"It is, dear; but you will find, when you have to rouse yourself at tea-time, that you are cold and cross, and not at all fit to take your part in everything cheerfully."

Ada looked incredulous, but yielded to her mother's wish, and drew nearer the table, where a shaded lamp was casting a bright and pleasant light.

"It is so much nicer to do as one likes," she said, drawing her shoulders together and shivering slightly.

"Yes, at the time," answered Mrs. Arundel, quietly.

"People always forget," continued Ada, "that they used to like such things when they were young."

Her mamma gave her an arch smile, and Ada continued—

"I don't mean you do exactly; but people want us to grow wise all at once; now don't they, mamma?"

"Yes, dear, I dare say we do. We want to save you a number of vexations which we had to bear ourselves; but I am afraid you will not let us."

As Mrs. Arundel finished speaking, a bright girl of about twenty entered, followed by two little maidens of nearly seven and eight years respectively.

"Here you are!" exclaimed Ada, starting up. "I have been longing for you so; but this last hour I had forgotten all about you, I have been so busy reading."

"Yes, here we are," answered Nellie, coming forward and kissing her step-mamma. "We have had such a nice time; but how are all at home?"

"Oh, pretty well, dear. We missed you sadly though."

Nellie shook her head, and bent down to warm her hands, while the little girls began to throw off their wraps, and were drawing their chairs close to the warm blaze, when Nellie interposed—

"We must go up and take off our things, dears. It is of no use to settle down for a chat till we have got ready for tea. Come along."

Netta and Isabel gathered up their hats and jackets and hastened after their half-sister, only anxious to get back again as quickly as possible to their mamma and the fire.

"Now," said Ada, resuming her semi-grumble, "would you not say, mamma, that that was rather exasperating, if you didn't know that it really was the best to do?"

"That? What do you mean?"

"Why, Nellie walking those children off, and not saying a word. Don't you think we should all have enjoyed ourselves infinitely more if we had settled down to a chat then and there?"

"Perhaps—" said Mrs. Arundel, hesitating. "Only, you see, Ada, I know so well that it is the right thing, that I am not a fair judge."

"So do I," said Ada, half smiling. "Of course I know it; for instead of sitting and spoiling their hats, and rumpling their jackets, and scorching their best boots, and having after all to turn out and go upstairs, and dreading all the time that you would tell them to go, they will now come down warm and tidy and fresh, and they will sit here for ever so long, and be quite happy, and tell you all their doings without a break, and will feel besides that they had done right; and yet, mamma, I'd have sat here all the same, if I had been allowed, and faced the disagreeable for the sake of the luxury!"

Mrs. Arundel looked rather pained, and Ada leant over and gave her a warm kiss.

"You're a dear, good, sweet mother. And now I've done grumbling, and will be a good girl."

She closed her tempting book precipitately, drew from her pocket some tatting, and pushing her chair a little to one side to make room for the others when they came down, she commenced working.

Some readers are already acquainted with the Arundels; but to those who do not yet know them, it may be explained that they were a large family, living in a square in the middle of London, round which their father's practice as a physician lay among both rich and poor.

There were many who knew Dr. Arundel, not only as the clever and successful doctor, but as the friend who in dark hours of anxiety truly sympathized, while reminding them of One above, ruling and watching, waiting to be gracious, and to bless those who would call upon Him in their sorrow.

There were nine children—Walter and Nellie by the first wife, and seven since, the two youngest of whom, a baby boy of two years, and a little pet girl of four, were happily at tea in the nursery on this cold day in January.

Very soon the three sisters came down looking, as Ada had said, warm and tidy and fresh, or if they were not warm, they soon would be.

"Now tell us all your doings," exclaimed Ada.

"How did you leave Christina?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"She was very well, and very happy; and we really had so much to do, and were so busy over the Christmas tree, that the time flew by in an extraordinary way," answered Nellie.

"Did they have a Christmas tree?" said Ada rather regretfully.

"Yes, last night; just a very simple one. We did so want you, Ada! But papa had said so distinctly that you were needed at home, that Christina did not like to write."

Ada's colour came fast, and she went on with her tatting in silence, her eyes filling in spite of all her efforts when she remembered the delights she had missed, and pictured to herself how intensely she would have enjoyed it all. She knew, however, that it had not been "her turn" to go, and acquiesced in its being right; but still "how she would have enjoyed it!"

Nellie knew this well enough, and had offered to come home and send Ada instead; but Christina Arbuthnot, at whose house at Hampstead they had been staying, understood Dr. and Mrs. Arundel's wise decision, and would not allow Nellie to write and make the proposal.

"And did it go off well?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"Oh, lovely!" said Isabel. "It was so pretty; and such a lot of candles; you could not have counted them, mamma, if you had tried ever so, not when they were all alight."

Ada stealthily brushed away her gathered tears, and said, without looking up, "Did they have presents on the tree?"

"Yes, lots," replied Netta emphatically; "little toys, bags of sweetmeats, pincushions, boxes, and fruit."

"Who made the things?" said Ada.

"We did, a great many," answered Isabel; "but of course the toys were bought. We made little bags of net, and the sweetmeats looked so pretty, showing through them."

"Then we made some net into the shape of sailor boys, and pushed pink and white lozenges into their legs and arms, and, oh, they did look so funny hanging by cottons dangling about!"

Netta and Isabel laughed gleefully, and Ada smiled too at the thought.

"The little ones did stare so," said Nellie, "when they were introduced into the room; and the baby gave quite a crow of delight."

"What did you give the baby?" asked Ada.

"A soft dog," answered Netta, "that would squeak."

"And what did Alfy have?"

"A little horse and cart for his very own."

"Was he pleased?"

"Oh, yes; he walked away with it, and began playing at once; and every time anyone came near, he hugged it tight, and said, 'This is for my own, own self now.'"

"Poor little man," said Mrs. Arundel.

"Mamma always is full of pity," said Ada; "but I do not see why Alfy is poor at all."

Mrs. Arundel did not answer, but stroked Netta's head thoughtfully.

"Dear mamma," said she, looking up and appreciating the soft touch; then turning to Ada, "I know why mamma thinks Alfy 'poor;' and so he is, because he has no mother."

"But Christina makes him as happy as can be in her Orphanage," said Ada.

"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel; "and it is infinitely better than his running wild at the farm; and yet, Ada—"

Ada's eyes turned round the room, and a thought flashed across her; but she put it away hastily and almost angrily. "Another time," she said to herself; "not now on any account."

Just at this moment, the door was opened to admit the entrance of an invalid boy, who lay at full length on a light frame, so arranged that it could be carried up and down stairs easily, and placed upon an ordinary sofa without disturbing him.

Mrs. Arundel sometimes wondered what they would do when the now slender form should be too heavy to be carried, but she checked the thought; for, after all, did it not belong to the cares of to-morrow? And are we not told over and over that these are not to harass us?

Carrying one end of the couch was Simmons, the housemaid, and the other, little Tom's brother Arthur, a well-grown boy of fifteen. Mrs. Arundel rose, and made way for them to place him on the sofa, and then, when he was comfortable, the little girls greeted him, while Nellie sat down by him and took his hand.

"I have missed you so, Nellie," he said, looking up in her face.

"I have brought something for you off the Christmas tree," answered Nellie.

"Have you really? How kind of you."

"It is from Christina. It was her tree, you know."

"What is it?" asked Tom, looking curiously at Nellie's hand, which was disappearing into her pocket.

"It is a very wonderful knife," answered she, producing it; and while his thin little fingers explored its mysteries, all the others drew near to watch, Arthur holding the lamp above Netta's head that they might all see as well as possible.

There was a large blade and a small blade; there was a little saw, a gimlet, a bradawl, a tiny screwdriver, and a little pair of pincers.

Tom's eyes sparkled, and even Arthur would not have disdained the pretty present.

"Shall I ever be able to use any of them?" asked Tom.

"Yes, we think you will. Christina has sent you some light wood, and directions how to make various little things; and she thought, Tom, you might perhaps like to do something for the missionaries."

"I should very much, if I could."

"We will see then some morning when you are extra well."

"All right," answered Tom, shutting up the different parts of his knife with great pride, and then it lay in his hand, while he turned a little to refresh himself with a sight of his sisters and his dear Nellie. He thought how nice they all looked in their plain, warm winter dresses, and then his eyes wandered to his mother.

She was the very light of Tom's eyes. How he loved to see her come in and out. There were times, seeming long ago now to little Tom, but not much more than a year really, when he had been fretful and impatient to this loved mother, adding greatly to her cares by repining at his helpless state, and grumbling at his deprivations. He had perhaps loved her then as much as he did now; but how different was the whole of his life!

The children sometimes said, "We think Tom is getting better;" but Tom knew it was not so.

No, there was just this difference: before, he had tried to bear his affliction as well as he knew how, while secretly chafing against the accident which had deprived him of every pleasure in life, and unable to help venting his misery on his tender mother.

Now he had learnt a different lesson. He found one beautiful summer day, that there was another life beyond this one, that these short years are but as a drop in the ocean of eternity. He found that God had allowed him to be a sufferer; and the same God who had sent him such pain and weariness had given him also an assurance that He loved him.

Loved him! Was it possible this could be love? Could the bitterest trial that could enter little Tom's imagination be sent in love?

He found out that it was, it must be. He who had sent this blow to Tom had also given up His own Son to die for him. Greater love could not be; and he believed that love, and rested in it, and found peace.

So from that time, little Tom had been a different boy. If ever the old repining feeling came over him, he would remember words which had often comforted him, and would again repeat them over to himself.

One day he gave Nellie a shilling, and asked her in a whisper to buy him a little set of scales. She did so, wondering what he could want them for. He did not explain; but a few days afterwards, she found him busy covering two match-boxes with white paper, and painting them to imitate corded packages.

She examined one, and saw painted on the side "L. A."; and turning to the other, took it up, and found to her surprise, it was quite heavy.

"What are you making, Tom dear?" she asked.

He smiled slightly, and leaning over to a little box on his table, produced the scales, and placing one package in one side, and the other package in the other side, asked her to hang them up for him somewhere where he could see them.

"But what for, Tom dear?" she said, rising to get a nail. "What is the meaning of the letters on the parcels?"

"'L. A.' is my luggage now," said Tom, "and 'W. G.' is my luggage by-and-by."

Nellie looked at him enquiringly, and Tom said, though his lips quivered a little, "They are to remind me—Light Affliction now, Weight of Glory afterwards."

Nellie buried her head on his pillow, and clasped her arms round him. "Oh, Tom! Poor little Tom! Dear little Tom!"

And then he whispered tenderly, though with a sob in his voice—

"'These light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' For, Nellie darling, the things that we see are but for a time, but the things we do not see are for ever."

* * * * * *

On this evening of their return from Hampstead, Tom lay looking at them all, and when Dr. Arundel came in, they all gathered round the tea-table.

Then they told their little histories over again, with some new ones in addition; and the evening flew away so fast that Netta and Isabel were astonished when their mamma said, "It is eight o'clock, my dears; and you must go to bed."

Tom generally was glad to retire soon after tea; the days were long enough for him; but on rare occasions, when his mother saw he was interested, she did not break in on his happiness, but let him enjoy as much as he could.

When Ada laid her head on her pillow that night, after she had said good-night to Nellie, the thought which she had banished so peremptorily would force itself unbidden upon her.

This was the thought, and it made her shiver, "What would home be without mamma?"

Her mind went round and round the corners of the house—the sitting-rooms, the bedrooms, the nursery; and for once in her life, Ada Arundel was thoroughly frightened at the desolation her imagination had conjured up.

A soft footstep entered the dark room, a footstep she knew and loved.

"Is either of you awake, dears?" said a gentle voice.

"I am, mamma," answered Ada, starting up with such an overpowering sense of relief that she burst into tears.

"I was only afraid of frightening you," answered Mrs. Arundel. "I came up for the glycerine."

"Oh, mamma, do kiss me!" said Ada in a broken voice.

Mrs. Arundel made her way to the side of the bed, and, feeling for her eldest daughter, folded her in her arms.

"Oh, mamma," said Ada again, "I did not know I loved you so much!"

"My dear," questioned Mrs. Arundel, while she kissed the wet face fondly.

"Oh, don't leave us, mamma!" sobbed Ada.

"Not if it is God's will," gently answered her mother. "It would be hard to think of you without me; but, Ada, my child, do not cry about it now; tell it all to God. He knows best, my dear."

Kissing her again, Mrs. Arundel tucked her up smoothed her hair, wiped away her tears, and turned to the dressing-table.

Ada jumped out of bed, and gave her the glycerine, and with one more kiss jumped in again, and buried her head far beneath the clothes.

If she fought a hard battle there with her anxious fears, there was One knew it; and if she came off victorious and at rest, there was One who proved Himself, as He has so often done before, "a refuge from the storm; a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall."

