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CHAPTER LXV., AND LAST.

ADIEU.

""Tis sweet to move

Gladly from one to another strand,
Guided by some invisible hand."

LOVELY weather. September was excelling itself. Flowers and early fruit were in perfection, and trees in glorious beauty.

"I wonder whether I shall like Victoria as well as I do South Australia," said Emily, with a half sigh, as she quietly assisted in some light packing that alone remained to do. The majority of their boxes were already on board.

"Like it, sis?" said Edward Ashley, gaily. "You will like it better. See if that will not be your verdict when we come to see you in your new home, among your new people."

"You will come?" Emily's tone almost betokened tears.

"Of course

we shall, too glad of the chance; never fear that, Em."

"And Hugh says he shall bring me some day, dear Mrs. Owen," said Maggie; "so our adieu is by no means final."

"I could not bear that," said Emily, wiping her eyes; "I am very glad."

"You will have a nice, nice home, that I believe; and a pleasant, warm little church, and a loving people," Maggie ran on. "And I am so glad you can never have the old Glen Ness trials again. You need never again wear yourself out with school, dear Mrs. Owen, and Mr. Owen will not suffer SO much with head-aches. Was it not a good thing he went to Melbourne. He is so much

stronger?"

"It was one of the Lord's ways, Maggie; I verily believe that. It came in answer to prayer, and He

has led us rightly."

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Every way, our are just to yield

"Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He shall direct thy paths," is not that a clear command, with as clear a promise, Maggie ?" said Mr. Owen, smiling. 'Why should we not believe it? Why should we not take it for just what it means. most trying ways, all our ways, we up to His guidance. He will bring it to pass, He will guide our steps, for He has said it, and wonderfully He has proved it in our case. It is not for us," he presently continued, "to debate the possibility of His doing anything for us, of his guiding or directing us; He has promised to do so, that's enough. Will not you think of this, Mrs. Spencer, whenever your path seems trying? Will you not think of it whenever anything appears too hard for you?"

"I hope, I hope I shall," said Maggie, in a low voice. "Oh, I hope I may be able to commit all my way to the Lord."

It was rather a sorrowful luncheon that last they took together, for, after all there is something very painful in bidding their friends "good-bye," and on leaving friendly shores for untried friends and untried paths, and Emily especially felt it so. Her husband was with her, that was eveything; and with them both was God's presence, that she knew. Their home, though new, would not be desolate.

And in the midst, up and down, trotted little Rosie, lisping out sentences about the "pitty ship" they were going in, and happily oblivious to the rude tossings of waves to come, and ruder qualms of seasickness,―horrors that have no mercy on those who trust themselves on the ocean paths.

"The voyage will do everything for you, Mrs. Owen. You will be quite strong after you get to Melbourne, and equal to anything." These were the parting words of the medical man, who called in to say "Good-bye" before they left. It did much to reconcile Emily's mind to the great foe, sea-sickness. The hope of future strength seemed very delightful to her.

What a party accompanied them to the port that morning. It was so bright and lovely that it was quite a pleasure trip. The water was smooth and calm, and the little steamer in trim order when they went on board. They encountered the faces of old friends at once, for Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were there before them.

"I wanted so much to see whether it would be comfortable for you, and whether you would be likely to get good attention from the stewardess," whispered Mrs. Gordon to Emily. She did not

however, tell her how she had bribed that attention with a handsome gratuity, it was sufficient that she herself knew that it was done.

They spent a pleasant hour together, reviewing the past, and chatting of the future. Promises of frequent correspondence passed between them, and many, many regrets at parting.

"There will be one place of reunion," said Mr. Owen, gently, "where parting is unknown. May we all meet there," and his hand clasped Hugh's as he spoke; the grasp was warmly, gratefully returned.

"Poor Norton," said Edward Ashley, in an undertone to his brother-in-law. "Yours is not the only broken-up home, Owen. He has disposed of house and furniture, and sails for England next week.” "If only in his sorrow he finds God," sighed Gilbert Owen. "Poor fellow, it is a bitter trial to

him."

Ah! those last trying moments-hand clasped in hand, parting kisses—they came at last; and sorrowfully the little group of friends passed on shore, leaving the pastor and his wife and little "Rosebud " standing together on the deck. Amidst the puff of steam, amidst the clamour of wheels, amidst the cries of the sailors, the vessel pushed off from the land, and took her rapid course down the river. They watched the receding shore, and those receding friends, and then Gilbert drew his weeping wife to a seat, gently whispering in her ear,

"Blessed is he that hath the God of Jacob for

his refuge.' You believe that, do you not, dear Emmy?"

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