The Mysterious Locket

NO LIFEBOAT

THE harbour of Porthmynwr lies in a deep cleft, between high rocks, through which the sea flows inland, changing the voice with which even in summer it wails at the foot of the cliffs, till it whispers softly to some cottages in a sheltered valley.

The entrance to the little port is marked on one side by a bold point of dark red rock; on the other by a small jetty, which is said to have been built by the Romans, and which flings itself across, curving round with a graceful sweep.

The creek winds a little on its way up the valley, so that looking down from the hillside the water appears like a blue and silver snake lying between heather-clad rocks. The hills on either side rise steeply; and in summer on their sunny slopes purple and gold flowers bloom among the bracken fern, rustling grasses bend to the breeze, the honey-bee murmurs with sweet content, and the grasshoppers raise their chirrup; while around there floats that indescribably sweet smell, which comes only from the warm breath of summer, of dried grass, scented leaves, and flowers pressed under foot.

In winter, the great waves, angry with breaking against the point of rock, come riding in over the jetty, curling into each miniature cavern of the little bay, while the snowy sea-foam drifts up the gorge till it rests on the fields beyond. Yet even then, the harbour looks what it is, a haven of rest, offering safe shelter from the raging waters to such small craft as can make its narrow entrance. In the calm of summer weather, as the tide rises, slate and culm hulks ride in sleepy security. Higher up, some rowing boats chained to the rocks swing to and fro with each swirl of the advancing waters, which creep up and up until they lip the boundary line marked by the preceding tide against a sloping stone causeway on the right, and lay a fresh tribute of green seaweed on the stones and sand that almost touch the meadow-land beyond.

To the left are limekiln, whose white heat quivers in the still air, and where men burn the stone the hulks bring into harbour. A clear little stream comes chattering down the valley, to find its way to the ocean through the creek, and at the point where the fresh water mingles with the salt, ducks wade in and out, occasionally sailing towards the sea, but afraid to venture far when they feel the heave of the wave-swell against their breasts.

The white-roofed cottages are dotted about here and there, some on the hillside, and others close to the water's edge; the pastures stretch upwards among tracts of purple moorland, intersected by roads branching right and left, one of which leads to the town of St. Elvis, lying at the head of the valley.

A cottage stood by itself at the head of the creek, close to the stone causeway, where carts passed every day at low tide to take the culm from the stranded vessels. It was built on a promontory of red sandstone, covered with earth and tufts of coarse grass, and bounded at the foot by a kind of outwork wall, below which was a huge boulder of rock, with an iron ring firmly fastened into it, for securing the boats in rough weather.

The cottage was ancient, and of a shape difficult to describe, for it seemed to have had lean-to additions made at different times, thus presenting the appearance of three buildings joined together. One bit of the roof was slated, but the slates being very old had here and there started apart, and lichens and bright mosses filling up the interstices gave it a gay patchwork look. The rest was thatched, and heavy stones were placed upon it to keep the reeds from being blown off in the fearful storms that in winter sweep up through the ravine from the sea. Tufts of yellow flowers and grasses clung about the straw, and flourished; birds alighted to chatter round the dilapidated chimney, while beside it, ever in changeful rhythm, the brooklet sang an eternal song of longing towards the sea.

It was October, and all the summer songs were ended.

The autumn rains had turned the silver-shining stream into a turbid current that shot swiftly through the valley past sedge-lined banks, bearing on its bosom dead stalks and russet leaves. All day long the sullen sea had been surging and moaning, in anticipation of the coming storm, which, as the darkness deepened, seemed to gather all its strength for a stern struggle.

Seabirds circled and cried towards shore, as if sharing in the distress of the sailors who stood on the slippery jetty in the mist and spray, watching with hopeless eagerness the signals of distress from a ship which they knew, alas! was drifting surely on to her doom; for both wind and tide carried her each moment closer to the teeth of the jagged rocks, which must soon seize her for their prey.

"It will be too late soon, Father Roger," said a boy, whose impetuous youth chafed against the apparent calmness of the older men.

The sailor appealed to turned impatiently, only saying—

"Do you want to drown with them? Where's the good of talking like that?" adding to himself, "God help her now, for 'we' can't! What boat of ours could live in that sea?"

The white mist which enveloped the watchers drifted gradually on to the cottage, and covered it up; and the wildest of winds howled round it as if to tear it in pieces.

The red glow from a steadily burning fire of culm and clay lighted up the interior, revealing the shelves hollowed in the wall full of crockery, the wooden settle by the hearth, and the two cupboard-beds which stood like huge chests in the centre, dividing the room as by a partition. Above, among the rafters in the heather-lined roof, hung an empty wooden cradle; and as Lettice Gwynne knelt to pray for the safety of her old sailor-father, she looked up at it now with tear-dimmed eyes. Five-and-thirty years of life's toil and trouble had left their traces on the pale, sweet face, and to-night it wore an anxious weary look, as she heard the rising waters plash and gurgle against the boundary wall, and sudden gusts of wind shook the cottage to its very foundations.

"My little Ruth," she murmured; "my own baby; no need to rock the cradle now. The Good Shepherd has you in His arms, my lamb, and the cradle-bed in the churchyard is green and still. There will be wild work to-night," said she, rising, and sighing heavily. "I wish father had the boats anchored by this time. Oh, my God, keep him safe, this awful night."

A sleeping child was breathing softly near her in one of the cupboard-beds. And as he stirred, she looked lovingly at the boy of eleven years, David, her only son. His rosy sunburnt cheek was lying on one of the brown hands, and though his face was turned towards the flickering firelight, the eyelids were fast sealed, and no noise of rain or tempest without could disturb the youthful dreamer.

But his mother could not keep an easy watch beside him long; she must go to the door again to listen. In vain did she strain eyes and ears against the darkness and noise; the only sounds distinguishable were the booming waves breaking across the jetty, and the sullen sobbing of wind and rain.

"Is that you, Nancy Lewis?" cried she, suddenly catching sight of a fluttering shawl. "Come in, come in."

"Yes, I'm most drowned and torn to pieces with being out in such weather; there's no standing on the jetty, and 'tis as dark as pitch. I've come up to tell ye what's going on down there," rejoined the woman, pointing in the direction of the sea. "There's a fine ship gone to pieces out beyond the sunk rocks, and my Jem and your old father, with some more of 'em, have put off in a boat to try and pick up some of the poor creatures. But they'll all be drowned; nothing but a lifeboat could live in such a sea; and more's the shame there's never a one belonging to Porthmynwr. The water seems as if devils were raving in it, indeed it do."

Lettice could not answer; her lips and cheeks were ashy pale, for Nancy's words had recalled with terrible vividness a night-scene two years ago, when she had waited to welcome her husband, brave Richard Gwynne, and he had been borne home by his comrades, pale and silent in the death that had overtaken him amid those cruel, hungry waves. Never since that night had Lettice joined the groups of watching women on cliff or shore when a gale was blowing. She preferred to plead alone by her widowed hearth for the safety of those at sea.

"Did you say my father was gone?" she gasped, drawing Nancy in, and shutting the door. "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, indeed," said Nancy; "he was the foremost to go, for all he's the oldest among 'em. None of 'em would have gone if it hadn't been for him," she added, sobbing; "and now I shall lose my Jem, and there's all those six little blessed innocents lying asleep to wake up fatherless in the morn. You've only one; 'tis not so hard on you."

The sharpest sting of all lay in this selfish ending of the speech, but Lettice pressed her lips together with a hard-set expression and did not speak. She was sending up a silent prayer from her stricken heart, whose anguish God alone could know, while Nancy ran on unheeding with her stream of words.

"I've been looking for this for weeks and months; I knew there'd be death close to us soon. I and my neighbours have seen the corpse-lights again and again blazing like a ball of straw, and there's many a one as has watched the ghost-funerals walking through the churchyard, and old Di Jones said to me, says she, 'Nancy, there'll be a funeral go up from Porthmynwr to St. Elvis afore we're many days older.'"

"Don't listen to her," said Lettice sharply; "she is always trying to frighten folk like that. Those who have the true light in their souls need not fear the corpse-candles. The good Lord would tell us in a better way than that, if He meant us to know things beforehand."

"Ah, it's fine talking," broke in Nancy, "but you know you wouldn't walk through St. Elvis churchyard after dark to save your life."

"And why not?" answered Lettice. "What harm would the dead quietly sleeping do to me? If I could help a living person by walking there, I would go any night with all my heart. What cause for fear have they who love the Lord Jesus, who 'died, and rose, and revived, that He might be Lord both of the dead and living'? Didn't He say, 'Nothing shall by any means hurt you'? I believe 'that,' Nancy, before all the old wives' words. And when I walk home from St. Elvis of a night, I always like to think His angels are walking beside me, and I say to myself,—

   "'I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,'

"And He never lets me be afraid."

Nancy shook her head incredulously, saying, "There's wiser folk than me nor you as have seen the corpse-lights and funerals, and it's a lucky thing for you that you are not afraid of them, and that's all I've got to say. And now I must be off again, and see what's doing down the creek. That's my Jem's voice," she cried, springing towards the door, "or I'm not a living woman. Ay, they're calling and hollering fine about something."

"Stand back!" shouted Old Roger Rudd, as Lettice stepped forward with her companion to welcome her father.

"Don't be frightened, my lass; there's work for you to do, though I fear it be too late. A wreck and all hands lost!"

No need to add more, for the light streaming upon the causeway from the cottage showed what the sailors were carrying.

"Try and save her, Lettice; mayhap some brandy might bring her round, though indeed," added poor Old Roger, trembling, "I fear it's no use now. Well, well, only to think! They were both lashed to a spar, and it's all that's left of the noble ship."

A baby's cry made Lettice deaf to the remainder of the sentence, and Old Roger, placing in her arms an infant a year and a half old, wrapped in a bit of old fishing-net, turned to assist the other men in carrying the silent sleeper within shelter of the cottage. One look at the young face showed Lettice that the sail which carefully covered the slender form was a shroud for the dead.

"Can nothing be done?" said Roger, as tears coursed down his weather-beaten cheek. "Poor lass!" he added, seeing Lettice shake her head. "The storm has, I hope, landed her in the haven where she would be safe with the Lord who walked on the waters. The vessel foundered upon yonder reef, and I reckon the fog hid the lighthouse. The sea is running mountains high, and no boat could have got near them."

"Poor young thing!" said Lettice. "Not more than twenty-five, I should say."

And the widow wept as she turned to hush the wailing of the motherless babe. Tenderly she carried it to the fire, and taking off the coarse netting and soaked little shirt, chafed the tiny limbs until they warmed and revived.

Only a year ago her own baby-girl had thus lain upon her knees, but God had taken her away to Himself, and the cradle had been left empty. How often, with sore eyes and heart, had Lettice looked at it! She could not bear to put it away quite out of sight, so for months it had hung among the heather up in the roof.

And now some baby garments were taken from the chest in the corner, and as the little hands passed through the sleeves Lettice whispered, "Darling little Ruth! The daisies are growing on your cradle-bed, and you are singing with God's angels above the sky."

And laying the helpless little stranger down on the settle, she mounted a chair and unfastened the cradle from the rafters. The mother's heart ached as she set it on the floor, but the rescued babe knew nought of this as, in a soft blanket, it was gently laid within it, and rocked to rest before the bright fire.

Roger went out with the other sailors to make fast his boats and see if there was anything more to be done before night. And Nancy stayed with Lettice to assist in arranging the body.

Lettice had no fears as she closed the dead eyes, and folded the small hand with the wedding ring on it over the other across the breast that had done with life's heavings now. While doing so, she observed a small gold chain and locket set in pearls round the throat, which she gently disengaged and put carefully aside. Inside the locket were two curls of hair and a monogram worked in gold thread across them. It was the only token by which to identify the body or discover the story of this life so early closed, for the silent lips could not reveal the secret.

They laid her in an inner room, where nets and fishing-tackle were strewn about, on a mattress taken from one of the beds, and, according to the custom in those parts, placed lighted candles at the head and feet.

Lettice kissed the lovely face, and then covered it reverently, saying, as she closed the door, "May God's angels keep watch here to-night, as they did by our blessed Saviour's tomb."

MISS SILEXA

THE small town of St. Elvis was early astir the following morning with tidings of the wreck. Dick Rees, from Clythwr Farm, half-way down the valley, had been among the first to bring the news, and knots of eager talkers and listeners soon gathered in the principal street, round the steps of the old stone cross, to add to the gossip which grew as rapidly as a rolling snowball.

"Who could she be? What would happen to the child? Who would be at the inquest? And when would the burying take place?" were the foremost among the questions on that autumn morning.

The small corner shop, kept by Meg Evans, the postmistress, was soon filled to overflowing, and Nancy Lewis found herself a most important personage, as she let out, bit by bit, all the slower in proportion to the anxiety of her hearers, the particulars of the sad scene of the night before.

"She's a lady, whatever they may say," repeated Nancy, "for her hands are as white as yon cloud, and never been used to hard work, for sure; and her beautiful long hair was a-hanging about her like seaweed when they brought her in, and the baby bleating like a lamb for its mother. Indeed, it's as sweet a corpse as ever I looked upon."

"Ah well, ah well, poor thing, her troubles are over now." "Indeed and indeed, I'm sorry from my heart," said one and another, while each woman secretly resolved to visit Lettice Gwynne's cottage before the day was much further advanced; for a death in St. Elvis or its peculiarly healthy neighbourhood was such a rare event that the sight of the body was not to be resisted.

Old John Jenkins, the pew-opener, discussed the matter with Will Jones, the ancient gravedigger, who stood leaning on his spade just inside the churchyard gate. And Old Dinah Jones, wife to the latter, lost no time in hurrying up in high hat and cloak, stick in hand, from Porthmynwr to the Rectory kitchen.

There Miss Silexa Pryse found her scaring Molly the servant with facts, which Dinah affirmed to be a perfect fulfilment of her prophecies concerning corpse-lights and ghost-funerals. The girl stood, kettle in hand, with wide staring eyes of fright and wonder, watching her narrator, while Eudora, a little child of six years old, crouched beside the dresser, terrified by this dismal story of death and drowning.

The effect of Miss Silexa's entrance was like that of a flash of lightning.

"What are you standing staring there for, you great goose?" said she, angrily facing the petrified girl. "Get on with your work, and remember life's short enough to do it in; that's 'your' lesson for to-day if you'll learn it, you idle wench."

"Eh! But, Miss Pryse—have you heard?" interrupted Old Dinah.

"Heard!" screamed Silexa. "Who could help hearing, I should like to know; with all the women like a pack of crows over a bit of meat, and the men with their tongues wagging like a thirsty dog's? Of course we have heard. You didn't think but that the Rectory would be the first to be told. And now I suppose you've been gabbling on to Molly all your pack of lies and nonsense about corpse-candles and such-like rubbish, and you think it all true because God in His wise providence has chosen to take that poor soul unto Himself, and her body is to lie with us here at St. Elvis. 'Tis a pity you have not got something better to think about.

"Here, Dora, child, run and feed the fowls; they are calling for their breakfast. You will find the corn-basket on the store-room table.

"I should have thought you would have known better," she added, as the child ran off, "than to talk such stuff before that baby, who is as frightened as a bird at all times, with that scared look in her blue eyes. Go home, Di. I've no charing to be done to-day, and you only hinder Molly if your hands are not scrubbing or carrying, and she's idle enough as it is. Here, wait a minute."

And the mistress dived into the larder, reappearing in the space of time that the old woman took to hobble across the kitchen to the door. "I expect you haven't had your breakfast; gossip is as satisfying as food, no doubt. Take this plate of potatoes and this bit of dripping, and fry yourself a good meal, and to-morrow there'll be a day's work for you here, for we shall be busy."

Old Dinah grasped the plate with a thankful clutch as her bright eyes twinkled greedily over it, but with her thanks there mingled disappointed mutterings about the news she thought she had been the first to bring, and Miss Silexa's reception thereof.

Miss Pryse waited until her old pensioner had hobbled across the courtyard, and out at the gate, then she shut the door with a sharp, decisive slam, as if setting the seal to what she had been saying, and stepped briskly through the now empty kitchen.

Molly, at the present juncture of things, thought it prudent to be out of the way. So, quickly putting on the kettle, she vanished into the front parlour to set the breakfast.

Her mistress did not follow her there, but turned into her father's study, where we will take a sketch of her for the reader's benefit.

The peculiarities of her morning toilet did not set off her tall, gaunt figure to the best advantage—the faded calico lining pinned up round her waist being all that was seen of the skirt of her dress. An old brown woollen shawl, crossed and tied behind in a clumsy knot, covered the body, and a pocket-handkerchief was bound closely over her hair in lieu of a cap. She was nearly forty, but her keen grey eyes still kept the restless activity of youth, and only the purest truth could stand before their penetrating gaze. The broad forehead, the aquiline nose, and firm, decisive lips, still bore testimony to the beauty of former days, though time had robbed her face of its freshness. She was a lady born—no one could doubt it who looked at her for an instant—but one who utterly scorned appearances, or what people might say or think of her.

The sun rarely caught her napping; for generally long before his rays had warmed the shady corner of the valley in which the old house stood, she was attending to her live stock in the farmyard, or, as she termed it, "getting beforehand with the day."

Sometimes there were visitors staying at the Rectory, but though it were my Lord Bishop himself, it made no difference to Silexa Pryse—her broom would be heard thumping down the staircase as usual, and her voice calling to the luckless Molly to come hither and thither. St. Elvis would have thought something had surely happened to the good lady, if it had not seen her day by day tramp in high pattens to and from the village well, with arms bared to the elbow, carrying her dripping buckets, or holding her apron full of vegetables culled from the kitchen garden on the opposite side of the road. Her hand, rough and red with honest labour, was stretched out in friendly clasp, alike to rich and poor, for a hearty shake.

She was a general favourite, in spite of her sharp manner and still sharper tongue, for no case of real poverty or deserving distress was ever disregarded by her, though she was altogether merciless and without pity, where virtue was held lightly or deceit discovered. Kind-hearted to the very core, she yet lacked tenderness in manner; and this it was that made little children tremble and turn away, and the timid shrink from telling her their troubles. The hard, uninviting shell held a sound kernel, but those who failed to penetrate the outside would never know the worth concealed within.

The study of the Rev. Theophilus Pryse appeared to have been furnished nearly a century ago. The carpet scarcely revealed the straggling pattern on its shabby thread-worn surface; the table with its numerous clawed legs seemed ever on the defensive, and the straight-backed chairs were about as hard and uncomfortable as wood and horsehair combined could make them. Nevertheless, Silexa's duster still made its daily careful circuit over the most superannuated furniture until the last speck of dust sped swiftly off to settle elsewhere.

On one side of the fireplace, against the dingy red and buff paper, hung a framed sampler, which informed the inquiring reader that one Margaret Pryse achieved this work of art early in the century. The design was unique. Two trees of the candelabrum type stood on either side of a square house, above the smoking chimneys of which rose an arc of birds and flower-buds of rainbow-hues, surmounted by two crab-like cherubs, who struggled to support between them a golden crown twice as large as themselves. The words, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life," and "Gloria in excelsis," filled the remaining space, beyond which an elaborate border completed the whole.

Corresponding to this, on the other side of the old-fashioned chimney mirror, was a portrait of a young girl roughly sketched in chalks. Silexa remembered watching her brother draw every line of it, and as she looked, the long, dreary distance of years seemed suddenly spanned, and her only sister was standing beside her again. The story of the wreck and the motherless babe at Porthmynwr recalled the history of another life so vividly, that ere she was aware, tears had stolen into her eyes, and she sunk down on the nearest seat, covering her face with her hands.

But the sound of the child's footsteps in the garden at once restored her frigid dignity, and she hastily rose, vexed with herself for having yielded to her feelings. No one should ever see her sorrow; it was sacred, and invited no sympathy. None but God knew of the well of tenderness that lay so deep beneath the still surface.

Meanwhile Eudora, on being dismissed from the kitchen, gladly escaped into the dewy sunshine of the garden. The little lawn lay green and sparkling in morning light. And though the storm of the previous night had snapped the fastenings of the rose-trees nailed against the wall of the house, leaving trailed and draggled branches desolate on the ground, and leaves and twigs hurled and scattered about, there still swayed a cluster of monthly rosebuds above the study window, freshly opening in pearly pink, and shaking off showers of shimmering drops as the breeze tossed them to and fro.

The sight of sunshine and flowers brought a smile into the pale, frightened, little face, their life and beauty dismissing some of the fear that held her spellbound while listening to Di's dismal tale. On she ran, brushing past the wet bushes until she came to the farmyard, when the cackling chorus that always greeted the corn-basket began at once, bringing more and more cheer into the child's heart, as she watched the fluttering fowls scuffle and scramble for the scattered seed. But while the small hand let the grain fall, her heart pondered the words she had heard in the kitchen. How she longed to run to Lettice Gwynne and ask her all about the matter!—Dear, kind Lettice, whose cottage was of all others the retreat she loved best.

But Di had said the dead body was lying there! Perhaps it was stretched out beside the old chest where she and Davie played, and arranged their seaweed and shells. No, she could not go there. But the dear little baby! Di said there was a baby. Oh, how she had longed for a little sister to play with and love in her lonely hours. She could remember Ruth, and how Lettice used to let her hold her in her arms as she sat on a low stool beside the cottage hearth, and now there was only a daisy-dappled grave, and baby had gone away to God. Had God sent Lettice this baby instead? Oh, if Davie would come and tell her. She dared not ask Aunt Silexa. How could she find out?

The child sauntered slowly back to the rustic seat beneath the willow tree, thinking, thinking, until she was suddenly startled from her reverie by her aunt's sharp voice calling her to come to breakfast. As she ran lightly across the sward to obey the summons, Miss Pryse cast another lingering look at the picture on the wall, mentally comparing it with the one in the garden. The same blue eyes, shaded by soft, silky hair, looked up towards the window, but the face of the little one was paler and more thoughtful.

"Come, Dora, be quick, and see that you rub your shoes clean before you come in. There is always so much mud brought into the house, one would need to be for ever cleaning here."

The words fell chill and cold on the child's heart; she longed to ask about the little baby at the cottage, as she came forward to join her aunt, but the question died on her lips. Miss Silexa's reserved and thorny manner drove little Dora daily farther from her, and prevented her belief in the tender self-sacrificing love that in spite of all really existed for her. Slowly, she followed her aunt into the parlour, and in another moment the trembling hand of her grandfather was laid lovingly upon the flaxen head. She timidly looked up into the face, furrowed more deeply by affliction than by time, though his scanty silver locks and bent frame hinted that the appointed time of man's days on earth had nearly run.

It needed no scrutinising glance to see that a heavy life-sorrow had helped to dim the brightness of eyes that looked out with a settled expression of calm sadness. A great grief was bringing down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave; his heart was heavy with the anguish of a bereavement which is sometimes more terrible than a blank left by death.

"Well, my little love," he said, kissing the child; "I have been waiting for you. Where have you been? Ah, Silexa," he added, turning to open with trembling fingers the Bible for family worship, "this is sad news from Porthmynwr."

"Don't speak of it now, father," interrupted Silexa, glancing towards the child, whose eyes were eagerly fixed on his face; "she has heard too much already. I am going down to Lettice Gwynne's after breakfast to hear the rights of the story; there are too many tongues clacking up here; one cannot tell how much to believe."

The elderly man sighed heavily and was silent. Then turning to the Book of Revelation as Molly entered to take her place, he read,—

   "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven, saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

The voice read on, though unsteady with emotion, and Eudora's eyes filled with tears. Molly looked at the grey church tower opposite, and watched the crowds of cawing rooks alight on the turrets and grass-tufted niches. Miss Silexa sat stern and erect in her chair with a determined expression on her face, and only He who knoweth the secrets of all hearts saw her soul bow in its sorrow when they knelt to join in fervent prayer for the unknown mourners of the brave men who had been engulfed in the depths of the mighty waters, and for the orphan baby cast up by the waves helpless and forlorn.

THE LOCKET SET IN PEARLS

THE sun shone bright and warm, as Miss Pryse stepped briskly down through the pasturelands of the valley towards Porthmynwr.

People hardly ever went this way, because a good firm road ran parallel to it on a higher level, but Silexa chose it because she wished for solitude. Already scattered groups of twos and threes were setting out on their search of inquiry from St. Elvis, and she cared not for further talk concerning the wreck until she had sifted the subject for herself. It stirred thoughts within her that made her heart ache with a keen pang, and in this bitterness no stranger might intermeddle. So the stream was her only companion, and the murmur of its sweet solo, softly breaking the silence around, suited well her present frame of mind.

Sunbeams following upon showers robed the meadows with an emerald sheen, and the balmy air and quiet heavens told no tale of the previous hurricane. Some long-horned black cattle, standing about in the hollows, lifted their heads for a stare of dumb surprise at the lonely figure, and then resumed their grazing.

At length, rounding the bend of the hill, Miss Silexa saw the sea, stretching out in a long sweep of blue across the horizon, smooth and still.

To her there was no beauty in the sea. For her, in "the laying bare of sands, when tides retreat," there was no subtle charm, and her ears distinguished not the chant of the wave-choir from rocky cavern depths. The soundings of the sea spoke to her of sorrow and death, and therefore she never sought the shore from choice.

Those waters in their immensity never reminded her of the measureless love of her Father in Christ, because she had never lost herself in its depths.

With reverent fear she worshipped Jehovah, as the omnipresent, omniscient One; and she beheld afar off the Son of His love as the Saviour of sinners, on whom all hopes of salvation must rest in death.

But of the believing touch of the garment's sacred hem, and the receipt of healing virtue in herself for the new life on "this" side the grave, she knew nothing. Therefore life to her was a strange complexity, an unravelling of dark threads, a steep hill to be climbed, while clasping duty as the only way by which to reach the appointed goal.

Her life lesson had been hard and bitter, and she had not learned its meaning yet.

The pierced Hand must uplift the curtain, behind which lie hidden God's mysteries of love; the scales must fall from the eyes, before the joyful fact can be chronicled, "Whereas I was blind, now I see."

Silexa marched on, musing sadly, until the little brook parted company by suddenly slipping under a fiat stone bridge, and mingling beyond it with the waters, which now lapped lazily against the boundary wall of the cottage.

Beyond the jetty, there was a heaving groundswell, causing all the boats at anchor to sway and swing against their moorings in noisy play. The sun shone brightly on torn and flapping sails and outspread nets, and on the hideous hulks, making their black, wet sides glisten in the glow of morning.

The door of Mrs. Gwynne's cottage stood open, and some people who were talking in knots moved aside to leave space for Silexa to pass.

The usual greetings in Welsh were exchanged as she went by, but no one followed her over the threshold.

The sound of the baby's cry made her stop for an instant. But Lettice, catching sight of her, came forward quickly; and her calm peaceful face brightened into a smile as the eyes of the two women met.

"Ah, Miss Pryse, I'm right glad you've come. I was thinking I had best step up to the Rectory, but did not see how I could leave until—the inquest, you know," she added, with a sad look towards the inner door.

"No, of course you could not," said Silexa decisively. "That is why I came, but I cannot talk against the screaming of that baby. Poor little thing! It is a pity it survived its mother, for life is a stormier sea than the one it was saved from."

David was seated on a low stool beside the hearth, his round rosy face wearing an expression of subdued happiness as he rocked the little orphan to and fro, and pressed the tiny face to his own, to stifle the persistent cries that grew more piteous every instant.

Lettice turned towards the old chest in the corner, and a tear fell on the small flannel hood she took out.

"Carry her towards the jetty, Davie, and mind you keep the shawl well round her," she added, taking the baby from him to wrap her up tenderly in hood and plaid.

"Yes, mother," said Davie, stepping out with his precious burden in his arms and a glad smile on his face. Baby's cries grew more distant every minute.

"That will be better," said Miss Pryse, seating herself on the settle. "Now, Lettice, how did it all happen?"

"Indeed and indeed, I can scarcely say, Miss Silexa. There was no lifeboat, as you know to put off to save the poor creatures, and more's the pity for a place like St. Elvis. Father and his mates say there never has been such a wreck in these parts. To watch the signals of distress, and see the poor creatures go down, without being able to stretch a hand to save them; oh, it must have been awful! And the dear little babe, who can tell us nothing, is the only one saved."

"The child must go to the parish," said Silexa abruptly.

"Never, Miss Pryse, as long as I am spared to her! The Lord has taken my own little lamb to Himself, and she is well off there, though it was hard to look into the empty cradle. Perhaps it was to make room in my heart for the motherless babe now drawn from the waters. Anyway I hear the voice saying plainly to me, 'Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages.'"

"I call that blindly trusting in Providence, Lettice. Why, you cannot afford to keep your own boy without help. By the way, if you 'do' burden yourself with the baby, she is as much entitled to be on Lady Ermyn Brande's fund as David is."

"True, I did not think of that," said Lettice; "indeed, so she is, for the mother is drowned, and most likely the father too. But even if the trustees refuse to give her the grant, I am not afraid to trust to the promise, 'The Lord will provide,' for I have never found it fail me yet, never, not in my darkest days."

Miss Pryse was silent, but her heart's musings ran thus: "A dead sorrow is better than a living one, and if both burdens are laid upon one back, it cannot be borne without staggering under the load. When the future is a blank, with no cheer in prospect, how can one trust and be thankful? ''Tis our lot, and we must bear it like oxen at the plough.'

"Well, Lettice," she added aloud, "you see I can't take the child, for Eudora is enough to provide for and look after. But I will help you all I can, and stand godmother to the babe at her baptism, which had better take place on Sunday, after the funeral."

"As you think best, Miss Pryse, but what name shall we give her? She may have been baptized already, for anything we know. See, this is the locket I took off the body last night; perhaps you can tell what the letters are across the hair."

Miss Pryse examined the monogram carefully, and her fingers trembled visibly as she said—

"It is a double E, Lettice. You must give the child a name beginning with E. Better call her after Dame Ermyn Brande, as she will be one of her orphans."

Before Lettice could reply, a shadow darkened the doorway, and the village doctor stepped in.

"I have not had a minute to come before," said he. "Called to a sudden case ten miles off. Very sad news this, Miss Pryse; ship went down like a stone, I hear. Several bodies washed in farther down the coast since. It is supposed to be a ship from Liverpool bound for Ireland. So you've got the poor baby, Lettice. Well, it has drifted into a mother's arms, at any rate," he added, as Lettice, opening the door into the inner room, signed for the doctor and Miss Pryse to enter.

The calm dignity on the sweet face disclosed to view made the doctor pause in his speech for a few minutes, and they looked in silence.

"A strange, sad mystery," he said, at length, "which will be buried with the quiet dead. Is there no other trace?—No letters, or papers?"

"Nothing but this locket," said Lettice; "I was just showing it to Miss Pryse. Stay," she added, "I was forgetting the little shirt I took off the baby when she was brought in dripping wet," and Lettice ran quickly to the hearth where the tiny garment hung.

The mark was eagerly sought, but though material and work were of the finest quality, not even a single letter was discernible. While Silexa searched, she felt conscious of a mist before her eyes.

And she turned back alone once more into the inner chamber before the tears had time to gather and fall. What made her bend over the quiet sleeper and impress a kiss on the smooth brow? She could not tell why she did it, and almost surprised herself by the suddenness of the action. This dead stranger was nothing to "her." Why should her heart be moved towards her, and a yearning pity take the place of frigid sternness? That kiss was her seal to one of God's beatitudes, though she knew it not.

"I am a fool!" she muttered, half aloud, as the cessation of voices in the next room recalled her to herself.

She found Lettice alone and the doctor gone.

Meantime, David had staggered along with baby over the rough path past the limekiln, in the direction of the jetty. The brilliant sunshine made her blink, and she stopped suddenly short in her screaming, to stare with wondering eyes on the masts and rigging against the blue sky.

"Davie's darling!" murmured the boy, kissing away the large tear-drops that rested on the little face.

And baby stretched out both arms and gave such a sudden jump that he well-nigh lost his balance. But he held on tight, and in spite of the fresh sea-breeze that seemed to dispute possession with him by blowing the corners of the shawl about, he climbed over the last bit of rock with her, and stepped on the level jetty, finally seating himself on a bit of timber, where he could look over the wall out to sea.

"Hulloa, Davie!" cried a sailor. "What's that you've got?"

"It's our baby," said Davie, getting very red at the thought that perhaps some one else might claim her. "Our very own—mother said so—and you'd best not come too near her, or she'll cry ever so again."

"Why, Jem," said a comrade, "that's the very one Old Roger cut from the spar and wrapped in the net. Bless her little heart! Let us come and have a look at her."

And a group of men soon collected round the children.

One and another bent down, and tenderly touched the waxen fingers, and ventured to kiss the little face. But when a pair of brawny arms were stretched out to take her, she hid her face in David's breast, and would have cried if he had not quickly changed the game to Bo-peep.

At this moment, Old Roger Rudd was climbing up the slippery steps from one of his boats, and came suddenly on the scene unperceived by all but baby, who began to struggle in Davie's arms.

It may have been the old man's fancy, but he thought she knew him, and stretching out his arms to her, he cried, "Come to granddad, my beauty!"

And baby went with a happy smile, and from that hour the hearts of Old Roger and his mates were hers for ever, and she took possession of Porthmynwr in her own right like a little queen.

THE DESIRED HAVEN

IT was Sunday, and the old parish church of St. Elvis had been well filled for the Welsh and English morning services, which follow closely upon one another. And during the interval before afternoon worship, a Sabbath stillness brooded over valley and shore, as if to breathe the Saviour's loving message to weary hearts, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

The simple fisher-folk were conscious of the holy hush, as they gathered in silent groups near the cottage by the creek, outside the door of which a coffin was resting on wooden chairs. Tears fell softly from many eyes, as the white-haired and venerable-looking pastor appeared to take his place among the mourners.

For a moment he bent his uncovered head in silent prayer, and then in a distinct, though tremulous voice, gave out the following hymn, which was sung in Welsh—

"'Why do we mourn departed friends,
    Or shake at death's alarms?
 'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
    To call them to His arms.
 
"'Why should we tremble to convey
    Their bodies to the tomb?
  Since there the dear Redeemer lay,
    And cheered its dreary gloom.
 
"'The graves of all His saints He blessed,
    And softened every bed;
  Where should the dying members rest
    But with the dying Head?
 
"'Thence He arose, ascending high,
    And showed our feet the way;
  Up to the Lord our flesh shall fly
    At the great rising day.'"

The echoing rocks took up the notes of that song of hope as a gentle wind wafted it up the valley. And little Dora, who stood next to her aunt, looked up into the blue sky, and thought the angels must be singing too.

The hymn died away into silence, and the long procession wound slowly along the road towards St. Elvis. The service proceeded, the solemn silence only broken by the wailing of the babe, who beside the open grave, all unheeding of what was passing around, cried bitterly in the motherly arms of Lettice Gwynne.

"A sorer sight St. Elvis never looked upon," said one of the sailors, as he followed the others into the church for afternoon service. "God bless the baby!"

"Ay, mates, for sure He will. He has given His word for it," was Roger Rudd's fervent response, as he wiped away a heavy tear-drop with his coat sleeve.

Eudora went meekly into the Rectory pew with her aunt, after a wistful but ineffectual appeal to be allowed to stay beside Lettice and the baby.

To the child, this stately compartment was an imprisoning cage. Once inside it, she saw nothing but the bobbing up and down of a few high Welsh hats, even when she stretched her diminutive height to the utmost while standing on the seat during the singing.

All that came within her range of vision, when seated in one of the dusty corners, was first and foremost Aunt Silexa herself, who never failed to occupy the opposite angle, sitting sideways, so that the child always saw her sharp profile against the oaken boards.

Her working dress was exchanged for a black silk gown somewhat shiny with age, though rarely taken from its lavender-strewn wrapper except on Sundays. An old-fashioned black cloth cloak, which had been her mother's, and a black straw bonnet plainly trimmed with black silk, completed her costume. Silexa despised gloves, and had not a single pair in her possession.