[CHAPTER II.]

A PEEP AT CHRISTINA.

IT may be remembered that Christina Arbuthnot was an orphan. She had met the Arundels rather more than a year before this at the sea-side, and had become very intimate with them; and eventually she had accepted Dr. Arundel's eldest son, who was now in India.

She had been left by her father in comfortable circumstances, and had intended to devote her life to bringing up little friendless orphans to usefulness and happiness.

Then Walter Arundel had come upon the scene, and had fixed all his life's hopes on winning her.

Christina had hesitated; at first she had felt it to be impossible to yield to his wishes; for there was a grave far away where a great part of her heart lay buried. But after a time, thinking more of Walter than of herself, she had consented, and had settled down at Hampstead with her orphan children quietly content, full more of the present, perhaps, than of the future.

Her house, with its large garden, pleasant rooms, and glorious sunshine, was a home in which any one far less cheerfully constituted might have been happy; and Christina was happy. She loved her aunt, who lived with her; she loved her little orphan children; and the days passed away in her care for both.

There was one little child, "the baby," who had grown very dear to Christina; for her story had been a sad one, and she had been sent to Hampstead under peculiar circumstances. She was at this time a toddling little mite of eighteen months old, with fair hair and white cheeks, in which a tender little colour was beginning to be visible, which was watched by all the inmates of Sunnyside with great interest.

Whether Margaret Fenton, the nurse, or Margaret's own little daughter, Maggie, or Christina herself, loved baby Alice best, was a problem that little Maggie often tried to solve, and she generally ended it satisfactorily by saying in an assured little tone to her mother, "At any rate, God loves her best of all!"

There was, however, no doubt as to which of her devoted admirers baby loved best. Dearly as she liked nurse Margaret, happily as she played with Maggie, her smile of sweetest welcome was reserved for Christina, and it was to her she would go in preference to anyone else.

It was generally understood in the household that, when the young mistress was married, little Alice Forbes was not to be parted from her.

One morning early in January, the nursery door opened, after a slight tap, and Ada Arundel, dressed in hat and jacket, walked into the room.

"Miss Ada, you quite startled me!" said Margaret, looking up pleasantly in the bright young face. "It seems a long time since you were here."

"Yes, I've been dutiful at home, and so I couldn't come. Where's Miss Arbuthnot?"

"She has gone out into the town to get a few things, I believe, miss."

"Is she alone?" asked Ada, glancing round the nearly empty nursery.

"Oh, no! Alfy and Maggie are with her."

"I think I shall wander down the town too, presently, when I am warm, and see if I can find her. I wonder I did not meet her as I came."

"She might be in a shop," suggested Margaret.

"Yes, I daresay she was. And how is 'baby Alice,' Margaret?"

Their eyes turned towards the hearthrug where the little maid was seated. Her warm winter frock was covered by a snowy pinafore, and her flaxen hair was neatly parted, with an attempt at two or three soft little curls.

"She looks pretty well?" said Ada, half questioningly.

"Yes," said Margaret, also with a slight hesitation in her voice, "but she wants a great deal of care, Miss Ada; I doubt if she will ever be strong."

Ada took her up on her lap, and began to talk to her in baby language, Alice staring at her with grave eyes for some moments, and then holding out her arms, with quivering lips, to her nurse.

"She is so shy," said Margaret apologetically, "we have quite a trouble with her sometimes; but we do love her so dearly!" And she fondly kissed the fair little neck, and held her close to her.

"I suppose I am warm now," said Ada, rising; "but your heath is bitterly cold at the open part there, Margaret."

"But very healthy," added Margaret.

Ada made her way once more over the top of the heath—"the abode of the zephyrs," she told Christina it ought to be called—and soon found herself in the midst of the shops.

After walking up and down for a few minutes, she was touched on the hand by a little girl, and was quickly drawn into a draper's shop, where she found Christina seated, while close to her, with very stolid countenance, Alfy Ross was perched, watching the proceedings gravely and without surprise.

"Here you are," exclaimed Ada; "I began to think I should miss you after all."

"It was Maggie spied you; she always knows what is going on, don't you, Maggie?"

Maggie answered by a little smile; then Christina counted her change, and they all turned homewards.

When they entered the hall at Sunnyside, Christina told the children to go at once to the play-room.

"I don't want to," said Alfy, making towards the dining-room.

"Come along, Alfy," said Maggie; "I've got something to show you."

Alfy, still persisted that "he didn't want to," and walked straight into the other room.

"Alfy," said Christina firmly, "come at once, as I told you."

Alfy held on by the table, and looked determined not to give in.

Christina took no more notice, but closing the door upon him, went up with Ada to take off their things.

"Do you often have him troublesome?" asked Ada, noticing a shade upon Christina's usually calm face.

"Yes; he is very difficult to manage; but I have found out now what to do when he is naughty. I take no notice of him at all."

"Does he care for that?" asked Ada.

"Oh, dear, yes, in the end. But it always makes me sorrowful when they are naughty, so you must not mind, Ada."

"Is Maggie ever tiresome?"

"Never to me. She is the sweetest little thing, and so well brought up. Oh, if all were like Maggie, there would be no trouble. But sometimes Margaret fears whether she has will enough of her own."

"Oh, dear!" said Ada. "One has too much, and one too little. Why, Christina, I am always struggling because I have too much."

Christina smiled sympathizingly. "Yes, Ada; so it is."

"Now at home," pursued Ada, "I do dislike to give in to Nellie, dearly as I love her. She is so methodical, and nice, and wise; and I am 'harum-scarum,' and full of spirits, and when I am wild to do some outlandish thing, she advises me not—almost commands me—says mamma would not wish it; and then up rises my will, and I can't give in."

"But Nellie does not do it to destroy your pleasure, dear Ada, I am sure. Can you not try to consider whether it would be your mamma's wish?"

"I do, Christina; but don't you think it is a little hard to be ruled by elder sisters?"

"I daresay it is," answered Christina; "but I often wish I had one."

"Well, I am afraid I'm not a good temper, and that makes me so annoyed over little things."

"So you feel it is like a sore place that you have just got to bear."

Ada looked up at the tone in which Christina said this, and found there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

"Well, what else can I do?" she asked, a little nettled.

"When we have sore places, what do we do?"

"Bear them."

"Nothing else?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do we not seek a cure?"

"There's no cure for bad temper."

"Is there not? Is there no balm that can be applied? No touch that can soothe and heal?"

"Oh, well," said Ada, softening, "I daresay there is in that way. But do you really think now, Christina, that if I felt a bad temper coming, I could get it cured before it got beyond me?"

"Yes; if you were willing to have it cured, most certainly. Try it, Ada.

"'Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.'"

"I'll remember that," said Ada, with that tenderness in her face which Christina loved to see in the proud young girl. So she kissed her lovingly, and they went down stairs.

Christina went through the dining-room purposely, and entered the play-room from that way. Margaret was at work, baby Alice slept in a crib in the corner, and Maggie was seated at the table doing her lessons.

Christina showed Margaret her purchases, and after glancing at the baby, she and Ada went into the drawing room.

Christina stirred up the fire and drew a chair close, and telling Ada to sit there, pushed one forward for herself.

"It will soon be dinner-time, but we can have a chat first. Must you be home by dark?"

"Yes; I am to leave at three o'clock."

"Ada, I believe I have found another little child!"

"Have you? Where?"

"You know I have not increased the numbers as much as I at first intended. Somehow, as I knew more about it, the responsibility seemed very great, and I thought it would be wiser to wait till—"

"Till Walter comes to share it, I suppose?" said Ada archly.

"Partly, but not wholly, Ada. I do not think it would be right to take more children than I could provide for out of my own funds, if circumstances did not permit of my taking care of them myself."

"I see," said Ada.

"But, however," continued Christina, "I have found a fourth child, and I am to fetch him this afternoon."

"Are you? Oh, do tell me."

"It is a very sad case, Ada; a drunken mother. I was travelling home from a short visit to some relations in the North last week, as you know, and when the bustle of settling ourselves in our carriage was over, and everyone subsided into quiescence, I looked round me, as I generally do, trying to fancy what homes my fellow-travellers come from, and where they are going to."

"Do you?" said Ada. "How funny."

"At the other end of the carriage was a man in shabby-genteel clothes, holding on his knee a baby of about eighteen months old. Oh, his face, Ada! I said to myself—for I saw he was alone, and the child had been dressed by no careful, loving hands—I said to myself, 'You have lost your wife, and are obliged to take your baby somewhere to be looked after.' The child sat very still; it seemed as if want of love and cherishing had pressed the life out of its little nature, and my heart ached for it."

"What a loving heart you have," said Ada, as she gazed at the beautiful face, with its eyes full of tears.

"By-and-by, the man began talking to the person next him, and I caught the words, 'It's the last of eight. I'm taking him away from his mother; she is no mother to him, and I can bear it no longer.'

"How hopelessly sad was the tone of those words.

"When the carriage cleared at Peterborough, and we were left alone, I drew nearer to him, and asked if I should hold the baby for a few minutes. I assure you its quietness was touching. It seemed unaccustomed to notice or cheerfulness, and when I cooed at him, he looked wonderingly at me with no answering smile."

"Poor little baby!" said Ada.

"Then the broken-hearted father told me his story, impelled to it, I suppose, by my sympathy and his own sad need.

"He had married for love, and for years had been perfectly happy.

"He and his wife kept a draper's shop in York, and had got on comfortably, and been able to educate their children. By-and-by, he noticed a gradual change in his wife; he thought it was illness, and used to comfort and nurse her with the utmost solicitude. But the often-recurring symptoms, which no doctoring relieved, at last made him consult a physician, who took him aside and told him what was the cause of it all.

"'She takes spirits secretly,' he said.

"Then the poor man returned to his ruined home.

"He tried to stop it by entreaty, by denial, by commands; all to no purpose. The business was slighted, the children were neglected, the home was left ungoverned, and he had to remove one child after another from her influence.

"At first she had promised amendment, but the craving for the exciting, stimulating glass was too strong to be withstood, and she let all her resolutions go to the winds.

"The tale, Ada, was long and very, very sad. The climax of taking the baby away was brought about by the wretched father finding its cradle on fire on the previous night, while its mother slept heavily by its side.

"I asked him what he intended doing with the little one.

"'I don't know,' he said. 'To tell you the truth, I am taking it without warning to my sisters; but she has a large family, and I don't know that she can possibly take it. Folks don't want other people's babies,' he added, sadly smiling, while he clasped it tighter in his arms.

"The little fellow looked up then, and gave the first faint smile I had seen.

"Then I told him that if his sister could not have it, he could come to me, for that I knew some one who took care of such little ones. I gave him my address, and told him, you may be sure, where the only comfort and help could be found; and so we parted, he to his sister's, and I to Hampstead.

"The next morning, true to my expectation, he came; not, however, bringing the little boy with him. He soon told me that he had found his sister, in poor health and poor circumstances; that she had, in spite of this, promised to take the child for a few months, till he could see what could be done; but she had so evidently offered this in sisterly love, without really the ability to carry it out, that he had come to me to ask my advice, and to enquire about the home I spoke of.

"What could I do, Ada? I told him all, and I shall never forget how he went to the window and stood struggling with his emotion. Then he turned round and took my hand in his, and blessed me, and saying a smothered word about the baby being his only joy, and about writing to explain, he hurried out of the house, too much overcome to say anything more.

"He, however, came back in an hour, and it was arranged that the aunt should keep the baby for a week, and then I should fetch it here.

"Oh, Ada, I do believe that the poor father went back to York with a little bit of hope in his heart; for he wrote to me afterwards, and told me that he had found, as I had said, that 'God was a refuge and strength, and a very present help in time of trouble.'"

The maid now entered and announced dinner, and Christina rose and led the way into the dining-room once more.

Ada whispered on the way, "What shall you do with Alfy?"

But she received no answer, as they were already in the room. There stood the poor little man, looking unhappy enough, by the table; and there sat Maggie, as sweet and smiling as could be, opposite.

Christina asked a blessing, and served the dinner without taking the smallest notice of the offender. He followed the plates in Ellen's hands with his eyes, but did not deign to turn his head.

The meat was eaten and removed, and the pudding came on before he moved a finger. Ada looked appealingly towards Christina, who, however, shook her head. Ellen was just taking up the pudding-dish to carry it out, when Alfy's bravery gave way, and with a sob in his voice he turned to Christina, and, hiding his curly head against her, said, "I sorry, auntie!"

"That's a darling!" said Christina.

And Ada could not help admiring the motherliness which welcomed the first signs of relenting, and caused her to kiss the wet cheek and receive him instantly into favour.

Alfy's dinner was perhaps rather light that day; for he missed his meat altogether. Christina helped him to a large share of pudding, however, but did not keep it on the table for more.

