There are, or, at least, at the time of which we are writing,
there were, no barracks for officers in Montreal. It
was customary for two or three to take a house together.
For some time White and Glendenning had lived in this
way, but latterly Glendenning had found rooms in the house
of a young portrait painter, who, with his wife and child, occupied
only the lower part of the building.

The life of an officer in a garrison town is not varied by
many pleasures. Both at the parades and the daily messtable
dinner, he had the not very agreeable certainty of
meeting Lieutenant-colonel Nicholson, and of being

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subjected to the offensive superciliousness of that high and
mighty personage. The evenings were enlivened by a certain
routine of society, and sometimes by a rout, in giving
which species of entertainment, the reader has been informed,
it was Colonel Nicholson's peculiar ambition to excel.

Till now, Glendenning, unaccustomed to read, study, or
reflect, without any particular respect for himself or purpose
in life, had been driven by ennui, and the example of
his chosen companions, into billiard-rooms and whist-clubs,
where he spent a large portion both of his time and money.
But since his return he had adopted different habits; he was
more reserved among his old comrades, and much less seen
abroad than formerly. He attended, with punctilious care,
to his professional duties, and came under the hand of Colonel
Nicholson several times, with a tranquil and even gentle
forbearance which astonished, while it did not at all conciliate,
that gentleman. Various invitations to take part in
certain old larks were courteously but firmly declined.
Breckenbridge at first rallied him, but, after having made
several ineffectual attempts to bring him into his old ways,
coolly ceased his endeavours, and for some time they scarcely
met, except in a general way. Breckenbridge felt as if
he were cut, a process to which his style of life had not
rendered him entirely a stranger, but which became the
subject of serious reflection when experienced from Glendenning.
The latter, however, pursued his way quietly,
laid out a course of reading, which he followed assiduously,
and continued in earnest to look into the evidences of Christianity,
in which he even began to feel a singular interest.
He had been but imperfectly educated, and now, for the first
time in his life, he began to study and to think. He read
the “Analogy of Religion,” by Butler, a book in everybody's
hands, but which he had never heard of but through the
recommendation of one who, he felt, was perhaps his truest
friend on earth—Mrs. Lennox. This remarkable piece of
reasoning deeply riveted his attention, and overwhelmed
his light and trivial mind with astonishment. He thus
gathered a conviction that, notwithstanding the silent and
inactive indifference with which many intelligent, cultivated,
and fashionable people choose to regard the subject,
the scheme of Christianity may be true. The thought was
new, vast, and sublime. He felt its quickening power penetrate
his mind, throw a new aspect over life and nature, and

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startle him to the deepest recesses of his soul. He meditated
on it continually. He studied with severest perseverance.
He doubted, he feared, he rejoiced and trembled.
Then some old instinct, ludicrous association, or unlucky
word would rise in his heart or his recollection, and all the
sublime but half-formed vision would melt away.

Still, however, he studied, and many a day and many a
night he spent—himself greatly surprised at the power
which had led him to such an occupation—reading the Bible
and works illustrative of it. The more he read, the
more he was struck—the more he was convinced. But
when he closed the volume and went to a drill or parade,
or when he came under the eye of Colonel Nicholson, and
felt the blood in his veins moving quicker at the cold tone
of his voice, or the decisive, magisterial wave of his hand,
he wondered at his folly in yielding credit to nursery fables.

At this interesting epoch of his life, a kind Providence
seems to have in some degree separated him from White,
by leading him to a lodging with Mr. Southard and his family,
the young painter before mentioned. White was a gentleman
in more than one sense, but he was one of those
gentlemen whose opinions are most perfectly decided
against the claims of any religion to divine origin. Southard
and his family, on the contrary, were devout and cheerful
believers, and perhaps the sweet little group gathered
at his table, could the artist have painted it, would have
been the most graceful and pleasing of all his subjects.
He was one of those pure and simple beings whom nature
sometimes forms and religion perfects on the earth, an humble,
contented, and not altogether unsuccessful imitator of
his divine master. He was poor, without being either dazzled
with riches or ashamed of poverty, lowly in rank, and
yet lowlier in spirit. Even his talent in his profession was
not above mediocrity, but he knew it and smiled at it, and
was contented with what his Creator had given him. He
had the enthusiasm without the jealous susceptibilities of
an artist. He was almost unknown, and scarcely desired
to become less so. His modest wants were supplied by his
industry, and in a heart tenderly alive to the charm of nature,
the sweetness of truth, and the beauty and meaning of
all things, he had a source of constant and extreme enjoyment.
In compensation for the want of professional talent,
and of the distinctions and luxuries which it produces,

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besides a warm, true heart, an upright character, and a sensible
mind, he had been blessed with a lovely wife, in whom
he found at once the most useful and delightful companion
and the tenderest, most affectionate friend. A single child
was the fruit of their union, a little girl three years old.
Careless of the stern toil and gorgeous spectacles and sorrows
of the world, he lived—rare fate—happy in himself—
doubly happy in his wife; and all the happiness he desired
seemed trebled to him—beyond his hopes and merits—
while he watched the growth and improvement of the little
Catharine.

For these people Glendenning had long conceived a
warm regard. There was something in the picture of their
humble and contented happiness, so rich with so little, in
their pure and sincere characters, which had touched his
soul. Now particularly, that he was beginning to experience
a change of opinion on the most important of subjects,
he found a new charm in their society, and he spoke to
them frequently on the great topics which were engaging
his attention. Nothing but such a happy home of his own
could have been so soothing and delightful to his feelings
as this circle, where he every day became more and more
familiarly welcomed, and more and more regarded as a valuable
acquisition and a necessary part of the circle. These
companions, in some measure, filled the chasm which had
been left by his separation from the Lennoxes, and they
were interested in the same subject, and continued with him
the same course of reasoning. Here he began to feel at
home—a sweet word, the meaning of which he had never
known before. Thus passed away several weeks in elevating
studies and deeply interesting conversations, until
he said one day to his hosts, “Almost you persuade me to
become a Christian!”

He had already received one affectionate maternal letter
from Mrs. Lennox, full of minutiæ respecting the family,
and closing with an earnest and impressive hope that he
would continue his study of the religion of Jesus, assuring
him that “it was good tidings to the meek, and a light shining
in a dark place; that it revealed the method of reconciliation
for iniquity, and presented the oil of joy for mourning,
and the garments of praise for the spirit of heaviness.”

He smiled at this characteristic language, which so vividly
recalled his affectionate friend, but the smile was not

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one of ridicule. He even thought he began to comprehend
the meaning of those phrases, as he had already done of
the sweet word home. They conveyed ideas and feelings
which had never before found entrance into his mind or heart.

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Southard, one evening, as he
went out to go to bed, after a long and ingenuous debate on
the theme, in which he now found singular interest—“Poor
fellow! the scales are balanced.”

“Yes,” said Southard, “a hair will turn them.”