Looking beyond the high edge of the pew, Eudora saw a bit of the dark-groined roof, or it might be her grandfather's silvery head and strikingly handsome face, as he stood in the pulpit, against one of the mouldy Norman arches; while immediately above her, near enough for her to spell out every letter, line upon line, was an ancient marble tablet, bearing the following inscription:—

TO THE MEMORY OF
DAME ERMYN BRANDE,
RELICT OF SIR GEOFFREY BRANDE, BART.,
OF CASTLE LLANRI,
IN THE COUNTY OF PEMBROKE.
BORN FEB. 1720.
DIED MAY, 1798.
—————
   As a bequest to her native town of St. Elvis, the orphans of mariners shipwrecked in sight of Porthmynwr, if dwelling in the town, shall be entitled to the sum of two pounds sterling per annum, until they attain the age of sixteen. If boys, a free education shall be granted them in the Grammar School of St. Elvis, likewise endowed according to the last will and testament of the said Dame Ermyn Brande.
—————
REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

This tablet had been one of Eudora's earliest lesson-books. And whenever she sat in the pew, her eyes would stray towards it until by long practice she had made out all the letters, and their meaning began to dawn dimly, though the long words still puzzled her sorely. The "Requiescat in pace" she concluded at last, after much contemplation, must be a part of Dame Ermyn's name.

Eudora wondered if the dirty little marble angels at the head of the monument felt frightened at night when the church was shut up, and it was all dark and cold, with the wind howling through the trees outside. She remembered hearing Old Dinah tell Molly about the night of All Hallow E'en, and how she and some more old village crones had assembled in the churchyard at midnight to listen to the shrieking of spirits in the wind, prognosticating who would die in the ensuing year. This, and similar ugly superstitions, came crowding into the child's mind, haunting it with fear and dread. The words of the beautiful service fell unheeded on her ear, and the Saviour's message to the little ones did not reach her, neither could she see the Good Shepherd standing near to welcome the shivering lamb to His warm embrace, and shelter it on His breast for ever.

With a guilty start, she was suddenly and gladly aware that the service was at an end, and that Miss Silexa was unfastening the door of the pew.

In a few minutes, they were standing beside Lettice and the baby round the old time-worn font, in which baby was immersed (as was the custom in that part of Wales among both gentle and simple), and received the name of "Ermyn Silexa."

After the ceremony, Lettice took her back into her arms, praying fervently that the babe might indeed "not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under His banner, against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ's faithful servant unto her life's end."

Little Ermyn, wrapped in a warm blanket after the immersion, was then carried to the Rectory kitchen, and dressed beside a bright fire.

Eudora's fears all vanished when she was really kissing the dear little one, and heard Lettice whisper, "Come down to the cottage to-morrow, my pet, and you shall nurse her as long as you like, and Davie and you shall have a nice play together, when he comes back from school. Now we must be getting home. Where's father and Davie?"

And Lettice stepped out into the sunshine, which beamed brightly on the sleeping infant.

Eudora stood long at the Rectory gate, watching the groups dispersing to their different homes in the village and down the valley. The sky was grey and dimpled, and there was a fresh stirring wind among the tree-tops. The child listened to the wind whispering among the branches, as the last sunbeams lit up her hair, and with a little sigh she turned into the house, for her heart had followed David and his mother to the old cottage by the creek.

Lettice walked along in the evening glow beside father and child, thinking of her dear ones who had passed beyond the sunset into "eternal day and endless light," and the words of the benediction were echoing in her heart:

   "'The peace of God that passeth all understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Jesus Christ our Lord.'"

She felt that this peace was part of "the rest that remaineth to the people of God," in the midst of the storm and unrest of this world, the "peace, be still" that Jesus speaks to those who know His voice and follow Him.

Why did this peace not reign in the heart of the aged Theophilus Pryse, as, weary and worn-out with the duties of the day, he sought his silent study?

He had been telling his hearers of the love of God in Christ, and yet in his own heart there was a dreary blank. There was not a Gospel truth that he did not know and believe, yet his cry from the depths was,—

   "'I am troubled, I am bowed down greatly, I go mourning all the day long . . . Mine eyes fail for Thy word, saying, When wilt Thou comfort me?'"

What was the shadow between him and his God? Alas! He thought the Lord had dealt hardly with him; the windows of his soul were darkened with sorrow, and he could not say with Eli,—

   "'It is the Lord: let Him do what seemeth Him good.'"

Or with Job,—

   "'Shall we receive good from the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?'"

The exceeding bitter cry of David was his:

   "'O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee!'"

No wonder that the light of the glorious Gospel of the blessed God failed to shine forth from him in its fulness. It was hidden under the bushel of sorrow, and the light struggled out but dimly.

The careless and hardened remained indifferent, because the fire was lacking; and "the joy of the Lord" not being his own experience, he could not speak of its strength to those who were needing its cheer in dark and toilsome days.

These thoughts passed through his mind to-night as he mused sadly in the firelight, until with streaming eyes he fell upon his knees, to falter out,—

   "'Lord, be merciful unto me: heal my soul; for I have sinned against Thee . . . That which I see not teach Thou me.'"

And the Lord, who is "very pitiful and of tender mercy," heard the cry of that sorrow-laden soul; the answer was already on its way. God's angel had been waiting until the moment when he should be commanded to "fly swiftly" to the weary waiting one, whom the Lord had been teaching and leading, though by a way he knew not, towards "the city that hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God."

The Lord of the kingdom had also provided means for feeding the flock with food, which the pastor's hand was too feeble to give them.

He has always His "hidden ones," His faithful few in reserve, to set the stream flowing that from various causes sometimes fails to run in appointed channels; and Roger Rudd, the lowly fisherman, was one of these.

The old sailor had long been in the habit of gathering about him on a Sunday evening a number of his companions in labour, and any others who cared to come and hear something out of the Book of God.

"They are too busy like in the week," he would say, "to give much heed to the Holy Scriptures, so I like to have them in and talk to them a bit about the real country beyond the waves, and the dear Saviour who wants to take us there."

It was all real to Old Roger, and he made it real to his hearers; this was why they heard him gladly.

Every corner of the cottage was carefully arranged, with a view to giving a comfortable and cheery welcome to those who strayed in to listen, and soon every nook and cranny was filled, and the old patriarch sat in the midst, calmly turning over the leaves of his great Bible, waiting to begin.

Lettice had one foot upon the rocker of the cradle, and David knelt as close to it as possible peering over the edge with his bright eyes to watch the sleeping baby, who, being an object of general interest throughout the fishing-hamlet, was an evident cause of the cottage being more crowded this evening than usual.

"I think, mates and neighbours," Old Roger began, "the Lord is very good to put so much about the sea into His blessed Book, as if on purpose for us poor sailors, as well as for those we leave ashore to look out for our return. It seems as if it was because He knew we should often be in danger, and need the comfort out in the cold and wet, shipping heavy seas, and fearing rocks ahead, at the mercy of winds and waves. Ah, we need something besides a plank betwixt us and the waters then; we want to see the Light of Life as our beacon star, and to feel the 'everlasting arms' underneath us, and hear the voice of Jesus say above the roaring of the storm,—

   "'It is I; be not afraid.'

"I hope the poor drowning ones who went down last week before our very eyes had Him very nigh them, for an arm of flesh could not save them in their sore distress. If they called upon him, they were surely holpen, and would find the path through the sea was only the shortest way home. I think we'll read one of the stories about Jesus and His fishermen to-night, in the fourth chapter of St. Mark, from the 36th verse. Here, Davie, your eyes are younger than mine, and ye'll be a better scholar than your old granddad; read us the words, my boy."

So David took the book and read:

   "'And when they had sent away the multitude, they took Him even as He was in the ship. And there were also with Him other little ships. And there arose a great storm of wind, and the waves beat into the ship, so that it was now full. And He was in the hinder part of the ship, asleep on a pillow: and they awake Him, and say unto Him, Master, carest Thou not that we perish? And He arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. And He said unto them, Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith? And they feared exceedingly, and said one to another, What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey Him?'"

"Ay," said Roger meditatively, as if the subject was too mighty for him to handle, "St. Matthew, when he tells us the same tale, calls it 'a great tempest,' so I reckon they were finely tossed about, and it was pretty nigh over with them. Ah, some of us have felt like that before now, when darkness was round about, and drowning stared us in the face. We thought God had forgotten us, and that He did not care. But He is a loving Father, and He don't want us to think hard thoughts like that, so He has told us by His prophet Isaiah that—

   "'He hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand.'

"Just think of that! Why, then, He must be holding us in that hand as safely as if we were on the dry land.

   "'Thou rulest the raging of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, Thou stillest them." (Ps. lxxxix. 9).

   "Jesus says, 'My sheep . . . shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand." (John x. 28).

"Never perish! No, not even if they drown, for the same hand that holds them will rock them to sleep, to wake them up in glory. Our blessed Lord slept soundly on a pillow, though the waters were roaring and filling the boat. We also may have a pillow to sleep on in the storm—the pillow of the promises—and with our heads on that, our sleep shall be sweet:

   "Yea, we 'shall lie down, and none shall make us afraid.'

"Well, we must go on with the Gospel story. The poor sailors came in a great fright to wake up their beloved Master.

   "'And He arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.'

"Ah, mates!" said the aged seaman, looking round on his hearers with kindling eyes. "It must have been grand to see Him, and hear Him say those words. Can't you see those great roaring waves fall quiet as a lamb at His feet? And the wind hushing its breath to listen to His voice? We have the same Master with us to-day, if we will but hear Him. He is saying the same words, 'Peace, be still.'

   "'Peace, peace to him that is far off, and to him that is near, saith the Lord; and I will heal him." (Isa. lvii. 19).

"We are lost, lost, hopelessly lost! Rigging, spars, and timbers all rotten! And sin and death, like hungry waves, are swamping our boat. The ship is sinking. Eternity is near. What must we do to be saved? Stretch out the hand of faith and take hold of Him.

   "'Lord, save me . . . I perish.'

"A look at the Crucified One, and we are safe.

   "'He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' (1 John i. 9).

"For—

   "'All we like sheep have gone astray . . . and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' (Isa. liii. 6).

"Oh, believe and live; cry to the Holy Spirit to open your blind eyes that you may see the Lord of Life, and then take Him to be your Saviour. You will need no other, whether on sea or shore.

"This is all written for those who—

   "'go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep.' (Ps. cvii. 23-24).

"Davie, read in the hundred and seventh Psalm, lad."

So David found the place and read:

   "'He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven. Oh that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!'" (Ps. cvii. 25-31).

"You have got the Lord's offer to-day," resumed Roger; "don't say 'No' to it. Some think if salvation is so easy to be got, they can stretch out their hand any day to take it. No hurry now. That won't do, my friends. Don't put out to sea in a leaky boat; she may be all tight and trim for fair weather, but how about the storm? The water will soon rush in and swamp the ship when it finds out the hole in her. The Lord is bidding us now 'to make our calling and election sure' by believing on Him. Will you listen? It may be too late to-morrow. 'Jesus of Nazareth passeth by.'"

"Who," said Roger, with vehemence, rising and looking round, "who will have Him for their own to-night?"

"I will," and "I," said one voice after another, carried beyond themselves by the reality of the message so faithfully delivered, while a sob here and there escaped from the heaving breasts of the strong men who listened, and were bowed by the Holy Spirit of the Lord.

"Will you?" said Father Roger solemnly. "Will you have Him for your Master, and serve Him faithfully 'even unto death'? Can you by the power of the Holy Ghost promise this? Then you may trust and not be afraid; then you may be sure your Saviour is always in the ship beside you, come storm or shine. When your hearts are failing you for fear, and human help can do nought for you, turn away from the tossing waves, and hide your face in the bosom of Jesus, and think of the heavenly harbour whose lights will give you a brighter welcome than any you ever got on earth. Never forget to take the Master aboard—that is the secret for us poor sailors.

   "'The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea."

   "'The sea is His, and He made it: and His hands formed the dry land. O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the Lord our Maker. For He is our God; and we are the people of His pasture, and the sheep of His hand. To-day, if ye will hear His voice, harden not your heart.'

"Now, let us sing—

  "'Why those fears? behold, 'tis Jesus
    Holds the helm and guides the ship;
    Spread the sails and catch the breezes
    Sent to waft us through the deep,
To the regions where the mourners cease to weep.
 
  "'Led by Christ, we brave the ocean,
    Led by Him, the storm defy;
    Calm amidst tumultuous motion,
    Knowing that our Lord is nigh.
Waves obey Him, and the storms before Him fly.
 
  "'Though the shore we hope to land on
    Only by report is known,
    Yet we freely all abandon,
    Led by that report alone;
And with Jesus through the trackless deep move on.'"

A simple prayer, followed by fervent Amens, closed the service; but Old Roger would never have thought of giving it so grand a name.

"It was only a bit of a talk with the lads," he said.

THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

THE parish of St. Elvis had been richly endowed by different testators belonging to the county, who at various times had left part of their wealth to be laid out in specified charities; and as Miss Silexa was the almoner of the Rectory, much of the money passed through her hands.

She took care to dispense the benefits only where they were deserved and actually needed, thereby at times giving great offence to some of the farmers and others, who considered they had as much right to the dole of bread and clothing as their poorer neighbours.

But she held her ground with so much independent spirit and true kindliness, that there were few who did not submit to her sway with grateful contentment.

Her store-room was a sight; for not only did it contain food and clothing, but medicines, herbs, healing ointments, and cordials.

Dr. Llewellyn, whose acquaintance we made in Mrs. Gwynne's cottage, called her his assistant-surgeon, for well could he rely on her prompt attention and unfailing nerve in cases of emergency, when others would shrink from the sight of suffering.

Silexa rose into her noblest self on these occasions, for, stern and unflinching though she was where duty was concerned, she was a true woman at heart, full of tenderness and sympathy.

Monday was her busiest day in all the week, and to-day there was an unusual press of pensioners at the back door. Molly sung gaily at the scullery pump, as she pared her potatoes; and Old Dinah was clinking about on her pattens with pail and broom.

The rain streamed off the roof with a spluttering sound into the gutter, and there was a lowing of cattle in the sheds across the yard. The cocks and hens clucked and strutted up and down, pecking and scratching, and claiming a right of way over the threshold, to continue their researches for scraps on the lime-ash floor of the kitchen.

These border raids were occasionally disturbed by a loud swish from Miss Silexa, and they fluttered out with resentful clucks and a scuffling rush, to join the delighted ducks, who found countless puddles wherein to disport themselves.

The mistress was seated on a low stool by the kitchen hearth amid flying feathers, for she was busy plucking a goose, which seemed an endless labour, as she was interrupted every five minutes by some one knocking.

"Come in, Bessie Thomas," she cried; "I can't be for ever on the flit to and fro the door; be quick and tell your errand, for I have no time to waste."

"If you please, ma'am," began the woman thus admonished, "I've come up to say Lewis, Lewis' wife had twins this morning, and she's sent up to know if you will let her have another square of flannel and some more baby clothes, as we're driven up short."

"How provoking!" Silexa ejaculated. "As if there were not enough babies in the world without extra ones. Such a thriftless body I never knew in all my days, always living from hand to mouth, never anything ready or laid by, and her man earns as good a wage as any in St. Elvis."

"She's a weakly poor soul," interrupted the woman, "and eight children's a hard handful."

"Ay, but," rejoined Silexa, "that's no excuse for idleness and want of forethought. Folks don't deserve to be helped who won't help themselves."

Yet, notwithstanding this severe sentence, the store-room keys were already jingling in Miss Silexa's hand. And the woman was soon laden with a good-sized bundle, and a can of hot soup for the little ones, with orders to come for more as long as the mother was laid aside.

Meantime, a hungry-eyed girl stood waiting her turn.

"Please, Miss Pryse, Annie's worse, and mother can't get her to eat nothing."

"And that's no wonder," said Silexa sharply, "considering the dirt and rags the child is kept in. Your mother ought to be ashamed of herself, keeping her house like a pigsty, and not even a clean seat for me to sit down on the last time I called. What is your father? He always takes care to keep out of my road, but I saw him slinking out of 'The Jolly Sailors' on Saturday night, and that's where all his money goes, and Annie and all the rest of you may starve for aught he cares. Come down at one o'clock, and there'll be a pudding for Annie. And see that you wash your face and hands before you show yourself here again, and tell mother I'll step up towards evening."

And so the petitioners came and went.

Miss Silexa prescribed and scolded alternately, packing up food and medicine, and giving homely advice where it was sought, and words and smiles of encouragement to the hard-working and industrious, who seemed to gain fresh zest for their labours by seeing her ever brisk and busy as a bee. Thus, the morning hours sped away.

Eudora's dreamy eyes often peeped round the corner leading to the kitchen, trying in vain to secure a moment's attention from her busy aunt, or a word of explanation concerning the sampler she had been stooping over at the study window.

"It's no use, grandfather," she said at last, with a little sigh; "it's all wrong, and Aunt Silexa always sends me away. I wish people never made these horrid things. I don't like writing my name with a needle and thread at all, and these ugly flowers are not a bit like the ones that grow in our garden. I wish it would stop raining, that I might go down to Lettice."

"Eh, my little love! What is it you are prattling about?" said her grandfather, who had been deaf to her short soliloquy, buried in his books and writing. "Has the boy been down with the letters yet?"

"No, grandfather, but I'll watch for him." And the child set herself to count the beaded drops of rain that collected along the woodwork window and dripped on the sill below.

The postal arrangements in St. Elvis were most primitive, for the mail-cart, besides bringing the letters from the nearest town, sixteen miles off, had baskets and parcels stowed away under its box; for the crazy old coach ran only once a week.

These were the only regular means of inland communication with the world that the inhabitants of the village had at their command. So it came to pass that the arrival of the mail was never very exact. After the letters were sorted in the village shop, they were entrusted to an honest farmer-lad who delivered them at the various houses.

To-day he was later than usual. But at last, Eudora caught sight of Dick's rosy face appearing round the laurel hedge, and she ran out to receive the two letters he held in his hand.

Her grandfather quivered and grew white as he broke the seal of one, and a mist came before the dim eyes when he read the following communication—

   "MY DEAR FRIEND,—I lose no time in forwarding to you news which I am sure will do something towards lessening a grief of many years' standing. This morning I received a mysterious packet in an unknown hand, enclosing bank notes to the amount of £200, with the word 'Restitution' written inside. All means by which I might trace this have been carefully concealed.

   "Can you suggest a solution of the mystery?

   "I need not add how greatly I rejoice with my valued friend that the blot on the family honour is at last wiped away. My hope and trust now is that the self-banished prodigal may some day be restored to his father. I will spare no pains in seeking to ascertain the clue to this, but the seal of secrecy is always hard to break. I am, yours most faithfully,—

"WILLIAM LYNDWOOD."

The child watched with a frightened interest the effect of the letter, as her grandfather perused each line again and again in a vacant way, as if he could not take in its meaning. Seeing him at length sink back in the chair in a faint, she summoned her aunt from the kitchen by a sharp cry.

His daughter was at his side in a moment, and Eudora was hastily put out of the room and the door closed upon her, so she ran off to relate the scene to her chief confidante, Molly, who in her turn wondered what had come over master.

But when the mistress appeared again in the kitchen an hour afterwards to dish up the dinner, she betrayed no sign that would give any clue to curiosity, either in face or manner, and Molly's sidelong glances were met by a steady look from the grey eyes, which the girl interpreted as meaning "Mind your own business."

Outside, the heavy rain-clouds were lifting, and a glint of golden sunshine lighted up the shining laurels. And as Eudora went softly to fetch her grandfather in to dinner, she saw a happy smile on his face, that somehow seemed strange to the wondering child, who unconsciously always associated sadness and dolour with his worn though kindly features.

"May I go to Porthmynwr, Aunt Silexa?" was the request timidly proffered at the conclusion of the meal.

"Yes, if you keep on the high road and don't get wet."

This permission was joyously hailed by the child, who, duly defended in cloak and clogs, set out for the cottage. The mile of road was soon traversed, and Lettice heard the little feet come trotting up the causeway, and rose to open the door and welcome her pet. Baby was standing holding on to the bar of a chair, looking very proud of her achievement, but she tottered forward with a sunny smile into Eudora's open arms.

"Come, and let me feel if your feet are wet, my little one," said the motherly Lettice, taking the child on her lap. "Davie will be back at four o'clock, and you can have a nice play, and I'll take you home myself by and by."

There was something about Lettice that made children run to her like chickens to the sheltering wing of the mother-hen. She neither scared nor spoiled them, and a word or look from her was sufficient at all times for rule and discipline. She was quite as important in her sphere as Miss Silexa in hers, and her life was fully as busy, though it flowed more quietly and evenly.

She was often summoned to scenes of sickness, and her gentle presence always seemed to soothe the sufferer. Not only did she possess much knowledge and skill in simple remedies, but she ever carried with her the healing balm of Gilead for sin-sick souls. She loved to tell them of the Good Physician and tender Shepherd "who came to seek and to save that which was lost", and was one of the few to be found among either gentle or simple who sacrifice themselves for the good of others without knowing that it "is" a sacrifice. Her cheek often paled with the weariness of a long night-watch by the bedside of a neighbour, but she never complained, and was quite as ready to do it when asked again, even though the fatigue must follow a hard day's toil, for she had to earn her own living, and her store was scanty enough sometimes.

She was like a bit of warm sunshine to Eudora's timid heart. And since the child had grown big enough to go down by herself to Porthmynwr, Lettice had seen much more of her, and did her utmost to disperse the unchildlike gravity that almost always rested upon the pale little face.

"Mrs. Gwynne," said Eudora, hiding her face on the good woman's bosom, "please, do the white ghosts walk about in the churchyard when it's dark? Dinah told Molly so, and I'm so frightened."

"My poor little dove! And that is what they have been scaring you with, is it? I wondered what made you so white yesterday. What a shame!" murmured Lettice indignantly, as she took off the child's bonnet and tenderly stroked her hair. "No, my lamb; don't you ever listen to such tales again, for they're not true. I'll tell you something better to think about. Do you remember the snowdrops and crocuses and lilies that your Aunt, Miss Silexa, plants in the garden?"

Eudora nodded.

"Well, they are not pretty flowers when she puts them into the ground, but only hard, dry roots, so she covers them up with soft warm earth, and then the snow and rain come down, and they keep so still and quiet all the winter. In the spring, the kind, bright sun shines down, warms the earth, and the little flowers begin to show their bright eyes, and grow beautiful day by day, and when you see them you clap your hands and say, 'Spring is come! The flowers are here.'"

"Yes," said Eudora, becoming interested, "and I put some always in my own garden."

"My dear little lady," continued Lettice, "the churchyard is called God's garden; and when those who love Jesus die, their spirits go to heaven, and their bodies are laid to sleep in the quiet grassy grave, and angels keep watch over them. Some day, when Jesus comes again and calls them, they will rise up out of the dark earth like the flowers, and He will put them on a glorious body that shall never die any more, and they will live for ever and ever with Him."

"Will Jesus take care of 'me' when I go to sleep in the churchyard?" asked Eudora earnestly.

"Yes, my darling, if you will be one of His lambs now and love Him."

A new revelation seemed dawning across the child's face as she looked up and listened. Lettice paused, for she saw the little mind was grappling with a difficulty.

"But then," added Eudora slowly, and as if thinking out each word, "why do they put such big heavy stones upon some of the graves, because the poor people under them won't be able to rise up quickly when Jesus comes, will they?"

This was a thing evidently hitherto undreamt of in Mrs. Gwynne's philosophy, and for a moment the good woman was fairly baffled. But the next instant, the words of Scripture came to her aid, and she replied, "When Jesus our Saviour lay in the tomb, God sent a shining angel to roll away the stone; and He will do the same when He calls His people to come out of their graves."

Eudora seemed much relieved, but presently shook her head, and said very decidedly—

"But I would rather have a grave with only daisies on it, like little Ruth's. Don't cry," she added coaxingly, putting up her small hand to stay the tear that was finding a course down the careworn cheek. "Tell me some more. I want to see Jesus, and ask Him to love me. Can I speak to Him now?"

"Oh yes, quite easily," answered Lettice, smiling through her tears; "and He will be sure to hear, because He is everywhere, and you have only to shut your eyes and pray,—

   "'Lord Jesus, make me one of Thy little lambs; give me Thy Holy Spirit, and wash me in Thy precious blood, and I shall be whiter than snow.'

"Let me hear if you can say it."

So Eudora said it with her little hands folded.

And Lettice continued: "Be sure, my dear, He 'will' love you, for He says now, as He said on earth,—

   "'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.'"

Lettice then kissed the child, and set her down off her knee to go after baby, who had scrambled away on a voyage of discovery out of sight behind the cupboard-bed.

Eudora took her accustomed seat on the low stool by the fire, quite ready to nurse and rock her to sleep, while Lettice tidied up the room and got ready for tea. Presently, with a merry whistle, David ran in from school, and the games by the old chest were carried on with great spirit, while Eudora's cheeks grew rosy, and her eyes sparkled. She was a happy child again.

Lettice led her home in the twilight, and as they passed the quiet churchyard, Eudora did not shiver with her usual nervous dread, but looked at the deepening shadows there, and thought about "God's garden," and the angels keeping watch above the quiet graves.

It had been a relief to Miss Silexa to get rid of the child, for since the arrival of the agitating letter in the morning, a restraint had to be put on words and looks. The secrets of the Rectory were jealously guarded; and though the villagers knew much of the sad past, and had embellished facts with an extra amount of fiction, yet they did not know all. They were obliged to content themselves with vague guesses at the truth, while Miss Silexa carefully fenced every outlet for gossip, and found silence her best security.

Molly retailed her account of the reception of the letter as given her by Eudora. And this was repeated from mouth to mouth, until it grew into the most wonderful story, and the whole village was agog.

Many pairs of eyes watched Miss Silexa come out from the Rectory gate in the afternoon. But the expression on her face was unsatisfactory in its stoicism, as it suggested nothing to elucidate Molly's whisper. The good lady looked as usual, and walked steadily on to the post-office, where she slipped a letter into the box, and calmly resumed her walk.

The gape-seat of the village was an ancient stone cross in the centre of the principal street. On its time-worn steps, both in summer and winter, a group of idlers of both sexes might generally be seen ready to discuss with a will any event that had happened in their own or more distant neighbourhoods, or to chatter over things that concerned or did not concern them.

"I reckon that letter could tell us something," said the first speaker; "'tis not often Miss Silexa writes one herself."

"Maybe they've heard some news of the young master," suggested a second, "as the old gentleman took on so."

"Not likely," interposed a third, "unless, indeed, he's dead, which for certain is the truth, for its twelve years this fall since he went away. Don't you mind how old Dick Howell said three months ago, when he was up on the hill one moonlight night to watch for the ghost-funerals, he saw one come out from the Rectory gate as plainly as I see my hand afore my face? He counted six carriages and a hearse, and the horses were black."

"Ay, ay," nodded the gossips, while one and another produced the small stocks of facts they had to build upon, which had been added to from time to time, and served up again and again as a savoury dish of scandal.

But Miss Silexa upheld the honour of the Rectory by her silence, and never once stooped to sift the stories that sometimes reached her by a side-wind and those who had been foremost in circulating them would slink away abashed if confronted by her steady eye. She asked no sympathy, for she did not believe in it.

"'Cause every man to go out from me,'" was the cry of her spirit, as she sought where to weep and bury her sorrow out of sight. She had dropped her treasures one by one into a sullen sea, and could not find them again, for, "He alone never loseth what is dear to him, to whom all things are dear in Him who is never lost." ¹

¹ St. Augustine.

A LIGHT IN THE TUNNEL

SILEXA neither saw nor heard as she passed the town-cross, for her heart was busy with its own bitterness, going back through the long years swiftly and steadily, as if searching for the hopes she had buried one by one. The grass grew on those graves, but the graves were still there; and the unexpected letter had come as a resurrection voice to revive her hopes. Yet she shuddered to think that they might be as short-lived as the spring leaves which autumn winds were now sweeping withered and brown to her feet.

The eternal beauty of the resurrection springtide, for which "the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now," had not touched her stricken heart with its glow of anticipated gladness. Therefore, she could not "with patience wait for it," but yearned for present satisfaction, mourning to find each earthly treasure crumble into dust and ashes at her touch.

The straggling streets were soon left behind by her swift footsteps, and clusters of cottages by the wayside grew fewer, until solitary ones at rare intervals sprinkled the side of the hill she ascended.

It was a bare, rough bit of road, and the modern stone house on the top overlooked the whole village and valley, commanding a magnificent view of the broad blue bay that stretched away from Porthmynwr. Dr. Llewellyn lived here, and the good people of St. Elvis had not ceased to wonder at his choice of this exalted situation in preference to the snug house near the Rectory, where his predecessor and partner had lived and died.

Not a few grumblers were found to complain bitterly of the steep and stony way that had often to be surmounted before his services could be secured. But Miss Silexa was not among these, for she loved the pure, fresh breezes, and knew every hill for miles round. So she soon reached her destination, and had plenty of breath to spare to inquire for Mrs. Llewellyn, as an elderly servant appeared in response to her ring.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sure she will see you," was the answer, "though, indeed, I'm sorry to tell you she has had a day of uncommon suffering. Master has been summoned again to Llanri, which, as you know, ma'am, is ten miles off. Please step into the parlour, and I'll go upstairs and tell my mistress."

In a few minutes, Miss Silexa was following her guide up the staircase and into the invalid's room.

Somehow this room never suggested sickness; it always seemed full of cheer and happy life, giving a mingled impression of soft tinting and comfort, though the surroundings were of the simplest character. Silexa always stepped very softly across this threshold, for a gentle spell seemed to bind her here, which she could never understand but only feel. She had to make her way across the length of the room to the westerly window, where streaks of sunlight played lovingly about the invalid couch, as if to console the patient sufferer lying there.

Mrs. Llewellyn knew, alas, that in this life her feet could never tread those green slopes she loved to gaze on, nor climb the purple hills now bathed in sunset glory. She must wait for "the far better," "the far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

The face resting among the cushions belonged to a woman past middle age, and bore the stamp of great suffering, which, instead of ageing the features, had beautified and ennobled them, giving a refinement which seemed to shield her from every rough or ungentle touch.

Silexa never had found a heart-friend in woman all her life. Persons, however intimate, could only get a certain length, when a repelling hedge of thorns barred the approach, and effectually secured her against further intrusion. And yet in her self-will, she had often yearned for sympathy, but the price demanded was too high, therefore, she put it from her. An unseen victor, however, had stolen round by a secret way, and, all unawares to the holder of the citadel, was storming and taking possession.

This was no other than the gentle invalid. A perfect stranger to St. Elvis until the last few years, when her husband brought her to try the effect if its celebrated climate, she knew nothing of the sad history of the Rectory, except what she had gathered from the gratuitous information of those about her, and what she had learned by her own quiet intuition.

Silexa liked her from the first, having never met any one with such an utter absence of curiosity in her nature. And she could talk freely, for Mrs. Llewellyn possessed that rare talent which invites confidence, but never forces it. So it came to pass that the weary heart often sought the shade and shelter of that sick chamber, and all unwittingly leaned upon the strength found there.

To the self-reliant Silexa, this study of glad and submissive patience was a perpetual puzzle. She could believe in stoicism and self-imposed martyrdom, but "rejoicing in tribulation" was with her an impossibility. Therefore, she had been inclined to doubt if such a thing was ever genuine, until she found it existing here in living force. Indeed, her new friend's faith bore not green leaves only, but showed fair blossom and pleasant fruit, inviting the wayfarer to turn aside and rest under its shadow.

"How kind of you to come! And I know you are so busy," was the cheery greeting, as the soft eyes sought to read the meaning of an increased expression of care and anxiety that rested on her visitor's face. "Sit there," she added, pointing to a comfortable chair beside her, "and you will get the benefit of these bright blinks of sunshine."

But Silexa had already lifted over a sensible-looking cane chair, as she never felt comfortable in a low easy seat. And Mrs. Llewellyn, remembering her preference, did not remonstrate.

"Where is my little pet, Eudora? I have not seen her since the terrible wreck."

"I sent her down to Mrs. Gwynne after dinner," was the reply, given somewhat absently, as the restless grey eyes wandered away across the wide expanse of sea with a hungry yearning in them. Then, as if recalling her thoughts, she added resolutely—

"The child mopes, and I do not know what to do with her. I have no book-learning to give her, and if I had my hands are too full to attend to it, and she idles about getting her head full of Molly's nonsense. I am anxious to do my duty by her, though she is as scared and timid as any hare whenever I come near her, as if she thought I was going to hurt her. I don't know what ails the child."

Mrs. Llewellyn was silent for some minutes, as her thoughts roamed away to the grim old Rectory wrapped in its sadness, and to the little life growing up within its grey walls stunted and sickly, for lack of sunlight, moral and physical. Then she said quietly, "Will you let her come to me for two or three hours every day? I have been longing to ask you, but feared to take her from her grandfather."

"Oh no," said Silexa proudly; "thank you all the same, but I did not mean to ask favours. A child is always a plague and worry, especially in sickness. I would teach her myself, only what learning I had has grown rusty; and my mother considered my education complete when I had finished a sampler and done a piece of worsted-work for her chair."

"I have no doubt you could do a great deal for the dear child if you had the time to bestow on her," replied Mrs. Llewellyn, smiling at her friend's self-depreciating remark; "but do let me help you!"

"It would not be at all fair," continued Silexa; "you have enough to do to bear your suffering without any additional worries."

"She will not trouble me," pleaded the quiet voice; "it will be only a pleasure to have her. And when I am in pain, she will find her own amusement. Do not deny me my request; it will be a real kindness to let me have her. Please allow her to come to-morrow, and we will try the experiment."

"You are very kind," said Silexa at last, gratefully, seeing that Mrs. Llewellyn really wished it. "I will speak to my father about it, but will you promise to send her home when she is troublesome?"

"Yes, I will," was the ready response.

And the bargain was concluded, as Silexa closed the discussion by producing a basket of new-laid eggs carefully arranged in fragrant hay.

"I will put them here in a safe corner," she said, cutting short the flow of grateful thanks. "I am so glad you can take them, for we have plenty. Now tell me about Mary."

"Oh, I had such a bright letter from her this morning; she is working very hard now, and has taken the place of pupil teacher that she may save us expense, and still have the advantages of the school. Maurice is a great expense to us now, and will be more so every year."

"How old is he now?"

"Eleven, and Mary is sixteen; you hardly know her at all, only having seen her in the holidays. And I was so ill the last time she was at home, she was able to go out very little."

"No, but I liked her bright, sensible face, and thought she was made of the right stuff for getting through the world well."

Mrs. Llewellyn smiled and was silent, but in her heart there echoed her Saviour's words,—

   "'I pray not that Thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that Thou shouldest keep them from the evil.'"

Then she said, "Our little Dora will soon learn to love her. And when Mary comes home next summer, she will be able to go about with her and see some of the lovely spots on this strangely wild and beautiful coast."

"Oh, Eudora is like a wild goat among those places; she does not know what fear is in climbing about."

Silexa paused in the middle of her speech, and a strange shadow crept over her face as she added, "I feel as if she were my own; I have had her ever since she was born."

"Have you indeed? Then I don't wonder you are so fond of her. She was born in the old home, then?"

"Yes, just six years ago; her father was drowned a few days before."

Mrs. Llewellyn looked away towards the sunset when she saw the deathly pallor that overspread the face of the narrator at these words, and connected it in her mind with something she had heard long ago. In that moment, her woman's heart had read the secret of Silexa's life, though her intuitive delicacy guarded the betrayal of the discovery.

And when Miss Pryse heard the quiet comment, "Poor orphan babe!" she little guessed the truth was no longer bolted and barred from human ken. And a short sigh of relief escaped her on finding the conversation had turned into another channel.

The tender hand had found the wound; the healing must be given silently and unconsciously.

   "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy."

"What a pleasure it will be for Eudora to go down and see the baby! You must ask Lettice to bring it up to show me very soon."

"She told me she intended to come," said Silexa; "it is a fine healthy child. I suppose you have heard about the christening?"

"Oh yes; and my husband has been making endless inquiries about the wreck, but can hear nothing that throws any light upon the parentage of the child. I wonder who the infant belongs to."

"I don't think Lettice wants it claimed now," replied Silexa; "though I tell her she is a fool to burden herself with it."

"She will have her reward," Mrs. Llewellyn said gravely; "and I trust the little one may prove a joy and blessing to her both now and in after years. How is your father, Miss Pryse?"

"Very feeble, thank you; he has been upset to-day by news from a distance."

"Indeed," was the quiet response; "I am sorry for that; he is too weak to bear any agitation."

Silexa inwardly chafed at this calm comment, though she scarcely knew why. There was a tempest in her heart, and though sore tossed, she was too proud to ask for succour.

The family trouble could not be a secret, for every one in the village knew about it. Silexa had been often conscious of a silent sympathy on this subject from the doctor's wife; therefore she half hoped for a question from her to-day which would give her an opportunity to speak of what had caused hope to shine anew like a beacon light.