"You can have as much bread with it as you want, dear," she said; "but you know it is a sad truth, that if we do not do right, we must suffer for it."

So a sunny little face climbed up to the table, and a little face opposite gave an angel's smile to welcome him.

[CHAPTER III.]

HOME-SICK.

"WELL, Nellie," said Ada, turning round from a drawer she was sorting over, "what we shall do with you away at grandmamma's all this time I cannot imagine."

Nellie looked up from the depths of the trunk before her, and, pushing a pair of stockings hard into its corner, answered by a sigh.

"There," exclaimed Ada, "now I've depressed you. Of course we shall get on all right; and you like to be missed, don't you, Nellie?"

"Oh, I don't know! I wish I were not going."

"What a goose I am," said Ada, coming over and seating herself on the floor by the trunk. "You will be glad when you are once off. I know the feeling of home-sickness when one is packing up."

Nellie brushed away two or three tears, and went on laying-in her clothes, in silence.

"You are tired," said Ada ruefully, "and I have worried you. We shall get on very nicely; and mamma says you really do want a thorough change."

"The worst is, Ada," answered Nellie, choking down a thick feeling in her throat, "I am afraid mamma looks as if she ought to have 'a thorough change,' and I do not quite see how she is to have it."

"She is to go away with papa when you come back."

"Yes, I know."

"That will not be long, Nellie; and papa could not go now if it were ever so."

"No, no, Ada. Come, I am tired and stupid, and have got worried; but I will try and cheer up."

Ada looked in her face kindly, and went back to her drawer; while Nellie placed the last few things in the box, and then got up and began to prepare for tea.

"Leave that drawer to me to finish, dear," she said at last.

"Why?"

"Because I know where the things go, and shall be able to find them when I come back."

"Very well; and it is almost tea-time, so I will go and see about it. It will be only one day before I shall have it for my duty."

She went downstairs, and Nellie was left alone. She would have given something to have had a "good cry;" but she had a great aversion to red eyes and anxious questions; and after a few rather bitter tears, she washed her face and smoothed her hair, and then stood looking out on the May sunshine across the square, and wishing from the bottom of her heart she were not going.

Her eye fell upon her Bible lying close to her, and the sight of it reminded her that she never sought its help in vain. She opened the leaves, thinking, "This is my Father's message, straight from Him to me; it must comfort me." She turned over the pages at the Psalms till her eyes fell upon some of her favourite words—words that had been her trust many times before:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."

Then she knelt down at the table, and laid her head on the open page, and before long her heart had found its rest again, "under the shadow of the Almighty." So it was a cheerful face that came down to tea, and no one but Ada knew that there had been that bit of home-sickness and fear, and she kept it to herself; for Ada "hated gossip," and if she found out someone's thoughts by accident, she always felt it to be a sacred trust, in great things or small.

The evening passed away in games and reading, and the next morning all were early; for Nellie's train started from Waterloo at ten o'clock.

Mrs. Arundel and Dolly were to go to see her off. Arthur and Ada would both have enjoyed to do this; but then school could on no account be neglected, and so they could only grumble and wish her good-bye, with many regrets at the inexorable nature of their duties.

Netta, Isabel, and Dolly were to have lessons with their mother during Nellie's absence, and they looked forward to this as a great treat.

Mrs. Arundel usually sat with little Tom during the hours of morning school, after she had got through her housekeeping; and when he heard that he was to be deprived of his tender nurse, he petitioned that "if mamma did not mind, could they all come up and have school in the nursery with him?"

The little girls considered this was a very good idea, as something fresh and interesting, and they also wished to compare their own attainments with their brother's. So it was arranged; but to-day was to be a holiday, because mamma would be too tired when she got back from Waterloo.

By nine o'clock the goodbyes were said, and they were driving in a cab through the rattling streets of London. Nellie held her step-mother's hand, but she did not say many words. Mrs. Arundel talked little chit-chat, asked her if her keys were safe and her purse; but seeing the rather tremulous lips, she did not touch on any subjects nearer their hearts than ordinary little travelling talk.

Dolly was kneeling up on the front seat of the cab enjoying herself after the manner of children, and was quite sorry when, after an extra whip-up of his poor horse, the cabman drove into the station.

They were in good time, and soon Nellie was placed in her corner, and Mrs. Arundel and Dolly stood close to the carriage window, sending messages to grandmamma and Aunt Ruth, and hoping she would not forget to write.

"Now, mamma," said Nellie, leaning out of the still open door, "you will not let the thought of your visit to the Lakes slip away to nothing, will you?"

"Oh no, dear; I do not suppose so. I believe papa fully intends it."

Nellie gave her a loving look, but just then the guard came to shut the door, and they drew back. Then Dolly was lifted by her mamma for one more kiss, Nellie pressed her lips on the dear face which always was so peaceful and true, and then there was a whistle, a strange little pause on the platform, and insensibly, almost, the train moved on, and Mrs. Arundel, and Dolly, and London were left behind.

[CHAPTER IV.]

A VISIT TO FAIRLEIGH.

WHEN Nellie's train steamed into the station at Shellford, she caught sight of her grandmamma's little pony carriage waiting outside, and before she had time to open the door, a young lady came up to it, and said pleasantly, "Are you Miss Arundel?"

"Yes," said Nellie, gathering her packages together and quickly alighting, "grandmamma said you would meet me."

When they were seated in the little carriage, Nellie felt somewhat shy, for the young girl who sat beside her was quite a stranger to her, though she had heard a good deal of her.

Hope Elliot was one of a large family. She had a sister and a brother older than herself, and a number younger. Within the last three years she had lost her father, and the family had moved from Exeter, and had settled in Shellford, in order to live more economically.

Hope's eldest sister was married, and lived in London, whither also her brother was gone, and was doing well in business.

The second sister, Maude, was now her mother's right hand, and it had come to pass that Hope had become "a right hand" to Mrs. Arundel, at Fairleigh.

Soon after Mrs. Elliot had come to live at Shellford, Mrs. Arundel had found out all about her; and, ever ready to shed a little sunshine into lives that seemed to be dark, she called on the desolate widow, and invited some of her young people to come up and enjoy her garden.

Mrs. Elliot could not but be struck by the beautiful old lady, and responded most gladly to the invitation. An intimacy soon sprang up, and Mrs. Arundel and Aunt Ruth found an interest in the large family, while they on their part felt that life was not so utterly blank, now they knew the inmates of Fairleigh, and could look forward to visits and errands there.

About Christmas, when Nellie had been visiting Christina in London, Mrs. Arundel's maid, who had been with her for many years, broke her leg, and became unable to wait upon her mistress. Hope Elliot happened to call upon Mrs. Arundel on the day of the accident, and finding at what a loss the dear old lady would be without her attendant, she asked if she might come for a few days and help them.

Mrs. Arundel had looked up in her face in sudden astonishment, and when she met the candid eyes, had taken her hand and given it a warm squeeze. "Thank you, my dear," she had said simply, and with grave courtesy, "I know you mean what you say, and I shall be very glad to have you."

So Hope had taken up her abode at Fairleigh, and had never left it since for many hours; and thus it came to pass that she was sitting by Nellie, driving her home from the station on that beautiful May day.

"I cannot think how you knew me," said Nellie, for the sake of saying something.

Hope laughed. "We have not so many bright young ladies stop here that I should be likely to mistake. You seemed ready to get out."

"Of course I was; I forgot that."

Hope was silent; and in a few minutes they turned in at the gate of Fairleigh, and passed under the tender green trees of the little avenue that led up to the house.

The sound of the wheels brought the maid to the door, and Nellie was quickly led into the old-fashioned hall.

In an instant, her grandmamma's two hands were placed on her two shoulders, and she received the warmest of kisses, and the most loving of welcomes.

"My dear," said her grandmamma, holding her hand close, and leading her into the drawing room, "you are like a bit of your father to me; I am so glad to see you."

Nellie smiled brightly in answer, and then asked for "Aunt Ruth."

"She is pretty well to-day, my dear, and perhaps will be able—"

They all turned; for entering at the moment, with almost noiseless step, was Nellie's invalid aunt.

"I have just come to give you one kiss, darling, and to ask you how you have travelled, and how they all are at home?"

"Oh, very nicely, thank you, dear auntie! And I have had a very good journey. It is so sweet to be at dear Fairleigh again."

"You must be tired," answered her aunt, "and so our dear Hope will take you upstairs. Hope is quite like a grandchild here, and is a great comfort to us."

"How lovely everything smells!" exclaimed Nellie, as she entered the fresh country bedroom, with its snowy curtains, pretty chintzes, and dainty little ornaments.

Hope looked surprised. "Does it? I thought every place smelt alike."

"Oh no," said Nellie. "Fairleigh smells like no other place in the world. It is the freshness, and the flowers, and the absence of smoke and dust, I suppose, so different from London."

"Ah! I have never been to London."

"It is nothing to be regretted," said the little London lady, who was as tired of it as she could be.

Hope smiled. "You must tell me all about it, Miss Arundel."

"Please call me Nellie; I feel you a sort of cousin, you know; and we shall have to get used to each other," she added, looking up shyly.

"Very well," said Hope; "and now I shall leave you to get ready for tea, which I am sure you must be wanting; it is such a tedious journey. You know your way down?"

"Oh yes; I shall not be very long."

When Hope closed the door, and Nellie was alone, she sat down by the dressing-table, and looked round her. What a gulf lay between the beginning of this day and the end. Her sympathies and thoughts this morning were all centered in her busy home. Now everything was strange, and her grandmamma, Aunt Ruth, Fairleigh, and Hope Elliot, filled her mind.

She got up again and went to the window. It looked over a piece of the kitchen garden, kept in beautiful order, then beyond was the field where her grandmamma's cows were feeding, and beyond that, the greenest of hedges, some fine old elms, and a piece of fiat, well-wooded country, which Nellie loved inexpressibly.

The other window looked over a part of the flower garden, divided from the orchard by a splendid yew hedge. As she looked at the orchard, Nellie held her breath, and a strange feeling came over her. It was one mass of blossom; snowy cherry-trees, green and white pear, and rosy apple-trees mingled their branches together in such wonderful luxuriance that Nellie stood entranced.

With a deep-drawn sigh, she turned at last to take off her things, and feared Hope would think she had been a long time.

When she descended to the drawing room, her grandmamma rose, and taking her arm, to which she gave a loving pressure, led the way into the dining-room, while Hope followed.

"You still pour out tea, grandmamma?" said Nellie, as they seated themselves.

"Yes, my dear," answered Mrs. Arundel, emphatically; "and you will find it is very nice tea, and our old-fashioned bread and butter just the same as ever."

When tea was over, Mrs. Arundel asked Hope to ring the bell for prayers; after which they all went into the drawing room, and Mrs. Arundel took up a book of travels she was reading, while the two girls brought their work and listened to her pleasant voice.

When she retired, which she did rather early, Hope and Nellie were left together to make the best of each other.

They were both rather shy, and the conversation was not as lively as Nellie wished she could have made it.

"Shall we go into the garden?" asked Hope.

Nellie willingly assented; so they stepped through the glass-door on to the shady lawn.

"Here is our favourite place," said Hope, leading the way to a small sheltered seat under the spreading branches of an elm.

Nellie did not need telling, and they sat down, and under the influence of the peaceful evening began to feel more at home.

"They will miss you very much," said Hope.

"I am afraid they will; but mamma wished me so much to come."

"Yes, it is always right for the busy one to get a change," said Hope.

"I suppose so," answered Nellie doubtfully.

"That was partly why my mamma was so pleased for me to come here," resumed Hope. "I was so busy at home all day long, and my next sister had not much opportunity to do what she would otherwise have been willing to do."

"You like it, I suppose?" said Nellie, smiling.

"Very much indeed. I love dear Mrs. Arundel so much; and so I do 'Aunt Ruth,' as she allows me to call her."

"Do you often go home?"

"Two or three times a week I run down and say, 'How do you do?' to mamma; but my sister Maude laughingly tells me to keep to my own ground!"

"You have plenty of sisters and brothers, haven't you?"

"Yes," answered Hope; "but we get along very well. Mamma is very good to us, and tries to forget her own sorrows to cheer us."

"That is so like mothers," said Nellie.

"Some mothers," answered Hope. "But here is Maude coming across the lawn to welcome you; so you will see some of us to-night, and some to-morrow, and next week we expect our brother Wilmot down from London to spend his holiday; then you will have seen all but one."

[CHAPTER V.]

AUNT RUTH.

"NOW, Nellie, my dear," said Aunt Ruth, as they were seated together at work in the drawing room the next morning, "tell me all about them at home."

Nellie looked up in her aunt's face—a face still young for the actual age; a face that had lived through seas of suffering, but which was the index of a heart that rested now, and ever had rested, on the Rock of Ages.

"How can I begin to tell you, dear aunt?"

