chair in which she had been enjoying a little stolen nap, while Emily had been away changing her dress; her mother had gone home long before.

"Oh, yes, dear! if all is well at least, he is sure to come-he promised."

"Then I think I may leave you, I shall go home to bed at once."

dear Mrs. Owen.

"You must need it-you have worked so hard— but will not you stay here? You had much better."

"Oh no! you will like it much better all to yourselves; besides" she said, laughing, "I'm half afraid of Mr. Owen when he finds out what we've done. Hark! is not that a horse going past?"

"Yes, and it is our horse, Maggie. I know its step," said Emily, springing up.

"I'll vanish, then. Good-bye, Mrs. Owen, I'll come again to-morrow to help you. Mr. Owen will go straight to our house, I know," and off she ran.

His horse! yes, that was certain; and Emily presently opened the front door and stood looking out through the trees into the darkness-not quite darkness either for there was half a moon, and that threw slanting rays of silvery light almost to the verandah in which she stood. She could see across the road-she could just discern the top of the mill when she turned in that direction; her husband was there, and he would presently be here, and how would he like the change? Half afraid, too, she felt for him -not of him. But he knew it had to be done, and she could not help rejoicing that it was completed so nicely in his absence. Why should they not be happy here? Why should they not live in as much comfort? Why indeed should they not, when they had

S

God still with them-still caring for them—still the joy, the hope, the crown of their life! That to no outward circumstance they might look for happiness -but out of all to the one pure, clear fount of light and joy—she silently prayed, as she stood there upon the door-step awaiting her husband; prayed, too, that they might still continue one in heart and life and spirit, as they had ever been; and that more than ever she might prove a helpmate to her dear husband in all his arduous duties.

As she stood there thinking and praying, the large side-gate, near Mr. Hampden's schoolroom, screened from the house by a thick hedge, swung open-the sound followed immediately by the step of a horse, and Emily's heart beat quickly, almost painfully, as she strained every nerve to listen for the familiar unbuckling of the saddle and grooming of the horse. Pony had little of the latter this night at anyrate. She heard the opening of the stable door—fancied even she could detect the sound of filling the manger with hay, but she was at no loss certainly to distinguish the quick firm step that presently came from the stable, and through a little gate she had not before noticed in the hedge, and then on, on under the verandah to her side.

"Gilbert! ""

"Darling! you must be tired to death!" were the first words he exclaimed, as he half let her go. "Come into the light, and let me look at you!"

He was not angry-was not sorry; that was something; but the flush that rose to her cheek as he scrutinised her, playfully taking her face in both his hands, did not quite satisfy him, much as she wished it.

"You are the very best little wife that ever existed," he presently said; "but," he gravely added, "it seems to me that my people are very much disposed to overwork my little wife: that must not be."

"No one set me to work, dear Gil," said Emily, laughing. "It was all my own doing, and I have had plenty of help from the Gordons. I knew you dreaded this moving."

"Yes; but more on your account, Emmy, than my own. You will be ill, dear, after all you have

done yesterday and to-day."

"Does it not look nice?"

"Very; very home-like you have made it; " but it was with a sigh that he said it, after all—a sigh for the quiet retirement of his little cottage home—a sigh for the future, and what it might bring—a sigh for the little wife and her labour of love. Labour he knew it must be, though love rendered it comparatively easy. For that little wife's sake he checked the sigh almost ere it rose to his lips, but the weight Iwas in his heart still.

"You are tired, dear Gil,—you must be; now come in and take supper. I waited for you; it is all ready; we will enjoy it together."

Dear faithful little wife! fatigued as she was, how bright she tried to be, that he might miss nothing of his cheer. After all, his most precious possession was spared him: it was sinful to murmur. God had doubtless wise ends to accomplish in all this. "His ways are in the deep-mysterious-strangebut wise and good," thought Gilbert; "I wish I could remember that more. "The hearts of all are in His hands; that too I know, and there is nothing that He

cannot do; only, if He would bless His work, and turn their hearts to Himself, then I should feel sure that I am in the place He has appointed."

Poor Gilbert! he had begun to believe he had entered upon a work that the Lord had not appointed; the seals he had had to his ministry in the past were forgotten, but not alone in his trial of faith was he. There are many of us, who under present clouds forget past mercies; under present distress remember not past consolations. Oh! who but Jesus could bear with our infirmities? What love but His could put up with this forgetfulness-this sinful forgetfulness-this lack of trust-this dishonouring unbelief? Happy for us is it, that His love knows no change-there is no forgetfulness with Him!

CHAPTER XXXIII.

NEWS FROM THE BAY.

"Hast thou heard of a shell on the margin of ocean,
Whose pearly recesses the echoes still keep-
Of the music it caught, when, with tremulous motion,
It joined in the concert poured forth by the deep."

THE nine days' wonder had passed, and the Owens were very quietly settled down in their new residence at the farther end of Glen Ness, prepared to make the best of everything, and rejoicing together that however rough, the Lord leads only in right paths.

"Smooth let it be or rough,

It will be still the best ;
Winding or straight, it matters not,
It leads me to Thy rest"

were words that the weary pastor often repeated to himself as he toiled home from district visits, or from thinly attended meetings. For it was a fact not to be disguised, a lethargy had come over the spirit of the little church, and would not be aroused. For the most part, indeed, on the Sabbath the people were in their customary places, drawn thither, alas! by the force of habit; but the week-night meetings