Oh for a voice to tell her it was no phantom! But pride again stepped in; she would not solicit sympathy, and turned away from the look of questioning love in her friend's eyes to say, bitterly, "One is doomed to disappointment in this life, and hope is but a shadow to those who pursue it."

   "'Hope that is seen is not hope,—'"

said the gentle voice;

   "'for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.'

"Faith and patience are our wings in trouble. Have these failed?"

"I 'have' waited for twelve long years," was the bitter answer.

"Ah yes, I know you have; and waiting years are always long ones."

Silexa was silent.

"But our Heavenly Father is so loving; He never lays a burden upon us that we are not able to bear, because He giveth more and more of His all-sufficient grace to support and cheer. I remember during my journey to St. Elvis, the train had to pass through a long, dark tunnel, and as my eyes sought to pierce the gloom, I noticed at intervals bright lights had been placed, whose rays lighted up the bare dripping stones. And every here and there, a shaft from above let in the light of heaven, as if to give promise of sunshine beyond. This, thought I, is a picture of our troubles. We shrink and fear as we plunge into the darkness, but every now and then we see the lamps of the promises shining so brightly that we cannot help thanking God and taking courage. And the light of heaven is let in upon our path, telling us that though 'weeping may endure for a night, joy cometh in the morning.' If I mistake not, a light has been shining down into the tunnel to-day in the shape of that letter."

"Oh, it is nothing to cling to," said Silexa sadly. "No name given, or any clue by which we can trace it."

"And is there nothing to be thankful for?"

"Yes, 'one' thing," replied Silexa sternly; "the disgrace of our family has been wiped away—the money has been restored."

"Thank God!" said Mrs. Llewellyn. "He will devise means for the banished one. Only trust Him. It is such a comfort to think He knows the end from the beginning, and that nothing happens by chance."

This was a new creed for Silexa, and she was but dimly conscious of its comfort, though a glimmering ray had stolen into the poor, dark heart, in spite of closed windows and drawn-down blinds. Yet she felt, as she went out from that gentle presence, she was no longer a lonely woman, for a friendly hand had pointed out the error of her life.

"Hitherto she had subdued her calamities, not by the power of a faith which sustains, not by the effort of a patience which has learned to wait, but by a careless, practical stoicism; by a secret defiance of the decrees of Providence." ¹ Strength in weakness, life in death, wealth in poverty, joy in sorrow; these paradoxes she had never reconciled, therefore the words, "'Not my will, but Thine be done,'" yet lacked their interpretation. It is a mysterious handwriting to all who stand not on the heavenward side of the cross of Christ.

¹ Madame de Gasparin.

From this time, bright days dawned for the little Dora. And all through that winter, in storm or shine, she ran off to spend happy, busy mornings with her kind friend at the top of the hill.

Mrs. Llewellyn found an apt pupil in the child, and from her couch she would watch with silent admiration the steady perseverance and application that in time accomplished the neatly written copy or rightly proved sum.

She soon discerned that Eudora was one of those children whose clever brain would, if allowed full scope, soon wear out the delicate body, and therefore she very wisely made recreation preponderate over study. The eager little gatherer would bring in treasures from wood and shore—bits of lichened sticks, ferns and fungi, leaves and mosses, shells and stones.

They were always called dirt and rubbish in the Rectory, and Eudora never ventured to carry them farther than the secluded corner of the garden, where the weeping willow received and guarded them. It was indeed a strange new joy to have them welcomed and admired. And this gave fresh interest to her walks, as she was ever seeking for another's pleasure as well as her own.

But best of all, she loved her lesson from the Bible; for to the child this had always been a dry, sealed book. Now her world was peopled with Scripture characters. How she loved to hear those grand Old Testament stories of the beautiful garden of Eden, the building of Noah's ark, the call of Abraham, the meeting of the faithful Eliezer with Rebekah by the well, the story of Joseph, and the wanderings of the children of Israel. With what breathless anxiety did she listen to the history of Daniel's fearless integrity, and his night with the lions, and how she trembled with the wicked king Belshazzar at the mystic handwriting on the wall.

And the sweet story of Bethlehem, though oftenest told, was never tiring; for her little heart had opened to let the love of the Saviour in; and He welcomed her to Him to be His child for ever. She sang about Him in the beautiful hymns she learned. And when her kind teacher was unable to attend to her, which often happened during her bad attacks of pain, she would creep behind the curtain in the window, and her soft, sweet voice was like David's harp to the sufferer, seeming to lessen the great agony.

In this quiet retreat, seeds were sown in little Dora's heart,—seeds of gentleness and patient meekness under suffering, which would bring forth fruit in after years. By being a ministering child, she was unconsciously fulfilling her Saviour's command, "'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me'"; for our share in the burdens of others must be part of the learning that will make us like Jesus. This early training taught her to be a sympathising and tender nurse, and, by watchfulness and obedience, to become the ready helper and comfort of her invalid friend.

Kind Deborah, the old servant, was spared much thought and anxiety when the child was with her mistress, for she would remember the hour for the medicine, and her young feet would trot about on errands, and fetch the daintily prepared tray from the kitchen, where her sweet face and pretty ways always ensured a welcome.

Even this little child had the unspeakable pleasure of feeling she was of use in the world. And though Mrs. Llewellyn would often secretly regret that so fair a flower should be blooming more among the shadows than the sunshine of life, she hoped and prayed that Eudora might be all the holier and purer for it, and grow up like the spotless lily of the valley, whose retreat is often only to be traced by the fragrant odour it diffuses around.

And thus the little life was circled by love and varied interests, and in the latter, Baby Ermyn held no small share, for scarcely a day passed without a happy run down the valley to the cottage to play with the toddling creature, who always welcomed her with a cry of delight.

The unselfish, motherly heart of Lettice marked with joy the change that had transformed the delicate, sickly blossom into a bright, healthy flower that could now rejoice in the sunshine of God's beautiful world.

A PARABLE FROM NATURE

THE winter was a long and dreary one for the cottagers in St. Elvis and Porthmynwr. A scarcity of provisions, owing to high prices and lack of labour, pinched the poor, and was the cause of much want and suffering. There was sorrow also; for stormy seas and hurricanes had greatly swelled the ordinary roll of casualties along the coast.

The Rectory kitchen was besieged by hungry people; and Silexa and Lettice worked away, as only brave hearts can, striving to do all in their power for the needy and helpless. Yet there was this difference in the work of the two women. Silexa, careful and cumbered, worked with her eyes fixed only on the task in hand. Lettice laboured all the lighter, because in her toil she found leisure to sit at the Master's feet and hear His words.

Both had their reward; but in the empty void of one heart these words ever echoed and made themselves heard, in spite of toiling hands and busy brain, "One thing is needful." The other heart was so filled and satisfied with Christ Himself, that it could only take up and repeat the glad assurance, "Your joy no man taketh from you."

The winter snows heaped themselves up across the undulating plains, thereby shutting away this quiet little Welsh corner from the rest of the great world. Few cared to traverse the dreary high road at this inclement season; so the story of its joys and sorrows never went far beyond the village, as in their quiet round the months moved slowly onwards towards the spring.

It came at last, and "primrose stars in the shadowy grass" shone in the Rectory garden and the green hollows of the valley. The stream in its gay gladness hurried sparkling along through daisy-tipped meadows, inviting little children to come and play beside it, while the aged and infirm crept to their cottage doors to warm their stiff limbs in the reviving sunshine.

It happened on a bright May morning, while the dew yet rested on the grass, that Lettice was seen wending her way towards the breezy cliffs, carrying the child Ermyn in her arms. She sang a snatch of pleasant song, for her heart was in tune with the May gladness, and the little one laughed back at her in merry glee, clasping a dimpled arm still tighter round her neck.

They were going towards the "sainted well" which stood in a thymy field amid broad sunny slopes that stretch down to the edges of the red and purple sandstone cliffs, whose feet are washed by the fickle waves. The well was sunk in a hollow in the side of a hill which rose abruptly behind it; sprays of ivy and tufts of fern formed its canopy, and waved pleasantly to the winds as they came up from the sea. But no sunbeam could ever pierce the grot within, where lay the icy, sparkling waters, which ebbed and flowed with the tide, yet were always fresh and sweet. Rude steps cut in the sandstone led down to the bottom of the well, the depth of the water at fullest being about three feet.

The villagers had ever regarded it with the greatest veneration, for tradition said its waters sprang up miraculously for the baptism of a holy saint, and that it was endowed with healing properties for persons suffering from rheumatism and other ills; also a special blessing was supposed to rest on the babe whose limbs were often dipped within the fern-fringed fountain.

Lettice could hardly help being tinged with the superstitious reverence that surrounded this sacred spot, for she had been taught from her earliest childhood to venerate and love it. No water seemed so fresh and pure as this, and she would often come with her pitcher to fetch a draught of it for some poor sick one, who fancied a drink from its cool recess more than anything else. Lettice firmly believed with many others that there was a special virtue in these waters; and therefore, now that the warm days had come, she determined her little Ermyn should share in the benefit, and accordingly brought her every day for a dip in the sacred spring. The fearless, hardy child certainly throve under the treatment, returning rosy and joyous from these morning rambles.

Lettice watched with motherly pride the development of health and beauty in her cherished nurseling, who daily grew dearer to her heart. She loved to see the dark brown eyes raised to hers with each childish appeal, and to hear the innocent prattle at her knee; for the little one seemed always happiest when beside her.

Baby fingers would waken her in the morning with their soft touch, and tiny feet trotted after her through the rich meadow grass in the pastures hard by, or climbed the sunny uplands if the cows had strayed higher in search of the herbage they loved. The dumb creatures knew the little child as well as their gentle mistress; for while Lettice filled her pails with sweet, warm milk, Ermyn would stand fearlessly at her side, and put out her small fingers to be licked by the great rough tongues, or run off delighted for handfuls of grass and flowers to feed them with. Sometimes she would tumble over and roll down a gentle slope, for her bare, rosy feet were not very steady yet; still she never seemed to mind, but was up again in an instant. Shoes and stockings were as yet an unknown luxury to the little maid, for Lettice never cared to hamper babies with them until they were old enough to run upon the roads, as she had a notion that it was much more healthy to let the little feet have the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.

Strangers often came to St. Elvis in the bright summer time, and in course of their ramblings about Porthmynwr would not unfrequently stop and speak to the uncommon-looking child, so strangely unlike her pale, hard-working mother.

Whenever this happened, jealous pangs would assail the heart of Lettice, for fear her treasure might be claimed and taken from her. She was always curt and reticent in replying to remarks or inquiries made about the child, and the locket never saw the light of day. Yet Mrs. Gwynne was pleased when people noticed her beauty, and Ermyn became the possessor of many a penny and bright threepenny piece, which the mother put by in a little box as a future store for her darling.

David mounted guard over his pet whenever he was not at school, and was her most devoted servant. She would stand and watch for him on the little bridge where the brooklet slipped away to join the sea, and directly she caught sight of him would run off through the soft grass to meet him, and like a mischievous elf, could never resist the pleasure of turning to chase the ducks. It was the rarest fun to her to see them launch upon the heaving waters of the creek with flying splashes, but she did not mean to be unkind, for she loved all birds and animals, and neither David nor Lettice had ever chidden her for it.

The boy was constantly devising new schemes for her amusement, and she soon discovered that with him she had only to ask and have. He would cut little wooden boats for her to sail in the brook; they would then launch them among reeds and grasses, and running down to the head of the creek, watch them appear from under the bridge, when the fairy craft would be welcomed by shouts of laughter and clapping of hands. Then he would take her to all his favourite haunts and hollows up the valley, and climb its cragged sides to get the flowers she fancied. They would have long plays among the planks of timber on the jetty. And sometimes on a holiday, Old Roger would take them round in his boat to a lovely white-beached cove, and call for them again when he had done his fishing, unless they got tired, and went home by St. Elvis.

There was not a sailor in the hamlet who did not love the child; and she always accepted their rough endearments and kindly words with the dignity of a little duchess. And when there arose quarrelsome discussion as to who should carry her down the steps to the boat, she would patronisingly single out the one she wished to do it, and so settle the matter, soothing the disappointed ones with a bright smile.

She was thoroughly the child of the hamlet, and there was not a man who would not have risked his life for Ermyn, so that Lettice had no fears for her safety, when she allowed her to find her way to the jetty alone, which she was soon able to do.

Old Roger loved to see her about, and she often trotted towards him as he sat mending his nets, or arranging his tackle below the causeway. And many an idle moment did she beguile him into, while answering her questions and doing her bidding.

Ermyn did not go to St. Elvis very often, for Lettice generally went by the high road, and had enough to carry with her baskets and marketings without the weight of the child. But she had been taken more than once to see Mrs. Llewellyn, who was always interested in her, and helped Lettice, by making garments and giving advice about the little one.

Miss Silexa rarely went down to Porthmynwr, for she had enough to attend to at St. Elvis. So it happened that she saw very little of her godchild until she was five years old, when one day, having occasion to go in that direction, she visited the cottage.

Lettice was busy ironing, so Miss Pryse, who hated sitting with her hands before her, took up an iron and helped her.

Ermyn was playing and talking to herself beside the old chest, keeping school with a row of stones she had arranged, in lieu of pupils. The two women talked, and Silexa furtively watched the child. Presently she said, "Ermyn is old enough to go to school now; when are you going to send her?"

"Oh, not yet," pleaded Lettice. "I could not let her go to St. Elvis alone; and Davie teaches her every evening. She knows all her letters now, and is beginning little words."

"Oh well, then, there is no hurry. Come here, Ermyn; I want you."

But Ermyn did not want Miss Silexa, and turned away with a wilful little shrug of her small shoulders, to resume her play.

Lettice spoke, and a word or look from her was sufficient. The little rebel crept shyly towards Miss Pryse, as she sat down, and beckoned her over. Ermyn raised her large brown eyes with a far-away wondering look in them, as the lady lifted her upon her knee.

Silexa never could make children talk; a timid shrinking and a silent awe was invariably the reception she met with at their hands, and it troubled her, though she did not betray her disappointment.

There was silence in the room while Silexa earnestly contemplated the baby features; then setting her down on the floor again, she said abruptly to Lettice—

"Do you ever see a likeness to any one there?"

"Yes," replied Lettice, "but I thought it was only my fancy."

"Fancies are more troublesome than facts sometimes," muttered Silexa. "I wish this one had never come into my head."

And the strong woman rose, and walked towards the cottage door, where she could see nothing for the mist that had suddenly dimmed her eyes.

"The child will alter," said Lettice quietly, going on with her ironing.

"She will never lose those beautiful eyes, Lettice. I never saw any like them except—"

No need to mention the name both knew so well. It had not passed Silexa's lips for years, and those about her forbore to utter it in her presence. Yet "many waters cannot quench love; neither can the floods drown it"; her lost and dead ones were still vividly before her. How she longed to snatch that little unconscious child, and press her to her aching heart. It could not be, and she felt sorry she had spoken.

Lettice watched her sadly, and silently prayed that "the Holy Ghost the Comforter" might enter that stricken heart, and bring peace and joy from a loving Father, through "the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ."

Silexa little guessed that this request was going up, for as she bade her humble friend farewell, she only thought the burden was too heavy for her, and that she was bearing it alone. Yet she was dimly seeking after the God of her life. She was unwittingly a learner in His school, though she quarrelled with the lessons.

"We see God's decrees when they bring forth their fruits, all actions, good and ill, sweet and sour, in their time; but we see not presently His blessed end, and the good that He bringeth out of His holy and spotless counsel. We see His working and sorrow; the end of His counsel and working lieth hidden and underneath the ground, and therefore we cannot believe. We see red earths, unbroken clods, furrows and stones; but we see not summer lilies, roses, and the beauty of a garden." ¹

¹ S. Rutherford.

Silexa left the cottage, and stood on the causeway for a moment, as if hesitating whither to go next, then slowly turned in the direction of the jetty, picking her way among loose stones and slippery seaweed below the wall where Roger moored his boats. She finally climbed up to a bare boulder of rock above the tide-mark, where she sat down, and set her face seawards.

It was low tide; and the curving Roman jetty stood high and bare from its foundations, and the creek looked nothing better than a slush-lined way. The rocks, fringed with seaweed, made a picturesque and irregular coast-line, while from them, here and there, hung chains yellow with rust, by which boats were fastened. The waters outside the jetty heaved and swelled, as if impatient to hasten their meeting with the fresh stream that had been flowing down steadily from the hills to meet the sea. But the brook had lost all its joyous ripple as it neared the shore, and was oozing sleepily through slimy green seaweed and forsaken rocks.

"A picture of my desolate heart," thought Silexa; "every joy dried up, and empty spaces left that nothing can fill."

And the tears she had restrained in Mrs. Gwynne's presence fell in warm drops upon her hand, which was instantly raised to dash them impatiently away. But they cleared her vision, for when she looked again, she saw the stream, though but a slender thread, struggling towards the sea.

"It will reach it at last," she thought. "O my God! That I might reach Thee! Is it true that we may lose ourselves in the ocean of Thy love? Oh, to get away from this miserable self for ever! But it cannot be. With such a past as mine, which will haunt me till the day of my death, how can I forget?"

Poor Silexa, she read but half the parable nature was spreading out before her. The mill-stream crept but a short way down the creek, when the returning tide approached to welcome it. The boats heaved gently, and began to rock against the advancing undulations, while the ocean lay calm and broad beyond. Deeper and deeper it swelled towards the shore, until the unsightly mud was covered and all the rocky hollows filled up, and a blue band of bright sparkling water girdled the rocks. The mountain stream had found its home; its wanderings had not been in vain. So is it when we set out to find our God and Father. When we are yet a great way off, He comes to meet us, and we lose ourselves in Him.

While Silexa mused by the shore, Mary Llewellyn seated herself in the westerly window overlooking the bay, beside her mother's couch. And a smile of glad pleasure overspread the face of the invalid as she saw that the loveliness without caused the active fingers to drop the half-stitched wristbands, while the bright eyes took a long look down the valley.

"Mother," she said, at length, turning from the window towards her, "you don't know what good it does me, when I am in London, teaching, to think you have this to look at."

"Yes, darling; there should not be a repining thought in the midst of such beauty. I often think of the 23rd Psalm when I look down on those pleasant slopes and follow the winding of the green ribbon that marks the course of the stream. My Lord has indeed made me 'to lie down in green pastures, and led me beside the still waters.' 'My cup runneth over,' and it is such a joy to know that He is filling it."

"Mother, how can you be so patient in such a suffering life as yours? I don't think I could bear it as you do, for little things make me impatient."

"I have had my lesson to learn, Mary dear, and failed as long as I tried to do it by myself. At last I just gave up struggling to master it in my own strength, and then God Himself was my Teacher. My own will was broken, and His perfect will was put in its place, and the yoke became easy and the burden light."

"But you pray that you may be made well, mother, don't you? I ask that for you every day."

"And your prayer is being answered, my child. It 'is' well, and it 'shall' be well. To be made a vessel meet for the Master's use, even though tried and purified by the fire of suffering, is not this to be well? To know that He is sitting as the Refiner, until He sees His own image reflected in the tried silver, is not this rest and peace?"

"But, mother, God is our Father, and full of mercy and love. It cannot be His pleasure that His loved ones should suffer."

"No, and that is why we are told, 'Though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. For He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.'" (Lam. iii. 32, 33).

Mary was silent for a few minutes. Then, as she watched a group of clouds slowly closing over a bit of blue sky, she said, "Yet the clouds must be very heavy sometimes, and days of pain must be dark ones."

   "'No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous,—'"

repeated her mother.

   "'Nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby.'

   "'Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit the keeping of their souls to Him as unto a faithful Creator.'

"I 'have' committed all to Him, and the care of it I leave entirely with Him, for He hath said,—

   "'I the Lord do keep it: lest any hurt it, I will keep it night and day,' and 'He that keep thee will not slumber.'"

Mary was about to reply, when a knock at the door interrupted the conversation.

"If you please, miss," said Deborah, "Widow Gwynne's son has come up to see you and Miss Eudora would like to go out in his grandfather's boat to-morrow morning, because he can take you round to Clythwr Cove, while he goes a-fishing, and call for you again; if you will please to say what time you will be on the jetty."

"How delightful!" cried Mary. "And we will take dear little Ermyn, too. But no, I cannot go," she added, looking at her mother; "we should be away for hours."

"Do not be uneasy on my account, darling. I am so accustomed to solitude that I have grown to enjoy it, and it will be a greater pleasure to me to know the sea breezes are brightening your pale London cheeks with roses, than to have you beside me all day. I want you to make the most of your holidays, dear, for the time so quickly slips away."

Mary had stepped back to her mother's couch while listening to her answer, and she now stooped down and kissed the delicate features, saying as she did so, "I hope the time is not very far off, mother dearest, when I shall come back never to leave you again. It is this thought that makes me brave and patient for work now. Very well, Deborah, we will go. Stay, I will run down and speak to David myself; I want to tell him Maurice is coming next week."

And closing the door gently, Mary sped away, to find David watching with eager interest the busy occupants of the six beehives that stood in a row against a sunny wall surrounded by sweet flowers.

The following day was one of bright summer splendour, and the little party met at the appointed time on the Roman jetty, where Old Roger had his boat ready. At length they were all seated, and the little barque rode out on the sunny tide as the white surge seethed and rushed in foamy frets round the groups of purple rocks whose sides and top were gay with orange lichen creeping over them.

Old Roger steered carefully while two of his mates plied the oars steadily, for the contending currents and sunken rocks made navigation difficult and dangerous along this coast. Free and fearlessly the boat rose above the waves—the children shouting for joy as they watched the buoyant water.

At length the last point of rock was rounded, and they glided tranquilly along the broad blue bay. In about half an hour the smooth sands of Clythwr appeared, and the boat was run ashore. David stepped out first with Ermyn in his arms, followed by Mary and Eudora.

Then the fun began in good earnest, and David, proud to lead the way, did the honours of the cove thoroughly. There were deep fringed pools to be looked into, where lay the wondrous sea-flowers or anemones waving and unfolding their feathery and brilliant petals, while seaweeds—crimson, golden, green, bright with varying hues—spread themselves out in delicate tracery beneath the clear water. The children climbed the rocky and wave-worn staircases to hide themselves in the caves, and make them echo with merry laughter.

When they were tired and wanted to rest, David called out,—

"Come here, Ermyn, and show Miss Llewellyn how you do lessons by the sea."

David hunted about and found a stick with which he began to trace letters on the sand.

"Here comes a wave, Ermyn, to wash it away!" cried he. "Be quick and say the word. Right! Now for another. Ah, little sister, you have lost it," he said gently, as the excited child stretched out her eager hands, as if to stay the advancing water.

"Ermyn," said Eudora at last, "I think we don't want any more lessons. Let us go and have a good long play in the caves. We may, mayn't we, Mary?"

"Yes, darling; and you may take the basket and unpack it, and spread out our dinner. And when it is ready, come and call us. Be careful not to fall on the sharp rocks."

Off set the delighted children, full of the importance of their trust, leaving David to enjoy one of his greatest pleasures—a quiet talk with Miss Mary. How eagerly he looked forward to her holidays, for she had been a truly kind friend to him, always ready to help him out of difficulties and give wise counsel.

Mary quickly perceived the boy possessed talents and a capacity for learning far above the average of his class. And it had been a great interest to her from time to time, during her visits home, to guide his aspirations into the right channel.

"There is the making of a scholar in that boy," she had said to her father, "if only the right stepping-stones can be found for him; he has a mind far beyond boats and fishing-nets. What is to be done?"

Dr. Llewellyn had thought over the matter. But beyond lending him books, and encouraging his son Maurice to make a companion of him during his holidays, he could do nothing.

There was no help to be counted upon from the Rectory; for Miss Silexa, who was the ruling spirit there, highly disapproved of too much book-learning for the poor. "It makes them discontented with the station in which God has put them," she said; "and those who are not born gentlemen should be content with an honest calling, and live and die as their fathers before them."

So Mary never mentioned the subject to her; and to speak to poor, feeble, old Dr. Pryse would, she knew, be quite useless. Therefore, the matter had rested until now.

However, help was presenting itself from an unlooked-for quarter. The Calvinistic Methodist minister, who was a great friend of Old Roger Rudd, had often taken notice of David. And seeing that he was a shrewd lad, able to talk well, ardent and sincere in his piety, and with his heart set on being some day able to preach to his fellow-villagers, he promised to use his interest to gain admission for him into an English college, established for the free training of young men for the ministry, without any formal stipulation as to the particular body of evangelical Christians with which they would eventually ally themselves. David had therefore now a hope that at the expiration of his time at the grammar school of St. Elvis, he might pass on to higher studies; while the freedom which the college permitted was especially congenial to David, who had not as yet made up his mind as to his special place in the flock of the "One Shepherd."

This was the piece of news that he had been keeping to tell Mary. And she listened with untiring interest to the story of his high hopes and longings, believing that David had chosen the Lord as his portion, and that now he desired to live the life that would best glorify Him; so she could wish him "God-speed" in this new path which seemed opening before him.

David never forgot the talk on the beach that sunny day. It came back to him again and again when he stood on that white-pebbled shore, and Mary was far-away from him in the heart of busy London, learning in the path of lowly meekness how "to labour and to wait."

A SHADOW ON THE THRESHOLD

SEVEN years rolled away, but so quietly that no perceptible change appeared in the old village of St. Elvis. The hand of time seemed to have paused in its progressive work, for though it had led some of the children out of childhood into youth, and a few dear ones had here and there been laid to sleep in the mossy churchyard, it had apparently left all else untouched.

The crazy coach still "dragged its slow length along" every week to the market town, and the grim old granite cross held its knot of gossips as of yore.

The fast-growing ivy had somewhat changed the appearance of the Rectory, having covered walls to the very roof, and the latticed windows looked out like shining eyes from a mass of green. The monthly roses, in spite of the keen February wind, had opened their bright blossoms, and hundreds of tightly folded buds gave promise of succession as they tapped against Eudora's easement above the porch.

But she could not open to them; her hand did not steal out to pluck them as usual. Instead of the sweet young face that so often peeped out, Miss Silexa's grey eyes peered forward, as if anxiously watching for some one. We must look beyond her into the dimness of that ivy-shaded chamber to know why her face wore that troubled look.

There, on a small old-fashioned bed with faded, washed-out chintz hangings, lay Eudora Meredith, still called the child of the Rectory, though seven years have increased her stature, and led her onwards to "where the brook and river meet." The flush of fever was on her cheek and an unnatural brightness in her blue eyes, as she turned wearily from side to side on her pillow, panting for breath. She was very ill, and Silexa knew it, as she stood waiting and watching for Dr. Llewellyn.

"Oh, why does not he come?" she thought. "He must have been detained, or perhaps off on one of his ten-mile rides."

She walked to and fro impatiently, and with each creak of her stout village-made shoes, a fresh dart of pain ran through Eudora's head. But her aunt divined not the cause of those low moans.

It may be easily seen from this that good, worthy Miss Silexa was not exactly the person for a sick-room. She could bind up the most terrible wounds without flinching, and obey the commands of a doctor promptly and well. But there was no rest in her composition, and the energy of her active mind seemed as if it must find vent in noise and bustle. And yet her anguish would have been keen if she had really known what agony she was causing, for no one loved Eudora with a deeper love than she did.

There was still a barrier between aunt and niece, for Eudora's timidity and sensitiveness had grown with her growth, and she shrunk more than ever from her aunt's touch. Silexa's eyes had not yet been opened to see the cause, though she was painfully aware of the fact, and mourned over it. She reasoned to herself about it with all her earthly wisdom, but could not find the clue; the threads of life were still a tangled skein, which at last grew so hopeless in their confusion, that again and again the thought would come over her, that it was better not to care at all about anything. And yet the glimmerings of light that ever and anon shot athwart her path would not allow this.

She really wanted the God of her life, and was not aware how near He was to her. It was a God afar off she sought. Like Hagar in the desert, she only saw the burning sand and spent bottle; the springing fountain, clear and sweet, flowing close at hand, was invisible. Its ripple had long sounded in her ears, but she did not heed it, nor stoop to drink.

"You are shivering, child," said Silexa suddenly, as she touched the little hot hand; "I will see about a fire at once."

And delighted at the idea of having something to do during these weary moments of suspense, and vexed with herself for not thinking of it before, she went off briskly to get sticks and fuel.

How the worm-eaten timbers shook under her tread, as she returned with apron and hands filled! The chintz hangings trembled as she brushed past the bed and knelt down in front of the grate to snap the sticks one by one. The north-east wind was determined to baffle her if it could, and, as soon as the red flame began to warm the cold chimney, down came a gust which filled the room with smoke.

Poor Eudora coughed, and flung herself restlessly over to the opposite side of the bed, longing for a quiet corner away from it all, but she dared not speak. She tried not to hear that fearful rattle of coals and fire-irons, and for some moments battled bravely in her pain against the impatience that was fast gaining the mastery.

"There! It will burn now," said Silexa, at last, as with a triumphant flourish of the blacklead brush, she gave another rub across the bars of the grate, through which little jets of flame leaped and played. "Here, Molly, take these things and bring me a duster."

Eudora burst into tears. "I cannot bear the noise, auntie; my head aches so!" she added penitently, in answer to her aunt's astonished look of inquiry.

There was no time for an answer. The doctor had arrived below, so Eudora did not know what a pang of regret shot through Silexa's heart as she went downstairs to meet him, reproaching herself at every step.

"Why, what is the matter with Dame Trot?" said the doctor cheerily, as he entered. He looked upon Eudora almost as his own child, and having invented this name for her long ago, she still kept it with him.

A glance at the flushed face showed him this was no slight ailment, such as he had often relieved before.

Silexa stood beside the pillow and watched every movement as he laid his finger on the rapid pulse, and a great agony filled her heart as she looked and listened, for she read the anxiety on his face that he could not conceal.

But he spoke so tenderly and cheerfully to his patient, that instead of arousing any fear, he filled her young heart with rest and comfort, and even called up a smile on her face as she promised to be good and patient and do as she was told. He bade her good-bye, and followed Miss Pryse into another room.

There the talk was grave and earnest, and Silexa listened with the shadow of a great fear darkening her heart.

"We must get hold of Mrs. Gwynne at once," he said decisively. "I think she may be able to come, and there is no one like her for a case of this kind. The child must not be left until, please God, we can see a decided change for the better."

For a moment a wave of jealousy rose up in Silexa's heart. "Who so fit to nurse her darling as herself? Why should Lettice interfere?" Then she recollected, sadly, how many calls she would have which must prevent her giving exclusive personal attendance in the sick-room; so she conquered the bad feeling and acquiesced.

"How shall I let her know?" she said. "We are so short of hands to-day. I have no one who can go."

"Oh, I will send Ermyn off at once," replied the doctor; "she is with my wife every morning, you know, so I shall find her there now."

And hastily mounting his horse, he rode away.

Ermyn's swift feet were soon traversing the meadow through the valley to the cottage, and as she ran, many were the thoughts that crowded in upon her now sorely troubled little heart. Eudora, her friend and companion, the one she loved with all the passionateness of her strong nature, her sister playmate, what had happened to her?

"Very, very ill," were the words she had heard, and kept repeating to herself, while her imagination was busy filling up the details there had not been time to learn.

A sob came swelling up from the warm young breast, and fast-falling tears hindered her from seeing clearly where she stepped, but she must not rest a moment until she had delivered her message. Rapidly her thoughts reviewed the happy past, which rose distinctly before her like a fair bright vision; Eudora's frequent visits to the cottage, the fleet play hours spent together on the smooth, glittering sands in the shadow of the purple rocks; the long rambles over moor and fell and tangled copse, and the busy mornings in Mrs. Llewellyn's quiet room.

For when Ermyn was old enough to go to school, Eudora had pleaded that she might share her lessons; so the studies had gone on together, it being the great delight of the elder to impart all she knew to her little playfellow and friend. Ermyn's bright intelligence soon repaid the labour, and being by far the quicker of the two in learning, she gained upon Eudora until they were pretty nearly equal. And this was the retrospect of happy years.

Mrs. Llewellyn used secretly to cherish the hope that Ermyn would one day be claimed and given her right position. But the years were speeding away, and the circumstances of the wreck had faded from memory. No one asserted a prior claim to the ocean waif. She would always be the child of St. Elvis now, and all rejoiced with Lettice that her treasure was not taken from her.

Mrs. Gwynne was standing busy at her wash-tub when Ermyn neared the cottage. But seeing the child was running at full speed, she stopped and began stroking off the soapsuds from her arms and wiping her hands in her apron, as she went out to meet her.

Ermyn, panting and quite out of breath, ran forward and clasped her arms tightly round her foster-mother's neck, and hid her face in her bosom. Lettice did not hurry her with questionings. She always waited with a quiet trustfulness that made her a rock of strength to lean on in trouble. She led the child within the doorway, and sitting down, put one arm round her and drew her to her knee. The gentle touch soothed Ermyn, and in that motherly clasp she gave her message, while the calm, patient eyes looked down upon her with a soft light in them.

"My little girl," said Lettice, kissing her tenderly; "we must not murmur against God. This sorrow is of His sending, and, if it be His will, He can turn it into a blessing.

   "'When He giveth quietness, who then can make trouble?'

"Mother's lassie will be brave and helpful, I know, and do all she can for me."

"Yes, mother; what shall I do?"

"You will have to get granddad his meals, and feed the chicks, and mind the house, and do all you can to keep things straight while I am away. Thank God, I have kind neighbours, who are all willing to do me a hand's turn when I am extra busy. You may begin now, dear. Put on your pinafore and pare these potatoes for dinner, but run first to the well and fill the saucepan and kettle."

Ermyn obeyed quickly, proud and happy at the thought of being put into a position of trust, while Lettice set quietly to work to leave her house in order and prepare for being away from it for several days.

One neighbour and another came dropping in while she was thus occupied, and she did not appeal to them in vain for help. Lettice had moved among them as a ministering angel for many years, nursing the sick and comforting the sorrowful, and no one had ever heard her speak an ill-natured word behind any one's back. Mrs. Gwynne rarely needed help, being such a thrifty housewife and manager; and for this reason, there were many now who were only too glad to have an opportunity of returning in kind some of her loving service. So one promised to finish the washing, another to milk the two cows daily, and another to make the butter.

"And I'll come and clean up the cottage as often as I can," added a fourth; "for the child is not fit to do rough work."

"Thank you," said Lettice; "I can trust you all to see she comes to no harm while I am away."

"Who would harm a hair of her head, I'd like to know?" replied Jem Lewis, who had run up the causeway to fetch some tackle for the old man. "She shan't be hurt, missus, as long as there's a man in St. Elvis or Porthmynwr to fight for her. Bless her heart!"

So amidst all these assurances Lettice departed.

It was several weeks before she saw her home again, for a stern battle was fought with disease and death, while she watched and prayed by the sick-bed; and the strain grew heavier day by day.

Eudora became rapidly delirious, and the weakened and excited brain broke through the restraints that love and obedience had exercised before. The very presence of her aunt in the room seemed to irritate her, and she kept crying out for "Lettice, dear Lettice!" not knowing she was beside her. "Oh, don't let auntie come to me; she is so unkind, and makes such a dreadful noise! Go away, go away!"

Silexa's heart was well-nigh broken; this seemed the crowning sorrow that would at last make the weight of all that had gone before more than she could bear. If she had been a weaker woman, she would have wept passionately. But she could not shed a tear now, only her face wore a look of stony, abject grief as she moved about softly, obeying orders in silence.

Mrs. Gwynne's eyes often filled with tears to see her look of gratitude when she called for help, or asked Miss Pryse to take her place while she lay down for a short sleep.

"God is teaching her," thought Lettice; "but it is a sharp lesson this time."

The still, silent house seemed deserted by its inmates, and the villagers would creep stealthily round to the back door to ask Molly in whispers how the young lady fared. And Molly and Old Dinah could only cry when they answered, for the doctor shook his head and looked more grave and sad each time he came.

Downstairs, in the dingy study, sat the aged pastor day after day in his chair, waiting for tidings from the sick-room. But what a change had passed across that wrinkled face! God's own calm was resting on it, almost giving it the reflection of an unseen glory. Ten years ago he had found his way into the green pastures as a little child. The burden no longer pressed sore upon him, for Christ bore the weight of it, and now the yoke was easy. The once proud man, who had for so many years fought against God in fretful complainings and hard, bitter thoughts, was now the meek and lowly disciple, saying, hour by hour,—

   "Not my will, O Lord, but Thine be done."

And now as he sat there with a great silence all about him, his heart could rest in peace. "The waves and the billows are rolling over me," he said one day; "but they break first upon the Rock of Ages on which I stand."

