paragement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family.
Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high;
but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the
church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any
means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.

One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this
theory into practice with considerable success.

Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently
than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman's chief joy
in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the
Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic
condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only
sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided
tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause
of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for
its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry
Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could
sway him.

The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and
peace began--slowly at first--to descend on the parsonage; but the
desire for mischief--which the boy named "fun"--had not been quite
dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of
fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his
occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were
the source of some amusement to his people--and he still pretty well
ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.

It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after
overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the
son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most
intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the
facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the
road.

"Plaze yer honour," said Pat--who was an Irishman, and therefore
"honoured" everybody--"there's two tramps at the public as is plottin'
to break into your house i' the mornin'."

"You don't mean it, do you?" returned Harry, with a smile and raised
eyebrows.

"That's just what I do, yer honour. I heard 'em reel off the whole
plan."

Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to th