"And then

repeated Mrs Wright. "I know what you mean, and thank you for not hiding the truth from me.”

"I sometimes think," Mr Wright said one day, while the fever was at its height, "that over-exertion of mind and body may have brought on this illness. Rest and our poor Fanny seem to have parted company long ago. Did it ever occur to you that she was injuring herself?"

"Yes, often," replied his wife. "I have long felt very anxious about her; so much so, that the day she was taken ill, I made up my mind to warn

her

upon that very point; and I now blame myself for not having done so long ago."

"We gain nothing by lamenting over the past," rejoined Mr Wright.

"Nothing indeed; but that cannot prevent my regret, especially as I have been even more alarmed on account of the injury her spiritual health was likely to sustain, than from any fear that illness

would ensue.

"Indeed!

"Yes, often as I have seen her go out early and return late, tired and fagged, I have felt that such incessant hurry and bustle, leaving no margin to her time, could not but be injurious to her."

"It has struck me so too," Mr Wright observed, thoughtfully; "and though we may have been silent, she had a friend who saw the danger and warned her of it."

"Who was that?"

I

I

"Mary Woods,-Mrs Mostyn, you know. happened to overhear some observations of hers to Fanny that day on board the Victory, and learned from herself afterwards that they referred to a previous conversation about the importance of reserving time for Bible-reading and prayer."

"Fanny told you, did she?"

"No, Mary, when I was walking home with her." "Dear Fanny could not have had a wiser friend than Mary Woods," said Mrs Wright; "her leaving Bloomfield was a great loss to her."

"No doubt it was a very serious loss. Who can rightly estimate the value of a faithful friend?” said Mr Wright.

"And such a friend Mary certainly was; and then she and Fanny were greatly attached to each other, so that I am sure Fanny was very likely to be influenced by anything Mary might say, whether of warning or upon any other subject. And you think she spoke to her about the necessity of being, as William says, 'alone with God"?"

"I am sure of it; and everything about Mary herself was calculated to give weight to her words: such a calmness, that spoke of a well-regulated mind, of a heart at peace with God, seeking simply to do His will."

"There was all that indeed," said Mrs Wright; "and though I had not the opportunity to know much about her inner life, yet it was deeply impressed on my mind that, considering her trying position at home, she could not have fulfilled her

duties to her aunt with such faithfulness and childlike devotedness if she had not daily received strength and grace from above."

"Undoubtedly she must," replied Mr Wright; "and while we have the promise that grace and strength can be had, so to speak, for the asking, we know also that, to be received, they must be asked for."

Mrs Wright sighed and left the room, saying she would send the nurse to lie down, and take her place.

She found Fanny restless and uneasy, uttering broken sentences as she tossed about her bed, as though her mind were as ill at ease as her body. "Yes," she muttered, "if there ever were any-if -they are all spoiled;" and again, "I little thought what pain was when I said that; and yet to be as happy as she is-oh, yes! it would be worth any pain.'

"You are uneasy, my darling," her mother said, as she laid her hand gently on her.

"Oh yes, mamma, very, and I'm so unhappy," and Fanny burst into tears.

"Shall I sing you to sleep, as I used to do when you were a little child?" her mother asked, wishing to change the current of her thoughts; and without waiting for an answer, she sang :

"Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy father watches the sheep,

And tendeth the lambs upon yonder hill;

But mother watches one dearer still

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Soft be thy slumbers, and deep!

While over our heads the wild winds meet, An old, old lullaby they repeat

Sleep, baby, sleep!

"Sleep, baby, sleep!

The baby knows not to weep;

Unconscious it lies of the toil of life, Knows nothing yet of its din and strife— Sleep, baby, sleep!

"Sleep, baby, sleep!

Thy father watches the sheep,

And tendeth the lambs upon yonder hill; But mother watches one dearer still

Sleep, baby, sleep!"

CHAPTER XIV.

BUT what about Emma Rae and her piece of hemming?

We have seen that she brought it to Elmsgrove, and when Fanny desired Harry to lay it on her table, she intended to arrange it in the evening, but headache and weariness put it out of her mind.

The next morning, exactly at the time Fanny had desired her, "just ten minutes sooner than usual," Emma left home for school, and took the road leading to Elmsgrove. Gay as a bird she hopped along, delighted to think her little fingers would not again be puzzled by that "horrid hem which would always go crooked."”

"If you please, will you ask Miss Wright for my hemming?" she said, curtseying to the servant who opened the hall-door.

"Can't send no message-she's sick," was the doleful reply.

"Sick!" exclaimed Emma; "why, she was at the school yesterday; I saw her, and she wasn't a bit sick. Please, sir, tell her it's little Emma Rae, and it's the hemming she was to lay down she's come for."

"Miss Wright's in bed, I told you," said the