He could do nothing for his "little love," as he still called her, but pray, and that he did without ceasing, wrestling and pleading with submission for the precious life that appeared to be ebbing away so fast. He was giving the best possible help; for these prayers sustained and succoured the brave women above who were doing the outward work, and using every means in their power for the youthful sufferer. Hope flickered and waned, yet "his heart was fixed, trusting in the Lord."

He went bravely through the public services on Sunday. But when he came to the words, "Your prayers are earnestly desired for Eudora Meredith, now lying dangerously ill," sobs were audible from minister and people, so dearly was she beloved.

One night the crisis drew on, and a few hours must decide either for life or death. Lettice begged that no one should come near the room, but promised to summon Miss Pryse immediately in case of need.

Silexa turned away to her own room, and fastening the door softly, fell on her knees, and prayed as she had never prayed before.

   "O Thou Lord of life and death, hear my cry! My God, come not as the Judge, to bring my sins to remembrance, and slay my child."

The conflict grew too agonised for words. She was reviewing her life of self-will and rebellion, and her head bowed lower and lower in bitter contrition.

   "My Father!"

How softly those two words were uttered!

   "My Father, I am Thy child. Do with me what Thou wilt. Thy will be done. My Saviour, Christ, I hide me in Thy side. Grant me Thy peace."

She rose, and silence filled the room. A soul was launched that night upon the great ocean of God's love, and angels sang over it. Did her spirit catch their music, as a faint smile overspread her worn features, and she looked up towards heaven?

She was afraid to stir or break the silence by a movement. Her ear was strained to hear the slightest sound in the next room, but it was all as still as the grave, only the great silver watch on the mantelpiece ticked on. She drew aside the window curtain to look out at the shadowy darkness, and saw by the light of a pale waning moon the headstones in the churchyard. A shudder passed through her frame, but she did not move. A black, heavy cloud came across the sky hiding the faint gleam, and all was dark.

She sat on and on, until the last star died out, when suddenly a gentle tap was heard at the door, which made her start and turn pale. She opened softly. There stood Lettice, white and calm. She laid her hand on Silexa's arm, saying, "Your darling is safe; the present danger is over; she has passed into a sweet, natural sleep. Thank God!"

It was too much. Miss Pryse tried to speak, but no words would come. Lettice held up a warning finger, and stole back to the sick-room.

Silexa turned away and wept, but in tears of joy, for a glad thanksgiving filled her heart. And for the first time, she felt a great gift was hers, and that it had come down from "the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning." "For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness," had shined in her heart "to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ." Silexa had risen from among the dead, and her resurrection life was begun.

During these weeks of anxiety and suspense, Ermyn had led a busy life; and constant activity was the best remedy for her sad heart. Her mind could not be always dwelling on the Rectory sorrow, for she had to puzzle out many little duties, which she found she must perform alone. Hitherto she had had her mother to run to, and ask how this or that was to be done. Now she had to find out for herself, and it was first-rate training, for no telling or teaching is attended with real and lasting benefit until the learner puts rules into practice by personal effort.

Her neighbours were very kind, and helped as much as they could, but they had their own work to attend to, so Ermyn was often thrown entirely upon her own resources. The thought of planning and helping mother was a great stimulus, and she used to fancy how she would look, on her return home, to see how well she had acted the part of little house-mother.

When her grandfather had finished his dinner, and gone off again to his boats, she would wash up the plates and dishes, and put everything neatly away, change her coarse working dress for a clean print one, and brush out the pretty dark hair which fell about her shoulders. She used to fasten it up while she worked to keep it out of her way, and would sometimes delude herself into the idea that, although she was only twelve years old, people might then think she was a grown-up woman. As soon as everything was completed to her satisfaction, she would put on her bonnet, and set out for St. Elvis. There was no need to lock the cottage door, for Old Roger would be in and out. He was always uncertain as to time, and the neighbours would give an eye to see if any stranger came.

Ermyn would go first to the Rectory, and steal in softly with hushed breath, to turn the handle of the study door, and slip in. When not among his people in the village, the aged rector was generally to be found in his great mahogany chair, and he would look up with a quiet smile of welcome. These were like angel visits to the dear old man, and broke in like sunlight on the dreariness of his days. She used to creep gently to a stool at his feet, and hold his hand, while he whispered the latest tidings from the sick-room. Then she did her best to comfort him, though it was hard work sometimes, for words would not always come, and they both wept together.

After bidding him good-bye, she would often find her way to the weeping willow in the corner of the garden, the scene of many a happy play hour. The shells and stones were all there, eloquent in their muteness, and the branches looked mournful, as if they had no heart to spread their leafy tent again. On the day when hope was at its lowest ebb, Ermyn went slowly out of the garden gate, and having occasion to go up to the centre of the village to buy a few necessaries at the general shop, she determined to diverge from her ordinary direct route to the doctor's house.

Having made her purchases, she packed them neatly into the basket on her arm. But as she quitted the shop, a woman beckoned to her from one, of the cottage doors beyond.

"Here, my dear," she said; "come over and tell us how Miss Eudora is to-day."

And as Ermyn answered sadly that there was no change for the better, one old woman lifted up the stick on which she had leant as she hobbled towards the group, and said solemnly:

"Ah, we shall see her beautiful blue eyes no more; indeed, and it's true. She will be laid in her coffin soon. I saw the corpse-candle last night."

"What was it like?" asked Ermyn faintly, her heart beating in terror.

"Oh, it was there and no mistake. You know I live just where I can see the Rectory, and after I got into bed last night, and had put out the candle, all at once a bright light streamed in, and filled the room with a beautiful rose-colour, which grew deeper and deeper as I lay shaking and watching it. Thinks I to myself, I'll get up and see which house it is. So I looked out, and there from Miss Eudora window it shone like a bright star, and then gradually faded away. 'Tis a sure and certain sign, whatever any one may say, for I've seen it scores of times when the neighbours died, though Miss Pryse would think me a fool for saying it. Why, what is the matter with you, child? Don't look like that!"

Ermyn had turned from red to ashy white, as the heedless old woman ran on; then her eyes filled with tears, and she said, "It is very unkind of you to talk like that to me. Mother says we ought not to believe in these tales. Do you really think it is true?" she added wistfully, as her susceptible nature yielded to the superstitious suggestion.

"There, now, don't scare the poor lamb any more," said another woman, who had joined the idlers. "She'll know about it soon enough, I'll warrant."

The end of the sentence was lost upon Ermyn, for she had turned and fled, and was now hastening towards Mrs. Llewellyn's house, where she knew soothing and comfort awaited her.

A SUNNY GLEAM

A FLICKER of ivy leaves dancing up and down the wall and ceiling; cloud shadows passing, the hum of bees outside the open window; voices of children shouting at their play, and the murmur of the distant sea; this was what Eudora saw and heard as she lay dreamy and quiet, slowly coming back to life on the bright May morning.

Her eyes were fixed on the faded chintz. What a queer pattern it had! So weird and fantastic, suggesting endless pictures to the imagination. Faces grinned from the curves and lines; gnomes and sprites upside down, and sprawling, seemed chasing each other round and round, while here and there a butterfly reposed upon a huge flower.

Eudora had never studied it so intently before, and it was pleasant to lie there so perfectly still, and go on inventing stories. It was all such a confused jumble, and so intricate that it was impossible to follow out any regular pattern. And at last, she broke into a little laugh.

Lettice, who was sitting at work in the window, heard it, and bent forward with a sweet, glad smile to look at her. "Have you been awake long, my pet?"

"No, not so very long. I was laughing at the funny figures on my curtains. How long have I been here, Lettice? Somehow it seems as if all sorts of things had happened to me, and nothing would ever come right. When I try to think about it, I cannot remember clearly. I wanted to go down into the orchard where I found those pretty purple crocuses the other day. Oh, they looked so cool, and I thought it would be delicious to lie down among them, but I couldn't, and then I found out I was buried. You did not hear me calling to you as you walked above my head, and the earth was so heavy, and pressed me down. That was a dreadful dream, Lettice. Have I been very ill?"

"Yes, dearie, you have. But you are getting better every day now, we hope."

"Where is Ermyn? I want her."

"She will come some day to see you, but not yet. You must try to get a little stronger before you receive visitors."

Eudora moved on her pillow with a sigh, and wondered what it all meant, and why she felt so very, very tired.

At that moment, the door opened and her aunt entered, treading softly in list shoes, carrying a tray covered with a snowy napkin.

Eudora knew what this meant, and turned resolutely away, though she heard Silexa say in a low tone, "Try and get her to take a little; it is such good, strong beef tea. I made it myself, and the doctor says she must eat."

Lettice rose, and came close to the side of the bed where Eudora was lying, and said gently, "Auntie has brought something so nice for you. Shall I lift you up, dear, while you take it?"

"No, Lettice, I cannot; I am not hungry. I will ask for some by and by. Let me go to sleep again."

Lettice and Silexa exchanged hopeless glances. What was to be done? The doctor had given such positive orders, and he little knew the battle that was fought every day to get them carried out. Silexa racked her brain and the cookery-book to find suitable recipes, consulted Mrs. Llewellyn, and had even gone to market town herself to try and find something to tempt the delicate appetite, but she was seldom rewarded for her pains.

"Set it down, please, Miss Pryse," said Lettice, at last. "She will try presently."

Silexa stole away again, with a sad look on her face.

Mrs. Gwynne bent down closer to the pale cheek, and whispered something.

The blue eyes looked up into hers, and tears gathered in them, a look of pleading and of reproach that Lettice felt she must be proof against, as with a tender strength she raised the wasted form, and gently arranged the supporting pillows.

"One more spoonful," she said coaxingly; "and then I will not tease you any more."

These stages towards convalescence brought harder work to the good woman than those hours when the spirit seemed to hover so closely on the borders of the unseen world. They needed even more wisdom and patience, as only those know who have had much to do with illness. Eudora was, however, progressing as favourably as could be expected. But Lettice saw the time had not yet come to leave Miss Pryse single-handed, so she stayed on.

Poor little Ermyn missed her mother sadly. All the poetry and romance of her situation seemed to die out after she had worked hard for three or four weeks. The danger being over, she had now leisure to pity herself a little, and longings and regrets would steal into her heart as she contrasted these matter-of-fact duties with her delightful studies in Mrs. Llewellyn's quiet, pretty room. She was not yet allowed to see Eudora, so her sympathy was less keen than it would have been if she could have taken one peep at her thin, wistful face.

So she allowed all kinds of evil, selfish thoughts to creep into her heart, and make her unhappy. She wished she had been born a lady, with nothing to do all day but read nice books or do pretty work. Her coarse working dress was very ugly, she thought; she would rather be dressed in silk and satin, and live in a grand house with many rooms. Oh, she was much to be pitied, she was quite sure of that, and a big tear rolled down and fell upon her idle hands.

Something whispered in her heart, "Mother has to work hard all day long, and she never complains."

Ermyn listened to the voice, and thought how that dear mother would grieve, if she only knew what her little girl had been thinking about. She would work away with a will, and go up to the Rectory as soon as she could. If she could see her mother, it would help her to be good.

Happy thoughts flowed into her heart as soon as she began to be industrious again, and she actually found herself singing as she neared the Rectory gate. Ermyn was gifted with a singularly rich and beautiful voice, and she sang as naturally as a bird on its spray.

Eudora caught the familiar sound, as she sat propped up in a great arm-chair near the window, and Lettice, yielding to her entreaty, went down and fetched Ermyn in. The child, full of bright health, presented a strange contrast to her companion now, and warm tears of love and sympathy started into Ermyn's eyes as she looked. She tenderly kissed the white hand, as she knelt beside the chair, and felt no sacrifice could be too great if it only brought her darling back.

Ermyn would never forget the happy smile of pleasure that greeted her, as she laid some fresh hawthorn buds in the thin fingers. She had meant to ask when mother was coming home, now she could not. The chord of sympathy had been struck, and her heart was in time again.

Lettice wished she could see a more rapid improvement in the dear invalid as the days went on, but the progress was slow and weary. And she marked with sorrow that Eudora herself made little or no effort to get better; for if she did not fancy her food, she would not take it. And how could she recover if she did not eat?

On one occasion, when Silexa had turned away more disappointed than ever, after finding her dainties rejected, Lettice spoke.

"I think, dear," she said quietly, "you are very unkind to your dear, good auntie."

"Unkind, Lettice? Why unkind?" replied Eudora, flushing.

"Yes, unkind," repeated Lettice; "you don't know how hardly she toils for you, up early and late, getting all these nice things for you, and you never try to please her by taking them cheerfully and gratefully."

"I cannot make myself hungry," said Eudora pettishly.

But Lettice knew the shaft had gone home, and saw with pleasure from that time her words had not been spoken in vain.

Silexa's trial was by no means over, though she had strength given her now to take up her cross, and bear it meekly day by day.

Eudora did not know of the soul-conflict that had taken place. She was still painfully reserved with her aunt, and made it pretty evident sometimes that she preferred having Mrs. Gwynne beside her. Lettice used to soothe her patient by singing or repeating hymns and verses of Scripture. Silexa knew she would never be asked to do this by Eudora. She saw now with bitterness what a mistake she had been making through those long years of the past, in fencing round her warm, human heart with thorns, which pricked the childish hands that once upon a time had tried to enter.

"It is too late now; it will never be different." Thus she sat and mused one day, when Lettice had gone home for a few hours, and left her place to Silexa.

Eudora was lying on the bed asleep, and her aunt believed herself hidden by one of the curtains. After a while, the girl opened her eyes without stirring, expecting to see Lettice as usual at work. She was not there, and Eudora gazed as if spellbound.

Silexa's eyes were closed, and her lips moved, and on her knee lay an open Bible. Tear-drops stole out from under the lashes, and Eudora heard her own name murmured in endearing terms.

She could not bear it another moment. "Auntie! Dear auntie! Come to me. I have been so naughty and ungrateful to you, and I love you so dearly."

The wall of ice had melted for ever. And Silexa trembled for very joy as she pressed her darling closer and yet closer to her heart, whose once lonely beatings now throbbed in unison with the one great family in heaven and earth.

Lettice saw the happy light on both faces when she returned, and did not then hesitate to say what she had been fearing would distress the invalid.

"I must go home to-morrow, Miss Pryse; I find there are too many things to be attended to for me to stay away longer."

One repining murmur rose to Eudora's lips, for she loved her passionately, but this was instantly checked as she remembered the hint about selfishness, and the words that Lettice was so fond of repeating:

   "'Even Christ pleased not Himself.'"

"Auntie is so good to me," she whispered, when her kind nurse bade her good-bye the following day.

And when Lettice felt the clasp of her arms about her neck, as Eudora kissed her and poured out her grateful thanks, it was a more precious reward than any other payment.

Ermyn was in a wild state of delight when she looked out and saw her mother coming across the meadows. Lettice had not told her for certain that she would return, lest anything might detain her. It was indeed a festive homecoming, for kind neighbours gathered round to tell her how glad they were to see her back again.

And Ermyn, proudly and shyly, drew from the cupboard a cake of her own making and baking, which was duly partaken of and praised.

"And, mother," cried the child, with a shout of delight; "Dick Rees has just brought this letter, and I am sure it must be from David! Come close to granddad, and read it now. Please do, there's a good mother!"

David's glad mother needed no second bidding, and the letter was accordingly read over and over again; for it contained the joyful news that her son would arrive the last week in June to spend his six weeks' holiday at home in the dear old cottage. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to have this treat, for the journey was an expensive one, and he had thought it his duty, in these leisure times, to accept invitations to assist ministers in the Connexion who needed help, being thus enabled to save up a nice little sum towards his next homecoming.

He had done well and honourably in his college life, and his tutors spoke in the highest terms of his conduct. His mind had developed freely under the great advantages and careful training he had received. He felt that God had called him to the high and noble work of the ministry, and looked forward with intense pleasure to the fulfilment of his hopes.

St. Elvis felt not a little proud of his success, after his education at the town grammar school, and intended to give him a hearty welcome when he should appear in his native place again. But when one day the crazy old coach stopped at "The Jolly Sailors," and amongst the passengers a tall gentlemanly young man in black stepped down, no one recognised him.

Lettice and Ermyn had been watching together for him at the inn door, and thought he had not come, when suddenly the good woman became aware that the stranger who had run towards her and was now giving her a hearty hug was none other than her own son David.

"And where is my little sister?" he said, drawing the blushing Ermyn closer to him, and looking with surprise and delight at her lovely face. "I am still a little taller than she is," he added, laughing, as, giving an arm to each, the joyful trio set out towards home.

Those were indeed happy holidays, for not a cloud appeared to dim any one's enjoyment. More homes than one rejoiced together, for there was gladness also in the doctor's household. Mary had come home at last, not to say good-bye again; and Mrs. Llewellyn was full of motherly pride to welcome her handsome son Maurice, now a hard-working medical student, who hoped some day to return and share his father's practice.

The old Rectory smiled also, for Eudora, though still looking like a fragile flower, grew strong enough to come out and enjoy the summer sunshine and fresh sea breezes. A quiet donkey was found for her, and the good old times seemed to come back again, as David walked beside her, leading it carefully, while Ermyn skipped and sang for joy. There was no caste in that simple village town, for those who loved each other had the strongest ties to bind them together.

Ermyn, the fisher-maiden, still called Eudora her sister-friend, and Mary loved them both. Maurice hailed his old companion more heartily than ever, and the two would walk together for miles along the lonely coast, or climb the serrated ranges of rock to lofty heights, whence they could view the whole peninsula of Dewisland, that terminates in the bold headlands and jagged rocks so often fatal to unfortunate mariners. Their geological and botanical studies were pursued with interest, and they would sit and discuss their treasures among Druidical circles and great boulders.

It was such pleasant companionship that neither liked to think how soon they must part again. Both young men felt, as they trod the streets of David's native town, that good soldiers of Jesus Christ were sorely needed there; soldiers brave and strong to fight against the sin and ignorance around; and they earnestly prayed that this great work might some day be theirs to do. But they did not need to wait till the future to begin it. David found leisure during his holiday to read and pray with the sick and dying, and Maurice gave his help and sympathy wherever he found it needed. Thus they called down upon themselves the blessings of the poor.

It sometimes happens that a season of unusual brightness is given us as a preparation for cloudy days. The cup running over, and the table ready spread, may be in the presence of unseen enemies and trials, against which we must be strengthened to go forward and fight. Those happy summer days came to a close all too quickly, and autumn winds and falling leaves were heralding the reign of winter, which was expected to begin early this year.

Eudora seldom went outside the Rectory now, for her severe illness had left her painfully susceptible to cold. And a short dry cough smote sadly on the ears of all who heard it. Yet Dora had never been so happy in her home-life before, for there was nothing in its atmosphere to chill or distress her now, though her aunt was as full of life and generous activity as ever. Mrs. Llewellyn and Lettice rejoiced together to see all that capability and energy, like a glad stream, flowing in the sunshine, instead of in the shadows.

Silexa had brought her talents to the Master, as the disciples did of old with the few loaves and fishes, and He had blessed them. Now she could feed a multitude, and yet have enough and to spare. But her Lord must test and try her still further. And as the burden pressed more heavily, so by His grace did she grow stronger to bear it, and face what to her was a terrible trial. They must leave the Rectory for a year. The doctor had said that, humanly speaking, this was the only chance for saving Eudora's life.

Thorough change to a dryer and more sheltered climate might revive the flickering flame, which seemed gradually but surely dying out. The sacrifice must be made, and that at once. Silexa would not send away her child amongst strangers, and she could not leave her father in his infirm state. There was no time to be lost.

A substitute for the rector was found in a young clergyman with private means and temporarily without a charge. Mary Llewellyn promised to go daily to the Rectory to look after Molly and Dinah, give out the parish stores, and to help in every way, so far as her duties to her mother would permit.

Some travelling trunks of a very ancient date were routed out from their repose of years in one of the Rectory garrets, where they had been well-nigh buried among the lumber stored there. But the packing was weary work, and a sore puzzle to Miss Silexa, whose little world of interests had all been shut in by St. Elvis and its belongings for so many, many years. She rummaged among the old stores, and while she did so, hidden things were brought to light, which caused a flood of associations to rush in upon her memory.

"I was so happy in that old dress," she said, half aloud, taking up a scrap of faded plaid. "I cannot bear to throw it away."

She looked tenderly at it for a moment, debating whether it should be flung into the heap of rubbish at her feet. But it was silently restored to the place whence she had taken it. A palette and a box of colours, all caked and dried, and a bundle of paint-brushes next caught her eye. She took them up one by one, and kissed them with a face expressive of the deepest agony.

"Oh, Edward, my darling!" she murmured. "Why did you do it? I shall never see you now again, on this side the grave. But God has you in His keeping somewhere," she added, calming herself. "His love is infinite."

The packing was finished in time. And on the last evening, when the boxes were all corded and sent away to the inn overnight to be ready for the early start on the coach, Miss Silexa unhung her cotton bonnet from its peg in the hall, and went softly out alone, as the evening shadows were lengthening.

It had been blowing a hurricane all day, but the storm had passed, and there was a bright, evening glow. The sun was setting in stormy gold, circled by black, and the sky was of a pale, green colour, with flaming amber and copper clouds rushing across it. The hilltops were still capped with white mist that lifted and floated, and crept down the sides of the green valley.

Silexa walked far on into the twilight, and then turned towards home. The rent clouds appeared white near the moon, whose crescent sickle seemed to cut a path through the surrounding blackness. The wind rushed and roared through the Rectory trees, making them sway and toss in an agony of unrest, while every casement in the old house rattled and shook, as the clinging ivy was made here and there to loosen its clasp of the dear old walls it sought to shield.

Silexa heeded not the rude gusts; she was looking at the brightness above her.

"'They shall see His face,'" she murmured; "that is where the path is leading."

   "'There shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever.'

   "'O send out Thy light and Thy truth: let them lead me; let them bring me unto Thy holy hill...'

"This night of sorrow is breaking towards eternal day. And though the shadows increase, a dawn is coming when they shall flee away for ever.

   "'Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.'"

There was quite a crowd round the dilapidated old coach the following morning, when the little party from the Rectory set out to walk towards it. Miss Pryse supported her aged, white-haired father, who leant heavily on her strong arm. Eudora followed, with Mary and Ermyn on either side of her, and Lettice behind, carrying wraps and parcels.

Hands were stretched out for hearty shakes of farewell; blessings were uttered and voices trembled with emotion as countless good-byes were said.

Silexa gave one long look at her old home as the coach lumbered off, and felt she had been torn up by the roots.

THE GOLDEN SHORE

A FLAKE of snow! How slowly it fell through the hushed air! Feathery light and soft, it came all silently to greet a little daisy, that looked upward and received it with a smile. It was the herald of a winter storm, and Lettice from her cottage door looked up into the darkened sky to watch "the whitening shower fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day."

"I wish the child had not gone to St. Elvis this morning," she said to Old Roger. "She will be storm-stayed now."

"Never trouble, lass," he replied cheerily; "she is in good safe quarters up at the grey house, though really me!" he added, stepping outside. "This 'is' snow, and no mistake! We haven't had such a fall this side Christmas for many a long year. I'm thankful our poor sick lambie at the Rectory is taken away to a warmer fold. This cold would have killed her, but I miss her sweet face."

"Ay, indeed, and so do I," said Lettice, with a sigh, as she watched her father walk towards the jetty.

She felt unusually depressed that morning, but she could not tell exactly why. A sense of loneliness and desolation had descended on her with the departure of the family from the Rectory, for she had leaned more than she was aware on Miss Silexa's firm strength and sober judgment. Mrs. Gwynne's disposition was naturally timid and shrinking, though God had made her calm and patient. And now He had some hard lessons for her, which she must learn "alone" with Him.

Ermyn had gone up early into town to learn tidings of the travellers, and with dismay she looked out from Mrs. Llewellyn's windows to see the storm come sweeping up in white masses through the valley. There was a bright, cheery letter from Miss Silexa, telling of a quiet, easy journey to Southsands, where they were established in comfortable lodgings in a terrace looking out upon the quay and shipping.

   "It seems strange," she wrote, "to be in this large, fashionable watering-place, where we do not know a soul. Mr. Lyndwood has asked some friends to call on us; and Eudora is already better for the change of air. Her appetite is considerably improved, and quite a new world has opened to her wondering eyes."

Ermyn read the letter again and again, dwelling on Dora's message to herself and Lettice, and wishing she could be with her.

"If you like to write a note, I will put it into mine," said Mrs. Llewellyn.

So Ermyn wrote one in her clear, pretty hand, folded it, and laid it on Mrs. Llewellyn's little table, and went again to look out. The weather was more hopeless than ever. And seeing there was no prospect at present of fulfilling her promise to return quickly, she took off her bonnet, and settled down quietly to her work.

Three days passed before she was able to go home. The snow had continued to fall so heavily, that the road between St. Elvis and Porthmynwr was completely blocked; and as for the meadow path through the valley, there was no indication of such a thing. Deep snowdrifts had filled up the hollows, and it would have been most perilous to attempt to find a way through them. And when the snow melted, there would be a swampy waste of waters, abounding in dangerous bogs and marshes.

On the fourth day, however, a cart track had been cleared along the high road. And Ermyn was soon running full speed on it, clapping her hands together that she might feel her numbed fingers, while her warm breath floated before her like a wreath of smoke.

Lettice came out on the causeway to meet her. And Ermyn saw at once by the expression on her face that something was the matter.

"Hush, dearie!" she said, raising a warning finger. "Step softly, and come in as gently as you can. Poor granddad is very ill; he had a bad fall on the rocks last night. The fog was so thick, and the snow so slippery with the thaw that he missed his footing, and fell over the jetty at low tide. It would not have been half so bad if he had fallen into the water. But, oh, those sharp, cruel rocks! They have hurt his poor back and head, and I don't think he will ever be able to stand again. I thought he was dead when they carried him into the house."

The tears had sprung into Ermyn's eyes as she listened, and she flung her arms round her mother's neck, sobbing.

"Hush, darling!" whispered Lettice. "Don't let him see you crying. A kind neighbour is beside him now. It was such a pitch-dark night, I could not send for the doctor. But this morning I saw him riding across the hill to that cottage, so Jem Lewis has gone after him. I know he will come as quickly as he can."

"Oh, mother, mother!" said Ermyn in a low tone, following her over the threshold. "What shall we do? Dear, dear granddad! I wish I had not gone away."

The good doctor soon obeyed the summons, and gave, as he always did, words of cheer with his valuable surgical skill.

But Lettice knew by the kind pressure of his hand and sympathising look as he passed out, that he thought the case a very, very bad one.

"Keep him as quiet as possible," he said; "and you, my little maid, be a good girl to your mother."

Old Roger was seldom conscious for weeks, and he would moan distressingly when moved or touched. Yet he prayed, though incoherently,—

   "Good Master, Dear Lord! I can bear it if Thou art with me in the fire. Jesus, Lover of my soul."

He never seemed to lose his hold of Christ, and would repeat fragments of texts, and a line here and there from hymns that he had learned and loved during his time of health.

"Where are the lads?" he said one night. "They haven't 'all' come to Jesus yet; no, not 'all.' But the door of mercy is open wide, and 'I will in no wise cast out,' says Christ."

Neighbours and fishermen would come crowding in with inquiries and offers of help. And Lettice feared they must think her very unkind as she entreated them not to stand in the doorway, keeping the pure air from the sick man. But she could not prevent one and another stealing in now and then, on tiptoe, for a look at the dear old patriarch. And his mates would beg her to let them take it in turn to share the night-watch with her. This was an offer she gladly accepted, for the strain was daily growing heavier. There is much real sympathy and true kindness often to be met with among the poor, and none knew this better than Lettice during her long, bitter trial.

"You must write to Davie," she said one day to Ermyn, as Christmas drew near, "and tell him to come home, if possible, for these holidays. I fear if he is prevented, he will not see dear granddad again."

This was the first intimation of danger Ermyn had comprehended and hot tears fell on the paper as she wrote. But it did her good to pour her heart out to David.

He came as quickly as possible, and with his coming, hope lightened the heavy heart of his stricken mother. His grandfather knew him as he entered and sat down by the bedside, and the wrinkled hand was stretched out to take David's within its feeble grasp.

"My boy," he said, looking at him, "thy old granddad is brought very low, but the Lord is my light and my salvation. I will trust, and not be afraid."

The cottage was not so dreary after that, for David was the support and comforter of all, during his month's sojourn at home. It seemed to give Roger a lift, for he was certainly better, and able to be propped up in bed, and even got as far as to sit out sometimes in his great chair by the fire within shelter of the settle.

Mr. Williams, the clergyman in charge, was most kind and unwearied in his visits. He would come to read and pray beside Roger, and talk cheerfully to him about what was going on at St. Elvis, encouraging him in return to tell him some of his sailor yarns to help to pass those long winter days.

David conceived an enthusiastic admiration for Mr. Williams, and whenever he could be spared would find his way to the lodgings over the post-office, where the two young men would enter into long and interesting discussions on all kinds of subjects, which David found most refreshing in the midst of his anxiety.

"I find my inability to speak the Welsh tongue such a drawback," Mr. Williams said to him one day. "I did not study it until I was grown-up, and although I know it well enough to get through the service pretty well, and read some sermons Dr. Pryse lent me, I find I cannot get at the people in their homes, for when they begin to talk it fast, I am obliged to tell them I cannot understand. I suppose you speak it well?"

"Oh yes," laughed David; "but no merit to me, for I have been accustomed to it from my cradle. We never speak anything else at home unless strangers come in. Grandfather likes it best, and I love the sound of the Welsh tongue."

"How I wish you were in our Church," rejoined the other; "it stands in great need of Welsh-speaking clergymen."

In reply, David confided to Mr. Williams his final resolution to seek ordination to the Episcopalian ministry, adding that his fondest wishes would be attained could he but be found worthy to aid the venerable pastor of St. Elvis in tending there the flock of Christ.

"But what," said Mr. Williams, "will the friends say by whom your education has been provided?"

"Some of them will be disappointed, no doubt. But from the first they left me free to decide on my future course."

"Then you can return to college under these altered circumstances?"

"Assuredly; and should I ever be able to do so, I shall in any case repay the cost of my education, or provide, in time, for some other poor student, without asking to what church he belongs."

On this, the friends parted; Mr. Williams, who had considerable influence, silently resolving to forward David's purpose to the uttermost.

But the cloud that had opened to show its silver lining while David remained at home closed over again dark and drear soon after his departure. There was no prospect of Old Roger being ever able to ply his fishing trade again. He had to sit idle in the chimney-corner, and his carefully saved earnings were dwindling down until very little was left.

His loving daughter told him not to trouble about it; she would work hard enough to support him. But he knew she was already toiling far beyond her strength, and this thought would creep in sometimes to dim his bright faith.

Lettice strove hard to hide their fast-increasing poverty from Ermyn. And it was not until one of the cows had fallen sick and died, and the other had to be sold to a neighbouring farmer, that the good woman was fairly overcome, and Ermyn found her sitting inside the doorway weeping bitterly.

"Mother, darling mother!" said Ermyn, kneeling down beside her and crying too. "Tell me what it is. Oh, let me help you if I can!"

So Lettice told her all, and hid none of the sad truth.

"Mother," cried the girl joyfully, "there is the box upstairs that you have been putting all my little presents of money and savings into ever since I was a little child. It is heavy now. We must open it and use what is there. Oh, I am so glad you would not let me spend it before. Davie put five shillings in last summer, and I will work and earn such a lot more. I know I can. I will go up this afternoon and speak to Mrs. Llewellyn about it."

"No," said Lettice, as a proud pang shot into her heart; "let us keep our trouble to ourselves as long as we can."

Yet she felt she was wrong as the words fell from her lips.

"Oh, mother dear, why?" pleaded Ermyn. "She is so good and kind; do let me go to her! I want her to tell me how I can best help you."

And the child begged so hard that at length she obtained a reluctant consent.

Mrs. Llewellyn's heart opened in sympathy at once, and she reproached herself for not having sooner thought of the scheme that now presented itself to her mind. Ermyn was an exquisite fancy-worker, and under her tuition had learned to do some very beautiful embroidery in coloured silks. Mary had made many friends in London during her residence there, and to some of these her mother proposed she should write, and try to get orders for this work.

The appeal was responded to in a few days, and demands for the lovely work flowed in faster than Ermyn's fingers could supply them. When the first liberal payment in gold arrived, how proud and happy she felt to take it home and refill the scanty purse, thus lifting some of the pressure from the dear ones there.

Meantime, Lettice was learning her lesson. She had not been made aware before how much pride lurked in her heart, and perhaps it was for this reason God sent her a trial that laid it bare. She, the thrifty housewife, who had always managed so well to make both ends meet, and keep want far from her dwelling; she, who with Miss Silexa had so often dispensed the alms from the Church funds, rejoicing that she never stood in need of them herself; "she" to be poor and needy, and obliged to put in her claim also at the Rectory for the dole of bread and other necessaries that were given away at stated times to destitute parishioners!

The flesh rebelled, but the spirit prevailed. It had been a subtle snare, for she actually discovered she had been proud of her pride, and it was not without a sore struggle in a strength not her own that she conquered. Yet the chastened look on her sweet, patient face told to those around that poverty had come as one of God's good angels, to reveal unto her more fully the mysteries of His grace. Her cup was still filled, because she held it under the Fountain of living water, whose source can never fail, though earthly springs may run dry.

   "The barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord."

One morning she was reading to her father the daily portion from her precious Bible, and she came to the words,—

   "'Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.'

"I thought," said Lettice humbly, "that we were good if we bore these troubles patiently, and tried not to murmur; but these words go beyond that, father. I have not taken pleasure in distresses for Christ's sake; I have only striven to bear them in silence."

"Don't be afraid, my lass; our good Lord knows all about it—the fightings without and the fears within; and He says,—

   "'My grace is sufficient for thee.'

"That means, it will meet every need and so fully satisfy us that we shall be even joyful in tribulation. See what His grace did in the prophet's heart when he could say,—

   "'Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation. The Lord God is my strength.'

"Now, my lass, we are not so badly off as that—praise be the Lord; though He has seen fit to take away both the cows, there is yet meat in the fields, for we never had a finer crop of potatoes than this year. Things are never so bad but what they might be worse. There is an old saying and a true one, 'God writes straight on crooked lines.'

"When I lie here upon my bed and count up all the Lord's mercies, why, I can't number them, for—

   "'They are new every morning: and great is His faithfulness.'

   "'Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless His holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies; who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's.'

   "'Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? . . . Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us.'"

The aged man clasped his hands together and looked upwards, lost in the contemplation those holy words had awakened, and Lettice went to her work, and there was music in her heart all the day long.

It was a grief to Ermyn that she could not be more at the cottage, but she needed Mrs. Llewellyn's counsel and advice about her delicate work, and the light was better for it in larger rooms. So she used to set out as early as possible and not return until dusk, when she would bring back with her a merry brightness that was like sunshine in the old home.

Lettice fondly hoped her father would struggle through the winter and revive in the warm spring time. But as the days lengthened, she saw with grief that his "strength was but labour and sorrow."

He sat less frequently in his chair, though sometimes she could persuade him to have it placed just outside the door in the sunshine, where he could feel the fresh breezes come up from the sea, and watch the sailors among their boats. He seemed to enjoy it at the time, but gradually this was too much for him, and he would lie down again on his bed dreamy and quiet for hours, and soon grew too weak to leave it at all.

One afternoon Lettice watched a tear slowly course down his weather-beaten cheek, and she rose softly to smooth back the long white locks from his noble forehead, saying tenderly, "What is it, father? Are you in pain?"

"No, my lass, no," he answered, as a sweet smile broke over his face like a glory; "the pain is all gone now, but the boat is ready, very nearly ready, Lettie, my girl."

Lettice thought he was wandering, and said, "Do you want to go out in your boat, father?"

"I am sailing away in it, my child, and my Lord the Pilot is going to slip the cable soon. My face is set towards glory's shore. It won't be long now before I am there, and I was crying to think of leaving you behind."

Lettice took one long look into the dear, dim eyes, then laid her head down on the pillow beside him, and sobbed her heart out there.

"Lettie! My Lettie! Listen to what He says,—

   "'I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'

   "'A Father of the fatherless and Judge of the widows is God in His holy habitation.'

"Lettie, I leave you in His keeping,—

   "'and underneath are the everlasting arms.'"

The sacred words fell like balm upon her troubled spirit, and she heard the voice saying once more within her soul,—

   "'Peace, peace, be still!'"

And there was a great calm.

A sound of footsteps in the outer room made her rise to see who had entered. It was Mr. Williams, who stepped softly in, and holding out his hand, asked kindly for her father.

