Eric Williams was now twelve years old.  His father was a civilian in India, and was returning on furlough to England after a long absence.  Eric had been born in India, but had been sent to England by his parents at an early age, in charge of a lady friend of his mother.  The parting, which had been agony to his father and mother, he was too young to feel; indeed the moment itself passed by without his being conscious of it.  They took him on board the ship, and, after a time, gave him a hammer and some nails to play with.  These had always been to him a supreme delight, and while he hammered away, Mr. and Mrs. Williams, denying themselves, for the child’s sake, even one more tearful embrace, went ashore in the boat and left him.  It was not till the ship sailed that he was told he would not see them again for a long, long time.  Poor child, his tears and cries were wild when he first understood it; but the sorrows of four years old are very transient, and before a week was over, little Eric felt almost reconciled to his position, and had become the universal pet and plaything of every one on board, from Captain Broadland down to the cabin boy, with whom he very soon struck up an acquaintance.  Yet twice a day at least, he would shed a tear, as he lisped his little prayer, kneeling at Mrs. Munro’s knee, and asked God “to bless his dear dear father and mother, and make him a good boy.”

When Eric arrived in England, he was intrusted to the care of a widowed aunt, whose daughter, Fanny, had the main charge of his early teaching.  At first, the wayward little Indian seemed likely to form no accession to the quiet household, but he soon became its brightest ornament and pride.  Everything was in his favor at the pleasant home of Mrs. Trevor.  He was treated with motherly kindness and tenderness, yet firmly checked when he went wrong.  From the first he had a well-spring of strength, against temptation, in the long letters which every mail brought from his parents; and all his childish affections were entwined round the fancied image of a brother born since he had left India.  In his bed-room there hung a cherub’s head, drawn in pencil by his mother, and this picture was inextricably identified in his imagination with his “little brother Vernon.”  He loved it dearly, and whenever he went astray, nothing weighed on his mind so strongly as the thought, that if he were naughty he would teach little Vernon to be naughty too when he came home.

And Nature also—­wisest, gentlest, holiest of teachers-was with him in his childhood.  Fairholm Cottage, where his aunt lived, was situated in the beautiful Vale of Ayrton, and a clear stream ran through the valley at the bottom of Mrs. Trevor’s orchard.  Eric loved this stream, and was always happy as he roamed by its side, or over the low green hills and scattered dingles, which lent unusual loveliness to every winding of its waters.  He was allowed to go about a good deal by himself, and it did him good.