xteen, few would have
recognised in the boisterous stripling, with swaggering gait and eyes
already lustreless, the once lovely boy, whose childish years had given
the fair promise of a golden future.

Choosing for himself companions rife for mischief and folly, on leaving
school he indulged in those pursuits, from which, though most congenial,
he had been greatly debarred during his seclusion. Now he began, as he
termed it, to enjoy life. Each evening he sought the exciting scenes of
revelry and debauch, and neither his father's stern reproaches nor the
tearful pleadings of his mother, moved him to more than a passing
thought of the ruin which he was inevitably working out for himself. But
when his constitution had become weakened by excesses, there came into
his life influences that were mighty in their gentle drawing towards all
that was good and noble.

While yet a young man, he met, at the house of a friend, a lady of
strong religious tendencies. Strongly drawn to her by the attraction of
a well-balanced mind and a beautiful exterior, he resolved, if possible,
to win her affections. So great was her influence upon him, that, for a
time, the force of evil habits lost its power, and other society was
readily relinquished for hers, and the house of God beheld him an
outwardly reverent worshipper at her side. Alas! that one so influenced
by the power of human love should have missed those gracious impressions
which, made on the tender heart of childhood, so often prove the good
seed of the Kingdom, springing up into life eternal.

In thus taking upon himself the profession of Christianity, Roland was
no hypocrite. He had seen the beauty and acknowledged the power of a
life that was far above him, and from his heart he loathed the life he
had hitherto led, and earnestly desired to put it away for ever. But
strong only in his own strength, and looking to no higher power than
earthly love to aid him in his upward course, what marvel that he
deceived himself and others also. With his heart's desire at length
accomplished, and with renewed prospects of a bright future, Roland West
might have retrieved the dark past, and entered upon a career of
usefulness, such as had been fondly pictured for him. Was it so? Let one
scene, after a lapse of twelve years, tell its sorrowful tale.

In a cottage in one of the crowded suburbs of London, a pale,
anxious-looking mother was alternately sewing and directing the studies
of a fine