The old man recognised his voice, and cried out:

"Come in, come in, sir. I'm so pleased to see you. Reach him a chair, Lettice, and pull back the window curtain a bit farther, that he may see what I have to look out upon. There!" he said, as his daughter obeyed him. "There's the sea, rolling so grand and beautiful! God's sea, sir," he added reverently, and with poetical fervour. "I love to lie and watch it. The tide is fast coming in now: its ebbings and flowings are sweet music in my ears. It makes me think of the voice of many waters, and the harpers harping with their harps before the throne of God on the crystal sea. I know the words of the new song they sing, and I shall be joining with them soon."

"Yes," replied the young man, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "You will soon see 'His face; and in His presence there is fulness of joy.'"

"Amen!" responded Roger fervently, as Mr. Williams noted in silence what a change had come over the furrowed face since he had last seen it. He had grown to love the old man dearly, as all did who came in contact with him.

"Shall I send for David?" he asked huskily.

"No, sir, no; it will be too late, poor lad, now; for with to-morrow's dawning, and perhaps before, I expect to—

   "'see the King in His beauty, and to behold the land that is very far off.'

"I shall see none of them again now until the glorious resurrection morning. Kind Miss Pryse, and the dear old parson, and that sweet dove, Miss Eudora—they will all come back to find another grave in the churchyard, but I shall be above."

Mr. Williams drew his Bible from his pocket, and read:

   "'Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto Myself that where I am, there ye may be also.'

   "'Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with Me where I am; that they may behold my glory, which Thou hast given Me: for Thou lovedst Me before the foundation of the world.'"

Lettice was watching her father as he drank in the words, when she suddenly saw him sink back on the pillow in a death-like swoon, and both knew the end was even nearer than they thought.

"I have sent for Ermyn," whispered Lettice, as she applied restoratives. "See, he is coming to himself again now."

"Where am I, Lettie?" said the old man faintly. "It was all so dark, but I can see you again now."

"Yes, father dear, it is all right now, isn't it?"

"Ay, my lass—

   "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"

   "'When thou passes through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee,—'"

Again there was a stir in the outer room, and Mary Llewellyn entered with Ermyn at her side.

Roger knew Mary, and beckoned her nearer. Then, after the courteous custom of the Welsh, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Ermyn drew near softly, and knelt down beside her mother close to the bed, and many of Old Roger's sea-mates and neighbours came dropping in one by one, until the cottage was nearly full.

"There stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and whom I serve," said the dying voice.

And all held their breath to listen.

"As He was with Saint Paul, so He will be with me.

   "'They sounded and found it twenty fathoms; and when they had gone a little farther, they sounded again, and found it fifteen fathoms.'

"The water is getting shallower and shallower; there is land ahead!

   "'They feared lest they should have fallen upon rocks.'

"Ah! But I have no fear, for the Anchor of the soul both sure and steadfast is mine, and it is fixed within the veil.

   "'They cast out the tackling of the ship'—

"That is, I take it, all my worldly affairs and cares. They are all thrown overboard, and Christ alone is with me in the vessel. I see the red harbour lights gleaming! They who sleep in Jesus rest well."

"Let us pray," said Mr. Williams, as the aged pilgrim ceased, exhausted with the unnatural effort.

   "Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit thee; the Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace, both now and evermore. Amen."

There was no time for further words, for as the sunbeams streamed in rosy and golden, and the waves washed up in a long farewell against the boundary wall, a sigh, gentle as an infant's, loosed the silver cord, and the golden bowl was broken. Old Roger had gone home to God.

THE SAINTED WELL

THE sweet spring days had unfolded themselves into "the honeyed heart of June," and "brakes with golden flowers were crowned." The breath of morning rose in a purple haze, filled with the fragrance of mountain-thyme and clover, and through the grass silver drops filtered down to the thirsty roots below. The bright little beck hurried along in tones of summer gladness, restless and eager to meet the tide as it bounded in from the broad blue sea, and "there was a sparkling glee where waves and sunshine met."

Ermyn stood on the bridge listening to the merry tinkle, then stepped into the meadow beside the clear running water. Her pitcher was on the bank, and after playing for some minutes with the pebbles in the bed of the stream, she snatched it up and ran off in the direction of the Sainted Well. The glory of earth and sky made her pause and linger; now two brown butterflies flitted on before her; then she plucked a flower here and grasses there; and now she followed with fascinated gaze the white wings of the sea-gull circling above her head, until she found they had lured her from the path, and she was still a considerable distance from the Well. To make up for lost time, she climbed a loose stone wall, and ran across some fields till she was on the right track again, and the well was in sight.

She was breathless with the extra speed, and a rosy flush mounted to her cheeks as she saw that some one was there before her. This was no uncommon sight, it being such a favourite spot. But Ermyn was demure in a moment, and steadying the pitcher on her shoulder, walked slowly towards the spot.

St. Elvis was the resort of numerous visitors and tourists, especially of artists, who might be seen almost every day through the summer with canvas and easel, perched about on the hillsides or along the rocky shore, trying to represent in glowing colours some of their uncommon beauties.

The stranger looked up as he heard the light footsteps through the rustling grass, and Ermyn saw before her a gentleman, who, from his whitening hair and bent look, seemed past middle age. He had a long beard and moustache, and the girl thought she had never beheld such a thin, haggard face before, nor one so expressive of hopeless misery.

A sudden tremor filled her young heart, as the dark and piercing eyes met hers, for, to her surprise, the artist turned pale and dropped his palette. But she felt reassured when after stooping to pick it up, a tender, mournful look came into his face, and he accosted her gently,—

"Good-morning; you are come to fetch some of this delicious water?"

"Yes, sir," replied Ermyn, curtseying as she spoke. "Would you please that I should dip you up a little to drink?"

And, suiting the action to the word, she descended the red steps and lowered her pitcher.

"You are ill, sir," she added, as the gentleman, having thanked her, trembled visibly as he took the proffered water. "Our cottage is not very far off, sir; and I am sure mother would get you a cup of tea if you would come there and rest."

Ermyn had been trained from her childhood to offer the courteous hospitality for which the Welsh are so famous.

"Thank you," he answered; "I will come, for I feel rather faint. I did not take anything before I set out; but first let me beg you to stay a few minutes. I should like to put you into this picture."

Ermyn looked down with a blush on her shabby dark blue print, which was tucked up over an old red petticoat, and tossing back her hair from her lace, she said simply, "My Sunday gown is better than this, sir."

"I would rather have this one, please," he rejoined, with a mournful smile. "Can you hold your pitcher on your shoulder? So—I will not keep you long."

Ermyn assented with a shy laugh, and stood perfectly still, wondering much, as she looked towards the cliffs, why this sad-looking man should care to paint her; for our maiden of the valley had not yet been spoiled by being told she had a lovely face.

While the artist sketched, he drew her into conversation. "Have you always lived in St. Elvis?"

"We do not live in St. Elvis, sir, but at Porthmynwr, though it is reckoned all one, I believe. We live at the cottage that stands close at the head of the creek. There is only mother and me now, for Davie is away, and dear old granddad died in the early spring."

"Who is Davie?"

"He is my brother, sir, and we had a baby sister long ago who died; she was called little Ruth. Mother has only me now."

"And what is 'your' name?"

"Ermyn Silexa Gwynne," replied the girl promptly.

"I cannot paint any more this morning," said the stranger abruptly, as, rising, he gathered up his materials and prepared to follow his guide.

During their walk the conversation was resumed.

"Do you know why you were given that name?"

"I suppose, sir, because Miss Pryse is my godmother."

And Ermyn then proceeded to inform him who lived at the Rectory, and told him, in fact, all she knew in connection with her own history.

The artist paused every now and then to rest his burden, and Ermyn wondered why he questioned her so closely.

He was silently connecting this morning's scene with one of the previous evening, when he had arrived by the coach at St. Elvis.

No one knew who the stranger was; and the villagers eagerly scanned both him and his luggage, which, however, had no name on it. This fact was observed as it was carried up to the room he had engaged at "The Jolly Sailors." Many pairs of eyes from the stone cross steps followed him inquisitively as he sauntered down towards the Rectory gate and leaned over its palings. But he was only a stranger among strangers, as he watched Molly walk across the grass with a basket of clothes on her arm, which she had been gathering in from the common close by. A young clergyman was talking to a lady at the wild porch, but he did not know any of them.

"I suppose they are all dead," he thought.

And after a long wistful look at the casements buried in their mass of green, he walked slowly away, carrying the sore burden of a heart heavy as lead. Why did the conversation with this simple village maid cause his heart to bound madly, as the colour mounted into his sunken cheek?

"It is impossible!" he thought. "Why will such fancies come? The letter said the child died too. But oh, why is this girl so like my lovely Ethel? My morbid brain conjures up nothing but phantoms. But my father lives! I must see his face once more before I die. And Silexa! How she loved me! And yet she was forbidden ever to write or speak to me again. My punishment has been greater than I could bear. God is not a God of love, but a stern avenger, and the greatest boon I crave now from His hand is to die."

"There is mother!" cried Ermyn, as they neared the cottage.

And Lettice came forward to question her child anxiously on the reason of her delay.

"I must bear the blame," said the stranger quickly. "I have been trying to take a sketch of your daughter at the Sainted Well."

"Yes; and, mother, will you please give the gentleman a cup of tea? He is ill. I must run away and make myself tidy, for Mrs. Llewellyn will be waiting for me. Good-morning, sir."

"Good-bye," said the visitor; "will you let me go on with the picture to-morrow?"

"Oh yes, sir, if you like."

And the girl ran off.

"Will you please to come inside, sir, while I get you something?" said the wondering Lettice. "May I ask if you have travelled far to-day?"

"No; I have only come from St. Elvis, where I slept last night. Will you allow me to rest under the shadow of this hawthorn? What a beautiful child your daughter is!"

"Yes, she is well enough," answered Lettice stiffly; for she was always dubious whither such remarks might tend.

"She is so like some one who was very dear to me, and who died; that is why I wanted to take her likeness."

"Indeed, sir!"

"Is she your own child?" asked the stranger, in a low tone.

But he was not prepared to see Lettice start and turn very pale as she answered.

"No, she is not, but she does not know it. All the neighbours and townsfolk have been kind enough to keep my secret, and I shall never tell her. She is just the same as if she were my own, for I have had her ever since she was a little baby."

"How did you get her?" pursued her questioner, with difficulty concealing his agitation.

"Well, sir, 'tis a sad tale. Rather more than twelve years ago a fine ship, called the 'Ocean Queen,' foundered on yonder reef of rocks, and all hands were drowned. None were saved except this poor little helpless babe, who was found lashed to a spar and brought home by my father. The mother of the infant was cold in death, but one arm was round her baby when they found her. The sailors carried her into the cottage, where she lay until after the inquest. And on the following Sunday, we buried her in the old churchyard at St. Elvis."

"Does the child bear any resemblance to the mother?"

"Well, sir, I sometimes fancy she does; but features change after death, so I can scarcely tell. Do you know anything about the wreck, sir?"

"No, nothing; I never even heard of it before."

Lettice felt relieved.

"Then this stranger can surely have no claim on her," she thought, "but I must be careful what I say. I will not tell him about the locket, and I will never give her up to any one who cannot describe it accurately before seeing it."

Poor gentleman! She felt very sorry for him; he looked so forlorn and ill. He evidently had a sad history attached to him. And as the artist raised his dark eyes to hers, a remembrance of long ago flashed into her mind, but faded away before it could take a definite form.

"Do you make a long stay here, sir?" she asked presently.

"No; I go the next time the coach leaves St. Elvis. I suppose there is no other means of communication with the market town?"

"Not unless you order a carriage from there to fetch you, sir, but that is expensive," she added thoughtfully, looking at his shabby clothes. "The coach does not run again this week, sir."

"Then I must hire," he replied; "for there is no time to be lost. There is foul play somewhere."

Lettice wondered why he said this, but she did not remark on it.

"I will come again to-morrow, if you will allow me," he said earnestly. "I should like to finish my picture of the child."

"Oh, surely, sir, you are very welcome; I will tell her about it."

A pause, and then the stranger asked abruptly, "Where was she buried?"

"The poor lady, sir? For she 'was' a lady, I'm sure. Oh, it was up in the corner of the churchyard, by the sycamore trees, sir. If you would please wait here a few minutes, I could come with you and show you, and perhaps you would like to see the church also?"

"Thank you, I should; I will wait here until you are ready."

They were soon walking along the meadows, white and golden with daisies and buttercups, towards the old town. And as they went, the conversation turned upon the Rectory.

"I knew Dr. Pryse long ago," said the stranger, "and consider myself an old friend of the family."

"Indeed, sir; then of course you know about their trouble? Our dear pastor was aged before his time; he had a sorrow, sir, that well-nigh killed him."

"What was it?" said her listener.

Lettice paused before answering. It was unlike her to talk much of the affairs of others. Yet this gentleman was a friend of the family, and there was something about him which told her his question sprang not from impertinent curiosity.

"There could surely," she thought, "be no harm in telling what all the village knew."

"His only son, sir," she said at length, "such a fine, noble youth, his father's joy and pride; there were few that could show beside him for beauty, sir. He went away to London to his father's friend, Mr. Lyndwood, who, having no children of his own, offered to take him into his office and provide for him. Well, sir, I suppose he fell in with bad companions. I don't know, but I always will say I don't believe he meant to steal the money, and Miss Silexa has always said the same. We suppose he got into debt, and was afraid to tell his father, who was a terribly stern man at that time, over strict, sir, with all his children. But I think he learned his lesson when it was too late.

"Well, the news came one morning that his son had stolen bank notes to the value of two hundred pounds, and had disappeared. I shall never forget the father's rage. I was up at the Rectory at the time. He said he would never see his face again, and forbade Miss Pryse to have any communication with her brother. Soon after a letter came from Master Edward, but giving no address, begging his father to pay the money, and promising in the future to try and amend the past. A reply by advertisement was requested.

"Dr. Pryse took no notice of the letter, expecting if he waited long enough, the lad would come meekly back, and ask his forgiveness. But Miss Silexa knew it was not like Master Edward to do that—he had such a terribly high spirit; and she used to come down to our cottage and weep her heart out about it. Poor lady! She has had a troubled life of it since in many ways."

"And did the son write again?" asked the artist.

But Lettice did not perceive how he trembled.

"No, sir, at least not then; and as the years went on, his poor father seemed to bend lower and lower under the grief. He would have given all he had to bring him back. But though he and his friend Mr. Lyndwood made every inquiry, no tidings could be heard that would give the shadow of a hope. Why, it must be five-and-twenty years ago since he went away. How time flies!"

"Do you think the old man has ever forgiven his son?"

"Oh yes, sir. I am sure he has; he has learned too much of God's love himself to deny forgiveness to his son. I am certain, if he had come back, he would have fallen on his neck and kissed him, and killed for him the fatted calf. He can never read that chapter in church about David's lament over Absalom without breaking down."

"I suppose he has given up all hope now?" rejoined her auditor, in a questioning tone.

"Oh yes, sir; they all think, now, Master Edward must have died somewhere abroad, though, they began to hope again after they got the letter."

"I thought you said there was no letter."

"Not from him, sir. But twelve years after he went away, Mr. Lyndwood received the money again, with no name or address. He has been doing all he can ever since to find out where it came from."

"How very strange!" replied her questioner. "And so they are all gone away now?" he added. "Who is the young lady your daughter was telling me about?"

"Miss Eudora Meredith, sir, the child of Miss Silexa's sister, beautiful Miss Minnie Pryse, the pride of St. Elvis. She died within a year of her marriage. There is a sad story about that, sir. You must surely have heard it, if you are a friend of the family."

The stranger started, fearing he had betrayed himself. But the movement was unperceived by the innocent, simple-hearted woman, who waited for the answer.

"No, I have heard nothing. My home has been out of England for many years. Do tell me all you know, as I shall not see any of them myself now."

"True, sir; they will not be back until the fall of the year. I am sorry you will miss them. Well, I will tell you about Mrs. Meredith. She had more schooling than her elder sister, Miss Pryse; for there was always so much to be done at home that somehow she could not be spared, and their poor mother was an invalid for years before she died. Miss Minnie was one of the wildest, merriest-hearted girls I ever saw; a regular little mischievous one, always up to pranks. She was named after Dame Ermyn Brande, who was an ancestor of the Pryse family. You will see her monument directly over the Rectory pew, telling of her bequest to St. Elvis, but the child was never called anything but Minnie. After the death of Mrs. Pryse, she was sent away to school for, I think, five or six years. It was a long way off, so she seldom came home until she finished.

"And while she was absent, Captain Edward Meredith came to visit at the Rectory. His ship, the 'Eudora,' was anchored in the bay. Oh, but he 'was' a fine gentleman! I always say I never saw one as handsome except our Master Edward of the Rectory. Captain Meredith was, I believe, a year or two younger than Miss Pryse, but no one would have guessed it. They looked such a fine handsome couple as they walked about together; and everybody in St. Elvis and Porthmynwr thought it was going to be a match between them.

"I have seen Miss Silexa, when he used to be absent, most days walk along the cliff and shore, as if eagerly watching for his ship; and whenever his name was mentioned, she would look up to listen. If ever a man might have won a noble heart, it was he, sir, but perhaps he didn't know. Miss Silexa was a proud young woman, and never betrayed her feelings, but I had not seen such a glad look on her face since the day our Master Edward went away. I hoped she was going to find comfort in her affliction by becoming a happy wife."

"And how did it end?" said the stranger, pausing to take breath.

"It ended, sir, one summer when the 'Eudora' was lying out there in the bay at anchor. Miss Minnie had just returned from school, and every one was talking of her great beauty. I shall never forget the first Sunday I saw her come into church, with her blue eyes and golden hair, smiling like an angel. Captain Meredith went into the Rectory pew, and, I suppose, soon fell in love, for he was always with her after that, and in a little while, we heard they were engaged. They were married in the following spring, quite early in the year. They went away together for a trip somewhere, and then he had to bring her home here and leave her, as his ship was ordered away suddenly to foreign parts. His poor little wife drooped for him, and by degrees the rosy colour faded out of her cheeks.

"One November morning, I was sent for in haste to the Rectory. And my heart ached as I went over the threshold and heard the sound of bitter weeping. Miss Silexa met me with the newspaper in her hand, looking as pale as ashes. The 'Eudora' had gone down, and all in her had perished, except two sailors, who escaped to bring the news to land.

"Our beautiful Miss Minnie never looked up again. I stayed there all day, and in the evening, she gave birth to her little daughter. When she heard the baby's cry, she whispered to her sister,—

"'Call her Eudora, and take care of her for Edward's sake. I am going to him.'

"We tried by every means to rouse her, but she just sank away like a tired child going to sleep. I thought the double sorrow would have killed poor Dr. Pryse. We could not get him to leave the body; he sat moaning over it, holding the waxen hand in his, and crying out,—

"'My little Minnie! Look at me once more! Wake up, my darling!'"

"Miss Silexa did not shed a tear, but seemed turned into stone, as she sat rocking the poor baby on her knees. And she has been a mother to her ever since."

"It is indeed a sad story," said the gentleman, turning his back to Lettice, and stooping to gather a flower, by which action he managed to hide the tears that had filled his eyes. "The child must be a precious treasure," he added.

"Oh, sir, the old man dotes on her, and so does Miss Silexa; please God she may be spared to them! They nearly lost her last year when she was ill. She is very like her mother, only without her beautiful colour. I wish they were all home again. I think that is all I have to tell you, sir. And I see old John Jenkins coming. He will show you over the church. Step this way first, sir; here is the grave, and Mrs. Meredith's is next to it. I will wish you good-morning. Oh no, sir; I did not expect payment," she added hastily, as the stranger slipped a sovereign into her hand.

"Please accept it with my best thanks," he urged, in reply to her remonstrances, as an earnest look came into his dark eyes; "I will be at your cottage to-morrow."

There was no headstone to mark the resting-place of the drowned one; only the long grasses waved pleasantly over it, and there was a hushing sound in the sycamore branches above. He knelt beside it to pluck a few green blades, which he put into his pocket-book. He then passed on to look at the headstone next to it.

"So young to die!" he murmured, on reading the inscription.

"Would you please to go into the church, sir?" asked John Jenkins, who had come close to where he was standing. "'Tis a fine old church, folks say, sir," he added, as the gentleman turned to accompany him. "This doorway is Norman, and the tower is hundreds of years old, and I can show you some very ancient monuments."

The old pew-opener was proceeding to descant on these, when, to his surprise, he found the stranger had left him, and was now far ahead of him up the church aisle, and just turning into the Rectory pew, where he sat down, and was lost to view.

Old Jenkins did not follow him there, or he would have been still more astonished to find him sitting in one corner among the fusty cushions, with his head bowed low upon his hands, shedding, silently, bitter tears.

"A curious sort of a chap that!" thought the verger, as ten minutes later the gentleman reappeared, and putting some money in his hand abruptly left the church.

The artist kept his appointment the following morning, and finished the picture.

"Look, mother, what the gentleman gave me!" cried Ermyn, as she ran into the cottage. "A whole sovereign! Is it enough to buy a cow? You must take it and use it. Oh, we shall be rich some day," she added, kissing her. "I am doing such a beautiful piece of work now. A wreath of wild roses on white silk. Mrs. Llewellyn says it is the prettiest I ever did."

"It is far too much money, my child; I am sorry he gave it, for he seems poor himself, and I grieve from my heart for him. He looks as if life had pressed sore upon him with its burden."

St. Elvis opened its eyes in considerable astonishment the following morning, when a carriage and pair arrived from the market town, and the stranger stepped into it and drove off.

"I thought he was one of your poor travelling artists," remarked the ostler, who had shouldered the well-worn portmanteau.

"He paid his reckoning like a gentleman, anyhow," rejoined the landlady, "but I never saw a shabbier kit."

"He looked as if he hadn't a sixpence in the world to call his own," added a bystander; "and 'what' a hat!"

Molly was welcomed eagerly at the stone cross that morning, for she had something else to tell about the nameless and mysterious stranger.

"He was up late last night," she said, "prowling round the Rectory like a thief, peeping into all the windows and under the willow tree and all. And he picked the flowers, and actually went into the kitchen garden opposite, as if he had a right there. I didn't like to tell him he mustn't go there."

"Well, I never!" nodded the gossips, with upraised hands. "It was as well Miss Pryse wasn't at home. She would have ordered him off sharp. She don't like strangers about."

But none of these remarks reached the ear of our traveller, who was speeding on his way as fast as a pair of fleet horses could carry him to the nearest railway station, whence he was soon flying along in the express train towards Scotland.

THE LAIRD OF MUIRSTANE

THE long Scotch twilight was rapidly fading, and lights glimmered here and there from the windows of the town, towards which four tired horses were dragging the public conveyance after a hard day's journey. There was but one inn of any size in the place, and this was homely both in style and appearance, notwithstanding the fierce attitude of the so-called "Golden Lion" swinging on the signboard above the entrance.

As the coach crossed the last bridge, and rattled over the ill-paved streets, a crowd of barefooted urchins set up a series of yells, and commenced running after it in a body, clamouring and squabbling for the halfpence a traveller threw down for their benefit. At the sound of these noisy heralds, two ostlers ran out from the inn-yard, who were speedily joined by other hangers-on. The stout landlady appeared resplendent in plaid ribbons, sinning benignly; and many heads bobbed up and down behind her, all eager to see what the tired tourists were like.

The poor artist whom St. Elvis had in turn looked down upon and wondered at, was among them; though this fact might have been doubted, as he had exchanged his shabby attire for a respectable suit, and certainly looked much more like a gentleman as he descended the step-ladder and accosted Mrs. Macgregor:

"Can I have a fresh pair of horses to take me to Muirstane to-night?"

"'Deed no, sir; ye can ha'e no horses the nicht, ye maun e'en wait till the morn. We ha'e been ower busy here this week past, and the Duke had the last pair this afternoon to gang to the castle. I'm sorry, sir, but ye maun put up wi' us, and tak' the best oor hoose can gi'e ye."

Our traveller remonstrated, but finding it was useless, he gave orders for his luggage to be carried in, and was glad to escape from the noise and confusion outside to the parlour within. A smell of beer and whisky, mingled with the fumes of stale tobacco, made him feel sick and giddy, after all his fatigue. It was not much better upstairs, for the inn being unusually crowded, he had to be content with a small attic, whose window could only be opened a few inches by a desperate effort, after which a wedge of wood had to be inserted to keep the sash from falling again.

He inquired how soon his supper could be ready; and being told "in about half an hour," he went out into the cool night air while it was preparing. Fresh breezes came up from the river as he leant over the stone bridge, and watched the reflection of stars in the clear water beneath. The hills were faintly outlined in the distance, and there was a soughing in the belt of Scotch pines that skirted the bend of the stream.

But the soft whispers brought no rest nor peace to the weary one who stood there, absently gazing at the dim landscape. He could only review the sad past, to which was now added his strange visit to St. Elvis, and what he had seen and heard there. Since then, rapid journeys by day and night had finally brought him to this place, where he was now forcibly detained by circumstances.

"I wish I had never seen that child," he muttered, as he retraced his footsteps to the house.

And with a wilful inconsistency, climbed the stairs again to unlock his portmanteau and take out Ermyn's picture. He looked at the face he saw smiling there, comparing it with a miniature he always wore, and carried it downstairs with him.

Two dismal tallow-candles were spluttering away on a table in the fusty little room where he found his supper awaiting him. The meal consisted of fried eggs and ham, some excellent coffee, with plenty of good bread and butter. And in spite of his sorrow and disappointment, the tired wayfarer enjoyed it.

After the remains of the feast had been duly cleared away by a red-handed and red-haired serving-maid, he produced the pictures again, and laying them carefully on the table before him, took another long look, murmuring to himself, "They 'are' alike."

Waking from his reverie, he proceeded to investigate the room. The bookcase contained a Scotch psalm-book, the "Shorter Catechism," Bunyan's "Holy War" and "Pilgrim's Progress," a stray novel or two left by passing visitors, some "Chambers's Journals," well-thumbed and dog-eared, and a collection of old "Illustrated London News," bound in a cloth cover and considerably the worse for wear. The last-mentioned volume had evidently been a favourite study of previous guests, as was only too apparent from the tattered condition of its leaves, and the dirty marks visible upon them.

Edward Pryse (for our readers will have guessed ere this that it was he) turned over the pages mechanically, thinking of far different subjects, when suddenly his eye was attracted by the picture of a ship. He started, and his heart thumped against his breast as he read the words underneath it—"The Ocean Queen." With trembling fingers, he turned to the paragraph to which it belonged, and pursued the following communication:—

   "'Loss of the ship 'Ocean Queen,' paddle-steamer, bound from Liverpool to Cork. She broke her paddle-shaft in a gale of wind in St. George's Channel, and drifted on to St. Dewis Head, on October 7, and became a total wreck. Crew and passengers all lost.'"

"What a strange coincidence! How this shipwreck haunts me!" he cried, as the letters swam before his eyes, and he gasped for breath.

It was all a dream! But no, there it was, staring him in the face. True, quite true! He rose and paced the room until he grew calmer. Then, sitting down again, he drew a penknife from his pocket and slowly and deliberately cut out the page, folded it carefully, and laid it with the picture. He then restored the book to its dusty quarters on the shelf, rang for his bedroom candle, and went upstairs.

The landlady passed him on his way, and he felt quite guilty. But she only smiled as she wished him "Gude-nicht," adding, "ye'll no' mind if ye hear a hubbub aboot the hoose; it'll be just oorsels."

Edward paced long up and down the little room, too excited to seek repose.

At last he said, half aloud, "I must write to Liverpool and inquire if any lady of the name of Pryse sailed in that vessel."

After this was done, being completely worn-out by his previous journeys, he flung himself on his bed and slept soundly.

While waiting to start on his journey the following morning, two lines that he had read somewhere long ago came into his mind, and haunted it all through that day:

"There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,
 Rough-hew them how we will."

His destination was many miles off, and the road lay through some of the most beautiful scenery Scotland can produce. His artistic eye did not fail to note the glories of the landscape on either hand. When they stopped at a small village to rest and bait the horses, he made his way down to a rocky dell, attracted thither by the brawling of a brown sunlit river. The waters fell sheer down with a thundering sound, and on the large mossy boulder above, whence they took the final leap, they were gathered up in a shining mass, which, on reaching the lower stones, sprang off in silver threads of spray, while fairy fountains were made rainbow-coloured and brilliant by the sunlight that glinted through the over-arching branches above.

But he could not stay long in this enchanted spot. He must hurry on to his journey's end, and it was the thought of what he should meet with there that weighted his heart with lead. His last pilgrimage to Muirstane had been a fruitless one, and in all probability this would be the same. He was fully prepared for it, as in the light of a glorious setting sun, he saw the roofs of the Highland village appearing in view.

"I 'will' gain admittance this time," he muttered, with a bitter smile, as, having left the carriage at the inn, he walked slowly up a steep hill towards a large house, visible for many miles round in its utter loneliness and isolation.

The huge iron gates looked as if they had not swung on their hinges for a century, for they were coated with thick rust, and clustering weeds and ivy clung about them. Edward Pryse touched the chain that hung from the padlock. It clanked drearily as he let it drop again, and went round to the dingy back entrance, through a court where grass grew rank among the paving-stones. Here he pulled a wooden handle, which set a bell ringing somewhere far-away in a distant passage.

No answer.

After waiting some minutes in impatient suspense, he tried the door. It yielded to his vigorous push, and Edward found himself at the end of a long dark corridor. On this side of the house there was no sign of life, and the unexpected visitor made his way in the direction of the inhabited end.

He reached the foot of a stair leading, as he well remembered, to a little sitting-room, which had been Ethel's favourite retreat. Ascending the steps, he knocked loudly at the door of the room, but again without reply. Led by irresistible impulse, he entered.

How familiar, yet strange, the place appeared, in the thronging memories of happy hours spent in that room by her side! The room seemed exactly as it used to be, only all things wore a deathly look, because the spirit that had given them life had fled. A harp stood in one corner, but the strings hung broken and useless, and all the gilding was worn away. A picture of his own painting hung above it, and underneath the frame these words were illuminated,—

   "'God is our refuge and strength: a very present help in trouble.'"

A large old-fashioned rosewood workbox stood on a dusty round table in the window. Edward opened it, and some dried rose-leaves gave forth their peculiar odour as he lifted the lid and took out the tray. Oh, what did he see beneath? A tiny half-finished infant's shirt of finest cambric. The needle was still in it, but so rusty, it had imprinted an orange stain on the fabric, now yellow with age. Tears filled his eyes; he handled and kissed it reverently, then folding it together put it into his breast-pocket, and closed the lid again.

Were there any other precious mementoes of his lost one? Yes, some of her books were there, with a thick coating of dust resting on them. One lay apart from the others; he opened it first, and some verbena and ivy leaves fluttered down to his feet. It was Baxter's "Saints' Everlasting Rest." The words his eye fell on were these, and they were underlined with pencil:

   "When should we take our cordials, but in times of fainting? When is it more seasonable to walk to heaven, than when we know not in what corner of the earth to live with comfort? or when should our thoughts converse more above, than when they have nothing but grief below? Where should Noah's dove be but in the ark, when the waters cover all the earth, and she cannot find rest for the sole of her foot? What should we think on, but our Father's house, when we have not even the husks of the world to feed upon? Surely God sends thy affliction for this very purpose."

He turned the pages and read again:

   "Hast thou seen the utter insufficiency of every creature, either to be itself thy happiness or the means of removing this thy misery? Hast thou been convinced, that thy happiness is only in God as the end, and in Christ as the way to Him? and that thou must be brought to God through Christ or perish eternally? Hast thou seen an absolute necessity of thy enjoying Christ and a full sufficiency in Him to do for thee whatever thy case requires? Hast thou discovered the excellence of this pearl to be worth thy selling all to buy it?"

Edward Pryse could read no further for the dimming tears.

"No, my God," he groaned, "I have not! I found an earthly pearl, beautiful and rare, and she was my idol; and Thou hast taken her from me. Is it that I may find Thee, the Pearl of greatest price? Oh, my sweet dove, that flitted 'twixt earth and sky o'er stormy seas! God put forth His hand and drew thee in to rest with Him for evermore. Thou art safe sheltered on His breast; and the world outside is cold without thee. I shall go to thee, but thou canst not return to me."

A sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him start.

And in another moment, an old woman, of forbidding appearance, presented herself, and demanded his business.

"My name is Mr. Edward Pryse, and I am here to see your master."

"You know he will not see you; besides, he is very ill, and must not be disturbed. How dared you enter? Here, John! John!"

At the call, a man came swiftly along the passage, leaving at the other end a door ajar.

"Come, be off!" he said menacingly, but shrunk back in fear as Edward advanced towards him.

"Will you show me your master's room?" sternly demanded the unwelcome guest.

Before the housekeeper and her husband could frame a stubborn negative, Edward thought he heard a faint sound, as of an old man in pain, proceed from the room they had quitted. Did his ears deceive him? Or was there a faint cry of "Edward! Edward!"

He rushed past the ill-favoured pair, and passed through the anteroom, whence they had issued, into the bedchamber beyond. What a sight met his view! In a tattered shirt, and lying on the bare mattress, with a ragged blanket to cover him, lay the pitiable old man, his limbs and features shrunk and attenuated to the last degree, and shaking from head to foot.

"You have only come just in time to see me die! Why didn't you come sooner?"

"I have been here at two different times, but could not gain admittance. And judging from your last letter to me, I thought you never wished to see my face again. It was a cruel letter."

"God forgive me!" murmured the old man. "I have deeply sinned. He 'may' forgive me, but you never, when you know all!"

"I 'will' forgive, if you will only speak, and tell me 'all.'"

"I lied to you," said the helpless victim of cunning and avarice; "I hated you for gaining Ethel's affections, when I had destined her to be the wife of a rich neighbour. And when you went away, I swore I would be revenged."

Edward grew pale as death, but was silent.

"She ran away," continued the narrator, "and I don't know where she went. I suppose she was driven to it, and hoped to find you somewhere in the wide world. I forced her, by keeping her short of money, to leave the cottage you took for her in the village, and to return here. I made her life in this house a hard and bitter bondage."

"But why did she not write to me? I sent her letters and remittances regularly, but they were never acknowledged."

"Oh, Edward, forgive me, the hand of death is on me! I intercepted both her letters and yours. I bribed the postmistress to let me have all communications addressed to Ethel from America, and all hers to you. They are all tied together in my desk, and you shall have them now. Ah! Curse me not, I entreat you," added the unhappy man, as Edward uttered a hasty exclamation. "God's curse has rested upon me so heavily that it cannot be worse. Hear me to the end, and then help me to make my peace with the Almighty, against whom I have sinned so deeply. The letter I sent to you announcing her death and that of the child was false. I never heard of her from the day she disappeared. I did it that you should not expect my money."

"She 'did' not die, then!" said Edward, starting to his feet, not heeding the last sentence. "Where is she, and what of her child?"

"It was not born here," replied the wretched miser; "but she was preparing for it when she fled from the house. Go and look for her, Edward; she must be somewhere in the world. I must see her again, and ask her forgiveness before I die, or how can I meet her father and mother, who left the friendless orphan to me, her only relative?"

"But had you no idea where she went?"

"In my anger I did not care. I thought surely her want of money must soon drive her back. And when later I sought to find her, all trace was gone. When people inquired for her, I said she had gone to you. Since she left me, these thieves have gradually robbed me of everything they could lay their hands upon, and now that I am ill and helpless, you see how they have treated me."

"Why did you not send the wretches out of your house? How came you to put your neck under their feet?"

"They had my secret, Edward, and they used their power cruelly. I was afraid to let you enter the house for fear they would betray me. They extorted larger and larger bribes, and when I remonstrated, threatened to tell you all. At last, in my misery, I decided to throw myself on your mercy, but did not know where to send for you. The woman said she knew, and promised to send, but I didn't believe she would."

Edward was about to reply, when the old man laid his hand on his arm, and said in a hollow whisper: "You must find Ethel; I have willed the whole of my large property to her, and her child after her. See," he added, gasping, "you will find the will in a secret drawer, just inside the panel of—"

Edward never heard the remainder of the sentence, for a paralytic stroke had fallen on the aged sinner, and he lay helpless and unconscious.

To ring the bell and call loudly for assistance was Edward's first act, but no one responded to his appeal.