"Anything will be welcome, darling; but first your dear papa."

"I think he is just as usual," answered Nellie. "He always is just the same."

Aunt Ruth smiled. "Happy for you he is, dear."

Nellie looked thoughtfully out of the window into the sunny garden, and then she added, "We think him rather more grey, Aunt Ruth, since uncle's illness and death. I fear he will never wholly get over that."

"No, dear, I am afraid not," answered Miss Arundel, a look of pain crossing her face, but this was quickly followed by a look of peace as she glanced towards the blue sky.

"Then your dear mamma?"

"We do not think her very well; but papa has not said anything about being anxious."

"I have thought from her letters that she was not very strong."

Nellie's heart sank a little, and a nameless fear crept over her.

Aunt Ruth looked in her face, and seemed to understand. She put out her hand and took hold of Nellie's, saying reassuringly:

"'All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth.'"

Nellie's eyes filled. How wonderful it was that, all the world over, the words of the blessed Book comforted those who sought its aid:

"Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever."

"And you have good news from Walter?"

"Oh, yes!" said Nellie, brightening. "He is very well, and working hard, and longing to come home."

"It will be a great change for you all, if he settles in England."

"I think he will, Aunt Ruth. Christina does not like India very much; and then, again, Walter wants to be near papa. It seems hard that papa should lose his eldest son altogether."

"And Christina is happy to wait so long?"

"Oh, yes! In fact, she much prefers it. She says she could not have thought of it sooner, partly because of the little children."

"What will be done with them, Nellie, when she is married? Has anything been arranged? You know, dear, letters do not tell me all I want to know."

"I do not think it is quite decided. She has only four little children, and I believe she intends, if Walter agrees, to maintain them and educate them just the same. She says if any very nice home were offered for one of them, she might accept; but she loves them so much that I do not know how she could part with them."

"She is a sweet girl, is she not?"

"Very sweet; and so beautiful! She is most accomplished; and to watch her playing with the little children, and condescending to their pranks and fun, is quite amusing to me."

"I wish I could see her," said Aunt Ruth.

"She is one of the reliable people," said Nellie, "without being an atom stuck-up or stiff. The tenderest heart, but yet so firm and pure."

Aunt Ruth looked up in Nellie's glowing face. "You are a good little lover, Nellie," she said, smiling.

"It is quite true," answered Nellie, somewhat abashed, "and not at all because Walter thinks so. I felt it long before I knew anything about that."

"And now, Nellie, I must tell you about the Elliots. They are very nice people, and Hope is the greatest comfort to us. I can hardly fancy ourselves living without her now. I am sure you and she will be happy together. But, you know, Nellie, they all need the one thing. It is so sad to see a large family without that. Hope tells me her eldest brother thinks as we do; but she does not profess to care about it herself.

"Poor Mrs. Elliot has been weighed down with cares for many years, and knows not that, perhaps, they have been permitted, as George Herbert says, 'that at least if goodness lead her not, yet weariness may toss her to His breast.' I pray it may be so. Their being at Shellford will add very much to your pleasure, I think, dear, as they are a pleasant, bright family, and perhaps, Nellie, you will have some little mission for them."

Aunt Ruth drew the young face to her, and kissed it fondly.

"My dear child," she said, "our Heavenly Father leads us all in different paths; but they are all His paths—all lead straight to His heavenly home, and we must try and be willing to walk in our own faithfully and joyfully. Some paths are full of suffering, others are full of work; but still each, let us remember as we walk along in it day by day, is His path, made ready for our feet."

"Yes, dear aunt," said Nellie, looking up in the worn face, and knowing that these words came from a heart which had proved what it said.

[CHAPTER VI.]

CAUGHT BY THE TIDE.

"MAUDE!" called Mrs. Elliot from the breakfast-parlour. "Maude! Are we not late this morning?"

"No, mamma; or at least only five minutes," answered a handsome girl coming forth from the kitchen, rolling up an apron which she had just taken off.

"I was afraid it was more, my dear."

"I have done all the things," said Maude, "and packed up the butter, and Wilmot is picking the strawberries. The butter is as cool as possible, and will travel so in all those cabbage leaves. I put some wet muslin over it first, of course."

"Have you made up the bread?"

"Yes; and it is in the oven. I think I've done well," said Maude complacently; "and by the time we have finished breakfast, it will be baked."

"Such a lot of little pretty loaves!" said a child, who had been superintending the preparations, and was now seated at the table.

"Yes; Hope could not have made them better," said Maude, laughing.

At this moment, a tall young man carried in a large basket of strawberries.

"Will this be enough?" he asked.

"Are there any more ripe?" said Mrs. Elliot.

"Yes; a good many more."

"Oh, then let us have them!" said Maude. "Nobody could have too many strawberries."

"Very well; but some of you will have to give a hand to them after breakfast."

"The children will," said Mrs. Elliot; "there will be plenty of time."

Then they sat down to breakfast.

"I wonder what time Hope and Miss Arundel will come down," said little Mary.

"Hope is sure to be punctual," said Maude, "so at exactly 'ten o' the clock,' we shall hear the wheels."

A picnic to Orston Cliff was one of the "institutions" of Shellford. It was about five miles off, and was to be reached in four different modes—by sea, by donkeys, by any conveyance which Shellford might boast, and by walking.

Many parties preferred going by water, but to-day the young people, having had the offer of Mrs. Arundel's pony carriage, determined to be independent of outside help, and were to walk and ride in turns.

Mrs. Elliot was to drive, and to take charge of the eatables; and these young country folks thought nothing of the walk, they said, even if their turn did not happen to come for a lift.

Before ten o'clock the little Elliots were eagerly looking up the hill towards Fairleigh for the first sight of the pony carriage. Very punctually it was seen descending the steep road, with Nellie and Hope seated in it.

Nellie had now been at Shellford nearly a month, and sea breezes and country life had wonderfully improved her. She was no longer the pale London girl, but looked as fresh and rosy as any of them, while there was just that air about her of ease and polish which Maude secretly envied and tried to copy.

The girls both got out and went into the cottage to see after Mrs. Elliot and the "supplies," as Wilmot called them.

"Mamma," said Hope, "we must consider the hampers quite equal to the weight of one person. We have agreed that only two besides you shall ride at once."

"There would not be room either," said Wilmot, coming out with the large hamper, and placing it on the front seat.

"Where is what you have brought?" said one of the children to Hope.

She laughed, and pointed to the back of the carriage, where two large baskets had been carefully fastened.

"Capital," said Wilmot, going behind and inspecting it. "Let us hope they are well fastened; for supposing we should arrive there and find them gone!"

"You can walk behind, to make sure," said his little saucy sister.

"I daresay," he answered, looking roguishly at her; "and poor Wilmot would have plenty of fun, wouldn't he?"

"Oh, I didn't mean it!" she said, relenting, and coming up to him for a kiss.

Then there was an amicable squabble as to who should ride first, and it was settled that Nellie and Maude should be the ones chosen.

The little carriage soon distanced the walkers, and went quickly up the smooth turnpike-road for a mile or more, when at the appointed place Mrs. Elliot drew up, and they sat still waiting for the others.

"We must not let it seem long," she said, "for they cannot be here for at least ten minutes."

So they filled up the time by a pleasant little talk; and Nellie told Mrs. Elliot what she had never yet heard—about Christina's Orphanage.

"Is she happy in it?" she asked presently. "Really happy?"

"I believe she is; I never saw anyone more tranquilly and uninterruptedly happy."

"I have heard that she has passed through great sorrows?"

"Very great indeed; but I hope brighter days will come. You know Walter will be back in less than two years."

"Two years!" said Maude. "That seems an age."

"So it does," answered Nellie; "but not so bad as three."

"Why, of course not; but I should always be afraid something would happen, and that he would never come."

"Don't, my dear," said her mother deprecatingly.

"But then," said Nellie, her eyes filling with tears, "if we thought of all those things, we should never be happy for a moment."

"That's just it," answered Maude; "if I had any thing I valued very much in life (which I haven't), I should be thinking all the time I should lose it."

"That would be dreadful," said Nellie; "but I think God is better to us than that."

"But, Nellie, people's best-loved ones do die sometimes," said Maude.

"Yes," she answered thoughtfully; "but don't you think, Mrs. Elliot, we cannot always understand what God does, and must wait?"

Mrs. Elliot answered somewhat constrainedly, "My dear, you must not appeal to me. I have not been able to understand the dealings of Providence."

"Somehow," said Nellie hesitating, "mamma thinks that we shall be able to understand some day, though we cannot now."

"It is often very hard and very mysterious," said Mrs. Elliot, looking along the lane in a hopeless kind of way that made Nellie's heart ache.

Maude sprang up, and went to peep round a bend, to look for the others, and Nellie put her hand softly on Mrs. Elliot's. "I would rather trust Him!" she said gently, looking with full eyes into the careworn widow's face.

"I do not know, my dear; life has been a long struggle with me, and I have had but little joy, and now my best is gone, and I have nothing left but an empty chair and an empty heart."

"It must be dreadful," said Nellie; "but, oh, forgive me, if I say that I know Jesus Christ is able to give you comfort and peace."

"Thank you, dear. I know at least that you think so," answered Mrs. Elliot, pressing her hand kindly.

"Here they come," said Maude. "How pretty they look winding up the road in their fresh muslin dresses and sailor hats."

"We have overtaken you at last," said Hope; "and we have been settling the order of march for the next stage; three little ones are to ride next."

"Jump in, then," said Mrs. Elliot; and they all again set forward.

Nellie had turned to pick some wild roses in the hedge, and Wilmot followed her, saying, "Those are quite dusty, Miss Arundel, to what we shall find further on, unless you particularly want these?"

Nellie raised her head, and Wilmot saw traces of tears on her face.

She glanced at him, and away, in some confusion, and said, nervously throwing those down she had already gathered, "Oh, it does not matter in the least. I only thought they were so pretty." She hastened after the others, while Wilmot exclaimed:

"There is not the least hurry, Miss Arundel; we all do just as we like."

"The others would not 'like' to be kept back by us," she answered, laughing a little.

The cavalcade now turned into one of the narrow lanes so charming in Devonshire. It was early, and the road lay in such a direction that the sun had not yet peeped over the top of the high bank and hedge. The lane was therefore perfectly cool and shady, and the young people turned round and congratulated each other on the change from the dusty high road. Ferns, mosses, foxgloves, and wild flowers of all descriptions, grew luxuriantly, and the children began to fill their hands with them, as though they could not help it.

Nellie did not attempt to pick any more flowers, but walked on soberly thinking. Not unhappily; in those few moments of quiet, she had lifted her heart to her Heavenly Father; she had reminded Him that He had promised to comfort those that mourn, and asked Him to fulfil His word to Mrs. Elliot; and then she had gone on content that it would be well.

They now made their second change, and Wilmot said they had accomplished half the journey. Mrs. Elliot produced some buns, and they all sat down to rest for a few minutes. The pony was allowed to turn his head to the patch of dewy green grass by the side of the lane, and enjoy himself like the rest.

"Will you come and look at something?" said Wilmot, addressing Nellie; "one of our Devonshire treasures?"

Nellie followed him to a little break in the bank, and he stepped down suddenly, and turning round, held out his hand. "It is worth seeing," he said, smiling.

So Nellie gave a light spring, and found herself in a deep shady nook, with lovely ferns growing in the greatest profusion, broken stones lying scattered about, and that indescribable smell which belongs to verdant damp vegetation. The sound of trickling water added to the charm, and Nellie uttered an exclamation of delight.

"It is lovely, isn't it?" said Wilmot, looking up in her face. "It seems to quiet the soul, and lead one far away from the turmoil of life."

"Yes; I was thinking so," she answered.

"I was almost wishing I could stay here always; and then I remembered that it would be but a poor life after all, Miss Arundel."

"Yes; and I believe that all those wishes of ours come from a discontented spirit."

"I daresay they do; and instead of wishing something impossible, we should rather delight that the great Maker of all things gives these lovely bits of nature to refresh us."

"Is it good water?" asked Nellie, stooping and putting her hand in.

"Oh dear, yes. See, I have brought this glass to fill for the others. Will you have some first?"

"How beautifully cool," she exclaimed.

"Here you are!" called George Elliot from above. "Are you never coming with the water?"

"All in good time," answered Wilmot. "I'm showing Miss Arundel the beauties of our neighbourhood."

Nellie made her way across the damp stones to the mouth of the dell.

"Wait a moment," called Wilmot; "you do not know how to get up."

He came after her, and showed her where to place her foot, and then springing up before her, he took her hand, and in a moment she stood in the lane again, with the others close to them, just having finished their buns.

Wilmot held up the clear spring water, and the whole party must needs go down into the shady dell to taste it fresh from the spring. Nellie volunteered to stay by the pony, and even Mrs. Elliott was tempted by her description to see it for herself; for she had never happened in the three years she had lived at Shellford to visit this spot.

