GUY SYLVESTER'S GOLDEN YEAR.

I

CHAPTER I.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

T was New Year's Eve. The old year lay a-dying. But Nature showed no signs of sympathy with the departing time. A white, glittering mantle overspread the earth, and the cold moon looked down calmly from above. The keen breeze swayed the poplars and drove the thin clouds scudding across the heavens. The stars shone out brightly in the frosty sky, the wind whistled blithely, and the owl's wild screech came over the snow-clad fields. Every object stood out, clear and distinct, in the cold moonlight. You could see the rambling buildings at the Styches' as easily as in the day. Even the blue smoke from the wood-fire as it rose from the farmhouse chimney could be distinctly traced.

And now the door into the fold-yard is hastily opened, and the ruddy firelight shines out upon the

threshold. Out rushes Tinker, the sheep-dog, with a joyous bark, to plough the snow with his muzzle, and scatter the white flakes all about. 'Down, Tinker, down!' cries a lad's voice, as Tinker's noisy bark awakens a baying chorus from the other dogs about the farm, and a lad appears at the door and turns his face up to the sky. 'Clear and frosty, father; a beautiful night. A ride will be right jolly, I know!' cheerily shouted Guy Sylvester; and soon he was surrounded by other forms, who clustered at the door to see for themselves what kind of night it was. The father's burly frame rose above the children, and their chatter was silenced as he said, 'I fear the roads will be like glass, and Janet will have hard work to keep her feet.'

'But, father, you know the mare was "roughed yesterday, and is as sure-footed as a mule; I am sure we shall be all right,' said Guy. And so am I,' 'And I,' said Tom and Albert and Emma in a breath.

'Well, children, I think we may venture; there are no signs of such a snowstorm as we had last year, when we had difficulty in getting home again. So, Guy, tell Jem to put the mare in and bring her round.'

Guy needed no second telling, but was across the yard in a moment, with Tinker at his heels.

'Come in, children; come, lad!'

as Tom turned to follow his brother.

said the father,

'We must get

something to warm us inside and outside, or we shan't stand the journey well.' And the group turned into the large stone-flagged kitchen, where in the great chimney roared a huge log fire. Despite the light of the candle, the flames managed to make flickering brightness on the walls, while the pleasant smell of burning wood filled the room. The kitchen at the Styches was in verity a family kitchen. In each chimney corner was room for one to sit comfortably, and there on one side sat grandmamma busy with worsted and pins, and on the other, round-faced, dark-eyed Tom had bestowed himself.

Suspended from the ceiling was a wooden rack, as large as a field-gate, laden with sundry flitches and hams, while various bags of herbs and unknown housewife's stores hung from the rafters. Over the fire was a sway or crane, on which were several pothooks, one supporting the large kettle, even then hissing and steaming. Above the mantel-shelf— which was graced with brass candlesticks and ladles -hung the farmer's gun, cosily enveloped in a woollen covering, and supported by a steelyard, horse-bits, etc., and (for the farmer was a special constable) a pair of handcuffs. Everything that could be polished shone with the greatest brilliancy. A well-furnished dresser nearly filled one side of the kitchen, an old-fashioned eight-day clock ticked with importance in the corner, while a large settle stood between the fire and the side of the room on which

was the door. The long, heavy oak table, with its corresponding benches, where the farmer's men sat to dine, stood under the curtained window; and sprigs of holly all about, and a mammoth misletoe bough hanging overhead, told that Christmas was not yet reckoned past.

And now that Guy has returned saying that the trap will soon be ready, let us introduce you more fully to the family.

Walter Sylvester, the farmer, the head of the household, fitting on his leggings at the fire, is a fine, hale man, it may be of some forty years, while his wife, who by this time has spread the table with a cloth and cups, is a pleasant-faced, kind-eyed matron of similar age. The aged grandmother, with wrinkled cheeks and tremulous hands, knits on in the chimney corner. Guy, watching his mother's movements with eagerness, is a tall, well-built boy of fifteen. He resembles his mother in hair and complexion. He has a mass of light curly locks, a pleasant face, and blue eyes, which mean either mischief or kindness-perhaps both.

Tom, a stout boy of thirteen, is his father's own son, with dark, flashing eyes, ruddy cheeks, and black hair. Albert, not quite eleven, has his father's eyes, but his mother's fair hair and countenance; and very like him is little Emma, who nestles by his side. Little four-year-old Frank, the youngest child and pet of all, is soundly sleeping upstairs in his little cot.