He ran through room after room, and found all empty and deserted. The man and his wife had made off in the interval, terrified at the consequences of their iniquitous behaviour. Edward opened doors, and flew along corridors, and finally found himself in the paved court below. Here he saw a man passing the gate, and recognising him as an inhabitant of Muirstane, thrust some money into his hand, and bade him fetch a doctor as quickly as possible, and send help up from the village.

The man was as good as his word, and soon summoned the needful assistance. Everything that human skill or kindness could devise was done to relieve the sufferer. Edward Pryse sat with him day and night. And when a glimmering consciousness returned without the power of speech, Ethel's uncle would lie looking wistfully at him, holding his hand in his, and vainly moving his lips, as if trying to articulate something that he had on his mind, but no sound ever came.

Edward fancied the old man understood what he said to him. And one day as he sat beside him, the thought would itself upon his mind, "Is his guilty soul sheltered from the wrath of the avenging Judge?"

Mr. Pryse was not a religious man himself, and he felt it, as death knocked grimly at this chamber door. He had allowed the circumstances of his life to harden him against God. But the words to which his dead Ethel had so unconsciously pointed him, in her little red book, clung to him, as if the good seed must find a resting-place even in "his" stony heart.

He went softly down to her bookcase again, and found a Bible. He did not know where to read, but again the marked passages came to his aid, as he sat down to find something to comfort her uncle with. Slowly turning the pages to and fro, he read aloud wherever he saw the traces of her pencil—

   "'When Jesus heard it, He saith unto them, They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'

   "'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'

   "'God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by His blood, we shall be saved from wrath through Him.'

   "'Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.'"

Edward fancied he saw a movement of the pale, shrivelled lips, as the eyes looked up towards heaven with a supplicating glance, but that was all. After a few more weary struggles, the soul that had sinned so deeply went forth to appear before a higher tribunal than man's.

"God help me," ejaculated Edward, "to forgive him from my heart! 'I' forgive him for Ethel's sake."

And he turned sadly away to give directions to the attendants who stood by.

BAFFLED HOPES

EDWARD PRYSE followed the remains of his wife's relative to the grave as chief and only mourner. No one came forward then to claim kinship with the lonely and unloved old man. But as nearly the whole of Muirstane belonged to him, a goodly number of tenants joined the funeral procession. Already they looked upon Edward as their new master, and accordingly began to pay court to him, hoping they would find in him a more indulgent landlord. Not a few were eager to inform him of facts they would not have cared to make public during Mr. Macdonald's lifetime, and willingly gave him all the assistance in their power, while he made a careful and patient investigation of every matter respecting his wife.

The letter he wrote to Liverpool had only brought a curt reply that no lady of the name of Pryse, or of the description he had given, had sailed in the "Ocean Queen." But the belief that Ermyn must be Ethel's child had taken too strong a hold of him to be entirely set aside even by this. He must seek for some other clue. But in the meantime, it was his duty to turn from this engrossing matter to the immediate necessity of settling his uncle's affairs.

Mr. Tod, the lawyer, who had drawn up the hidden document, was absent from home at the time of Mr. Macdonald's decease, but returned with all speed in answer to Edward's summons. Mr. Pryse informed him accurately of all that had taken place since his arrival at Muirstane, to which the lawyer listened in professional silence. When everything had been stated, Mr. Tod asked the following question slowly and deliberately:

"Then if this document is found—and there can be no doubt of its existence, from all you tell me and from what I know myself—can you throw any light as to the whereabouts of the unfortunate lady, his niece, who is entitled to this property under her uncle's gift? Or, if she is dead, whether she left a child to take it?"

"I have reason to believe," replied Edward, "that my wife, the lady you refer to, whom I married as Ethel Macdonald, was drowned in the steamer 'Ocean Queen,' which was wrecked in the St. George's Channel in the year 18—. But I have yet to prove that this was the case. If I am right in my conjecture, I can produce her only child, a girl, whom I accidentally discovered living under another name in South Wales. She is supposed to be the daughter of a poor woman, who, however, confessed to me that the girl was not her own child."

The lawyer expressed much surprise at this piece of information, and promised all the help he could give towards unravelling the interesting mystery, and ways and means were accordingly discussed most earnestly. However, the disquisition ended by their coming back to the point they started from: the document must be found first, before any other steps could be taken.

Meantime, efforts were made to track the guilty fugitives, who had departed immediately Edward had closed the doors upon them. Thanks to the stupidity of the thieves, some valuable property was soon recovered. But it needed a long and careful search before the man and his wife were finally captured. Alas it was found that most of the costly and massive family plate had been previously carried off; and as it had been sold and melted down at once, none of it could be recovered. Some of the jewels were discovered by their peculiar setting, and were found in the possession of pawnbrokers and country people, totally ignorant of their great value, but others could not be traced.

The search for the will continued with the aid of careful workmen, under the supervision of Edward himself. But again and again he was disappointed and baffled. The oak panels of each room had been carefully removed, but no secret drawer could be discovered.

Meanwhile, rumours began to reach Edward of certain Macdonalds who were about to dispute his right to act, and he was daily harassed by letters from distant relatives of the late laird, each claiming to be heir-at-law. He therefore fully expected the case would ere long be brought before some court.

One day, as he was seated buried in desponding cogitations, a reminiscence of his childhood flashed into his mind. He recollected his mother's curious ancient cabinet of inlaid wood and silver, and how one day, as she was cleaning and putting it to rights, she by accident saw what appeared to be merely a tiny worm-eaten hole. Into this she inserted a fine knitting-needle, and started with surprise when a small drawer shot out, containing some old family documents and a few rare coins. This incident had faded from his mind until present circumstances revived it.

He rose, determined not to summon the workmen again; he would go alone and recommence the search. Of course, as is generally the case, they had hunted through all the likely places first, and Ethel's little sanctum was the last to be invaded. This also was panelled in oak. In several of the other rooms, two or three sliding panels had been detected by the accidental touching of springs. But the secret drawer which Mr. Macdonald had mentioned could not be found. Ethel's room, it was argued, being in such a remote situation, would certainly contain nothing valuable. The search there had consequently been less careful.

"Here is a sliding panel!" cried Edward, with delight, as he stood in a dark corner on one side of the bookcase, in the room which he had entered on the night when he appeared as an unbidden guest.

On examining it by the aid of a taper, he observed a little hole in the back. But he had nothing at hand small enough to insert in it. Suddenly he recollected Ethel's workbox, turned to it, and lifted the lid. There lay a slender stiletto, covered with rust, in its silken band. Would it serve his purpose? He drew it out, and inserted the point in the hole, when out sprang a secret drawer, which contained the "Will of Alexander Macdonald, of Muirstane, Esquire," giving the estate to his niece for life, and after her death to her eldest surviving child.

Who can describe Edward's feelings, as he fell on his knees to utter a fervent "Thank God!"

With this in his possession, he could hold the estate while he searched for the wife and child to whom it belonged. But before he went out into the world to find them, one task yet remained to him. He unlocked the old man's desk, and took out the bundle of letters that had never reached their destination. His passionate rage boiled up again as he read his own letters from America, full of loving, tender words, which had not even been seen by the dear eyes that had looked up so wistfully into his, the day he had said "Farewell." Those words would have poured balm into the wounded lonely heart, and filled it with patient waiting for his return.

"He murdered her!" said he bitterly.

Then recollecting his words of forgiveness uttered beside the dying bed, he checked the further outburst of wrath. There were only two or three of Ethel's letters, and these were directed to the shipping office in Liverpool whither he had told her to write first. They wrung his heart as he read them, being full of tender longings for his return, even ere he had left England. There were hopes and fears concerning the future, and entreaties that he would, if possible, come back before their child should be born. Then followed a heart-rending account of her lonely life. But all this was before she had returned to Muirstane House, so they told nothing of her miseries there.

"I must go and look for Nannie, soon," she had written in a postscript attached to the last letter.

At first Edward could not think to whom she referred. But it gradually dawned upon his recollection that this must be the faithful old nurse, Nannie McEwen, who had come with her to Muirstane, and stayed until she was grown-up. He had never seen her, because, owing to circumstances in her own family, she had been obliged to leave her situation before he came to Scotland. This woman was now the missing link in his chain of evidence; he must set out to find her. But to obtain any news of her was a difficult matter, as in the lapse of years there had been considerable alterations at Muirstane. The post-office had changed hands, and though several of the inhabitants could tell him about Nannie's departure, no one could recollect whither she had gone.

At last one old man said, "She used to tell o' her brither at Portree, in Skye; didna she gang to him?"

This dubious information, scanty as it was, was all Edward had to act upon. But he lost no time in setting out on his journey to this distant place. All necessary directions, together with the management of the estate, were left in the hands of his factor, and a respectable man and his wife were placed in charge of the house.

The railway only took him a comparatively small part of the way, but he was not sorry to exchange it for a seat on the top of a coach, which started early one September morning. The country through which it took him was wild and beautiful, and the autumnal tints on the foliage were red and rare. On, on he went all day, over brown moorlands, past lonely tarns, up and down steep braes, until the sun sank to rest behind the purple mountains, and still a fresh set of horses was needed for yet another stage. It was midnight when the coach finally stopped at a ferry, where most of the travellers turned in thankfully to sleep at the little wayside inn close at hand. Not so Edward Pryse; he had neither time nor inclination to loiter on his way with such an end in view.

A boat was rocking on the water, and he, with some others, stepped into it. It was scarcely discernible by the pale light of stars. The persons who seated themselves formed a picturesque group. Two Highland lassies were together, and Edward had helped a lame beggar in, he was followed by the bearer of the mail-bags. One of the boatmen held a bull's-eye lantern, whose red light flashed brightly on the figures as they rowed through the mysterious and shadowy darkness. The girls began singing Jacobite songs, much to the delight of the men, who cheered heartily, and Edward enjoyed the plaintive sound of the voices, combined with the gentle movement of the gliding boat. They were soon across, and after the party had scrambled up the slimy, slippery landing-place, the boatman came to demand his fares.

"I canna pay ye," said the mendicant. "Ye'll surely tak' me for naethin'; I'm ganging to the sacrament at Murthlie."

Edward heard the whining tones of remonstrance, and thrust some coppers into the outstretched hand, which were received with a burst of grateful thanks.

"How soon can I go on?" he asked at the inn, to which a few footsteps brought him.

"Ye maun either gang the nicht in her Majesty's mail-cart, or bide till to-morrow nicht the same hour," replied the woman, who had come out to greet him.

Edward looked up at the twinkling stars. "It is a fine night," he thought; "by this time to-morrow there may be pouring rain."

"I will continue my journey now," he said aloud, as he followed the woman.

After hastily swallowing some slight refreshment which she quickly set before him, he took his seat behind the driver of the primitive and clumsy looking mail-cart, with one other passenger, a girl, and the rough vehicle presently jolted off. The driver had a boon companion by his side, and the two kept up a ceaseless guttural chatter in Gaelic, not one word of which Edward could understand. The girl was inclined to be friendly and communicative, but, finding her companion taciturn and absent, she soon relapsed into silence.

They travelled on in this way for about two hours, when they reached a lonely bit of moorland with the lights of a village glimmering faintly in the distance, and will-o'-the-wisps flitting over the fens, as if to beguile the unwary traveller. The girl jumped down.

"There is my home," she said to Edward, pointing in the direction of the lights.

The driver remarked something to her in Gaelic as she handed him his fare, and laughing her reply, she ran fearlessly off into what seemed to Edward a lonely, hopeless path.

"She is certain to find what she seeks," thought he; "as for me, I may be chasing a will-o'-the-wisp."

Edward Pryse never forgot that journey; its silence and isolation pressed upon his spirit, and everything that came into his mind took a sombre tinge of melancholy. The long white roads seemed endless, and he grew numb and chilled, waiting at the doors of wayside public-houses, into which the driver and his friend disappeared to indulge in potations which would have rendered driving a perilous risk if the horses had not known their way.

Edward was thankful to warm himself by trudging up the long hills, pausing every now and then to listen to the impetuous rushing of mountain streams he could not see. He watched through that mysterious hour when night and dawn meet, when the transition from darkness to light is so gradual that it is scarcely perceptible. By degrees the faint green tinge in the sky melted into lemon, then red and purple streaks were painted in bold dashes of colour, and all the glorious pomp that ushers in the king of day came up in bright triumph, and spread across the heavens. The great Cuchullin Mountains that in the dim early twilight had loomed out in giant obscurity, were now bathed in morning blue, and stood out grand and glowing in a shimmering haze. An awe crept over Edward's spirit as he gazed.

"How little," thought he, "appear the joys and sorrows of human life, when looking at those eternal hills that stand enfolded with the majesty of God."

And then, almost unconsciously, his heart rose higher than the highest of those mighty peaks, to God Himself. The grand old words of the prayer of Moses came back to his remembrance:

   "'Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.'"

The earthly radiance represented, though but faintly, the spiritual day-dawn, which with its everlasting light doth touch the awakened soul, bidding it reflect the heavenly glory, and stand in God's eternal sunshine for evermore.

Edward's meditations were suddenly interrupted by the driver informing him that Portree was in sight. And after a few more miles of level road, the mail-cart rattled into the sleeping town, for it was still early, and few of the inhabitants were astir.

A good breakfast and comfortable bed were not unwelcome to our exhausted traveller, who, after recruiting worn-out nature for a few hours, rose in eager haste to seek Nannie McEwen.

The place was certainly not an inviting one, for the huts of the very poor people were little better than pigsties, full of peat-reek and unpleasant odours. The women looked prematurely old, and sunken low in the scale of civilisation, as they trudged past him, carrying on their backs the stacks of peat they had been cutting from the bogs.

Edward spoke to several of them, but a shake of the head, or an answer in Gaelic, was all he received in return. There were many in the town itself that spoke English, but they stared with surprise on hearing Nannie McEwen inquired for. At last, after a fruitless wandering of more than an hour, he returned to the hotel, and consulted with the landlord.

"Maybe Janet kens wha he means," quoth he.

And a pleasant elderly woman was summoned.

"Nannie McEwen!" she said thoughtfully, as if hunting through the storehouse of her memory. "Ay, I ken fine wha ye're seeking. She cam' frae Muirstane auchteen years syne, to nurse her sick brither. I mind it weel, for it was sune after my Jeannie was born, and she cam' to help me through my trouble when I had nane but hersel' to be wi' me."

"And where is she now?" asked Edward, breathing shortly.

"'Deed, that I dinna ken. Her brither dee'd a year after she cam' to Portree, an' after the burial, she gaed South, but whaur tae, nane kens but Him that's above. She lived in yon wee hoose," she added, pointing with her hand; "but they're a' fremd fowk that bides there noo."

Edward's heart sank to the depths; no more questions would come to his lips, and he turned away a hopeless, desolate man. The feeble clue had snapped, and he was as much in the dark as ever.

He strode on fiercely, past the outskirts of the town, not caring whither his footsteps led him, and wandered lonely for miles along bare, brown tracts of moorland, feeling the sterile scenery was in keeping with his dashed hopes. The light that had glimmered like a guiding-star upon his dark, uncertain way had proved a false meteor, luring him on but to mock him at last.

Nothing remained for him to do now, but to retrace his way to the drear and desolate abode at Muirstane. Time was now no object to him, for there was nought to be gained by extra speed; the wheels were off his chariot, and he drave it heavily. His bitter disappointment destroyed all the self-confidence and certainty of success with which he had started. He could only go on living over and over again the sad, sad past, from the very beginning to the bitter end.

How bright and careless were the happy days of childhood! Those butterfly chases across the dappled meadows, with his merry little sister, the child Minnie of long ago; their schemes and plans laid together; their mischievous pranks and the punishments that followed, and Minnie's anguish when the sentence of chastisement fell on him. He could see her now, standing in one corner of the study, with her fingers in her ears and her pinafore over her fair curls, screaming with all her might, so as not to hear the sounds attendant on the whipping he was led off to receive. And since then, she had gone to sleep, so early, oh, so early, under the hushing sycamore trees.

The love of his sister Silexa too, how deep and true it was, shown so often in pleadings and entreaties for the youthful culprits! Edward recalled the countless times she had screened them at her own expense from their father's anger. Indeed, he could never remember anything but the most passionate devotedness to himself on the part of both his sisters. He saw now how it had ministered to his selfishness. Silexa would have sacrificed anything she possessed to this daring, handsome brother, and thought nothing too good or costly, if only it would gratify him. This was the one weak point in that strong woman's nature. She would have given her life for Edward.

He now recalled with sorrow that morning in his sunny youth when he had bidden a joyful farewell to school life and his old home at the Rectory, to begin what he believed would be a bright independent career in the great city of London. Minnie's tears and caresses had made his heart ache a little on saying good-bye, and so had Silexa's dry earnest eyes, so full of yearning love and anxiety as she thrust a purse of her own making into his hands, filled with some months' savings of her scanty allowance. He never knew of what self-denial that little sum was proof.

He had chafed impatiently at the words of counsel and advice, given somewhat sternly by his father at the gate, not being able to discern the high sense of honour and the parental love from which they sprung. He was free now to be his own master; and with that feeling predominant, the bold, blithe boy had gone out into life, determined to enjoy himself at any cost.

For a year all went prosperously. Mr. Lyndwood, his father's oldest friend, was prepared to love him as a son, and consequently allowed him many indulgences which as a stranger he would not have had. Alas, for Edward! He lacked the foundation of all prosperity—

   "'The fear of the Lord, which is the beginning of wisdom...'"

And therefore, when temptation presented itself, he turned aside and fell in to the snares of the Evil One, who took him captive at his will.

Bad companions first led him astray, and though Edward shrunk from some of their ways, remembering his upright father and his pure-minded sisters at home, he by degrees was drawn into a vortex, the slope towards which begins with a little downhill which is very gradual. Unknown to his friend and protector, he frequented gambling-houses, and there betted heavily, his first winnings encouraging him to go on recklessly.

At last, the crash came; he owed two hundred pounds, which was to be paid at once. He dared not write to his father, and he knew Silexa had no money at her command. Mr. Lyndwood would probably turn him from his office, and expose his disgrace to the whole world. There was but one course open to him, so thought he in his blinded folly. This was, to take the money from the office, where he had the handling of considerable sums; he thought he could pay it back by instalments. It was a secret impossible to keep long; he got an inkling that the accounts were about to be looked into, so, having just received his salary, he absconded suddenly.

Mr. Lyndwood, irrespective of the loss of the money, felt so keenly for Dr. Pryse, that he positively refused to make the matter public either by instituting a search for Edward or letting any one beyond his own office know of it. He believed the wild youth knew him well enough to be assured of his forgiveness for his father's sake, should he confess his guilt bravely and honestly. Therefore, after writing to his old friend at St. Elvis, he declined to move further in the matter.

We are already cognizant of the effect this dire news had at the Rectory, but only Edward knew of a visit to his home in disguise. After having waited in vain for an answer to his advertisement, he came down to St. Elvis, and under cover of darkness crept round to the study window and peeped in. The window was open, and while standing under shelter of the thick ivy, he heard Silexa pleading for the outcast, and then what seemed to the youth his father's cruel, bitter words. He was to be disowned as a son until he had shown his repentance by repaying the money, and his sisters were forbidden to hold any communication with the offender. Edward crept away again; rage, hatred, and pride struggling in his heart.

"Yet why should I care," he argued, "when he has treated me so shamefully? I hope I may never see his face again."

Ah, if Silexa had but known who was outside under the stars that night, things might perhaps have turned out differently.

As it was, Edward quitted the home of his childhood that same hour, and after travelling day and night finally set foot on board a vessel bound for America. On landing there, his way was prosperous, for he had invented a most plausible story to satisfy the friends he had made during the voyage, several of whom were most anxious to do their utmost for the handsome young man. He had a marvellously winning address and manner, which went far to gain him supporters, so that when he had succeeded in quieting his conscience, he congratulated himself on his so-called lucky hits.

He obtained without much difficulty a lucrative post in a good office, and ended by being employed by a large and well-known American firm. After working steadily and honourably for some years, he was by degrees advanced to a position of great trust, and received a high salary.

To do Edward Pryse justice, he did not forget that some day he ought to restore the two hundred pounds he had stolen. Indeed, his pride could not brook the idea of being branded as a thief for life. But his dull and blunted conscience could not show him his sin in its true light, as a guilty offence towards God.

"If once," he argued, "the amount were actually paid, no blame ought to attach to me."

But he did not think it necessary meantime to deny himself anything that contributed towards his enjoyment of life. He must have everything he wanted just the same, and some day, when he was a rich man, and could do it without discomfort to himself, he would discharge the debt.

One day, he was sent for by his employers, who informed him they wished him to undertake a journey to Scotland on behalf of the firm. He assented willingly, and was then told that his errand was to a certain Alexander Macdonald, Esquire, of Muirstane, who had a large sum of money invested in the business. There were some affairs to be transacted with him which could only be entrusted to a confidential person, able to undertake the commission.

In fulfilment of this errand, a handsome stranger suddenly appeared at Muirstane, to the no small astonishment and curiosity of its inhabitants, who watched him making his way up to the big house, where he was at once received as a guest.

The remainder of Edward's story may be easily conjectured. He was detained on this business several months, and during that period he made the most of his time. He had not been many days a guest in the spacious mansion before he discovered he had fallen hopelessly in love with the old man's niece, Ethel Macdonald, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. The attachment was mutual, for Ethel, nothing loth, gave her heart quickly away to this noble-looking and fascinating man.

Mr. Macdonald never dreamt of such a possibility, though the young people were necessarily much thrown together, for Ethel was in his mind as much disposed of as if the marriage he wished for her had already taken place. A wealthy suitor had come forward to win the hand of the beautiful girl, and it mattered little to the hard old man that she had openly expressed her great dislike to this proposal.

Alexander Macdonald had an iron will, which few dared to dispute. He was consequently both a tyrant and a coward. His anger was great, therefore, when one morning, about a month after Edward's arrival, the young man formally asked his consent to make Ethel his bride. A direct refusal was of course the answer. And it was politely hinted to the guest that it would be desirable for him to take up his quarters in the village during the remainder of his stay—a request acceded to at once.

But Edward's will was strong also. Like a spoiled child, he felt that what he wanted he must have at any cost. And without pausing to consider the consequences of his hasty and selfish purpose, he persuaded Ethel, during her uncle's absence of a week from home, to consent to their marriage before his return. They were accordingly united in the presence of witnesses, who heard them solemnly pronounced to be man and wife.

Excuse must be made for the lonely orphan, who had been brought up without a mother's care, and whose life had hitherto been so loveless and forlorn. Whatever her uncle's feelings were towards her, he never outwardly had manifested any fondness for her, and she naturally turned from him to rest in one whom she deemed in every way worthy of her heart's best affections. She had yet to learn by fierce and adverse winds that her trust must be placed far higher than in mortal man. The sharp storm drove her to seek refuge in the cleft of the Rock, and "through much tribulation" to "enter into the kingdom of God."

Edward's conduct was, on the contrary, most culpable and selfish, for he knew that in four months he must depart again for America alone. It did not suit his plans to take Ethel with him: she must therefore be left behind to carry on the battle of life single-handed. His purpose was to leave her at Muirstane, and return to America to wind up his connection with the firm; this he thought would not take him long to accomplish. He hoped then to return, and find some employment in England which would enable him to settle down with his wife there.

The terrible fear of losing Ethel before he could come back would not allow him to defer the marriage, for she had told him of her uncle's designs with regard to the rich and detested man he was bent on her accepting. The thought of another winning his darling was too abhorrent to be tolerated for an instant. It was this that silenced the voice of his conscience. As soon as she was lawfully his own, he brought his wife to the small cottage he had taken in Muirstane, where he intended to leave her during his absence.

NANNIE'S HOME

MR. MACDONALD'S anger was of a most dangerous kind, when on his return, he learned from the servants what had taken place. He did not fly into a furious passion, or grow livid with rage, but he swore secretly to have his revenge to the very utmost. Ethel should rue the day she married Edward Pryse, and her husband should be hers no longer from the time he left the shores of Scotland. There in his miser's den, he laid the deep schemes which were to be so fatally carried out. But at present, he could not afford to be uncivil to Edward, because there were matters still to be arranged, in which it would be as well to propitiate this friend of the firm. So, though cold, he was outwardly courteous to him when they had occasion to meet. But with quiet malignity watched for the opportunity of crushing his victims.

Ethel seldom went near the great house during the remainder of her husband's stay. She was afraid to meet her uncle alone, and she felt perfectly safe and happy with her heart's love. How peacefully those summer days glided away, as by degrees she beguiled her husband into telling her all his past history! As usual, Edward managed to throw a fictitious gloss over the ugly circumstances of the office robbery, calling it only borrowing. And though Ethel looked up somewhat doubtfully with her innocent eyes of truth, he argued so plausibly, that at last it appeared to her a far less dreadful crime than it really was.

"But you will send the money back when you get to America, won't you?" she pleaded.

Edward promised again and again.

She then continued: "You will take me to your own home some day? For, of course, when the debt is paid, your father will not be angry any more. You will be forgiven, and he will receive us with open arms. I should be frightened to go there all alone, but with you, it would be different. Silexa and Minnie will love me as a sister, and we shall all be so happy together."

"Yes," said Edward; "we will go to St. Elvis."

For the lapse of years had softened his bitter feelings towards his father, and he longed to see the old home once more. He described to his young wife his boyish haunts, and all the fun he and Minnie used to have with good Roger Rudd, the hale and hearty fisherman, who never refused to take them out in his boat with his daughter Lettice, the quiet, sober maiden, who was somewhat too demure for the mischievous pair. Ethel liked hearing everything Edward could tell her about his sisters, and already felt as if she belonged to them.

"Our baby, if it is a girl, must be called after them," she said one evening, just before he started. "You wish it, don't you? Ermyn is such a lovely name; it must be first, I think, and then Silexa."

"As you please, darling. Yes, it will make them love the little thing all the more when they see it. My earliest recollections are associated with the name of Ermyn."

And then he told her of the dear old church, and the ancient monument with the dirty little marble angels.

But the parting was a sore and bitter one, as he clasped a beautiful locket set in pearls round her neck, containing two curls of hair, and the monogram of double E across it. How Ethel clung to him and wept, as he held her to his breast, and comforted her with promises. He really would come back as soon as he could, and it might be much sooner than she thought.

Edward, in his selfishness, little dreamed, as he was going forth once more into the busy whirl of life, of the cruel weight of utter loneliness and desolation that sunk upon the poor wife's heart, as she watched him disappear from her wistful gaze.

Edward went over these scenes again and again, as now, in an agony of despair, he flung himself upon the ground, and shed bitter tears for his lovely lost one. They were tears also of heartfelt contrition, for he could now see that all these griefs were but the consequences of his own sin.

As he lay there on the dreary turf bog, with a white mist wrapping him round, he cried aloud from the depths of his bursting heart:

   "'I have gone astray like a lost sheep.'

   "'Against Thee, Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy sight.'"

After a while, this was followed by the other cry:

   "'I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.'"

How the long winter passed he could not tell. It seemed like untold ages as he went about Muirstane, lonely and miserable, day by day, trying in vain to catch at the faintest shadow that might indicate the spot in the wide lonely world where he could begin to track the footsteps of his beloved. If she were not in the fated ship, he might yet possibly find her. But the remembrance of that beautiful child's strong resemblance to Ethel forbade him to cling much to this hope. Yet why would Ethel be in a ship bound for Ireland? There was the mystery!

On the other hand, if it was Ethel who was drowned (and he had small doubt of this in his own mind), what proof could he give to Mrs. Gwynne that Ermyn was his child? He had no evidence of the fact to bring forward, and he could not claim her without it. Night and day he prayed for light in this darkness; but he had to wait God's time for it. He dragged through the months of frost and snow somehow, doing his best to beguile the time by relieving the wants of the tenantry around, who blessed the day Mr. Pryse had come among them as their landlord. His thoughtful kindness for them made him many friends, who were all on the look-out to glean tidings that might help him in his search; for all had loved and pitied his gentle wife.

Spring had clothed the hills and trees with living verdure. But as the green deepened and spread on every hand, there was no resurrection hope and gladness in the heart of the lonely man. Summer was at hand, and what then?

He was seated, one sultry day some weeks later, in the little general shop, talking to the mistress of it about some repairs she wanted done, when a merry-looking Scotch lassie stepped across the threshold.

"Ye'll no' ken me," she said, smiling to the shop-woman. "I'm a stranger here; but maybe ye'll mind Nannie McEwen, wha bided here afore I was born."

"Ay, ay, my bonnie lassie, I mind her weel," said the woman.

While Edward started to his feet, too much staggered at the name to speak a word.

"I'm on my road to my aunt's," continued the girl, "wha bides at Castletoun, and my grandmother, Mistress McEwen, bade me come by Muirstane, and see gin I could hear ony word o' her bonnie leddy, wha lived here afore she was married."

"Where does your grandmother live, my lassie?" said Edward, pale and trembling.

"Eh, sir, it's a lang, lang piece frae Muirstane; I've been three days on the road."

She then proceeded to detail her route by coach and ferry, from this out of the world habitation among the hills.

"It's a wee bit town," she added, "but when ye cross the ferry at 'Glenairg,' onybody 'll tell ye whaur Nannie McEwen bides."

The girl stared with amazement at her interlocutor, wondering why he questioned her so closely—he, a stranger she had never set eyes on before. But she did not object to give him as much information as he liked, especially when, on quitting the shop, he slipped a bright piece of gold into her hand.

"At last! At last!" he panted to himself, as he went up the hill to his lonely dwelling. "O God, I thank Thee, Thou hast heard my cry!"

To cram a few necessaries into a bag, and depart in joyful haste, was his work that afternoon. What mattered difficulties and fatigues, however great they might be? The wings of Hope had grown again, and she was now soaring on before him as the dove of peace, with the olive-branch in her mouth! He was on the right track at last!

It was a tedious and difficult journey, but Edward never thought of that, as, weary and thankful, he stepped into the ferry-boat that would land him within sight of Nannie's home. The man who rowed him across had never received such a lavish guerdon before. He invoked a blessing on the head of the traveller, who sprang lightly out, and began speeding away up the hill opposite, as if he were only setting out on his journey.

A little mountain lake lay cradled in the bosom of the hills, and on its peaceful breast slept soft lights and purple shadows. The loftiest peak blushed rosy red in the sunset glow, and was reflected in the clear water, making the dark, green depths on the shady side seem deeper still. A well-to-do looking farmhouse was situated on a bit of rising ground just above the lake, and its numerous outbuildings and byres sloping towards the shore gave it a prosperous look. Rude flagstone steps inserted here and there among the heather led down from the door to the water, and a girl in a gay kirtle was on her way thither to fill the pail she was carrying. An aged woman stood knitting at the door, every now and then looking up at the grey and pink clouds above her head.

As Edward drew nearer, he had time to observe her dress and appearance. She wore a dark stuff gown, which showed a clear white handkerchief folded across under the rather open bodice, and on her head a spotless mutch trimmed with narrow lace, having a black ribbon bound above it. Some grey locks strayed over the wrinkled forehead, and the soft brown eyes had a kindly light in them. A sweet smile of welcome played about her mouth as the stranger advanced. Edward could understand, when he looked at her, why Ethel had fled to her motherly arms for refuge.

"A braw nicht, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey.

Edward courteously returned her greeting, and put the eager question: "Does Nannie McEwen live here?"

"'Deed, ay, sir, I am Nannie McEwen mysel', though I dinna ken wha I'm speakin' till. Come ye ben the hoose, sir," she added, leading the way. "It's by-ordinar' cauld the nicht."

The old woman turned to look at her guest, and great was her surprise to see he had sunk down on a seat by the door, deathly pale, and gasping for breath.

"The Lord preserve us a'! What's wrang wi' the gentleman? What ails ye, sir?"

"Pardon me," he said, struggling back into self-possession; "the long journey has wearied me. Thank God, I have found you at last. I am Ethel Macdonald's husband, Edward Pryse."

Nannie's knitting fell from her fingers, as with upraised hands she said, "What! Him that crossed the seas, and left her lane. Ye dinna mean to tell me ye are my bonnie leddy's ain gude man! Wae's me! Wae's me!" And, sitting down, she rocked herself to and fro, and began to weep bitterly.

"Did she come to you from Muirstane?" asked Edward, white and trembling.

"Ay, that did she, puir lammie! My mitherless bairn cam' to me ae mirk nicht a' droukit wi' the rain, spent wi' the journey, and maist deed wi' the cauld. Whaur is she, sir, the noo? Oh, gin I kent that!"

"I believe she is with God," replied Edward, with a groan, "but tell me all you know."

Then, as he grew calmer, he gave the history of his arrival at Muirstane, and all the awful facts his visit there brought to light, the long fruitless search, the chance meeting with Nannie's grandchild, and his subsequent journey hither.

"Puir, puir lad! It's a sair heart ye'll carry aboot a' your days, for I dinna think ye'll meet again till ye meet in oor Father's hoose above. It's an ower true tale, as I ken fu' weel, though I didna think to hae tauld it to her ain gude man. I'll tell ye a' aboot it, sir, and ye'll just bide the nicht wi' us. The bairns and my son are awa', but I'll do my best to mak' ye comfortable."

Edward thanked her with a sad look of gratitude in his weary eyes, entreating her to proceed.

"It's fourteen years," continued Nannie, "since she cam' to my door. Weel do I mind hoo she fell greetin' aboot my neck, an' I clappit her an' made o' her same as she had been the bit wean I mind her in her ain nursery lang, lang syne. Eh, for the sad tale she had to tell. It'll be a lang reckonin' her uncle wull hae to gie to the Almighty; and little did I think to live to see the day when my bonnie leddy wad walk barefit an' hungry. We put her till her bed, an' twa days after that, her bonnie bairn was upon her breast."

"A girl?" eagerly interrupted Edward.

"Ay, a fine bit lassie; I was the first that handled her, and her mither's face was like a simmer's day when I laid the wean in her arms. But the time gaed by, and nae word cam' till her frae across the sea. Mony's the day my heart was wae for her! Ye may weel believe we was prood to hae her under oor roof. But it was aye a sair thocht to her that she an' the bairn were burdensome to us. My ain dochter, our bairns' mither, was ta'en awa' before she cam' to us, but the bairnies had a sair work wi' the wee leddy.

"Mony a time my dear bairn wad say she maun gang to Liverpool, and speir for news hersel' amang the shipowners, but that wasna wark for the like o' her, an' ne'er a fute wad we let her gang near it. She wad traik in an' oot wi' the bairn, for she was a' the pleasure she had. But there came ae day, an' wae's me that I hae lived to tell it (it was when the bairnie was aboot saxteen months auld); I had gane to the town, an' when I cam' back, she was awa', nane could tell me whaur. Mony a weary mile I followed her, and mony a ane I speired at gin they had seen her, but frae that day till noo I've never looked on her sweet face, nor heard tell o' her, or o the wean. Eh, man, it wad be a blithe day for me gin ye had brocht me word frae my mitherless bairn."

Edward's head sank lower and lower upon his breast as he listened, and the kind-hearted old woman would fain have comforted him as her own son.

"Whiles in the gloamin' I'll still gang doon to the burnside, and I'll maist think I'll fin' them there, where mony and mony a day I've seen them sitting amang the gowans, upon the grass, or heard her singing to the bairn wi' a greet in her voice; or the bairnie crowin' over the brave locket o' gowd and pearls she wad hing aboot its neck."

"The locket!" cried Edward, starting up. "Where is it? Oh that I could see it! I had forgotten about it."

"She took it wi' her," said Nannie; "but I'll show ye the buik she wrote in ilka day. I'm thinkin' she'd forgotten it when she gaed awa'. I'm no scholard, sir, and canna read write; but nae doot ye'll mak' it oot."

Edward snatched the volume from her hand, and with trembling fingers opened it to read on the first page:

   "'My Diary, since the sad day my beloved Edward left me.'"

Late, late into the night he sat up perusing those precious pages, though Nannie entreated him to take his rest. A sorrowful memorial it was, written from the depths of a breaking heart, but a heart that was true and loyal to him to the very end. All through those dreary months, when every outward evidence tended to make her believe she was forgotten and forsaken by her husband, nothing had shaken her firm belief in his love.

These pages supplied all the missing links, so ruthlessly broken and scattered by wicked malice. They told of her cruel and bitter bondage in her uncle's house, of his sneers and taunts concerning her marriage, of his villainous hints about desertion and forgetfulness, and of her mad desperation, when at last, in spite of the watchful guard set over her, she determined to fly from it all to find her faithful Nannie. She recounted her long and difficult journey to the house of her old nurse, and all the never-to-be-forgotten kindness showered upon her there from first to last.