Nellie seated herself in the little carriage, and folding her hands on the reins, leaned back and looked up in the deep blue sky.

"'When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, what is man that Thou art mindful of him?'" she said softly to herself.

The sound of the voices came up as a murmur from the spring; the crunch of the pony's teeth as it tore away the grass, the hum of the bees in the wild honeysuckle, all were in unison with her happy spirit; and she enjoyed for a few moments one of those seasons of exquisite delight, which generally belong to youth, and which seem to strengthen for the duties of this work-a-day world.

She felt quite sorry to hear them all coming back; and it was not till half of them had emerged, that she sat upright and brought herself back from dreamland.

"You look happy," said Hope, coming up to her affectionately.

Nellie smiled. "It is so peaceful, Hope."

"Oh!" said Hope regretfully, "I would give something if—" She broke off abruptly, and the rest being now anxious to push on, there was no opportunity of knowing what Hope wanted, but Nellie guessed.

Without further adventure they reached Orston Cliff, and everyone voted for an early dinner and a long afternoon.

The mysteries of the hamper and baskets were now explored. All the little party were too natural and simple to disguise their interest, and so everybody set to and helped to spread the feast.

A place was fixed upon under some shady trees, where in front they had a beautiful view of the sea far beneath them. The ground sloped away from them gradually for about fifty yards, and then came the edge of Orston Cliff, and beyond that an expanse of sea and sky, whose blue to-day rivalled each other.

"You are very grave, Nellie," said Maude.

"Only it is so beautiful," answered Nellie, taking a deep breath, and turning to the baskets once more.

"Here is Maude's bread," said George, unwrapping a snowy cloth, and displaying a number of tempting rolls. "And here is another package with it."

"What's this?" said Mary, feeling it with her fat little fingers. "It feels very knobby."

"Let it alone, Mary," said Maude. "It is not to be opened till we have said grace."

Mary put it down, and found that her mamma had turned out a blancmange and some jelly, and was now unrolling something else. What could it be?

"Only a ham," said Mary, disappointed, and was hissed at by her young brothers, who did not at all disdain ham.

"That is all my contribution," said Mrs. Elliot, as she placed the strawberries at the far end of the tablecloth.

"Not so bad," said Wilmot. "I wish I could get this country fare in London, mother."

"I wish you could, dear."

"Here are Hope's things," said Maude. "Now, Miss Hope, let us see what you can do."

"How awfully jealous Maude is!" said George.

"Not at all," answered Maude; "but she was perfection before she went, and what she must be now—"

"Well," said Hope calmly, "here are a couple of chickens."

"You couldn't have made them," said Mary, nodding.

"No, I didn't," said Hope. "And here is a meat-pie; and here—"

"Stop," said Maude; "did you make the meat-pie?"

"I did," answered Hope.

"Then let us 'Hope' it will be good," said George. "What else?"

"Here are some tartlets, and some lemonade."

"Did you make that?"

"I did," answered Hope again.

"Well done!" exclaimed Wilmot. "Now let us begin."

"But here's another basket," said Nellie.

There was a general rush, but Hope pushed them away, and told them dryly that that was for tea; whereupon there was a rush back again, and they all settled down to enjoy their dinner.

"Now everybody," said Maude, "here is a mysterious package; and what will you give me for its contents?"

She took up as she spoke the neatly-folded cloth which had aroused curiosity before, and began to undo it.

Inside appeared a number of queer-shaped looking dainty rolls, and Maude held up the top one, saying, "Here is my first pretty thing; whom can it be for?"

"It is an M," said little Mary. "Perhaps it is for me."

"No, it does not happen to be," said Maude, smiling; "nor for me either; it is for mamma."

"Oh, to be sure!" said Mary.

"Here is a W."

"That is Wilmot," exclaimed Mary.

"And here an H for Hope, and an N for Nellie, and so on, and so on," passing them all round with rapid fingers; and then she laughingly told them, they must put some suitable adjectives to each letter before it was eaten, applicable to the person for whom it was made.

This set them off with fine jokes, and Wilmot was pronounced "wise" and "witty" and "wilful" in a breath. But they found some of the names more difficult to match; however, it served to amuse them, and dinner was a very cheerful affair.

"Now what shall we do next?" asked Wilmot, when dinner was over, stretching himself on his back under a tree, and putting his hat over his eyes.

"It is not difficult to guess what you intend to do," said Hope, laughing.

"I'm ready for anything," he answered; "but you would not let me help with the plates for fear of breaking them, and so I may as well wait in comfort."

"I shall rest here," said Mrs. Elliot, "and very likely go over and peep at the pony at the cottage, and have a talk with the woman who lives there all alone."

"We thought of going down to the shore; it is so lovely there, mamma," said Hope.

"Very well; but take care of the little ones."

"Oh, yes, we'll do that! But shall you not be dull?"

"Oh dear, no. I have brought my knitting, and there is a book in the pony carriage if I want it."

So they wished her good-bye, and left her. She watched their retreating forms down the green slope till they were lost in a turn of the road, and then her mind wandered over the events of the morning, over Nellie's conversation, and over the memories of her past life.

What had her life done for her? It had been one long struggle with a large family, and small means—a struggle which had been unblessed by the comforting assurance of a Father's providing care. She had worked and thought and wearied for her husband and children because she must; because life, with its treadmill round of duties, had forced her. She had not known that there was sustaining strength to bear her on her way; nor had she the comfort of the highest motive for doing her labour cheerfully, even because it was meted out to her as her portion of her Father's will.

Her burdens would have been the same perhaps; but the heart that was now such a heavy weight, would have been light.

Alas! She knew not the way. She shut her eyes to the blessing that was so close to her, and went along in darkness, dragging weary feet.

While Mrs. Elliot was thinking so sorrowfully, the young people were hurrying gaily down to the shore, full of life and merriment.

They soon reached the edge of the waves, and at first were satisfied to sit down and watch the rolling breakers. Then the girls sang, "What are the wild waves saying?" which Nellie said "was never old, and sung by the sea was always thrilling."

"Can't you sing us something?" asked little Mary, looking up in her face.

"I did not know you could sing," said Hope, bluntly.

"I do at home," said Nellie. "We sing a great deal."

"Well, sing something now," said George; "I am tired of the girls' old songs."

"Songs must get old; but relations ought never to get tired of them," said Nellie, smiling.

"Well, sing away, Miss Arundel," he answered.

Nellie paused. What should she sing to this assembly? Here was an opportunity which she might not have again. How she wished she could think that all of them knew what it was to be safe! So she began in rather a tremulous tone—

"Late! late! so late! and dark the night, and chill!
Late! late! so late! but we can enter still!
Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now!"

Before many words were sung, Nellie grew brave. She did not know if anyone there would sympathize with her, unless it were Wilmot, who she fancied thought differently from them all; but at any rate her Lord and Master was with her, and was she not trying to carry a message from Him?

There was deep silence among the little party when she ceased. The painfully solemn words, the pathos of her voice, the murmur of the sea, blended together to make an impression on the thoughtless young hearts.

Wilmot drew Mary's little hand within his own, and rose to proceed on their walk, and the rest followed in silence.

"It is not always 'too late,' Wilmot, is it?" asked she.

"No, my pet; never while life lasts."

"Because I shouldn't like to be left out. I often think about it, and I don't believe He will shut me out."

"Not if you have once been in, darling."

"But I'm not in heaven now, Wilmot, so how can I be in?"

"I mean if once you love Christ, and ask Him to be your Saviour. Then you are safe in Him."

"Well I often have; and I do love Him, Willie."

Wilmot pressed her hand.

"Did you ever hear about the ark, Mary?"

"Noah's ark?"

"Yes. Do you not remember how God told them to go into the ark to be safe?"

"Yes; and they went in."

"Just so; they went in. Did they know whether they were inside or not?"

"Of course they did," said Mary, smiling.

"And did they feel afraid of the water which was rising so rapidly round them on every side?"

"No; they knew it could not touch them in the ark."

"No more can anything hurt you, darling, if You have come to Jesus. The Bible says, 'No man shall pluck them out of My hand.'"

"Yes; that's as if you held something very fast, high over my head, and someone was trying to snatch it away from you."

"Yes; someone not as tall or strong as I."

"I see," said Mary; "and so, just the same, if I'm safe in the arms of Jesus, I can't be shut out, because if He's there, I must be too."

She smiled happily, and they turned round to look for the others.

They were close behind, and were eagerly collecting shells, which were to be found very perfect on this part of the coast.

Mary joined in the search, while Wilmot watched them and walked along humming a song to himself, his voice blending with the song of the waves, and then falling below it, and then rising above it, but always in tune.

They were in a comparatively small bay; on either extreme to the right and left a headland jutted out into the sea, with rocks beneath them which the winter's storms had detached from the cliff above. Here the breakers played their prettiest gambols. Just now they were surrounding the rock which appeared furthest out to sea, and were dashing up its side with fountains of white spray.

"The tide is coming in," said Hope; "but we shall have plenty of time for the caves. Come along, Nellie; you will be so delighted with them."

No one could leave the edge of the sea, however, till they actually came in front of the spot they were seeking. Then they all turned landwards, and soon had traversed the strip of even clear sand which brought them up under the rocks.

The Elliots had been here twice before, and had very little difficulty in finding the opening to the caves. They all halted then, and several produced small wax candles, which they proceeded to light.

Little Mary was delighted, and begged to hold one; and George gave his up to her good-humouredly, saying, "Mind you don't singe your curls, Polly."

Wilmot led the way, and the rest followed. There was no danger in the caves, as the sea washed in to the furthest point of them every day, and they had nothing worse to walk on than a bed of exquisite sand.

They wandered about, admiring the roof and laughing at the grotesque shapes which their shadows made upon it and the rocky sides; and then George proposed to dance a hornpipe, and they should see how that looked. They were very merry over this, but as the candles began to burn rather low, they all got up to proceed homewards once more. Suddenly a cry from the younger ones in front, who were climbing along the ledges of the rock, startled them, and Wilmot and Hope hurried forward, quickly followed by the rest.

On the ground sat Alice, who was next in age to George, holding her foot, and in the half-light looking ghastly pale.

"What is it?" asked Hope, kneeling down by her, and rapidly beginning to unlace her boot.

"Oh, don't!" she shrieked. "I cannot bear it. Oh, what have I done?"

"It is a sprain, I expect," said Hope; "but do, Alice dear, let me get off your boot."

Alice let go her clinging fingers, and once more Hope tried to undo the fastenings with gentle touch.

"Now I must draw it off, dear; but we will soon bathe it with sea-water, and then it will be better."

As she spoke she tenderly, but firmly, drew off the boot. "There," she said reassuringly, at the cry of agony which escaped the child, "now it will be easier."

When, however, she looked up in her sister's face, she found she had fainted.

The candles had by this time gone out, and though they could not see either the sky or sea, they were near enough to the mouth of the cave to distinguish all around them.

"Shall I run and get some water?" asked George.

"She could not drink that," said Hope, "of course; but what a pity we did not bring any with us."

They laid Alice down, and Nellie examined the wounded foot.

"How did she do it?" Hope asked.

"We none of us know exactly; but she slipped off that ledge."

"She will be better soon," said Nellie; "but see how her foot is swelling up! Don't you think we might pour some sea-water over it?"

"We haven't a thing to fetch it in. I forgot," said George.

"Here is my hat," answered Wilmot; "you could get a good lot in that."

George and one of the others ran out for it, and in a few minutes returned with it full.

"My!" he exclaimed. "Isn't the sea come up since we came in here!"

"We must be quick," said Hope, calmly proceeding to pour the contents over Alice's foot.

The cold water dashing on the painful, heated ancle, brought Alice back to consciousness. Hope asked her if she could rise.

She struggled to a sitting posture, looking frightened and woebegone.

"Come, we must go; we have been a long time, and George says the tide is rising."

Wilmot started violently, and putting his hand under his sister's arm, raised her at once, then calling to Hope to help, they proceeded to the outer air. When the view of the sea burst upon them, they found by its nearness how long they had been detained.

"Hope," exclaimed he in a whisper of intense anxiety, "shall we be able to get round the corner of those rocks?"

Hope looked. The sea was dashing among the stones directly at the base of the cliff, but some of them were still visible, and stood up black and hopeful against the spray.

"Oh, Wilmot!" she exclaimed. "Call to them; we must hasten forward. How can we reach it?"

Wilmot called in a tone which brought the whole party up to them in a moment.

"What is it?" said Maude, looking in their anxious faces.

He pointed with his disengaged hand, while he hurried forward, supporting poor Alice, who was doing her best to help herself, but could not put her foot to the ground.

"Never!" exclaimed Maude, with blanching cheeks.

