It is quite true, that her watchful attention hovers about her cold father in a thousand different ways. It is quite true, that there cannot be a more affectionate sister than Christian to her elder and younger brothers; but little anxiety mingles with her affection for, and care of, them. Their names are not forgotten in her frequent prayers, and her voice is earnest and fervent, and her heart loving, when she craves for them the promised blessings and mercies of the Almighty; but her accents tremble in her supplications when those other names are on her lips, for visions of snares and pitfalls laid for their beloved feet have darkened her foreboding fancy with visions of shipwrecked faith and failing virtue, of ruined hopes and perverted talents, until the very agony of apprehensive love has invested its objects with a higher interest than even that of closest kindred. It is hers to watch over, to lead, to direct, to preserve the purity, to restrain the exuberance of these gifted spirits, and therefore is there a dignity in Christian’s eye when she looks on these children of her affections, that beams not from its clear depths at any other time, and an unconscious solemnity in her pleasant voice when her kind and gentle counsel falls upon their ears, that strangers wonder at--for Christian is young--to be so like a mother. Such is the family of Mr. Melville, of the prosperous firm of Rutherford and Melville, merchants, in the great English town, to whom we beg to introduce our readers. [Illustration: text decoration] [Illustration: text decoration] CHAPTER II. Yes, the year is growing old, And his eye is pale and blear’d! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard Sorely,--sorely!--LONGFELLOW. It is New Year’s Eve. There is no twilight now in Mr. Melville’s cheery parlour, the light is glimmering in the polished furniture, leaping and dancing in the merry eyes that surround it, and even the grave features of the head of the house have relaxed into an unwonted smile. The young people have not forgotten the old Scottish celebration of “Hogmanay,” in all its observances, and Christian’s stores have been plundered, and James has fled blushing from their raillery, pursued by the glad echo of their ringing laughter. How pleasantly it sounds! the passengers without on the cold pavement linger at the bright window, arrested by its spell; involuntary smiles steal over grave sober faces, as it rings out in its frank youthfulness challenging their sympathy, and younger passers-by echo it with interest in a chorus of their own, and send it on, louder and louder, through the cold brisk air. How merrily it sounds!