The faint writing went on to record her baby's birth, and the untold joy with which she first held her darling Edward's child in her arms; the baptism of her precious infant by the aged Scotch minister in the wee kirk on the hill, and all the little loving details that only a mother's pen can indite.

   "I have called her after our two dear sisters, as my Edward wished—Ermyn Silexa," so ran words. "Some day they will hold her in their arms and love her dearly. Oh, when Edward comes to take me to them, all will be well."

There was a break in the narrative; then came this despairing entry:

   "Oh, he must be dead! The letter telling him of my arrival here and of our child's birth has come back to me. When will this night of sorrow end? But my Lord and Saviour is with me to cheer its gloom. His voice hath spoken to me. 'Himself hath done it.' I shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my soul. 'In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.' My tired head is pillowed on His breast; the storm cannot harm me there. Oh, my Edward! My husband! My one and only love; we shall meet again!"

Here the manuscript broke off abruptly. There was no hint whatever given as to her intended flight.

Nannie believed she fully meant to return, as she left several things behind her, and would never have taken her final departure without a single good-bye.

Edward could only guess whither his wife went by her mention of Liverpool in her diary, as the place where she hoped to learn tidings of him. To Liverpool therefore he must go next. And as he mentally arranged his journey, he thought of the last time he was there, when he had arrived from America a heart-broken and desolate widower.

Strange faces had looked at him on the busy, bustling quay, some with a glance of pity, others cynical and scornful. Now he seemed to have passed through a hideous dream, only to awake to find the reality even sadder. He recalled that last tender parting, and the pressure of those soft arms about his neck. Oh, how his heart ached as the words of the poet haunted him:

"I know not what I said; what she replied
 Lives like eternal sunshine in my heart:
 And then I murmured, 'Oh! we never part
   My love, my life, my bride.'
 
"Oft as I wake at morn, I seem to see
 A moment, the sweet shadow of that shade,
 Her blessed face, as it were loth to fade,
   Turned back to look on me."

DAVID AND EUDORA

THE summer sunshine was glowing fervently in the green Welsh valley, its sleepy stillness being scarcely broken by a sound. The dusky long-horned cattle strayed dreamily along to stand in a cool swamp near the stream, or sought the shadow of bits of projecting rock, as they whisked off swarms of persistent flies with their tails. The murmur of bees was heard in one long hum through the flowers, and a cloudless blue sky canopied over all. Even the sea had a slumbrous sound, as the sparkling ripples ran up in succession over the shining sand, for there was no wind to wake them into mirth.

The ivy-grown Rectory was still and quiet, with every blind drawn-down to keep the sunbeams from the shabby carpets and curtains. This was one of Silexa's careful habits, and she often sighed to find that in spite of her vigilance, both colour and pattern had somehow contrived to escape. Voices and clatter were combined as usual at the back door, where the daily business went on in the old accustomed round. But in front, the flowers in the small circular beds on the lawn seemed to have it all to themselves. But no, surely the thick branches of the weeping willow stirred, as a sound of merry laughter came from beneath its leaves.

"It is much too hot in here," cried Eudora; "this close green keeps away all the air from us."

"I thought you would find it so," laughed Ermyn, "but we need not stay here. Let us go across to the garden opposite. There are so many shady corners there."

"Yes, so we will," replied Eudora, "but let me run in first and fetch my hat. The shadows will soon lengthen now, and when it gets cooler, we will walk towards the sea."

"How bright and strong she has grown!" thought Ermyn, as she watched the lithe figure step across the grass. "Her hair looks as if sunbeams were at play in it. Oh, how glad I am to have my darling back again!"

The two girls formed a striking contrast, as, with their arms linked together, they passed through the Rectory gate and crossed the road—Ermyn's hair shining glossy and dark against Eudora's soft, golden locks. The blue eyes and delicate complexion of one fair face setting off the rich, rare beauty of the other.

The enclosure they entered was a good specimen of a thoroughly old-fashioned garden, or rather gardens, for there were four or five of them leading out of one another by small doors. In the first were mostly flowers—roses, sweet-peas, mignonette, hollyhocks, geraniums, clove carnations, nasturtiums, and scabius. It was too hot to linger here, so Eudora led the way down a step into the next division. It was a well-stocked place, but instead of trim neatness there was luxuriant confusion. A dear old rural garden, telling of plenty and contentment, as one sat in its quiet nooks, far-away from the hurry and haste of noisy, panting cities.

"Let us climb up on this medlar bough," cried Ermyn, as, springing lightly from the ground, a canopy of leaves spread green above her.

"Is there room for two?" said Eudora. "Ah yes, there is a dear little niche close to the trunk; that is delightful! Now, Ermyn, I am quite sure you have a great deal more to tell me."

For it seemed to Eudora that hitherto she had had all the talk. There had been so much to relate, the friends having been separated for a longer period than was at first anticipated when the flitting took place from the Rectory.

The year that had been such a long and sad one in the cottage by the creek had brought back with its autumn tints the good old rector and his daughter, but not Eudora. The change to Southsands had done such wonders for the delicate girl, that the doctor whom Miss Pryse consulted there thought it would be a foolish risk to expose her to another winter in St. Elvis until her health was thoroughly re-established. Silexa had therefore yielded to the kind entreaties of Mr. Lyndwood's friends that she might stay with them until she was quite strong.

So, in the midst of a happy household of healthy, merry young people, our quiet Eudora had found that good spirits and innocent recreations, combined with numerous interesting and intellectual pursuits, were among the good gifts showered down from the bounteous hand of our loving Father, "who giveth us all things richly to enjoy."

It was a bright page in her life; and she was delighted to go over it all again with Ermyn, who had pined and longed for her friend, thinking the spring would never pass. But it did at last, and in the summer sunshine her darling had come back. They both felt the talks would never end.

"But, Ermyn, why did you not tell me about David?" whispered Eudora, burying her head among the thick leaves to hide the blush that deepened on her cheek.

"We wanted it to be a surprise to you," replied Ermyn, without looking round. "Davie made us all promise faithfully we would not tell; and you don't know how very difficult it was to keep the secret in my letters."

"But you did keep it," laughed Eudora, untying her hat and flinging it on the ground. "I was sitting in the old high pew with auntie that Sunday, when, just as service began, and I expected as usual to see grandpapa's white head appear in the reading-desk, whom should I see but David! I could not believe it at first, for I did not even know he was at home. How I started when I heard his voice! Auntie gave a little smile from her corner, and then made herself grave again; while I—oh, Ermyn, how foolish I was!—I was obliged to bend my head quite low and pretend to be looking for a book on the cushion, because the tears would come into my eyes."

"He is such a dear, good brother," said Ermyn; "I am so proud of him, and I cannot tell you what it is to have him once more in the old home. Our precious mother has not to work any more now, you know. Davie will not let her, and she looks so sweet in the nice black silk gown he brought her. No one has such a dear mother as we have, I am sure."

Eudora sighed, and was silent for a moment before she answered; for her memory was busy recalling the countless times that Lettice had taken her on her knee when she was a little child, to stroke the fair head that nestled to her bosom. "I wish she were my—Oh, Ermyn, look at that greedy bee! He has got more honey than he can possibly carry."

Ermyn, unsuspectingly, did as she was bid, and then turned to look at her friend. "You never used to have such beautiful rosy cheeks, Dora. I am so glad you went to Southsands. Are you tired of sitting here?" she added, noticing that Eudora's eyes had a far-away look in them.

At this moment David appeared, approaching from a distance. The girls were silent until he came up to the garden gate.

Mary Llewellyn at the same time approached from the opposite direction.

"I came to look for you," she said to Ermyn. "Mother wants you about something. Can you come home with me now?"

"Yes," replied Ermyn; "I meant to come this morning at any rate. Good-bye, Dora; I shall be with you again by and by."

David and Eudora stood for a moment to watch the two figures as they turned to climb the hill.

"Are you going across now, Miss Eudora?"

"Yes, I am," she answered, smiling, and waited for him to speak next.

He was, however, silent.

And she exclaimed, with a gaiety that seemed forced, "I must get that lovely cluster of wild roses," suddenly springing towards the hedge, where a long and beautiful spray waved high in air.

As she did so, a piece of honeysuckle that was fastened in her dress fell to the ground. David picked it up, and then helped her to gather the wreath.

Eudora took her hat off, and twisted it in gracefully with the ribbon.

David watched her in silence. "You were very happy at Southsands, were you not, Miss Eudora?" he said, lingering at the gate.

A bright light came into Eudora's eyes as she answered, "Oh yes, so happy! My friends were all most kind to me, and we used to do such pleasant things there. But I often longed to come back to St. Elvis, in spite of it all."

"You are not tired of us yet, then?"

"Davie! Mr. Gwynne," she added, blushing crimson, "how can you say anything so unkind? I never want to live away from St. Elvis, never, never."

"Please do not call me Mr. Gwynne," he pleaded. "Have you forgotten our games on the beach, and all we used to do together?"

"Oh, but you don't seem a bit like the same; you are such a tall—" "Gentleman," she was going to say, but checked herself, feeling he had always deserved that name, for the chivalrous courtesy of his manner was nothing new. "I could scarcely believe it was you," she stammered, "when I saw you come into church, and yet I was so glad."

A smile like a sunbeam broke over David's grave, earnest face, as he heard these words. "You will come out again in the old boat soon, won't you?" he said, holding the Rectory gate open for her to pass through.

"Yes, I will," she answered, with a half-sad look.

"Good-bye, Miss Eudora."

"Good-bye, David."

Eudora had not missed the bit of honeysuckle, and he did not remind her of it as he held it in his hand.

"How foolish I am!" he murmured, as, striking down through the meadow path, he turned towards home. "How dare I ever dream of winning her? My fair queen-lily, growing so far beyond my reach! I must bury my love deep down in my heart, and let a crust of hard work grow over it. She must never know it, for it is quite hopeless. How can I, a poor curate, and not even of gentle birth, think for a moment of asking her to share my labour? And yet she is not proud. No, simple and sweet as a spotless flower. But I am poor," he added bitterly, "and so is she. God has given me a mother and sister to care for; I must not ask Him for another gift until He sees fit to bestow it upon me Himself. He has granted me my heart's desire in placing me among my own people, and to feed and nourish them faithfully and well shall be my life-work.

   "O my God, grant that I may be one of Thy true under-shepherds, following in Thy footsteps, to lead the flock beside green pastures and still waters. My Saviour Christ, let me spend and be spent for Thee!"

No one had known of the sharp struggle in David's heart, through those weeks of suspense, when Eudora hovered between life and death in that terrible illness. Ermyn's letters had grown sadder and sadder; he hardly expected to see the sweet face again. He thought God was going to call her home. Then had come the joyful tidings of hope. Her bright springtime was not to end here; he would still see its lovely blossoming.

Oh, those happy weeks, when he had walked beside her, leading the donkey so carefully, and fearing every breath of the strong sea-breeze as it blew upon her in its freshness. David's heart knew then for the first time in all its force what kind of love his was for Eudora Meredith, but he had kept it hidden and still. It was too sacred to show to any one. He would not pain her with what he believed to be a hopeless affection. He must pray to be made brave and self-forgetful in his work among the people.

Poor Eudora! The love had come into her heart too, but she could not speak of it to a human being. Her dear Lettice was David's mother. She must be utterly silent on this point with her. Aunt Silexa never seemed to suspect such a thing for a moment, or if she did, she had not betrayed her thought by look or sign. As for Ermyn, it had not entered into her mind for a moment that her brother could regard Eudora with other feelings than she did herself, her friend now, and her playfellow in past years. The trio would be always unbroken.

"I don't think he cares for me!" sighed Eudora, as she ran quickly upstairs to her room over the porch, and watched David calmly walking away towards Porthmynwr.

It was one evening soon after this little episode that Ermyn lured Eudora away for a ramble along the cliff. For a while they rested at the Sainted Well, drinking the clear water, and playing with the ferns that fringed its margin. Ermyn had told Eudora about the visit of the mysterious stranger to St. Elvis; and they now began to discuss the matter again, wondering why he had painted the picture, and what his name was. Their speculations ended in their weaving a most romantic tale about him, and the innocent girls little guessed how near they were to the truth as, rising, they continued their stroll.

The coast path wound along most unevenly through the prickly gorse, making long detours round volcanic-looking hollows, where the land had gradually given way to the encroachments of the sea, leaving precipitous sides down the rocky cliffs, from whence at a great height one could look down and watch the waves break into the caverns below. It was an unsafe route for strangers, but for Ermyn and Eudora, who had been accustomed to run along it ever since they were quite little children, there was no danger.

"The sea will look lovely from Chanter's Seat to-night," said Eudora; "we must wait and see the moon rise."

"Yes, we can," replied Ermyn; "for Davie promised to come and fetch us."

Eudora's heart felt very light after that, as she climbed down the bit of sloping rock and gave her hand to her companion. One jump, and they were both hidden from the public path by an angle in the cliff, where was a ledge hollowed out in the stone overlooking the whole bay, and known by the name of "Chanter's Seat." It was so-called from the peculiarity of its echo, which had the charm of doubling and trebling the power of the human voice, so that when any one sang there, it was with a marvellously rich and beautiful effect.

"Oh, what a glorious sunset, Ermyn! Just look at those colours across the water."

The two friends sat together side by side, watching it in silence. The blue bay stretched out calm and lovely before them, with rose-colour and green lights playing across its surface, while beyond, over the horizon, rose the shadowy cloud-land, whose pink and purple outlines seemed to belong to an ethereal and glorified shore.

"What a depth the sea is below us!" said Eudora, as they leaned over to gaze down at the gorges, clefts, and chasms into which the water rose and roared, ascending in fountains of snowy surf, and retiring again with a low murmur, in a line of fretted foam along the sands.

There was a fascination in watching it. They felt so safe in their eyrie in the cliff, as they looked and listened, entranced and quiet.

"I must gather some of that samphire for auntie," said Eudora, scrambling towards the edge, where the spiky green of this sea-loving and aromatic plant crept low on the ground in the greatest profusion.

"Wait, Dora, I will come and help you. Oh, what a funny smell it has! I don't think I like it at all."

They were startled in their occupation by hearing footsteps above them.

"Ah, Davie, there you are!" cried Ermyn, in glee. "Come down; we are only waiting for you to begin our singing."

"Miss Llewellyn will be here presently," he answered. "She would not allow me to wait for her, as she was detained in the village, but I see her now in the distance just crossing the stone wall."

"I will run and meet her," shouted Ermyn, as, springing up, she bounded off like a young fawn.

Eudora looked wistfully after her, but it was too late to follow the fleet runner, and she did not know whether she was pleased or not to be left alone with David. She felt more shy of him every time they met now, for a wall of ice seemed to have grown up between them which puzzled them both. How they longed for the old days to come back again, as they sat there exchanging commonplace remarks! It was a relief when the others joined them.

"Now," said Mary, seating herself, "I am going to have a treat. You three are going to sing me, 'Lift thine eyes to the mountains.' Please make haste and begin."

The singers looked at each other and smiled, then the glorious melody burst forth, rich and clear:

"Thy Keeper shall never slumber," sang Eudora, in soft contralto; while David and Ermyn took up the words, "Never, shall never slumber," until the last faint notes of the anthem died away in a whispered hush of melody.

"Now, little sister," said David, when they had finished, "let us hear you sing alone, 'Oh, rest in the Lord.'"

Ermyn obeyed.

Peace and rest sank down into each soul as the holy words fell softly on the still evening air. Yea, hope and courage also, as more than one heart prayed for the child-like spirit of perfect trust in a loving Father who never slumbers, while He watches over the sons and daughters of His care.

They talked long of this rest and peace, then of "the golden homes beyond the sunset," and, long after the glow had faded, wended their way homeward in the moonlight, silently, side by side.

LOST AND FOUND

EDWARD PRYSE had no time to linger among the exquisite beauties of Nannie's mountain home, fraught though they were with the dearest and most tender associations. Here he was treading in the very footsteps of his Ethel; and where she had dwelt must henceforth be a sacred place to him. He looked out upon the sunlit hills cradling the peaceful lake, and thought how her dear eyes had rested on them, as in spirit she travelled across the wide sea, yearning for one word to soothe her aching heart. The silence and calm loveliness of nature would make her feel yet more lonely; they could not fill the strange void, nor bear a message to her beloved.

Sadly and mournfully Edward turned away from this beautiful and sequestered spot, to exchange it, after a weary journey, for the tumult and busy stir of the great port of Liverpool. When he reached it, gaslights were blazing in the shops and thoroughfares, and enormous buildings, telling of wealth and luxury, rose on either hand. Edward noted nothing as he drove on, through the din and crowd, to the hotel where he passed the night.

At an early hour the following morning, he was at the well-known shipping agent's office. There seemed an unusual amount of business on hand, and Edward found it no easy task to find the clerks who could be of any assistance to him. But after patient and persistent waiting, and being referred from one place to another, his search was not in vain. The answers he received were gruff and unsatisfactory at first, for the Company did not care to be reminded of one of the most serious disasters they had ever experienced.

But Edward was firm in his determination and polite in speech, and, quietly persisting in his inquiries, he soon received a due amount of attention. The sheet of the "Illustrated London News" secretly abstracted from the country inn in Scotland, and containing a picture of the ship "Ocean Queen," was of the greatest service, for with the date, it gave exact information concerning the disaster.

Books were referred to, and passenger lists consulted, but "Pryse" was not among the names of the passengers who had sailed in the fatal ship. This was what Edward had expected, as the thought had struck him on his journey that for some reason Ethel might have assumed her maiden name. Was there a passenger of the name of Macdonald? How his heart throbbed in expectation of the answer! Yes, there was, in the steerage list: "Ethel Macdonald, aged twenty-five, and infant."

There was nothing further to be gained from the hard-looking clerks, whose information had just crushed out the last spark of hope that Ethel might after all be somewhere in the world. What did it concern them that a lonely stranger had timidly moved among them fourteen years ago? How had she looked? What did she say? Who knew, and who cared? Edward felt hopeless tears rush into his eyes as he asked himself these questions. He was just leaving the office, his confused thoughts surging through his brain, when he caught sight of a respectable-looking porter, whose face he fancied he had seen when in Liverpool before.

The man touched his cap to him, and something within him made Edward stop and speak.

"I think I can remember your face," he said; "you must have been in the Company's service for many years."

"Yes, sir," replied the man; "I pretty well know the look of this place, for I have been about it twenty years."

"Indeed!" rejoined Mr. Pryse. "Then you must have seen a good deal of the bustle of life in that time. I suppose, though, you never notice who comes, or who goes in here?"

"Tisn't very often, sir, I have much occasion to. There's so many faces that I get confused among them all, and couldn't tell at the end of the year whether I had seen them or no. But sometimes things happen that a lifetime wouldn't make one forget. Did you ever hear of the 'Ocean Queen,' sir, one of our fine paddle-steamers that was wrecked off the Welsh coast?"

Edward leaned against the wall he stood near, and a dizzy faintness came over him, which greatly surprised his interlocutor. But he checked himself sufficiently to answer in a hollow voice: "Yes. I have been making inquiries concerning that very ship. Do you know anything about her?"

"Why, sir, 'tis this way. I think it must be fourteen or fifteen years ago, when one day I noticed a pretty young woman standing here with a baby in her arms. She asked me a few questions, and I found she was quite a stranger to Liverpool. It seemed as if she hardly knew what she was saying or doing. Her dress was not like a lady's, but she had the face and speech of one, and a more modest-looking young woman I never saw in my life. She had come to inquire about her husband, who, she said, had gone to America."

Edward grasped his arm. "For mercy's sake, tell me all you know about her!"

The man looked wonderingly, but continued: "Well, sir, while I was talking to her, she suddenly fell forward in a fainting-fit, but I caught her before any harm was done. There she lay looking like death, and I couldn't tell what to do with her, nor where to take her. A crowd soon gathered round, prying and wondering. But I was so sorry for the poor young thing, and didn't like her to be made a public spectacle of, so I hailed a cab and took her right off to my missus, who is always a wonderful hand at doing people good. She soon got better in our little parlour. I think it was the crying of the baby that roused her to herself.

"Our hearts ached when she told us her story. Ethel Macdonald was her name; and oh, what a long journey she had taken to hear about her husband. She wanted to go to America after him, but we told her that would be no good, if she didn't know where he was. Then we asked her if she had any relations, and she said, 'Yes, her husband's people lived in South Wales; she would go to them.'

"One of them, I think she said, was a clergyman of the name of Pryse, but I cannot recollect the name of the place she said he lived in. I only know it was a country town somewhere on the coast. Her husband had promised to take her there some day, she said, but they were all strangers to her, so she would not write to them. My wife and I looked at each other, and we both made up our minds that she should not be turned out into the street, helpless and forlorn, for she looked so ill and tired out, poor thing."

"God bless you," said Edward, when he could speak, "for your kindness; you will have your reward. That lady was my wife."

The man started, and looked incredulous, but one glance at Edward's blanched and haggard face was enough.

"Beg pardon, sir; who would thought it? And that is why you have come to Liverpool, I suppose. Things do happen queer in this world sometimes! I am just going home, sir; if you will come with me, I will tell you the rest of the sad tale."

Edward obeyed mechanically, feeling as if in a dream.

"'Twas our doing, I fear, sir, that your good lady was put into the 'Ocean Queen,' but we thought we were performing the greatest kindness. My wife's sister was then staying with us, and she had arranged to go back to her home in Cork in this very ship. Her husband traded in a small vessel between Ireland and a Welsh port; and being a native of South Wales, he knew about everything and everybody in that part of the country.

"After we had consulted together, we thought the best plan would be for the poor lady to take her passage with my sister-in-law, who also had a young baby. She took no end of a fancy to the lady's pretty child. Eliza promised that as soon as they reached Cork, she would put Mrs. Macdonald under her husband's care. He would be sure to know whether there was a clergyman called Pryse living in the place the lady mentioned; and he was such a good, kind man, he would not leave her until he had discovered her friends, and seen her safely with them. My wife will tell you the rest, sir," added the man, as he opened the door of a quiet-looking dwelling in a back street.

A pale, middle-aged woman was sitting at work in the little parlour into which Edward was ushered. The man, in a few low words, communicated to her who the stranger was. She put her hand to her brow, and looked earnestly at him, then her face filled with a reverent pity.

"Oh, sir!" said she, as the tears gathered in her eyes. "That was a sad year for you and for us. My dear sister and her young baby we never saw again from that day to this. The news stunned us when it came, 'All hands lost!'

"I was so ill for weeks after, my husband thought that I should have died. And the poor man in Ireland, who was looking out for his dear wife, was in such a state I believe he lost his senses for a time. And that lonely lady, with her sweet face and ways, and the darling little child, all drowned! Oh, it was heart-rending!"

"I grieve to recall these sad facts to your memory," said Edward gently, "but you will be doing me the greatest service on earth if you will only tell me all you can."

"Well, sir," continued the woman, "I am sure, then, for her dear sake I will. It seems as though it only happened yesterday, it is all so fresh in my mind. She was only with us two days, but though the time was so short, I got to love her dearly; for oh, she was such a Christian, and it was a great comfort to talk to one who followed the dear Saviour so closely. I shall never forget the last morning when I watched her dress her baby, and saw it playing with a beautiful locket that hung from a chain round the mother's neck. It was a gold one set round with pearls—very valuable, I should think. Baby thought it a fine toy, and liked having it between her little fat hands better than anything else, and the mother laughed and told her it should be her own some day."

"I wonder," thought Edward, "if that locket was found by the fishermen! If it was on the body, it must be in some one's possession. But, ah no, the woman would surely have mentioned such a fact as that, for it would be the chief clue to the child's identity. Besides, such a valuable article as that would not be kept long by poor people; they would be sure to turn it into money. Still if it had even been seen by some one, there would be sufficient ground for claiming the child."

Edward started from his reverie, to see the woman watching him intently with her sad eyes.

"God has directed my way to you," he said; "it must be so, for otherwise I should never have found this last link in the wonderful chain of evidence that has guided me so unerringly in the long search for my lost ones."

Mr. Pryse then proceeded to make the most minute inquiries into details of all that Ethel had said or done during her brief stay with these Good Samaritans, and the kind woman told him all she knew. This account, when added to the Diary so abruptly broken off, gave Edward a connected story of the sweet, sorrowful life, since the day their hands had parted, and the long good-bye was said.

It was late on Saturday night before he could manage to reach St. Elvis, even by the most rapid travelling, so there were no curious gossips standing about to watch him as he entered "The Jolly Sailors" and engaged his rooms. He could see the churchyard from his window, and stood watching late into the night the waving sycamores over those two graves in the corner, until his heart felt ready to burst with its sorrow.

And there down the quiet valley, with the sea breaking near it, stood the cottage that sheltered his precious child—his one link with Ethel in heaven. Would she be glad to call him father, when he clasped her in his arms? Or would she turn away and say she did not need his love now? This agonising doubt prevented sleep from visiting his eyelids until daylight began to dawn through the dingy stuff curtains of his room.

Then he fell into a troubled but heavy slumber, from which he was only awakened by the ringing of the church bells for morning service. Voices and footsteps hurried by in the street below, and he caught snatches of sentences—

"Dr. Pryse is not going to preach till afternoon," said one.

"It will be Mr. David, then, I suppose."

"Ay, ay; he's a fine preacher, that young man."

"Who would have thought of Widow Gwynne's son rising to be a minister!"

"He speaks plain enough, don't he?" said the first speaker.

"Ay, that he do, indeed; he don't mind calling things by their right names, do he? Offence or no offence; and yet he's a good friend to the poor."

The conversation grew distant, and Edward Pryse relapsed into his reverie.

The afternoon sun was streaming into the church windows, showing the dancing motes. Service had just begun, when Lettice noticed the mysterious stranger who had taken such a fancy to her child come in and seat himself near her, in one of the free seats by the font. Her heart gave a little flutter when she saw him; she could not tell why. What had he come back for? Who was he? Lettice felt quite ashamed to discover her thoughts were causing her mind to wander utterly from the service. She had not heard any of it for the last five minutes, nor joined in a single response!

When they rose to sing, Ermyn handed a hymn-book to the sad-looking gentleman, whom she recognised as the same who had taken her likeness.

Dr. Pryse ascended the pulpit-stairs, and in a distinct though faltering and aged voice read as his text the story of the Prodigal Son. Then, after a pause, continued:

   "What a sad and life-like picture we have here! A dearly loved son, with every comfort and blessing round him, wishes to leave it all and go away from his father's face.

   "'Give me the portion that falleth to me.'

   "What was it? Just the very portion that men of the world are craving for nowadays—'his living;' all that they think life is worth; the worship of the golden god with all his attendant train, 'the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life': this trinity of evil was what the young man desired as his portion, and he got it.

   "Did it satisfy him? Was it a portion that filled him with good? Ah no! Alone in a stranger-land, he sat and wept. Instead of the dainty meat he had once fed upon, there was the swine's trough set before him. In vain he held out his empty hands. 'No man gave unto him.'

   "Then he remembered the light and love in his father's dwelling. There, in that home of peace and purity, no rough winds could come; no hunger, no drought. Thrice blessed they who dwelt beneath its shelter! There was not only food, but enough and to spare. Even the hired servants could know no want. Alas for him, sitting out there alone in the cold, with no eye to pity, no hand to raise up! But while he mused over his desolation and misery, a light shone into his soul,—a light as bright as that which lit up the prison darkness that surrounded Saint Peter.

   "'Arise!' it said. 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants.' 'If only I can be in my own fair home again, and under the same roof as my father, he may give me the office of a menial; I will serve him joyfully.'

   "Ah, but he did not know the father's love even then; he put a limit to it. He was judging him according to his own poor standard. He could not believe that from the day the erring one left the shelter of his home the father had yearned for his return. My friends, have you ever known what it was to lose a son? I do not mean by death. Has your well-beloved child ever wandered away upon the mountains and never come home?"

The aged pastor could get no further, for a sob choked his utterance, as he leaned heavily on the pulpit cushion. But he checked himself. For years he had struggled to speak to his people from this parable, but could not. He must do it now.

   "Does not the love for the absent one," he continued, "grow deeper and deeper as the years move on? Would you not give all you possessed for that precious life? Forgiveness! Ah, that is only the glistening surface of the deep well. You must go beyond that, deeper and deeper still. It is all love beneath, nothing but love! How was the prodigal received?

   "'When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.'

   "Oh, my friends, behold this Divine Compassion, so far beyond our poor earthly love, however deep that may be. Alas! An earthly parent may have been the cause of driving his son into the far country. We can never say that of God.

   "'He willeth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness and live.'

   "It is 'we' who have turned our backs upon Him.

   "'Come home, O wanderer!' calls the voice. 'Come home! Come home!'

   "Poor sinner, God loves you. He is your Father. Will you not turn and seek His face, and let Him lead you home? A royal welcome awaits you there—the best robe, fair and white, and the jewelled ring of His everlasting love. If that poor young man had stayed where he was in the fields, and made no effort to arise and come, he would never have been clasped in his father's loving arms.

   "See how God's grace to the guilty one is shown forth in this story. He first convinces him of sin by His Holy Spirit, causing him to cry,—'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son,' and then gives him the white robe that will make him clean and fair for ever.

   "'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"

Lettice started and turned pale, for she thought she heard near her a groan and a heavy sob. A few minutes after, to her great surprise, the stranger rose hastily and left the church.

Edward Pryse could not stay to hear the remainder of that sermon. The arrow, feathered with love, had shot straight into his heart, making it bleed with sorrow and contrition. He sought where to weep. The churchyard was no fit place, for in a few minutes the people would be coming out. He quickly made up his mind. There was but one place. It was his home, and thither he went.

The Rectory doors were never locked on Sunday, though Molly was in church with her mistress. So Edward passed into the quiet, empty house, unperceived by any one.

The study door stood open, and he crept stealthily in. Nothing was changed! There were the shabby carpet and ancient furniture, the books, the pictures, and quaint sampler. The colour had faded a little out of the sweet girlish face that smiled at him from its frame. Yes, Minnie had looked just like that, when, struck one day by her artistic appearance, he had made his first study from life. Those laughing eyes seemed as if they could never know sorrow. He had left his little sister bright and young, and such she would ever be to him, while he had grown grey in the stern soil of grief. The last wind of trouble had stripped and made bare his branches, and he felt very, very old.

The window was open, and a gentle breeze stirred the ivy leaves outside, bringing whispers to his memory of that sad night long ago, when he had crouched beneath them to listen to his father's wrathful sentence. Suddenly, and overpowering the sound of the rustling leaves, came the echo of human voices from the churchyard. The service was over, the congregation was dispersing. His father and Silexa would be at home in a few minutes!

Should he flee and hide himself? Oh, he dared not meet them. What should he say? He felt like a guilty thief. He thought of the lonely garret at the top of the house. But just as he was meditating a flight to it, he heard Molly enter by the back door, and he was afraid to run the risk of meeting her. So he stood still as if spellbound, gazing at the picture. His heart felt as if it must stop beating when he heard a firm, decided footstep approaching the door. He could not turn round to see who it was. Trembling in every limb with nervous agitation, he heard the handle sharply turned. Some one had entered. Yes, he must face that person, whoever it might be. One look was enough.

"Edward! My brother!" burst from Silexa's lips, as she sprang forward and knelt beside the fainting figure, that had sunk into a seat below the picture.

In that moment of wonder and amazement, her yearning sister-heart had penetrated the disguise that Time had woven round him. She had heard of the mysterious stranger's visit to St. Elvis, but had refused to allow herself to dream of the possibility she so often longed for. Now she read the secret. The sea of sorrow had given up its dead!

When Edward came to himself, her strong arms were supporting him, his head was on her breast, and he knew it was his own sister Silexa who was weeping over him.

"Don't talk yet," she said, rousing herself with her usual brave determination. "Rest here, Edward, on this sofa. No one will disturb you. I must go to our father. The shock might kill him. How thankful I am David detained him, and that Eudora is waiting in the churchyard to bring him home!"

Silexa calmly retraced her steps to the lych gate, but what a mingling of thanksgiving and sorrow was going on in her heart! My readers know enough of Silexa's past history to enable them to understand what she felt at such a crisis.

Eudora was seated on a moss-grown tombstone, but rose when she saw her aunt coming through the gate.

"What is it, auntie dear? David and grandpapa are having such a long talk. Did you want me? Oh, auntie, why are you looking so white? And you are shaking all over. Something is the matter."

Silexa took the girl's hand and sat down beside her.

"I am weak and foolish," she said, wiping away the tears that would drop from the grey eyes. "Oh, Dora, my darling, help me to bear up! Your grandfather's life depends on whether we can be calm and patient. I can trust you," she added, looking into the sweet upturned face. "Dora, your Uncle Edward has come home."

Eudora had heard the sad history since she had grown up, for the confidence had become dearer and closer every day between aunt and niece since Eudora's dangerous illness. But as it was before her birth that this sorrow had come to the Rectory, she had never known the agony of the loss, nor half its bitterness. Therefore, this sudden news was only the source of the keenest joy to her. Yet the gentle, sensitive girl understood the situation in an instant, and took in all its emergencies. She put her arms round Silexa's neck, and in that loving caress whispered, "Our Father has been very good to us, auntie. How safe we are in His keeping! Your prayers have indeed been answered. There is grandpapa coming towards us," she added. "I will run and meet him as if nothing had happened."

But David lingered by the old man's side, as he watched Eudora glide gently along the daisy-bordered path. Dr. Pryse put his hand forward and took her arm. Eudora felt perplexed, and wished David would say good-bye. But she could not tell him this. What was to be done?

"Ah, Silexa!" said the aged minister. "I thought you had gone home. Why did you wait?"

"I came back again, father, to tell you some one is in your study waiting to see you."

"Who is it? Where did he come from?"

David and Eudora always remembered the clever way in which Silexa parried these questions, until she had paved the way for a safe avowal.

"Father," she said, at length; "you have been telling us about the Prodigal Son this afternoon."

"Yes, Silexa, yes, but it was a sore subject for me. God grant that my people may never know such a sorrow as mine!"

"Father, what would you say if 'your' prodigal came home? We have never actually heard of his death."

"Ah, my daughter, a father's welcome should be his, but that can never be now on earth. I shall clasp him to my bosom in the Father's house above. I know we shall meet there."

"Father dearest, God will let you meet him before then. It has pleased Him to hear our prayers and wipe away our tears. Edward has come home. He is the stranger I have called you in to meet."

The poor old man seemed as though he heard not, but gazed from one to the other. David came closer to him, and supported him as he trembled from head to foot. He could not speak, but began to sob like a child. Tenderly they led him on through the garden and into the study. David and Eudora turned away on the threshold.

Silexa guided the tottering footsteps to the accustomed seat in the great mahogany chair, and then put Edward's hand into her father's. The penitent knelt down, and with bowed head received the paternal kiss and blessing. The sister softly turned to leave the parent and the son alone, and heard her father murmur, as she closed the door,—

"'This my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.'"

THE TREASURE CLAIMED

DAVID GWYNNE walked slowly back to his home; his mother met him at the door.

"Davie, did you see the stranger in church?" she said.

"What stranger, mother?"

"Why, the artist that came here last year so shabbily dressed, and took Ermyn's picture. What is he here again for? And why did he leave the church before service was over?"

"Mother, a great secret has come out to-day; there is joy at the Rectory. The prodigal has returned to his father's house; your stranger is the lost son, Mr. Edward Pryse."

When David saw his mother's white and troubled countenance, he was sorry he had made the announcement so hastily.

"Edward Pryse!" she ejaculated, lifting up her hands. "Davie, you are dreaming; it cannot be."

"Go up to the Rectory, mother dear, and see for yourself. You will find a rejoicing going on there, such as is never made except over a recovered treasure. I expect the good news is all over the town by this time. Ermyn!" he called. "Come here quickly; we have something to tell you."

"What is it, Davie?" cried she, appearing from the inner room.

"Why, they are all so happy up at the Rectory; Mr. Edward Pryse has come back."

"Has he? When? Oh, I want to see him so much. I wonder what he is like."

"You have seen him, Ermyn; he took your likeness last summer, and he was in church to-day, sitting very near you."

"Davie! No, you cannot mean it; it is just one of your jokes. It is not really true? That sad-looking man Miss Silexa's brother! Impossible!"

"You will know more about it to-morrow," laughed David, little dreaming that in his words lay the seed of a revelation that would spring up the next day to bear bitter fruit for Lettice.

"Oh, I am very glad!" rejoined Ermyn. "What does Dora say to it all? This is indeed a happy day for St. Elvis. That heavy grief has been lifted off at last."