The nearer they came to the projecting cliff, the quicker the ever-advancing sea seemed to come in upon them.

"What shall we do?" said Hope, when she saw that the black points were fast disappearing.

Wilmot and she were now so breathless that they were forced to give up their heavy burden to George and Maude.

"Oh, hurry on," said Maude, weeping, "and see what can be done, and whether we can pass."

Wilmot looked round. "Come, Mary; come, Miss Arundel; we will all keep together."

He did not slacken his speed for a moment, and Mary, who was holding Nellie's hand, caught his, and so they hurried on.

Alas! When they reached the cliff, the water was washing up at their feet, and far in front of them to their left, was the point, with the breakers rolling playfully in and out among the few stones that were still uncovered.

As the party came to a stop, and looked in each other's terror-stricken faces, they realized the full extent of their danger.

Behind them the cliff rose gaunt and tall; in front the sea crept nearer and nearer, slowly but surely advancing upon them.

Their eyes scanned the horizon, not a boat or sail within sight, all smiling and sunny; the ocean, holding so many secrets in its bosom, without a change on its calm face.

"Surely we can pass by wading," said Hope, gathering her clothes together and stepping into the shallow water.

The others were following, but she and Wilmot bade them wait one moment; for they found that the point was still far ahead, and the water was already nearly to their waists. It got deeper and deeper, and Hope put out her hand to her brother as she felt her feet slipping under her.

"It is useless," said Wilmot hoarsely; "come back."

He guided her till she was within her depth again, and then he looked towards the little party on the shore. They had already retreated some feet from where he had parted from them, and now stood gazing at them with hopeless faces.

"I must swim round and get a boat; it is not very, very far to the village there. I may be back in time, Hope."

"And if not?" she said; but she needed no answer.

"Pray," he said. "Go back and tell them all that 'Christ is able to save to the uttermost.'"

"Oh, Wilmot, Wilmot! What will mamma say?" she exclaimed, as he wrenched off his wet coat and threw it to her, and, dropping his boots, waded into deeper water.

"My love to them all," he said, "and to Miss Arundel, and tell them not to fear, but that I will do my best."

In a moment there was nothing to be seen but his dark head. But soon they saw him clambering over the rocks at the corner of the cliff.

"Deep water!" he shouted, and waved his hand. And as he plunged in again on the other side, he felt as if he had left behind him something which he held very dear.

[CHAPTER VII.]

WHERE?

MRS. ELLIOT sat for some time after her little party had left her, thinking of many things, and when she began to feel lonely she made her way down to the cottage, which was about half-way to the shore.

The woman was busy preparing their tea, which had been ordered when they left the pony there in the morning, and Mrs. Elliot therefore sat down on the bench outside the door and opened the book she had brought.

When she looked up, after an hour or more, she felt astonished that the young people had not returned.

She went into the old-fashioned kitchen, and found the woman setting the cream and butter upon the table.

"They are late, Mrs. Mansbridge," said Mrs. Elliot; "but they will soon be here, I expect. What a pleasant room this is."

"Yes, ma'am; but since my man left me, it has not seemed the same."

"I can well believe that," answered Mrs. Elliot. "Is it long since you lost him?"

"Six months," answered the woman; "and he left me with a day-old baby."

"Oh, how very sad for you."

"One thing that comforts me is, he kissed it before he went. He held it in his arms; he had so longed for it; and then he said, as he gave it back to me, 'I don't know if I shall ever see thee again, my love; but tell the little man that his father loved him and blessed him.'"

"How was it?" asked Mrs. Elliot, thinking of the long weary illness of her own husband.

"He never came back alive, ma'am. A storm came on, and one of the spars of his boat broke, and in half-an-hour, he was—'at home,' ma'am."

"At home?" asked Mrs. Elliot. "Ah, yes, I know what you mean."

"And though this is not like home without him," said the woman, "yet I can wait; my Father has made me willing, ma'am."

Just then a sailor boy was seen hurrying up the hill. He beckoned to Mrs. Mansbridge through the lattice window, and she went out.

When she re-entered her face was very pale, and she came up gently to Mrs. Elliot.

"There has been an accident, ma'am," she said softly; "but a boat has been gone some time with the young gentleman."

"What has happened?" said Mrs. Elliot, starting towards the door.

"They were overtaken by the tide at the Caves. But take courage, dear lady; there's One above who rules all things."

"Is there any hope? Tell me truly," she breathed.

The woman took her hand. "There is some hope; but the tide flows in very quickly in that little bay, and rises very high too. Still—he has been gone some time, with a boat and two sailors."

Mrs. Elliot mechanically walked out of the cottage, and turned towards the shore. Mrs. Mansbridge looked after her with pitying eyes; and while she put on a large fire, and set blankets to warm, she murmured half aloud:

"O Lord, it's easy to trust Thee in fair weather; but when the storm comes—And yet it is in the storm that Thou art most near; and Thou canst say, 'Peace, be still.'"

* * * * * *

When Wilmot once more stood on the clear sand at the other side of the projecting cliff, so near to them all and yet divided by such a gulf, he rushed at the utmost speed to which he could force his limbs, towards the few fishermen's cottages which he could descry about a mile along the shore.

Drawn up above high water mark were two or three boats, and when he could make these out he took courage.

How weary the time seemed. He almost felt as if he were going backwards instead of forwards. At last the boats were reached; but no men were to be seen.

He shouted with all his voice, and ran up towards the cottages. Two sailors, who were smoking at their garden-gates, answered to his call, and came running down to him.

"A boat—quick—" was all he could gasp; and understanding in their precarious trade that there was danger, they quickly unfastened one, and pushed her down into the water.

Wilmot jumped in after them, and they set off. Now while the oars splashed evenly and strongly, he had plenty of time to think, and plenty of time to explain. But of explanation, he only said half-a-dozen words, and sat back at first exhausted.

His soaking, shoeless, and coatless condition, and the signs of extreme exertion which his manner indicated, showed the men, without much telling, that he considered there was urgent need of speed. Besides they knew of the treacherous tide.

"I say, master," said the man, handing him over a rough coat, "you put that on, or you'll have an illness, as sure as sure."

Wilmot roused himself, and asked if they had another pair of oars; and on being told there was, he pulled them out, and set himself to help forward the little craft; so nearer and nearer came the jutting cliff, and lower and lower sank the sun.

The men strained every nerve to push on; and Wilmot, while he aided them, could not help glancing over his shoulder every now and then to see how near they were getting.

At last they reached the cliff, and were under the projecting rocks, and were actually turning the corner. There lay the little bay before them, with the setting sun lighting up every crevice of the steep rocks, and sparkling on the water as it rolled inwards.

But as the boat came well round the point, and Wilmot could scan the length of the cliffs, there was no row of faces to welcome him; nothing on which his eye could rest but a piece of floating muslin; for the waves washed up deep and sullen against the rocks.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

FLOATING OUT TO SEA.

AS Hope watched her brother plunge into the sea on the other side of the rocks, she felt forsaken indeed.

She turned landwards, and dragged her heavy soaking clothes after her through the surf, till she stood once more beside the frightened group.

"Wilmot sent you all a message," she said sadly; "and before we get more anxious I will give it to you. I wish we all understood more about it."

"Take of some of your wet things, dear Hope," said Nellie, who had been already wringing her dress. "Can we not each contribute some dry garment; we should not miss it, and it is dreadful for you to wait two or three hours in this state."

"I am not the least cold," said Hope; "and I will walk about. No, dear, I can't change, it would be such a fuss; and I am so anxious."

Nellie did not press her further, and Hope drew them back against the cliffs.

"This is Wilmot's message: He told us to pray; and he said, 'Tell them Christ is able to save to the uttermost.'"

The young faces all turned towards her, and Hope felt bitterly that she knew not how to comfort them.

"Shall we pray?" she asked.

They knelt down on the sand, and Hope buried her face in her hands; but there was silence, interrupted only by Maude's and the little ones' sobs.

At last a gentle voice broke the stillness.

"Heavenly Father, Thou who rulest the raging of the sea, who stillest the waves when they arise, look down upon us now, and send peace into our troubled hearts. May we be delivered, if it is Thy holy will; and if not, if these waves are to come nigh to us, and end our earthly life, oh! For Jesus Christ's sake, may each one of us here be willing from our hearts to accept Thy salvation; and may the waves but introduce us into Thy eternal glory. We ask Thee, in the name of Jesus our Lord, to hear us, and bless us, and be very near to us. Amen."

When they rose from their knees, Mary slipped her little hand into Nellie's, and Hope gave her a warm kiss. "Thank you, dear," she whispered.

"Now," said Nellie cheerfully, "we must all take courage. Mr. Elliot cannot be here for a long time, and perhaps the water will reach us before he comes. But let us remember that nothing can hurt us without our Father's permission, and that even if we are surrounded by water, He can yet deliver us. But, all of you, it is a solemn time, and unless you know Jesus is your Saviour, I should advise you all to seek Him;

"'He can save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him.'"

The little party were very silent. The solemnity of a possible grave, so near, so dreadful, was enough to awe them, and beyond a passing question or conjecture hardly a word was spoken.

The water flowed in rapidly; the ground was very level, and though the sea had seemed at first an immense distance off, they were astonished to find that it crept nearer and nearer in such a way as to leave but little hope that Wilmot could get back to them in time.

In vain their eyes looked upwards to see if there were any ledges on which they might climb. The few there were, were far above their reach. One small place, however, was discovered, and on this they stood little Mary.

"She is mamma's only comfort," said Maude; and then she burst into tears, and hid her face against Mary's dress.

A steamer now came in sight round the point, but very far away. They waved their handkerchiefs wildly, feeling it was of no use, and strained their eyes for any response.

None seemed to come; for the steamer passed gradually before them till the other point hid her from view, and then Maude suddenly exclaimed, with a shriek, which shook the nerves of the whole party:

"The water has reached us! Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?"

"We must pray," said Nellie, looking up towards the blue sky, "each one for ourselves."

It was an awful moment, that first wetting of their feet; worse than even when the water was up to their knees.

How intently they gazed at the corner of the rocks round which Wilmot must come!

"Halloa!" called a voice from the other side of them, and there, to their right, was a young man seated in a canoe.

"I say!" he called. "Are you in danger, or only doing it for fun?"

His eyes scanned the cliffs; not an opening of any sort; he looked in their faces, and knew it was no fun, even before they had time to answer:

"Oh, can you save us, or do anything for us?"

"If I come near," he answered steadily, "you will not all rush in and swamp the canoe?"

"No," shouted Hope, "not one of us will move."

"No, we promise," answered all.

"There is no time to be lost," said the young fellow; "but I can only take one of you at once, except the little ones. Which is it to be? Be quick, and come out beyond this first wave."

Fortunately it was tolerably calm, and in this little bay there was only a swell that day.

Hope and Nellie looked at each other, and then at Mary.

"The youngest first," said Nellie.

They sprang forward, and lifted her down, and waded in with her to the canoe, taking also the next little boy with them.

The young man directed them to place the children as near to him as possible—in front of him and behind him—and telling them to hold on tight, in a moment he was paddling off as fast as he dared.

Hope and Nellie retreated to the cliff, and told Alice to be ready; for it was tacitly understood that the next in age was to go first.

"Why did he turn that way?" said George. "It is nearer to the village to the left."

They could not tell; and the minutes seemed hours till the canoe could come round to them again.

When he was seen returning, a shout of joy broke from them, for they had not expected him so soon.

"There is a large rock just round there," he said, as he came near, and they placed poor Alice beside him.

He was off again in a moment, and still the water kept on steadily rising. It was now to their middles.

"He cannot rescue us all," said George bravely; "you girls must go first."

"We will keep to ages, George," said Nellie firmly, "at least as far as I am concerned, till it comes to my turn, and then I should like Hope to go first. Let us have no confusion or dispute."

"Why should I go first?" asked Hope, looking imploringly at her.

"Because I am sure of going 'there,'" said Nellie; "and oh, Hope, I don't mind!"

As they stood now by the rocks, the swell rippled against them, and almost took them off their feet. They held each others' hands; but it began to be apparent that all could not be saved.

"Now, George," said Hope, when the canoe was seen returning; "Nellie is quite right; you go at once."

"I say!" called the young man, "I'm afraid I dare not take you tall ones on my boat! I had great work with the last when we got into the waves at the corner, and an upset would be very serious. But if you could take hold of the sternpost, it would keep you up perfectly, and it is not far."

He looked anxiously in their faces, fearing this would be considered sad news.

"I can swim a little," said George; "I think I might hold on to your rope, and then Maude could hold on to the stern. You would be back quicker for the others by taking two."

"All right," answered he, throwing his painter to him, and coming close to Maude, showed her where to hold; "just let yourself float easily," he added, "but hold firmly; don't be frightened."

"Keep up a brave heart," he said to the two who were left behind; "I will come as soon as ever I can."

