It is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Reade Reade

came these two honest men to forget that the blood they proposed to shed was thicker than water? Was it the farm, money, agricultural dissension, temper? They would have told you it was, and perhaps thought it was. It was Susanna Merton!

      The secret subtle influence of jealousy had long been fermenting, and now it exploded in this way and under this disguise.

      Ah! William Fielding, and all of you, “Beware of jealousy”—cursed jealousy! it is the sultan of all the passions, and the Tartar chief of all the crimes. Other passions affect the character; this changes, and, if good, always reverses it! Mind that, reverses it! turns honest men to snakes, and doves to vultures. Horrible unnatural mixture of Love with Hate—you poison the whole mental constitution—you bandage the judgment—you crush the sense of right and wrong—you steel the bowels of compassion—you madden the brain—you corrupt the heart—you damn the soul.

      The Fieldings, then, shook hands mechanically, and receding each a step began to spar.

      Each of these farmers fancied himself slightly the best man; but they both knew they had an antagonist with whom it would not do to make the least mistake.

      They therefore sparred and feinted with wary eye before they ventured to close; George, however, the more impetuous, was preparing to come to closer quarters when all of a sudden, to the other's surprise, he dropped his hands by his sides, and turned the other way with a face anything but warlike, fear being now the prominent expression.

      William followed the direction of his eye, and then William partook his brother's uneasiness; however, he put his hands in his pockets, and began to saunter about, in a circumference of three yards, and to get up a would-be-careless whistle, while George's hands became dreadfully in his way, so he washed them in the air.

      While they were employed in this peaceful pantomime a beautiful young woman glided rapidly between the brothers.

      Her first words renewed their uneasiness.

      “What is this?” cried she, haughtily, and she looked from one to the other like a queen rebuking her subjects.

      George looked at William—William had nothing ready.

      So George said, with some hesitation, but in a mellifluous voice, “William was showing me—a trick—he learned at the fair—that is all, Susan.”

      “That is a falsehood, George,” replied the lady, “the first you ever told me”—(George colored)—“you were fighting, you two boys—I saw your eyes flash!”

      The rueful wink exchanged by the combatants at this stroke of sagacity was truly delicious.

      “Oh, fie! oh, fie! brothers by one mother fighting—in a Christian land—within a stone's throw of a church, where brotherly love is preached as a debt we owe to strangers, let alone our own blood.”

      “Yes! it is a sin, Susan,” said William, his conscience suddenly illuminated. “So I ask your pardon, Susanna.”

      “Oh! it wasn't your fault, I'll be bound,” was the gracious reply. “What a ruffian you must be, George, to shed your brother's blood.”

      “La! Susan,” said George, with a doleful whine, “I wasn't going to shed the beggar's blood. I was only going to give him a hiding for his impudence.”

      “Or take one for your own,” replied William coolly.

      “That is more likely,” said Susan. “George, take William's hand; take it this instant, I say,” cried she, with an air imperative and impatient.

      “Well, why not? don't you go in a passion, Susan, about nothing,” said George coaxingly.

      They took hands; she made them hold one another by the hand, which they did with both their heads hanging down. “While I speak a word to you two,” said Susan Merton.

      “You ought both to go on your knees, and thank Providence that sent me here to prevent so great a crime; and as for you, your character must change greatly, George Fielding, before I trust myself to live in a house of yours.”

      “Is all the blame to fall on my head?” said George, letting go William's hand with no great apparent reluctance.

      “Of course it is! William is a quiet lad that quarrels with nobody; you are always quarreling; you thrashed our carter last Candlemas.”

      “He spoke saucy words about you.”

      Susan, smiling inwardly, made her face as repulsive outside as lay in her power.

      “I don't believe it,” said Susan; “your time was come round to fight and be a ruffian, and so it was to-day, no doubt.”

      “Ah!” said George, sorrowfully, “it is always poor George that does all the wrong.

      “Oh!” replied the lady, an arch smile playing for a moment about her lips, “I could scold William, too, if you think I am as much interested in his conduct and behavior as in yours.”

      “No, no!” cried George, brightening up, “don't think to scold anybody but me, Susan; and William,” said he, suddenly and frankly, “I ask your pardon.”

      “No more about it, George, if you please,” answered William in his dogged way.

      “Susan,” said George, “you don't know all I have to bear. My heart is sore, Susan, dear. Uncle twitted me not an hour ago with my ill luck, and almost bade me to speak to you no more, leastways as my sweetheart; and that was why, when William came at me on the top of such a blow, it was more than I could bear; and Susan—Susan—uncle said you would stand to whatever he said.”

      “George,” said Susan gently, “I am very sorry my father was so unkind.”

      “Thank ye kindly, Susan; that is the first drop of dew that has fallen on me to-day.”

      “But obedience to parents,” continued Susan, interrogating, as it were, her conscience, “is a great duty. I hope I shall never disobey my father,” faltered she.

      “Oh!” answered the goose George hastily, “I don't want any girl to be kind to me that does not love me; I am so unlucky, it would not be worth her while, you know.”

      At this Susan answered still more sharply, “No, I don't think it would be worth any woman's while, till your character and temper undergo a change.”

      George never answered a word, but went and leaned his head upon the side of a cart that stood half in and half out of a shed close by.

      At this juncture a gay personage joined the party. He had a ball waistcoat, as alarming tie, a shooting jacket, wet muddy trousers and shoes, and an empty basket on his back.

      He joined our group, just as George was saying to himself very sadly, “I am in everybody's way here”—and he attacked him directly.

      “Everybody is in this country.”

      The reader is to understand that this Robinson was last from California; and California had made such an impression upon him, that he turned the conversation that way oftener than a well-regulated understanding recurs to any one topic, except, perhaps, religion.

      He was always pestering George to go to California with him, and it must be owned that on this one occasion George had given him a fair handle.

      “Come out of it,” continued Robinson, “and make your fortune.”

      “You did not make yours there,” said Susan sharply.

      “I beg your pardon, miss. I made it, or how could I have spent it?”

      “No doubt,” said William. “What comes by the wind goes by the water.”

      “Alluding to the dust?” inquired the Cockney.

      “Gold dust especially,” retorted Susan Merton.

      Robinson laughed. “The ladies are sharp, even in Berkshire,” said he.

      Mr.