said Crane, "I cannot have forgotten you in that I never knew you; and let me tell you that if you think to act Cyril Burnley, you will not find me very ready of belief."

Burnley stood aghast. At first he thought Crane was joking, but there was that in his tone which showed him to be in earnest. At length he found words to speak.

"Roger Crane, for Heaven's sake don't jest with me!"

"Jest! sirrah! I advise you to beware how you carry your jest farther. If you do not get hence I will soon make you

The truth began to dawn upon Cyril; he pressed him again and again, until at length Crane exclaimed

"You must produce your papers. Doubtless you will find many living who will recognise in you the fine, hearty, roystering Burnley, of Burnley."

"Heartless wretch" exclaimed Cyril. "Now I can see your coldblooded villainy; you know as God is judge between us, that I trusted my lands to you, as I would to my mother's son. I know that friendless and penniless as I am, I have no hope left. You may rob the son of your father's preserver of his birthright, but mark me, your ill-got riches shall not prosper you!"

He was gone; but before his sha

dow had passed from the room, Roger Crane had fallen senseless to the ground: whether it was the excitement or the terror of that interview, or whether it was a direct punishment from Heaven, no one can tell; but from that hour one half of his body, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, was dead-paralyzed.

Cyril went to London, and, embarking with his young son, he sought a home in Holland among his wife's kindred; and it was there on his deathbed, some years after, that he imparted to his son the facts that our readers are already acquainted with.

This son, Hugh, grew up into a fine youth, and obtained a commission in one of the Dutch regiments, where he passed by the name of Börnhagh. The thought struck him that in Captain Börnhagh, the young Dutch officer, few people would recognise the son of Cyril Burnley, of Burnley; so with all the romance of youth he determined to visit the place that should have been his own, and try to recover the estates which his father, worn out by long troubles and age, had too easily despaired of recovering.

For a long time after Cyril's departure, Crane had been fearful lest he should strive to recover his estates, or perhaps, attempt to take personal vengeance. Conscience was not still, and the worm that never dies was not asleep, and the old man, as he went trailing one half of his body a dead weight about with him, would often curse himself and his fate, and long for death to release him from his sufferings.

His only delight was in his daughters; the younger, a fair, delicate-looking girl, quiet and meek, yet, as she proved afterwards, not without a little of her father's determined spirit, when roused. The elder was a dark beauty, but her features hore an unpleasant resemblance to her father, as, indeed, did her character, for she was proud, and fierce, and unflinching, and if she was not wicked like him it was only because she had had no opportunity of being so. As time wore on, blindness was added to old Crane's other afflictions, and then his daughters became his only solace. They read to him, saug to him, and played to him, and became so necessary to his existence that the selfish old man would hardly suffer them to go out of his