"We are sure of that," said Nellie gratefully; "thank you if we never—"

"I say!" he shouted back, "can you two float?"

"Yes," shouted Hope in return.

"Then float, and don't lose your presence of mind; you will be saved, I hope!"

"I am off my feet," said Nellie hurriedly, holding tighter to Hope's arm.

"Have you courage to try to float?" said Hope; "for I too shall be out of my depth soon."

"Good-bye, then, dear Hope," said Nellie, giving her a kiss. "Look to Jesus; He knows and cares."

She spread her arms and fell backwards, committing herself not only to the deep, but to His care who she knew was "a very present help in time of trouble."

At first her agony was lest her courage should not hold out. Just floating for a few moments with a sandy shore two or three feet beneath was a very different feeling from floating on the wide ocean, drifting, it might be, out to sea.

But Nellie's habit of trust came to her aid, and she opened her eyes and looked once more calmly and trustfully up to her God.

How long she floated, she never knew.

Presently a sound of oars fell on her ears, she felt sure, above the noise of the rushing sea; and, still looking up, she felt a shadow come between her and the sunlight; her eyes were met by those of Wilmot Elliot; she was grasped by a strong grip, and lifted out of the water, and placed in the boat by the side of a dripping, shivering Hope.

[CHAPTER IX.]

ADA'S FRIEND.

WHILE Nellie was spending a happy time at Fairleigh, two girls sat side by side, bending over their respective desks in London. They were intent on their lessons, and it was only when the teacher had shut her book that either of them raised her head.

"Ada," whispered the elder of the two, "we had such a jolly time last night."

"Did you?" answered Ada, leaning towards her, and looking interested.

"Yes; I wish you had been there. I say, Ada, I shall come and see your mamma; shall I?"

"If you like," answered Ada, just a little doubtfully.

"Why, you are a goose, Ada. Of course I shall like, and she will like me, too, I daresay; and I'll persuade her to let you come and see me."

Ada's eyes sparkled.

"No talking," interposed the teacher, and Clara May and Ada hastily opened their exercise-books, and proceeded industriously.

When school was over for that day, Clara followed Ada to the dressing-room, and announced her intention of coming home with her that afternoon.

Ada would have hesitated had she dared, as she would have preferred to ask her mamma's permission; but Clara had already laughed at her in a good-humoured way once or twice about "asking mamma;" and as this could not be anything the least underhand, she let it take its course, though secretly somewhat anxious as to what mamma would think of her friend.

So when they left the school door, they turned Ada's way, and soon arrived at No. 8.

"Here is my friend Clara May, mamma," said Ada, entering the drawing room, where her mamma was at work.

Clara May came forward and shook hands readily. She was quite used to good society, and had but little bashfulness. Nevertheless when she looked into Mrs. Arundel's face, a new feeling came over her, and instead of at once laughingly putting her request, she began to talk of the hot weather, and of how glad she was Ada and she were in the same class.

Mrs. Arundel chatted pleasantly to her, and Clara felt it more and more difficult to say what she wanted. At last she rather hurriedly began—

"Oh, Mrs. Arundel! Would you let Ada come to see us? Mamma said she should be so pleased to know her."

Ada looked anxiously at her mother, and Mrs. Arundel answered—

"If your mamma likes, dear, Ada may come to call on you at home."

"Oh, thank you," said Clara; "then you may, Ada, and I shall take you home to-morrow after school."

Clara soon after took her leave, and Ada and Mrs. Arundel were left alone.

"You have mentioned Clara May often, Ada, but I did not picture her quite what she is."

"How, mamma?"

"I hope she will be a good friend for you, my child."

"Why, yes, mamma, I hope so. She is a very nice girl, and all the others pay her a good deal of attention, and quite envy me her friendship."

"Well, dear, I only want you to be on your guard; she seems pleasant enough."

Mrs. Arundel spoke somewhat grudgingly, and Ada thought her unnecessarily cautious.

The proposed call the next day, however, came to nothing, for Ada was detained at home with a bad cold; but the following week, she received an invitation to spend the evening at her friend's home in Eaton Square.

"May I go, mamma?" asked Ada, while her mother was reading the note.

"What does 'spend the evening' mean?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"I hardly know, but I should think they would be alone; but I can ask Clara."

When she did ask Clara, she said, "It was just a few friends, nothing much, and you must come early, so that we can have a talk first."

Ada's head was now full of what she should wear. She did not like to ask Clara, and before the eventful day, was quite worried with the subject. At last it was decided that she should put on her best Sunday dress. Her mamma would have advised her white muslin, but Ada thought it would be ridiculous if there were only one or two young ladies, and Mrs. Arundel did not press the matter.

"You must have gloves, Ada," said her mother.

"How horrid!" exclaimed Ada. "I do declare I shall feel so stuck-up."

Arthur, who was doing his lessons at the table, looked up and laughed.

Ada coloured with annoyance.

"How I should like to peep in on you, and see you sitting as fine as possible, clasping your elegant gloves."

"Hush, dear," said his mother. "Do not tease; your turn will come for this sort of thing some day."

"Not I," answered Arthur, who, boy-like, supposed that he would never have to conform to the conventionalities of life.

The day came at last, and Ada went to school as usual; but her mind was filled with thoughts of her coming treat. She met Clara just as she was entering the class-room, and looked into her face with questioning eyes. But Clara seemed exactly as usual, and was pre-occupied with her lessons. She hardly gave Ada a nod, but hurried off to her desk, and Ada followed with a sense of disappointment.

The day's work was unusually heavy, and the two girls had hardly time to exchange a word. Clara did just say, at luncheon time, "You won't forget to-night, Ada?"

"Oh no," answered Ada, wondering that Clara should think it likely.

When Dr. Arundel came home from his afternoon rounds, before the carriage went to the stables, Ada was to be conveyed to Eaton Square.

She came out into the hall at the sound of her father's latch-key, and he kissed her fondly.

"It seems like sending you into the world alone, my dear," he said, as he placed her in the carriage. "It is not like just going to see our own friends."

Ada was pretty well accustomed to the lighted streets, and was much more busy with her own thoughts than with outside things. She almost started when the carriage drew up at her friend's door.

Clara ran down to meet her, and led the way upstairs to her bedroom.

"You are nice and early," she said, "and I have not begun to dress yet."

As they entered the room Ada's eyes fell upon a fresh white dress spread out upon the bed. Her heart sank down, and she felt cold and miserable. Why had she not done as her mamma advised? She took off her cloak in silence; and when her friend turned round, she fancied there was a little surprise in her glance. Ada felt wretched; but though she tried to throw it off, could think of none of their usual topics of conversation.

Clara showed her the little "nick-nacks" of her room, and then told her who was coming; and Ada found that "a few friends" meant to Clara a very different affair from what it did to her.

"I'm afraid it is quite a party," she said at last, as her friend lifted the pretty dress from the bed.

"Oh, no! Not a real party; but we shall have some jolly fun. Don't be frightened, Ada; I gave you credit for more pluck."

"I am afraid I shall not be dressed enough," said Ada, flushing crimson; "I had no idea you expected so many. Do let me go home, Clara; it would be far better."

"Nonsense! But look here, Ada, I've a light silk dress here that would do, I believe, for you. Let me try it on you."

"Oh, no," said Ada, shrinking back. "I should not like to do that, Clara."

"Just as you like," answered Clara, shrugging her shoulders and looking vexed; "it would not have been so very dreadful, Ada."

Clara was too polite to add what was on the tip of her tongue—"I should have liked my friend to look as well as possible."

Ada felt somewhat taken in, and an aggrieved sensation came over her. She felt somehow that Clara had kept back the true nature of the party lest Mrs. Arundel should decline the invitation.

She however tried with all her might to throw off her depression, and busied herself about her friend's toilet with skilful fingers.

"You are ready now, are you not?" she said, looking with admiration at the graceful girl who stood before her.

"Yes; many thanks. Now shall we go down?"

There was no one in the large drawing room when they entered, and they wandered about looking at the pictures and portrait albums. The rooms seemed rather chill and gloomy to Ada, and she could not forbear a slight shiver.

"It is cool to-day, isn't it?" said Clara; "but we are always afraid of having a fire, because the rooms get so very hot with the gas and the people. Let us have some music while we are waiting."

At this moment, Mrs. May entered, and greeted Ada kindly; and then Mr. May came in, with a pretty girl carrying a heap of music.

"Oh, Clara," said she, "do come and help me find that song Captain McArthur wanted me to sing the other night."

"Which?" said Clara, without seeming to care; then suddenly bethinking herself, "This is Ada Arundel, Marion; my friend, you know."

Marion shook hands, and Ada had an impression that she looked her over from head to foot.

Clara went to the other side of the room and turned over the music with her sister; and though Ada was talking to Mrs. May, she could not help watching the girls; nor could she think it was only her fancy, when she saw Clara shrug her shoulders, that she was speaking to her sister about her.

The guests now began to arrive, and Clara was soon taken up with their entertainment. Ada found herself nearly forgotten, and was only introduced to one more person the whole evening. This time Clara did not say "my friend," but rather ungraciously added, "one of our girls."

But for this introduction Ada would have been nearly forsaken.

Mrs. May spoke to her once or twice, but otherwise she was left to herself. After a few songs, dancing was proposed, and everyone brightened up.

Clara came to her, and said, rather carelessly, "Do you dance, Ada?" and on Ada's shake of the head she turned away, and was soon flitting past in her airy dress.

"You don't know those people very well, my dear,"
said the lady who was sitting by her.

"You don't know these people very well, my dear?" said the lady to whom she had been introduced, who was sitting by her.

"No," said Ada, while tears of vexation gathered in her eyes; "I did not know, ma'am, that it was to be a party."

"Never mind that," said the lady cheerily; "at least if you mean your dress, my dear. We should try and look at things from above."

"From above?" asked Ada, looking up in the placid face, and feeling at once a sense of relief.

"Yes, my dear; these things are not worth all the thought and trouble we give ourselves over them."

"That's like my mamma," said Ada; "but—"

"Yes, I understand. There are a great many 'buts,' Miss Arundel, but the less we think of them, the happier we shall be. So your mamma advises you to look at things from above?"

"Not in those words," said Ada, smiling; "but she tells us to look at things in the light of eternity."

"Ah! And so we should, dear. It will not make much difference then whether we were at a party in Eaton Square, with a dress just a little too heavy. I am staying here with my niece, Mrs. May, and when I came downstairs to-night, rather wishing there were no party, I did not think I should meet a little body who would be glad of my old company."

Ada looked up reassured, and then she and the sweet old lady fell into one of those pleasant talks which rest the spirit, and before Ada knew how time was passing, Clara touched her on the shoulder, and whispered, "Your carriage is come for you, but you needn't go yet."

"Oh, I must!" said Ada, rising quickly.

"Hush, don't make a stir; nobody thinks of moving yet, and it is not even supper-time. You must have some supper."

"I must not keep the carriage. Please, dear Clara, let me go."

"Well then, if you wish it, just slip out by this door; I will bid mamma good-night for you; it will never do to make a commotion. Good-night; you will not mind my not coming up with you, because I am engaged for this dance."

So Ada whispered a good-bye to Miss Dean, and soon found herself stepping into the carriage. What was her surprise to find her father seated in it.

"Oh, dear papa, how kind of you!" she exclaimed.

"I had to be out, dear, and I came round for you myself."

"Is it very late?" asked Ada.

"No; about eleven. Have you had a pleasant evening?"

Ada burst into tears; and then, laying her head on her father's shoulder, she said:

"Oh, papa, I have been so wretched and so stupid."

"What has happened, dear?"

"Nothing at all, papa; and that is the very vexation. It was a dancing party, and I was not well enough dressed, and so Clara rather slighted me, and I thought she left me to myself, and it was very uncomfortable."

"It certainly was unkind if she forsook you for such a reason," said Dr. Arundel indignantly; "but how came you to make a friend who could serve you so, Ada?"

"I didn't know," faltered Ada.

"Had you any idea it was to be such a party?"

"Not the least, papa."

Dr. Arundel was silent for some minutes, and then he said, "It is very important what friends we make, dear. A good friend or a bad friend may influence our whole lives. Did you ever ask God about her, Ada?"

"I don't think I ever did, papa," she answered sorrowfully.

"What made you like her at first?"

"She was always so pleasant and gay, and I do like fun, you know, papa; and she used to tell us about her picnics and parties, and as she liked me, I was rather—you know what I mean, papa—rather proud to be singled out by her."

"I know it all, dear," he answered tenderly.

Ada nestled closer to him. "Dear papa, I feel that I have been so thoughtless and wrong, and I know it is my own fault that has brought me into this trouble."

"Poor little Ada!"

"I know, papa, Clara did not mean beforehand to be unkind; but I can't help thinking that she knew you would not have liked me to go to such a party."