Lettice heard her children talking, and discussing the joyful event in all its details, but she could not remain long in the same room with them. Her heart was fluttering like a bird trying to get free.

The meaning of that sobbing groan in church was explained now. That flash of instinct had been a true one, the day she had walked beside him to the churchyard, and fancied those piercing brown eyes were like Edward's. She could interpret now those sad, averted looks, and that abstracted manner. And oh, how heedlessly she had run on, telling him his own sad history. What a simple fool she had been!

Then came another thought that hung like a millstone round her neck, threatening to drag her down with its sudden weight. His eyes were like Ermyn's. What had the sight of the child so agitated him? Had he power to take her darling from her? No, no, that could not be. He did not even know of the wreck until she informed him of it.

She could not tell Ermyn or David of her terror. God grant that her fears were groundless! She would pray over it.

   "Thou art a refuge for the oppressed," she cried; "a refuge in times of trouble."

But the fear haunted her all the evening; she could not put it from her, and was grave and silent.

The following morning all St. Elvis and Porthmynwr rang with the good news.

"Master Edward has come home," echoed from lip to lip; "only to think the good parson has got his son again! Indeed and indeed he has!"

"We knew he would come some day," nodded the gossips; "there have been signs in plenty about it, for those who had eyes to see them, and who believe in such things."

Ermyn ran off to rejoice with Eudora, and David went to his parish work.

Only Lettice sat still in the house. She heard footsteps coming up the causeway. It was surely Miss Silexa's voice; and Lettice looked out to see her coming towards the cottage, leaning on the arm of the mysterious stranger.

"Forgive me, Lettice," said he, in a tremor of agitation, as he held out his hand; "it was wrong of me to deceive you, but thank God for all you were to me that day, I was so lonely and miserable."

Silexa's manner was more tender than Lettice had ever known it. There was a calm, deep joy in the eyes of the rector's daughter. But Mrs. Gwynne thought she also detected a keen pity, which made her fear what was coming next.

"Where is Ermyn?" said Silexa gently; and Lettice saw tears gathering in her eyes.

"I have not seen her since breakfast," replied Lettice, in an unsteady voice. "She was going first to the Rectory, and then to see Mrs. Llewellyn."

"We are glad she is not here now, Lettice," said Edward, laying his hand on Mrs. Gwynne's arm. "Lettice, my sister tells me you have a locket in safe keeping. Will you show it to me? It is a gold one set round with pearls. I gave it to Ethel my wife when I left her to go to America. Our initials are worked across the hair. My good, kind friend, you have been a mother to my child. God bless you for it!"

Lettice could not answer; she bowed her head in her hands and wept bitterly.

Silexa knelt beside her and put an arm tenderly round her.

"I knew it," sobbed Lettice. "I knew last night you would come to-day and take away my darling."

The brother and sister glanced at each other. Silexa had only seen her look like that once, when the dead baby Ruth lay upon her knees. They both felt how hard it was for the poor woman, after having nurtured and brought up the child as her own, suddenly to be called on to give her up. But the unselfish heart of Lettice soon recovered its balance.

"How wrong I am!" she murmured. "How selfish and cruel!" As rising, she left the room to fetch the locket.

When she returned, God's peace was once more visible on her chastened face.

"Here it is," she said. "No eye has seen it but mine since the day I locked it away; and there is the little shirt laid in the box beside it. There was nothing else."

Edward put his hand into his breast-pocket, and producing the tiny half-finished garment he had discovered in Ethel's workbox, gave it to Lettice. The two women saw at a glance the same hand had made both shirts, for the pattern was the same, and there was a fancy-stitching across the sleeves of each that corresponded to a thread.

Edward then repeated the tale that Silexa had sat up so late the night before to hear, of his wanderings and return, the search for Ethel's child, and the chain of evidences that had grown so wonderfully out of each discovery.

"Ermyn is your child without a doubt," said Lettice calmly, when he had concluded. "I thank God for giving her to me to nurse and take care of for you all these years. 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,'" she added, with a sob.

"We shall never forget that you have been a mother to her," said the brother and sister in one breath; "and I am sure Ermyn will always feel the same."

"Lettice," continued Silexa, "listen! Please do not turn away with such a sad, hopeless look. My brother is longing to clasp his child in his arms, and I yearn to hear her call me 'auntie.' But we have quite decided that no one shall tell her anything until you have informed her yourself of her past history, and how it was you came to be such a good, kind mother to her."

"Thank you both for that," said Lettice, smiling through her tears. "You shall not wait long for your joy. I will bring her to the Rectory this afternoon. How kind you are to me! It will not be so hard to give her up to you. I was always afraid some stranger might claim her. Good-bye."

Silexa and Edward walked quietly home through the sunny pasturelands. And the sister recalled to mind that morning so many years ago when she had trodden that very path on her way to learn tidings of the wreck, and seen for the first time the little motherless infant who had so strangely proved to belong to her own dear brother.

"I kissed your Ethel, Edward, as she lay in the cottage in her last sleep. She had a lovely face."

"I am glad you saw my darling, even in death," he answered.

There was silence after that as the two stepped among the daisies beside the stream that ever sang its glad song of hope, heedless of human joy or sadness.

Ermyn, all unconscious of the change in her destiny, came tripping up the causeway some time after, singing a merry tune.

"Oh, mother," she cried, "everybody is so glad up at St. Elvis; they are all shouting and talking about it. I went to the Rectory first, and Dora came out to meet me, and she kissed and hugged me and looked at me again and again with happy tears in her eyes. I did not think she would care so much, but the joy has quite turned her head, mother. I never knew her so absent or strange in her manner. She kept stopping in what she was going to say, and then blushed as deep a pink as the roses growing on the porch. At last I ran away, pretending to be angry, and I have been with Mrs. Llewellyn ever since. I hope the poor gentleman will look happier now. But it is all so odd, mother, I cannot make it out yet."

"Did you see Dr. Pryse?" asked Lettice, turning away to busy herself at a drawer in the table, that Ermyn might not notice her trembling hands.

"No, mother, I did not. The sudden surprise last evening quite upset him. Dr. Llewellyn has ordered him to keep quiet in his room all day and see no one."

Lettice sat down in the low rocking-chair—the very one she had sat in the night baby Ermyn was hushed to sleep on her knee after the terrible wreck. The room looked just the same, only the cradle was not there now.

"Ermyn, child, come to me. I want to talk to you for a little."

"Yes, mother darling," she cried, seizing the little wooden stool, always called her own since babyhood, and seating herself with her head laid down on Mrs. Gwynne's knee. "Now this is like old times. I was afraid I was getting too big for this, mother. We haven't had a cosy talk for a long time."

How sweetly and naturally the word "mother" fell from her lips! Lettice noticed it now with an aching heart. Would she call her that again when she knew all? A gulf had opened between her and her darling since yesterday; it was growing wider every minute. Only a few hours ago she was her child; now she was far removed by birth and station, able to take the rank of a lady, while she, Lettice, would always remain a humble peasant woman. Oh, cruel truth! But it must be told, and that without delay.

"Ermyn, I am going to tell you something. Listen!"

"Yes, mother."

"It happened a long time ago, just a year after I lost my dear little baby Ruth."

Ermyn looked up all eager attention.

"I was sitting here one evening on a very wild, stormy night. The sea roared and the wind howled, and heavy sheets of rain dashed against the windows. Oh, it was an awful storm! Davie was a little boy then, and lay fast asleep in that bed, and your dear old granddad—" here Lettice checked herself, "my father," she added, "was out with the other sailors on the jetty."

"What was he doing, mother?"

"Nancy Lewis came up to tell me there was a fine ship driving on to the rocks close to the Head, and nothing could be done for her."

"Oh, poor, poor people!" said Ermyn. "Did granddad try to save them?"

"Yes, he put out in a boat with several of his brave mates. But it wasn't a lifeboat, so they could do nothing to help, and the ship went down."

"Was any one saved?" asked Ermyn breathlessly.

Lettice continued her story, as though she had not heard the question. "Presently we heard voices, and when I opened the door, granddad and the sailors were carrying in a poor drowned lady, and I heard a baby cry. Then I looked and saw granddad holding something wrapped up in a bit of fishing-net. I took it from his arms and found it was a dear, helpless infant."

"Was the lady dead?" inquired Ermyn.

"Yes, indeed she was; nothing more could be done for her. She was laid in the churchyard to sleep the next Sunday."

"And what became of the baby?"

"I nursed her and took her for my own instead of little Ruth. Ermyn, you were that little babe."

"OH, MOTHER, WHY DID YOU TELL ME?"

"Mother, oh, mother!" cried Ermyn, kneeling and flinging her arms round Mrs. Gwynne's neck, while the two sobbed together. "Oh, mother, why did you tell me? I would rather never, never have known. Don't say you are not my own mother."

"Hush, my darling, there is more to tell you. Forgive me for hiding from you the secret of your history. Perhaps it would have been better if you had always known it."

"Why, mother?"

"Ermyn, sweet child, you are mine no longer! Your father lives. He is waiting and longing to clasp you in his arms to-day. You are the daughter of Mr. Edward Pryse, and his people at the Rectory are your own kith and kin. Miss Silexa came with him this morning, while you were out, to break the news to me."

It is impossible to describe the effect these words had upon Ermyn. She was dumb in open-eyed wonder for some minutes, thinking it must surely be a dream of the night. Then she understood it all; and with a low cry flung herself into the arms of Lettice, murmuring, "Oh, mother, mother, don't send me away from you! I don't want any one but you!"

Lettice said no more; for she saw the effect her words were having on Ermyn's highly strung nerves, as the hysterical sobs grew louder. She half carried, half led her into the inner chamber, and, loosening her dress, laid her on the bed. Then shading the light from the small window, she kissed her tenderly and left her.

In the afternoon, they were treading the valley-meadows together, calm and quiet. Ermyn felt timid and shy. Poor child, it was hard to realise her new situation in so short a time. Would they be glad at the Rectory? Did Dora know she was her own cousin? Yes, she felt sure she did. But eyes were already on the look-out from the rose-clustered windows, and Silexa stood waiting in the porch.

"Come in, darling! My niece and godchild Ermyn. Edward, here is your child!"

Ermyn said nothing till she found herself clasped in strong, loving arms. Then she knew she had indeed found a father.

A week later, Lettice was sitting alone at work in her cottage. The shadows were lengthening on the causeway, and the returning tide broke in soft murmurs against the boundary wall, as a hum of voices from the jetty was borne upon the sultry air. Her fingers were busy, but her thoughts were far-away. She was still learning in the school of her Lord and Master Jesus Christ; the lesson-books were not put away yet, and on the page turned to-day great silent tears were dropping.

Ermyn, her child and treasure, was going away; far-away from her to her northern home. The devoted father would have his daughter all to himself in Scotland. Would she forget the cottage by the creek? The lowly village-maiden was an heiress now. In time, she might learn to be ashamed of her former poverty and upbringing.

"Oh, my God!" cried Lettice half aloud. "Why did they take my own ewe-lamb from my bosom? She crept in there in place of little Ruth, and the space is cold and empty without her. I know her love will ever be warm and faithful for me; but oh, it can never, never be the same again."

A footstep so light that Lettice only perceived it when it was close to the door, now caught her attention, but not quickly enough to give her time to hide the tears that were falling. Looking up she saw the sweet, fair face of Eudora Meredith, and rose to greet her.

"You did not hear me coming, Lettice. Sit down again, please. I want you to pretend I am the little Dora of long, long ago. I shall steal Ermyn's stool and come and sit at your feet. There! I have taken off my hat. Now, stroke my hair as you used to do."

Lettice obeyed, while Eudora put one hand into hers.

"Mrs. Gwynne," she continued, as the golden head bent low, and a crimson blush dyed the delicate cheek. "Lettice, I have come to tell you something that I hope will make you very happy. I know you are dreadfully sad to-day," she added, "because your darling Ermyn is so soon going away, but her love for you will never change, Lettice. She will be always the same. Still, we know she cannot be quite so much your child as she used to be. Lettice, kiss me and put your arms round me. I am to be your daughter now. Davie has asked me to be his wife. Will you be my mother?"

Mrs. Gwynne started and turned pale. She could only say, "Miss Eudora!"

"You are never to call me that again," said Eudora, springing up and flinging her arms round the neck of the astonished and overjoyed woman. "I knew you would be very glad, and I made Davie promise, as one of the conditions, that I should be the first to tell you. He has been very good and kept his secret. Oh, you don't know how unhappy we have been! He was afraid to ask me, because we were both poor; and I thought he did not care for me at all. Aunt Silexa has been our good angel. I wonder how she guessed! When Uncle Edward came to her, wanting to know how he could repay even a part of all the kindness and care you have given his child throughout her life, auntie told him there was one way. And what do you think that was, Lettice?"

Mrs. Gwynne could only smile inquiringly.

"Why, he has bought the house that has been built close to Dr. Llewellyn's, and given it to Davie; you are to live with us," the happy girl ran on. "And the dowry Uncle Edward gives me will be quite enough, with David's stipend, to make comfortable. Now I have told my news."

Lettice at first could find no words to express her joy. She felt God had honoured and blessed both her and her house beyond her highest expectations. She scarcely believed she heard aright.

"I could not think what Davie wanted," broke in Eudora, with a little laugh. "He came to me in the kitchen garden this morning when I was getting something for auntie, and his face looked as if he was the happiest man in the world. Then he followed me about, holding my basket until it was filled, and then somehow we found ourselves sitting together under the medlar boughs. Lettice, dear Lettice, you can guess the rest!

"Here is Davie himself, and Ermyn too, I declare! You are both of you very naughty," said she, turning to them. "I thought I had slipped away, and that you would not find me for ever so long."

What a happy talk there was after that in the old cottage, as Eudora and Ermyn pretended to be jealous of each other, in their caresses of the dear and much-loved mother. Lettice could only feel that, instead of losing her treasure, another child had been given to her wide mother-heart.

"Mother," said Ermyn, "Davie and I came home on purpose to tell you, you must please put on your Sunday gown and cap at once; for you, and auntie, grandpapa, father, and all of us are going to have tea together at Dr. Llewellyn's."

"Oh, what a delightful plan!" cried Eudora, springing up. "Just like our dear, kind friends! How I wish Maurice had been at home; there would not have been one wanting then."

While Lettice arrayed herself in her plain black silk and white cap, and her children waited to escort her, Mary Llewellyn was as busy as a bee. She was not pretty, but her bright, honest eyes and sweet, frank smile made the face a very attractive one to watch. She moved about quickly and quietly, setting out the oval table in the most festive manner for the expected guests. The snowy tablecloth hung in glossy folds, and the pretty green and white tea-service and homemade bread and butter looked most tempting upon it.

"Let me see," said Mary, smiling towards her mother, who was a delighted spectator of the hospitable arrangements. "That little glass basket I brought from London will look the prettiest for the flowers in the centre; and I declare I quite forgot the honey—and such honey too! What can I be thinking of, mother? My wits are woolgathering."

"We have so much to think about, dear," replied Mrs. Llewellyn, laughing, "that I do not wonder your ideas are inclined to go astray. Even now I can scarcely believe our pretty, simple lily of the valley is transformed into a fine lady."

"She will never be that, mother; she has too much good sense—thanks to her being blessed with two such mothers as you and Lettice; for you have been quite a mother to her. What a blessing it is, as circumstances have turned out, that Ermyn has had such a thoroughly well-grounded education!"

"Oh, but I must not take all the credit of that. The child was so bright and clever it was a pleasure to teach her; and you, Mary, have also done a great deal for her, and for Dora too."

"They are a sweet pair of cousins, mother. Is it not funny it should all have come out as it has? I am so glad they have been thrown together so much. I keep on thinking I am reading a fairy tale, but I did not expect the transformation scene so soon. Now let me shake up your cushions and make you tidy. You must have on your cap with the lavender ribbons to-night."

"I never thought my fanciful daydream about that child would ever be realised," said Mrs. Llewellyn, as she thanked and kissed her daughter.

The guests arrived at the appointed hour; and never was there a merrier feast. Everybody was hungry, and did full justice to Mary's bountiful cheer, as she presided at the tea-tray, all the more pleased that the cups were sent up again and again to be replenished.

"My grandchildren," said Dr. Pryse, looking at the pair of laughing girls before him, "I must have you one on each side of me to-night. What a rich old man I am, with all my treasures about me!" he added, looking round the table with a gratified smile on his aged features. "I am not going to give away my little love yet," quoth he, with a sly glance at David.

This was the signal for a great deal of fun. And Dr. Llewellyn arrived in the middle of it all, adding his hearty laugh and amusing sayings to the merry-making.

David and Eudora could afford to be laughed at now. They did not mind how soon all St. Elvis heard the news, and were much too happy in one another's love to care for the opinion of the world, or what the gossips would say round the ancient cross.

"What is this I hear about a lifeboat?" said Dr. Llewellyn.

"Oh, the news has flown like the wind among the sailors," answered David. "Miss Ermyn Pryse has given the money for one, and it is to arrive here and be launched before the winter sets in."

"And it is to be called 'The Ermyn,'" put in Eudora eagerly.

Lettice had not heard this piece of information before, and tears of joy filled her eyes as she thought of the many brave lives it would probably be the means of saving on that dangerous coast.

"It is in memory of dear old granddad," whispered Ermyn, as she slipped her hand into that of Lettice. "I wish he had lived to see it."

CONCLUSION

MUIRSTANE donned its gayest holiday attire the day Edward Pryse was expected to arrive with his young heiress. The great iron gates leading to the manor-house no longer mourned in rust and weeds, but had been freshly painted and flung wide open, while an arch of evergreens and flowers spanned the portal. Little children stood on either side of the hilly road near the entrance, holding bunches of flowers in their hot hands, and they all set up a joyous shout on seeing the carriage. It was a new experience for Ermyn, as she sat by her father's side, prettily dressed in quiet grey silk, smiling and nodding to the eager crowd, who came streaming out into the road to get a sight of her.

Edward's heart was too full for speech. Tears came into his eyes as he thought of his Ethel, but oh, the joy of having her child with him now! How lovingly he watched her return the glad greetings! How tenderly he handed her from the carriage into the spacious hall of the noble old mansion! It should henceforth be his pride and pleasure to watch over and care for her. No one must interfere with his newly found treasure—she must be all his own, his very own.

Reader, pardon his selfishness. He had to dive into very deep waters ere he found his pearl. No wonder she was priceless now.

With reverent footsteps, Ermyn followed her father from room to room. Her own dead mother had lived here, and everything she had touched and used was sacred, Ethel's little sitting-room especially so. When her child entered it, she started and looked at Edward; for there, hanging in a gilded frame above the mantelpiece, was the picture of herself, as she had stood by the Sainted Well in her old blue dress and red petticoat.

"Oh, father, how well I remember that day!"

"So do I, my daughter."

For the first few weeks that followed, it was all novelty and brightness for Ermyn. Her affection for her father became deep and passionate. It seemed as though all her child-love for him had been storing itself up through long years, to be poured out in a golden treasure at his feet when he should come to claim it.

Her filial devotion gradually healed the open wounds in his heart. How he loved to hear this beautiful girl calling him father! His cup was full now. Together the two would wander among the wild and lovely Scottish scenery each glen and exquisite haunt had its story about Ethel. The heather bloomed as sweetly now as when he had pulled its purple blossoms at her side; the little brown burns still tinkled their merry tune.

Ermyn won all hearts among the poorer tenantry. She had known poverty and toil, and could come among them with true kindliness. She was none the less noble and refined that she had once worked hard for her living; nay, rather it added to her woman's worth, because it had enlarged and drawn out her sympathies towards the poor. They all called her "oor bonnie leddy," and loved her well.

But, notwithstanding her pleasant occupations, her father's untiring love and devotion, and the long affectionate letters received from Wales, her heart yearned to return to St. Elvis. When she laid her head down on her pillow at night, she missed the mother-kiss. And she wanted her sweet cousin to share her new pleasures with her. Sometimes she would weep in secret about it, and even pine to be the humble cottage-maiden again.

Edward soon began to notice her drooping looks, and besought her to tell him what was the matter. But Ermyn, afraid of wounding his feelings, and still anxious to be more of a comfort to him, could not confess the truth. She evaded his questions by laughing excuses, and tried to look brighter again. But all in vain. Her heart was not in Muirstane. And as the months moved on, the trouble could be hidden no longer.

"Father," she said one day, "please don't be angry with me. I know I ought to be quite happy here, but I want to go back to St. Elvis. I miss them all so very, very much."

A grieved look of pain came into his face, and she saw it.

"Ermyn, my child," he answered, "try for my sake to make yourself happy here with me through the winter. In the spring, we will go back. Let me have you to myself till then."

Ermyn hid her disappointment by a bright smile of acquiescence. This promise was something definite, at any rate; but oh, how long the spring was in coming that year! Ermyn watched the snow melt away at last off the stern hills. And when the April sunbeams tipped them with brightness, she and her father turned their backs on Muirstane and set out for St. Elvis.

A joyous peal of welcome was ringing out from the old church tower as they entered the town. Silexa, Lettice, David, Eudora, and the dear old grandfather were all standing waiting to receive them. Oh, how glad they were to get their darling back again!—Not one bit changed, no—they all said that.

And when the May-buds blushed pink, and there was "a little piping of leaf-hid birds" in their downy nests, the bridal morning dawned.

Ermyn, once more our blithe, merry maiden, was standing in Eudora's room, helping Aunt Silexa and Lettice to dress the bride in soft clouds of white muslin. How like a lovely flower looked the child of the Rectory to-day! And how proud they all were of her!

The beloved and aged grandfather with his silver locks stood within the communion rails, as the simple procession moved up through the crowded church. In clear though trembling tones, he read the solemn marriage service, which united the two persons whom all firmly believed God had joined together. Eudora's lip quivered and her cheek paled, but her voice was clear and calm, as she uttered the familiar thrilling vow.

What a burst of jocund music rang out from the ivied tower, as the joy-bells sounded loud and sweet when the newly wedded pair left the church! What a feast there was for the poor in the Rectory kitchen, after the pretty breakfast was over in the dining-room! Nobody in St. Elvis ever forgot that day.

"I hope you and Davie will have a happy time together at Muirstane," whispered Ermyn, as she said good-bye to her cousin. "I will look after everybody, and do the work of two curates in the village till you bring Davie back again. Good-bye, good-bye! Auntie, give me an old shoe to throw after them!"

While the two were away spending their honeymoon among the heathery moorlands of Scotland, Lettice had her hands full of work. But she did not labour alone, for Silexa and Ermyn joyfully helped her each day, in the pleasant task of beautifying and making ready the new pretty home for David and his bride.

"Oh, how charming it is to be able to do this for them!" cried Ermyn, in an ecstasy of delight, as she ran from room to room, discussing and settling about colours and furniture. "I long to see my Dora's glad face when she enters her home."

Lettice felt very sad the night she slept in the old cottage by the creek for the last time. True, she had known poverty, sorrow, and care while dwelling under its roof, but God's presence had never forsaken her. Her loved dead had rested under its peaceful shadow, and made it a hallowed spot. She would like to have ended her days here in humble seclusion, had it not been for the entreaties of her children. Then, Jem and Nancy Lewis had been long wishing to remove their large family into this more spacious cottage; and as Jem had bought Old Roger's two boats, and succeeded to his fishing trade, they seemed the right people to take possession.

"I cannot leave the cradle," said Lettice, as she was looking over her things, most of which she intended to bequeath to her successors. "That must go wherever I go. Davie, and dear little Ruth, and Ermyn all slept in it; it is full of tender memories and associations; I will never, never part with it."

So the cradle journeyed up the valley with some more of Mrs. Gwynne's household treasures, and they gave her large, airy room in David's house a home look at once.

The few weeks that the bride and bridegroom were away seemed a short time in which to get everything completed, but as all worked with a will, they managed to do it.

The evening before David and Eudora were expected, Ermyn was with her father in the newly made garden, pulling up stray weeds, and tying up the flowers. Suddenly she looked up from her work to see Mary Llewellyn at the gate, and Maurice standing by her side.

"Well, Ermyn," cried Mary, in glee, "is not this a surprise for all of us? We only knew of it this morning."

Ermyn advanced shyly to greet almost a stranger now, for it was long since she and Maurice had met, not since she had been a hard-working little cottage-maiden. She felt at first she would like to run away and hide.

"Miss Ermyn Pryse," said Maurice, frankly extending his hand, and reassuring the timid girl by a glad smile. "You have said good-bye to childhood since we met, and yet you are not a bit altered. I should have known you anywhere."

"But you are considerably changed," replied Ermyn, laughing, as a blush tinted her cheek. "Father, let me introduce Mr. Maurice Llewellyn."

"Is it not delightful?" rejoined Mary, as she kissed Ermyn. "Maurice is to be at home a whole month before he goes away on another long voyage."

"Oh, I am so glad!" replied Ermyn. "Now we shall be all together once more."

The welcome that St. Elvis gave to the curate and his wife the following day was a right royal one. The church bells rang out a deafening peal. And when the carriage appeared in sight, a troop of strong young men ran a race to meet it, when they unharnessed the horses, and insisted on drawing the carriage themselves to the new home. Gay summer blossoms were flung in fragrant showers upon the young and happy wife, as she sat smiling and nodding by her husband's side, while the village children shouted,—

"Hurrah! Hurrah! Welcome! Welcome home!"

Silexa, Ermyn, and Lettice stood at the porch to receive them, and the wedded life of David and Eudora at St. Elvis began.

No one liked to think that some of the members of this happy and united circle must soon again separate. But Maurice had been appointed to take the medical charge of a large ship bound for America; and he had mapped out for himself a long course of hard work in the world before his vision of settling down with his father in St. Elvis could be fulfilled.

He went away full of hope and courage, but has invalid mother could not help shedding some bitter tears after saying good-bye to her son. The first letter from him revived her spirits:

   "St. Elvis," he said, "would ever be the brightest spot in the whole world to him, and he should be always longing for home."

Edward Pryse began to grow somewhat weary and impatient, as week after week Ermyn put off their journey north. But at last it was settled, and she went back to Muirstane with her heart full of dutiful and strenuous resolutions. She must make it her home now, and try to do the very best among her people there. She would fill the old house with light and brightness for her father; he should never see her discontented again. And she did it.

Six years passed quietly and evenly away. The father and daughter gathered numerous pleasant friends and acquaintances around them, who were all charmed with the youthful mistress of the manor. Guests came to stay in the house, which soon became renowned for its hospitality and good cheer.

Edward Pryse never objected to visit St. Elvis when Ermyn wished it, but the place was so filled with painful associations to him that she soon saw it was a great effort. Besides, his health was very feeble now; the sorrows of his youth had broken him down, and made him an old man before his time. Therefore it was only at intervals that the child of St. Elvis was seen in her old loved haunts.

But the years brought new joys and interests to the sweet young wife Eudora, for some baby-voices now echoed in the pretty home. Lettice had her hands full, with helping to care for the imperious little autocrats of the nursery, who were always climbing about her, and making her their willing slave. There was Edward, the first-born, and Roger, his fair-haired brother, then toddling, lisping Ermyn, and sweet baby Ruth. Yes, Lettice held another little Ruth in her arms now, and the same old wooden cradle rocked her to sleep.

Sometimes as Mrs. Gwynne, with her foot on the rocker, looked within it, she would think it must be all a dream, and that she was back again in the cottage by the creek. But dear old granddad had sailed away to the golden shore; he was with her own little Ruth now, in the happy land above.

And Eudora! How the years had deepened and sweetened, as the stream of life flowed on, broadening and widening. She sometimes felt she was almost too happy, and feared lest shadows should begin to fall. But in her husband's love she felt calm and secure, and she knew that "the blessing of the Lord which maketh rich," adding no sorrow with it, was theirs, whatever might happen in the future.

What light and warmth there was for David in that sweet, peaceful home, whither he bent his tired footsteps at the close of each day's work! In the true spirit of wife-like devotion, hers was—

     "An ear that waits to catch
      A hand upon the latch;
A step that hastens its sweet rest to win.
      A world of care without,
      A world of strife shut out,
      A world of love shut in."

She was sitting thus one evening waiting and watching, busily plying her needle on a tiny garment that had been torn among the valley brambles. Lettice was upstairs in the nursery, and Eudora could hear her low voice hushing baby Ruth to sleep with a soothing lullaby. Eudora thought it was David's step on the gravel outside, and rose to meet him with her usual smile of welcome. But when she opened the door, to her no small surprise there stood Maurice Llewellyn.

"Why, Maurice," she said, "who would have thought of seeing you! Mary certainly told me you were not coming until next week."

"I did not think I could," he answered, "but I was able to get away sooner than I expected."

"Well, come in," quoth she, with a bright look, "the children would have been scrambling down to see you by this time if they had not been asleep in their cots."

Maurice followed Eudora into the pretty, well-lighted sitting-room, which now had its curtains drawn and a cheerful fire burning.

"Sit down," she added; "I am expecting Davie every minute, but he told me he should be later than usual, as he has gone some miles off to see a poor woman who is dangerously ill."

In spite of this cheery welcome, Maurice looked very dismal, as he took a seat opposite Eudora. She noticed his gloomy manner, and at once guessed the cause.

"I hoped I should have found Ermyn Pryse at home in the old Rectory, or staying with you," he said presently.

"And so you will," cried Eudora triumphantly. "Hasn't Mary heard that she is coming to-morrow or next day? Her father has promised to let her stay over Christmas, and I am to have her to myself part of the time for a visit to us."

"I am afraid it will not make much difference to me, Eudora," he said sadly; "I know you have guessed my secret long ere this, so I need take no pains to conceal it, but there is a hopeless gulf between us."

"Why?" asked Eudora innocently.

"Oh, I could never be beholden to my wife for money; not that it need be really so," he added, "for I would always work hard to earn an honourable living by my profession."

"Then where lies the difficulty?" queried Eudora.

"Her father would say directly that I wanted to marry her for her money; he is so hard-looking and unapproachable, and I am sure he dislikes me. I dare not attempt it."

"Poor man!" sighed Eudora. "Oh, Maurice, don't judge him harshly. The burden of grief he has had to carry has well-nigh crushed him."

"Yes, and for that reason he would hate me all the more for attempting to rob him of his only child," continued Maurice, in a dreary voice. "I do not know what is to be done. Each time I have seen her since your marriage, she has grown dearer to me; and how lovely she is, so modest and gentle! I could never love any one else as I do her. I would that she had always remained the lily of the valley my mother used to call her. I could then have reached forth my hand to gather the flower, and no one would have said me nay. But now it is quite hopeless. After looking once more on her beauty, I shall go away on a long voyage, and perhaps never come back again."

"Maurice, you are both wrong and selfish; you quite forget your mother, and how she yearns over you."

"You are unfeeling, Eudora."

"No, I am not, but I want you to pluck up your courage and face your trouble like a man."

"How can I?" pleaded Maurice piteously.

"Ask Ermyn yourself, the first opportunity you have, and hear what she says."

"Do you really think, then, I have a chance, Eudora? Don't offer me advice that I shall rue afterwards. Do you think she will listen?"

"I am not going to say anything about that, Maurice," replied Eudora, laughing. "How the fire has caught my face," she added, reaching up her hand to take down a screen from the mantelpiece. "Maurice, I wish you good speed on your errand. Nothing venture, nothing win! You know the old lines:

"He either fears his fate too much,
   Or his deserts are small,
 Who dares not put it to the touch,
   And win or lose it all."

"At worst, you can only be where you were before."

"God bless you, my kind friend!" cried Maurice, starting to his feet and grasping her hand. "You have done me good. I shall come to you for comfort if I am turned away a lonely, heart-broken man."

"What nonsense you talk!" cried Eudora, with a little rippling laugh. "You are just a donkey, Maurice—yes, I will say it—to go on working yourself up into this sentimental misery. I have no sympathy with that kind of thing, no, none whatever."

This homely thrust was the best possible medicine at that moment for Eudora's patient, though he winced a little. Yet he could not be angry with his playmate of former days, so he smiled somewhat grimly at her instead, and said he must go home.

"Mind you do as I tell you," she called out after him, as he went down the garden path.

And so it came to pass, about a fortnight after this conversation, that Ermyn Pryse was kneeling beside Mrs. Llewellyn, burying her face in the sofa cushions.

"I am so glad, so very glad, my darling!" murmured the voice of the invalid, in tender mother-tones. "You have been dear to me for many years, and now you will be my own daughter. Maurice was naughty not to tell me his secret before."

"He was afraid I should refuse him," whispered Ermyn; "and all because of that paltry money. Oh, Mrs. Llewellyn, I have loved him such a long, long time. Dora found it out somehow, but he did not know. Father is so good and kind about it too, which makes me quite happy, and," she added, with a tighter clasp round her friend's neck, "oh, I am so glad, for I shall always be the child of St. Elvis now! Our home in Scotland, dear though it will be, cannot break the link with the loved and lovely valley of my childhood."

Mrs. Llewellyn could only answer her with her tears and blessing:

   "'The Lord bless thee and keep thee, my child: the Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'"

Late that night, after the household were asleep, Silexa crept into what used to be Eudora's little room over the porch. It was all so unchanged; the grotesque chintz still grimaced at all comers, the ivy twigs and roses still tapped against the casement. What was different?

Silexa shaded the light, and looked into the small bed. There, instead of Eudora, lay the sleeping Ermyn, sweetly dreaming, and unconscious that human eyes were watching her. Her dark hair was flung over the pillow, and her rosy lips had a half smile on them.

"She will be very happy," thought her good aunt; "and there is no one in all the world more worthy of her love than Maurice Llewellyn. Oh, how strange and sweet is life!" she went on to herself, as softly she left the sleeper and closed the door. "It is no longer an intricate maze of dancing shadows. How dark it was once! How hopeless and dreary! Now I can look back and see the path, with all its windings, was leading me towards a better country, that is, an heavenly. I did not always think so. Life is the letter; death is but its envelope."

Silexa entered her own room, the very room where she had knelt on the night of that agonised conflict, when she thought her niece was dying. It all came back to her now, as sitting down she opened an old brown much-worn book and read:

   "God knoweth best what is needful for us, and all that He does is for our good. If we knew how much He loves us, we should be always ready to receive equally and with indifference from His hand the sweet and the bitter; all would please that came from Him. The sorest afflictions never appear intolerable, but when we see them in the wrong light. When we see them in the hand of God, who dispenses them; when we know it is our loving Father who abases and distresses us, our sufferings will lose their bitterness, and become even matter of consolation. Let all our employment be to know God: the more one knows Him, the more one desires to know Him. And as knowledge is commonly the measure of love, the deeper and more extensive our knowledge shall be, the greater will be our love; and if our love of God were great we should love Him equally in pains or pleasures. We cannot escape the dangers which abound in life without the actual and continual help of God; let us then pray to Him for it continually. How can we pray to Him without being with Him? How can we be with Him, but in thinking of Him often? And how can we often think of Him, but by a holy habit which we should form of it? We must 'know' before we can 'love.' In order to know God we must often think of Him; and when we come to love Him we shall then also think of Him often, for our heart will be with our treasure.'"

   "O Lord, I have known and believed the love that Thou hast to me," murmured Silexa, as she closed the book; "for Thou hast given Thy Son Jesus Christ to be the Saviour of the world.

   "'This God is our God for ever and ever: He will be our guide even unto death.'

   "'Only a few more shadows, and He will come.'"

    "And a sense of tune,
A satisfied love, meanwhile,
Which nothing earthly could despoil,
Sang on within her soul."

THE END

Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

EVERY GIRL'S BOOKSHELF

   Her Treasure of Truth. By H. Louisa Bedford.
   Beryl's Triumph. By Eglanton Thorne.
   Annie Carr. A Tale of Two Hemispheres.
   Ellen Tremaine. By M. Filleul.
   The Girls of Marleigh Grange. By M. M. Pollard.
   Little Maid Marigold. By Eleanora H. Stooke.
   The Mysterious Locket. By Ruth Lynn.
   The Mistress of the Manor. By E. Kirby.
   Anthony Cragg's Tenant. By Agnes Giberne.
   The Heart of a Friend. By Florence Wilmot.
   Brown Eyes and Blue. By Annie Mabel Severs.
   Arthur Glynn. By Ruth Lamb.
   Two Enthusiasts. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
   The Faith of Hilary Lovel. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
   The Romance of Miss Hilary, and other stories.
   Kitty and Kit. By Florence Wilmot.
   The Colleen's Choice, and other stories.
   Dick and Brownie. By Mabel Quiller-Couch.
   Alwyn Ravendale. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
   Half-a-dozen Sisters. By Evelyn Everett-Green.
   Brought out of Peril. By Emma Leslie.

LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY.