Part 33 (2/2)

But so, indeed, it was.

Ambition--well guided--is a n.o.ble thing. All my three heroes were ambitious. Harvey's ambition, perhaps, was tinctured with some degree of pride. He fought long and manfully for fortune, and when he fell, he had the grace to own it. Kenneth's and Archie's ambition was more to be admired, and I love the man or boy who has a feeling of independence in his breast, and who, if he should fail in one line of life, turns cheerfully to another, with a determination to do his duty, and never give up. Dost remember the lines of the good poet Tupper? They are better than many a hymn, and may help to cheer you in hours when life seems dark and hopeless.

”Never give up! It is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair; Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter, And break the dark spell of tyrannical Care.

Never give up! or the burden may sink you, Providence kindly has mingled the cup; And in all trials and troubles, bethink you, The watchword of life must be, Never give up!

Never give up, there are chances and changes, Helping the hopeful, a hundred to one, And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges Ever success,--if you'll only hope on.

Never give up! for the wisest is boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup, And of all maxims the best, as the oldest, Is the true watchword of Never give up.”

Yes, ambition is a n.o.ble thing; yet it should not be a selfish ambition.

Blessed is he who works and toils and struggles for the happiness of the ma.s.ses, as well as for his own. Has not He Who spoke as never man spake left us a glorious example to follow--follow, if only afar off?

But now let us take a peep into the tartan parlour of Alva House, a peep at the fireside life of young Laird McGregor, on this quiet autumnal afternoon.

When we were introduced into this same parlour, we found it the scene of a revel, over which it is as well to draw the curtain of oblivion.

But now, here are seated Harvey McGregor and his young wife. Yes, he is married, and a babe has come to bless him, too.

Near the fire, in a high-backed chair, is Harvey's mother. She looks very contented, and there are smiles chasing each other all round her lips and eyes.

But where, think you, is baby? On his mother's lap, you say? Nay, but positively on his father's knee--his father, the quondam rover of the sea and the prairies.

It is somewhat absurd, I grant you, but there is no getting over facts.

Sometimes brave soldiers or sailors make the best of fireside folks, when they _do_ settle down.

And Harvey McGregor is not only nursing his young heir, but he is actually nodding at him and talking sweet nonsense to him, while baby crows, and Harvey's wife looks on delightedly.

So busily are all engaged that they do not hear the hall door bell ring, nor know anything at all about its being rung either, until suddenly a Highland servant enters with two cards on a tray.

Harvey hands baby to his mother in some confusion--I'm not at all sure he did not blush a little; but no sooner has he taken the cards and read them, than he jumps up from his chair as if a hornet had stung him.

”Hurrah!” he cries.

”Dear me, Harvey! what is it?” his wife exclaims.

”Nothing, my dear,” says Harvey; ”that is--it is everything, I mean. It is joy in the house of McGregor. Hurrah!”

And away he rushes, leaving his wife and mother to wonder.

They were in the library, the pair of them. They had not even sat down, because they knew Harvey would soon come.

And they were not mistaken.

”Why, Kenneth! Archie!” he cried, extending a hand to each, ”my dear old s.h.i.+pmates, 'pals,' and partners, how are you?”

”Took you by surprise, eh?” replied Kenneth, laughing.

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