"Very likely, dear; and here we are at home. But one word, dear Ada. I am not sorry this has happened before you got entangled more. Such a friend might have led you into very serious trouble. I thank God we have discovered it thus soon."

They got out, and Ada found her mamma had already gone upstairs, so she only gave her a kiss at her door, and went up to her own room at the top of the house.

All her vexed, disappointed feeling had now vanished, and only sorrow remained that she should have tried in even a small degree to walk, as it were, alone. A line of a hymn they sometimes sang kept running in her head; and when she laid it wearily upon her pillow, she kept on repeating, till sleep overtook her—

"Choose Thou for me my friends,
My sickness or my health;
Choose Thou my cares for me,
My poverty or wealth.
"Not mine, not mine the choice
In things or great or small;
Be Thou my guide, my strength,
My wisdom, and my all."

[CHAPTER X.]

SISTER AND BROTHER.

"WELL, Ada, how did the gloves go off?" asked Arthur at breakfast next morning.

"Pretty well," answered Ada seriously. "I'll tell you all about it when we start for school."

Arthur looked up in her face inquiringly; but there was a gravity there so unusual that he felt touched, and forbore to take the opportunity of teasing her, which he would otherwise have done.

When they ran down the steps of No. S together, and set off towards their respective schools, Ada began at once to explain about the difficulties of the previous evening, and she received the fullest sympathy.

"I should cut her dead this morning," he advised.

"I do not think I shall," answered Ada; "but of course, Arthur, I can never feel quite the same again. Not that I bear her a grudge; I really do forgive her for the pain she caused me; but I was mistaken in her, and I can't feel the same."

"I should think not," said Arthur; "but I never did admire that girl, she's far too grand to suit my fancy."

"Oh, that's nothing; she's not grand at all; there are lots of girls grander at our school. She was one of the popular girls, and I believe, Arthur," added Ada, lowering her tone, "that I liked being her friend for that reason."

"A very silly reason," said Arthur, in his inexperience.

"And now I'm friendless," said Ada, hopelessly.

"You'll find another."

"No; I shall never trust my own judgment again."

Arthur whistled; and presently they came to the corner where they usually parted.

"Isn't there something about 'I will guide thee with mine eye,' Ada?" he said thoughtfully.

Ada nodded; but her eyes were tearful, and she hurried on towards school, feeling rather choked.

That morning Clara May felt very uncomfortable when she thought of meeting her friend at school. She hoped Ada would have left the dressing-room before she went in; but in a moment became aware she was there, at the other side, changing her damp boots.

When Ada raised her head, and saw who it was, she advanced directly across the room, looking frankly into her face, and said:

"Clara, I wanted to tell you that I was so sorry I was not suitably dressed last night; but my excuse must be that I had no idea it was a party."

"Oh, don't think anything more about it," answered Clara, looking away in some confusion; "it did not matter."

"No," answered Ada quietly, "not so much as we are inclined to think. I will try and forget it."

Clara looked at her curiously; but Ada said no more. She gathered her books together and hastened into class.

She never again alluded to the subject, nor could Clara detect any difference in her; but gradually from that time, they ceased to be on such intimate terms; and Ada grew much happier than she had been for some months.

At this time Arthur was extremely considerate towards her. He had been touched by her friendless condition, and in his boyish way, did his best to make up for the loss. Nellie's being away had increased Ada's feeling of loneliness, and she looked forward to her sister's return with a sense of relief and comfort which she herself wondered at.

One day she and Arthur were sitting in the drawing room. The weather was very hot, and little Tom had been carried down, and was lying on the sofa. He looked very frail and delicate, and his thin little fingers were playing with each other listlessly. A book which he had been reading lay half closed beside him, and he seemed very weary.

"I was thinking, Tom," said Ada, "whether you would like to learn to do wool-work?"

"I don't know," answered Tom, turning his head a little.

"You got tired of the knitting mamma taught you."

"Yes; I really am sick of that."

"Well, then, I'll go up and fetch a piece of canvas, and some of my wools."

Tom lay quiet while she was gone, only sighing deeply once or twice.

"Does anything hurt you?" asked Arthur.

"No-o!" he answered. "But I'm so tired of lying here;" then quickly adding, "I don't want to grumble, Arthur; but of course the days do seem long."

"I am sure they must," said the strong boy, stretching his legs, and thinking for a moment what it would be to him not to be able to get up and do as he wished. He looked pityingly at Tom, but said nothing.

"Here you are, Ada! Have you got the canvas?" asked Tom, raising his head.

"Yes, here it is. Now look, Tom; watch while I do a straight row, and then you shall work a few stitches."

Tom lost his listlessness and became interested; very soon, he caught the way to do it, and went on by himself quite absorbed, while Arthur and Ada talked.

"I wonder what Frank Compton will be like?" said Ada.

"Like other boys, I suppose."

"It will be a great change for us to have him here."

"Yes, something a little lively; but what a long time mamma is gone to the station."

"She will soon be here," said Arthur, glancing at the clock; "it is nearly one o'clock now."

Soon after this a cab stopped at the door, and they both hurried to the window to see their visitor alight.

He was a tall youth of sixteen, the son of a friend in Scotland, and had just returned from his first voyage in a merchant vessel. His father had written to Dr. Arundel, asking permission for him to spend a few days with them, until Mr. Compton should have time to come up to London and join his son.

Mrs. Arundel came upstairs, followed by the boy, who soon made himself at home with the young people.

With ready sailor wit, he amused the whole family. Tom's wool-work was quite cast aside, and his only anxiety became that he should be lifted downstairs on all possible occasions.

Frank neglected no one. He was politeness itself to Mrs. Arundel; pleasant to the servants; kind to Tom; charming to Ada and the little ones; and fraternised constantly with Arthur.

During the mornings, when Ada and Arthur were at school, he often joined Mrs. Arundel and the little ones in the nursery; but sometimes he went out for a stroll in the streets, or to the British Museum, which was near; and when Arthur was free, they were off to see some London sight which was new to the Scotch boy.

Thus the first few days of his visit passed quickly away.

Arthur used generally to come to Ada's room at night to tell her all that had transpired; but one or two evenings the boys were home rather late, and there was not time, and when Ada said, "Come along, Arthur," one evening, he said, "Don't bother, Ada, I'm tired."

Ada looked surprised, but said nothing, and went into her room and shut the door.

"What a milksop you are," exclaimed Frank, laughing, as they entered their joint room; "what with 'mamma,' and what with 'sister Ada,' you have no time to yourself."

"I don't know that I want any," answered Arthur; but he felt angry; he did not know whether it was with Frank, or with Ada, or with himself.

"Of course I am growing up," he mentally argued, "and I have been a good bit with them; but, as Frank says, one cannot be always at Ada's 'beck and call.'"

"What are you in a 'brown stud' about now?" asked Frank.

"Oh, nothing," answered Arthur hastily, while he prepared for bed.

"You're just a wee bit cross, aren't you?" said Frank jestingly.

"I don't know that I am."

"Well, good-night," said Frank, "we won't talk if you are tired."

The words sounded kind in themselves, but there was an ironical ring in them that vexed Arthur, and roused him to make an effort to get rid of his disquieting thoughts; so with a light word or two, he laughed off his ill-humour, and dashed into lively talk.

Somehow the atmosphere of the house was less placid than it had been. Tom grew restless, and, strange as it would seem, he was often called 'the weather-glass of the house.' Any change in the moral atmosphere always affected him, and now, while feverishly anxious to enjoy Frank's company whenever he was there, he did not seem satisfied with it when obtained. He was heard to sigh more after liberty; he brooded more over his affliction, and was often snappish to the little ones and fretful with his mother. These were like the old days to him, before he had found out what Christ had done for him.

What was the cause? He did not wait to ask himself, or if he did, he knew not the answer.

Mrs. Arundel looked tired and worried, and told her husband that things did not seem to go so smoothly as usual. "But then," she added, "I am always tired if Tom is poorly."

[CHAPTER XI.]

TEMPTED.

ONE afternoon when Arthur and Frank were at the Zoological Gardens, and were sitting under a tree resting, Frank exclaimed:

"I say, Arthur, are all your folks teetotallers?"

"Yes," said Arthur.

"Are you?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so."

"Catch me," answered Frank. "Did your father make you?"

"No, not in that sense."

"Then why don't you do as you like, and come and have a glass of ale now?"

"I have never taken any in my life."

"Don't even know the taste? You are 'a ninny.'"

"I'm not 'a ninny,' but I would not take any for the world."

"Afraid of it?"

"No, I don't think so. But we will not discuss it, please Frank."

"Why not, if you're not afraid of it? What made your father a teetotaller?"

"He said it was the dreadful evil he had seen it grow to in his professional experience."

"Very likely, but everyone is not so silly; and I can't see why you should go without a pleasure and all that, just because other people abuse it. You won't take too much. Come along, I mean to have a glass; I'm awfully thirsty. You never signed, I suppose?"

"No; but I would not break my determination. You go if you like, Frank, but I shan't."

Frank laughed, and ran off towards the refreshment-rooms. He was gone some time, and Arthur had time to think. When Frank rejoined him he began again.

"Well, now I feel jolly; I am not thirsty, and I feel as refreshed as possible."

"So do I," said Arthur, smiling slightly.

"How?"

Arthur pointed to a water tap close by.

"Nonsense! that's a very different thing. But, seriously, Arthur, do you mean to be judged for and petticoat governed all your life?"

"No," said Arthur, frowning; "but in this matter it is no petticoat government; I have made up my mind."

"You are too young yet to know."

"Very likely; but let the matter be, Frank. In some things you know a great deal more than I do, and better too, I daresay, but not in this."

Frank waved his hand airily, and rose up to go to the monkey-house, and Arthur followed, all the stronger for his victory.

Had he not good reason for his determination? Had not there been a time, not so long ago, when he had come into his father's study and found him with his head buried in his hands? He would have drawn back, but his father beckoned to him, and made him sit down by him "while he told him a story."

"Arthur, my boy, there were once two friends. Both were brought up with equal love and tenderness; both went to the same school, and then to college; both had opportunities of knowing the will of God, and of doing it. One, thank God, though with many falls and falters, passed through the temptations of youth, and came out a happy, successful man; the other—is just dead.

"At college he was the best fellow going. He was full of fun and gaiety, and scorned the idea of living like a recluse, or not using 'God's good gifts' to the full. At first he meant no harm, and was sure he could keep straight; but there was a gradual change in him. He began to keep later hours; he was tempted into more company than he had time or money for; he was ridiculed at first for his moderation, but soon threw away all caution, and took as much as he felt inclined.

"True, he suffered for it bitterly. There were days of wretchedness and anguish, days in which he cursed himself for his folly; but the insatiable longing came over him again, and once more he fell into it.

"My boy, what his parents and friends suffered for him no tongue can tell.

"His companions laughed at him as a good joke; where they could stop short, he had fallen.

"After a while he did not care to see his friends, and I lost sight of him. By a seeming accident, I was visiting a patient in a lodging-house in the West End, and was asked by the landlady to step in and see another lodger, who was very ill.

"I did so; and there I found a dying man, this college friend of whom I have been telling you.

"He was dozing, and I sat down by his side.

"Presently he opened his eyes. 'You, Arundel?' he said, feebly stretching out his hand and holding mine in his weak grasp. 'Yes; you were right, and I was wrong.'

"'It is not too late,' I said to him.

"'No;' he answered. 'I am like the thief on the cross; I have looked and lived. I am like the prodigal son, who, when he had spent all, came to himself and went to his father.'

"Then, my boy, I bent down and kissed him; kissed that poor worn-out, prematurely old face, which I had loved in our youthful days; and we wept together such tears as men weep.

"He told me, when we could say anything, that while he had laid on this death-bed, words spoken to him long ago, entreaties long disregarded, Scripture despised and trampled on, had come up before him, and had stared him in the face.

"He told me how despair had held him in its awful grip, and then how one night he had, as it were, seen a battle, in which One had come out victorious—One mighty to save. This One had agonized for his lost soul. This One had even died for his lost soul; and now came to him with the signs of victory in His blood-stained hands, and said to him, 'I give unto them eternal life: and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'

"Then, Arthur, he told me he had believed that conquering One.

"He knew how degraded, helpless, wicked, he himself was, but here was One who said, 'No one shall pluck thee out of My hand;' and he laid his sin-sick soul in the hand of Jesus, and rested his weary head on the heart of Jesus, and was forgiven.

"This morning, my boy, he has gone to be with that Saviour who bought him; no longer defiled, miserable, sinful; but washed, renewed, victorious, through Him who died for him."

Then Arthur's father ceased. But once more he looked up in the boy's face—

"My friend told me to warn all, all, against this awful curse of drink.

Nellie Arundel

NELLIE ARUNDEL.