which we linger but a moment as we pass into the palace where the King has invited us to sit down and feast with him for ever."

"Still, Criff, this life is worth something. We are not to despise the world in which we are placed."

By no means, dear. It is God's world, and though marred by sin now, some day it will be restored to more than its pristine beauty. As it is, this world is a fair and goodly dwelling-place; the impress of the great Creator's hand is on all His works, for the earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof. The glory and loveliness of the natural world of art, literature, science, in all its adaptations, are the Lord's, and He will own and use them at His will. Blessed are they who count them only as the servants of the Lord, coming from Him as most excellent gifts to the children of men, and going back to Him in works redounding to His praise. And this life is worth a great deal, since it is the preparation for the better life that is to be. Only, Maude, when the two lives meet, as it were-when one stands between the two-when earthly joys and cares are fading in the distance behind one, and heaven's portals brightening, as it would seem, not far before one, then that small space of time that makes up our mortal life appears so insignificant as compared with the immortal being, the illimitable eternity that is approaching."

"And you can take it quite calmly, this breaking off of the work you loved so much?"

"Yes, because it is God's will. It is a pain; but it must be borne patiently, and in faith-knowing that something better is awaiting me."

"How can you know it, Criff?"

"I am told that all things work together for good to them that love God'; and I do love Him, Maude, though my love is not perfect, as it will one day be."

"Love will be perfect, I suppose, when faith and hope will pass away."

"They will never pass away, my dear."

"Not? Oh, Criff! I always thought faith would be lost in sight, hope in full fruition—we shall not have to believe in heaven because we shall see, and know even as we are known; and hope will be no more, because every expectation will be realized."

"I know it is often said so, and it is true as far as such faith and hope as we have here is concerned. But, Maude, I feel that my faith is a part of my soul, of my immortal essence, and it cannot die with this poor human clay. Shall I have less faith in my Father, because I dwell at home in His house, instead of looking for Him in the desert? Shall my faith in Jesus Christ cease to be, because I see Him 'face to face,' and know at last the full measure of His wondrous grace and beauty? Will it be joy that hope is left behind? Maude! I hold that the heavenly life will be ceaselessly progressive we shall go from glory to glory. Aye! we shall know as we are known but we shall not know it all at once; we shall go on knowing, knowing-ever knowing, ever reaching some fresh height of knowledge, ever receiving some new revelation of our Father's power and goodness. May we not penetrate then all mysteries? May we not know all worlds, all the hidden marvels of the spheres? What is science here, even at its best, but a dull groping after truths which are but the lowest fundamental laws of God's great plan? A child may learn to read, but the full joy of a mighty literature is hidden from him; and we may climb the heavens, so to speak, and measure the distances of the stars, and we may delve down into the bosom of this old earth, and learn what she was millions of years ago, before the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters, and God said, 'Let there be light!' We may be in our generation the kings of science and philosophy; and what then? The child that died yesterday knows more than we; we have only learnt the alphabet of God's great Book of Nature: the pages of that story without an end must be read up higher, in the pure clear light of that City that has no need of sun, or moon, or candle. And shall we not need faith to go on,

on!-ever onward, ever upward?

And we shall have it too

—-a glad, unwavering faith, such as now we cannot conceive; a hope ever new, and ever fulfilled. Have I tired you Maude?"

“Oh, no; but I am afraid you have tired yourself.”

"I do not feel tired. I think this little talk is doing me good."

"And you will not think too much about what you are going to do presently, when you can set to work again?”

"I will try not; I will try to leave it. It will be ordered,' but I do not say I shall have no anxieties."

66 I suppose if one is ever so much of a Christian, anxieties will come and weary one.'

"Yes, they are part of the discipline; only we must take care not to let them get the mastery."

"Criff, I have heard of Christian people losing all light for awhile, of its being total eclipse with them, of the darkness gathering round them till they could not see one step of the way before them-how is it with them, then?"

"It is written, 'Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the LORD, and stay upon his God.' Maude, when that blackness of darkness comes upon one, all one can do is to commit one's-self to the Lord, and trust and wait. And sometimes, Maude, when in terror and dismay we are feeling for our Father's hand, thinking that if we can but clasp it we are safe, we are suddenly folded in His kind embrace, and in the light of lights that His presence gives we see His face, and we hear His voice saying, 'It is I, my child; be not afraid!' and we are willing to abide in that temporal darkness always, if it be His will, till the prison-walls are rent assunder, and we behold the golden hills, and the towers of the resplendent city, and know that our warfare is accomplished, our weary waiting ended, and our great joy won."

"Yes, Criff, only I feel as if all that were not for me."

"It will be, dear-soon, I hope. Maude, what service

can be to you half as sweet as the service of Him who died that you might live?"

"But it is a service of self-denial, of self-sacrifice!"

"Even so; we must bear the cross before we wear the crown the garments of humiliation before the white robes. The rod is before the palm, the toil before the rest, what we call death before the life eternal. It was so, Maude, with One who went before; there was the temptation in the wilderness before the transfiguration, the judgment hall and Calvary before the resurrection, Gethsemane before the Mount of Olives! But, Maude, you do not grieve over any sacrifice of your own will, or your own ease, that you may have to make for me, or Ambrose, or our mother!"

"How should I, when I love you all so much?"

“And love makes all things easy, my dear; love, like faith, removes mountains."

"That reminds me of something else I want so much to say. I may as well say it now!

"What is it?

Only that I do not mean you to be the only worker in the family any longer. I am young and strong, and ought to help to bear the burden. Mind, Criff, I have made up my mind, so you need not waste words in trying to dissuade me: I mean to keep myself, and help to keep Ambrose. Mamma has enough just for herself, or nearly so; then, Criff, you will be free."

"Free for what, Maude?"

"Free to marry!

You ought to have a wife and half a score of children by this time!"

"Thank you, my dear Maude; but that sounds alarming to a bachelor! I am not sure that I wish to have so large a family!"

66

Well, at any rate, I want to see you married!"

"Don't turn match-maker, Maude; you are at least a quarter of a century too young for that!"

"No; but, Criff, when you care, and somebody else cares, I think you ought to speak."

R

Christopher started, and a vivid blush like a girl's dyed his delicate face.

"Maude, what do you mean?"

"Oh, Criff, do you think I don't know?"

"Maude, tell me, did I dream it in my stupor or delirium, or did Ermengarde Liebrecht stand by my side that night. among all the savage men, trying to save me from them?" "It was no dream, Criff, she did save you, I think, for had she not interposed you would have been killed before help came. The least violence more, and you must have Dr. Wreford and the London physician both say

died. 80."

"And I have never thanked Ermy! what must she think of me?"

"She thought you too far gone to recognise her or any one that night, and she begged you might never be told. And we had to promise, but as you did recognise her it is another thing!"

"Has she been here-since November?"

"Yes; and she has seen you several times, Criff. Ermy is a veritable darling!"

"I am glad you like her! Now, Maude, let me be quite quiet, please. I cannot talk any more. Oh, but about Dicky Dance?"

"That is quite a long story!"

"Then tell it me another day. Go to your practising, Maude. I want to be quite quiet."

CHAPTER XXV.

RACHEL'S TROUBLES.

"I SAY, Rachel, how long do you mean to go on in this way?" said Samuel Meacham one morning, as he seated