Eric, or Little by Little | Page 5

arms of his little brother Vernon. Who shall describe the
emotions of those few moments? they did not seem like earthly
moments; they seemed to belong not to time, but to eternity.
The first evening of such a scene is too excited to be happy. The little
party at Fairholm retired early, and Eric was soon fast asleep with his
arm round his new-found brother's neck.
Quiet steps entered the chamber, and noiselessly the father and mother
sat down by the bedside of their children. Earth could have shown no
scene more perfect in its beauty than that which met their eyes. The
pure moonlight flooded the little room, and showed distinctly the forms
and countenances of the sleepers, whose soft regular breathing was the
only sound that broke the stillness of the July night. The small shining
flower-like faces, with their fair hair--the trustful loving arms folded
round each brother's neck--the closed lids and parted lips-- made an
exquisite picture, and one never to be forgotten. Side by side, without a
word, the parents knelt down, and with eyes wet with tears of
joyfulness, poured out their hearts in passionate prayer for their young
and beloved boys.
Very happily the next month glided away; a new life seemed opened to
Eric in the world of rich affections which had unfolded itself before
him. His parents--above all, his mother--were everything that he had
longed for; and Vernon more than fulfilled to his loving heart the ideal
of his childish fancy. He was never tired of playing with and
patronising his little brother, and their rambles by stream and hill made

those days appear the happiest he had ever spent. Every evening (for
having lived all his life at home, he had not yet laid aside the habits of
early childhood) he said his prayers by his mother's knee; and at the
end of one long summer's day, when prayers were finished, and full of
life and happiness he lay down to sleep, "Oh, mother," he said, "I am so
happy--I like to say my prayers when you are here."
"Yes, my boy, and God loves to hear them."
"Aren't there some who never say prayers, mother?"
"Very many, love, I fear."
"How unhappy they must be! I shall always love to say my prayers."
"Ah, Eric, God grant that you may."
And the fond mother hoped he always would. But these words often
came back to Eric's mind in later and less happy days--days when that
gentle hand could no longer rest lovingly on his head--when those mild
blue eyes were dim with tears, and the poor boy, changed in heart and
life, often flung himself down with an unreproaching conscience to
prayer-less sleep.
It had been settled that in another week Eric was to go to school in the
Isle of Roslyn. Mr Williams had hired a small house in the town of
Ellan, and intended to stay there for his year of furlough, at the end of
which period Vernon was to be left at Fairholm, and Eric in the house
of the head-master of the school. Eric enjoyed the prospect of all things,
and he hardly fancied that Paradise itself could be happier than a life at
the sea-side with his father and mother and Vernon, combined with the
commencement of schoolboy dignity. When the time for the voyage
came, his first glimpse of the sea, and the sensation of sailing over it
with only a few planks between him and the deep waters, struck him
silent with admiring wonder. It was a cloudless day; the line of blue sky
melted into the line of blue wave, and the air was filled with sunlight.
At evening they landed, and the coach took them to Ellan. On the way
Eric saw for the first time the strength of the hills, so that when they

reached the town and took possession of their cottage, he was dumb
with the inrush of new and marvellous impressions.
Next morning he was awake early, and jumping out of bed, so as not to
disturb the sleeping Vernon, he drew up the window-blind, and gently
opened the window. A very beautiful scene burst on him, one destined
to be long mingled with all his most vivid reminiscences. It had been
too dark on their arrival the evening before to get any definite
impression of their residence, so that this first glimpse of it filled him
with delighted surprise. Not twenty yards below the garden, in front of
the house, lay Ellan Bay, at that moment rippling with golden laughter
in the fresh breeze of sunrise. On either side of the bay was a bold
headland, the one stretching out in a series of broken crags, the other
terminating in a huge mass of rock, called