suggested that perhaps the being "ordered about might not be the best way to deal with either men or women." The influence of love,” she said, "is the most powerful of all, and doing ourselves what we tell others they ought to do.”

“You're no doubt right, ma'am,” said John Rae ; ** and I'm sure, from what I hear, that that's Mrs Fulham's plan. She goes before and shows the way like, but there are others think it best to drive people before them, and it's not uncommon for those that drive hardest, to follow themselves at a good distance. But that's human nature, and we can't change it."

“No, we cannot, Mr Rae,” replied Mary; "but God, by His Holy Spirit, can so change our hearts as to make us gentle and loving to others, tenderhearted while we rebuke what is wrong in them, and ever watchful over our own conduct. When our hearts are changed, our lives cannot remain unchanged."

“You speak like our new rector, ma'am; he's powerful in the pulpit,” observed John.

Mary laughed as she left the cottage to pay some other visits. We cannot follow her from house to house; but wherever she went, Fanny was, as Mrs Harpur had prophesied, the theme for loving, grateful commendation. Fathers and mothers, too, never wearied of mentioning little facts to show the interest which Mr and Mrs Fulham took in their children's welfare." It was quite surprising," Mrs Allen said, "how much they liked their tasks, now

that the rector didn't think it beneath him to sit down on the form beside them, and ask how they were getting on. There is no danger of his lowering himself by doing that," continued Mrs Allen ; "real gentlemen and ladies can afford to speak friendly to poor people. It's the make-believe gentry that are obliged always to keep on their own shelf, that's to say, what they consider their own. shelf, when, perhaps, all the time it's two or three above them."

Mary had many a chat with Phoebe about the "old times," the "old house," and the "old mistress," as she always called Miss Waller. It interested her greatly to hear little circumstances related which evidenced the change in her aunt's tone of mind her harsh, inconsiderate manner so much subdued her irritable temper seldom given way to. "Sometimes, to be sure," Phoebe admitted there would come a thunder-shower, but it never lasted long, and always left her more sunshiny and pleasant afterwards. "Ay, Goldie," and she looked up at the cage as she spoke, "though you're but a little bird, you did wonders. That was a pretty song the children sang after the feast the other evening, about all the little things. I've been thinking they do more than big things.'

6

"Very pretty, indeed, Phœbe, and they sang it very well. I quite agree with you about the little things. Some wise man speaks of the power of littles.' You understand what that means by the song."

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"I do, ma'am; I'm getting to call you right, you see, miss ;" and Phoebe, in happy ignorance of her blunder, went on: "And I've been thinking one reason that 'little acts of kindness' do so much is, because there can be so many of them. It isn't every one could give a servant such a handsome shawl as you brought me from Scotland, but there's few of us couldn't give a poor child a bit of bread. I suppose there might be a hundred bits of bread given away for every one shawl. Oh! but it's like the old times to be talking this way to you, maʼam; but maybe I'd best now go back to the kitchen." So saying, Phoebe departed.

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Captain Mostyn and Mary remained a month at Elmsgrove. It seemed but a few days, the time passed so pleasantly. Still, as Phoebe said, a few days were better than nothing;" and they promised to come again some other time, if all went well. Before Mary went, she got a promise from Fanny that she would visit her in her northern home the following summer, if she was not particularly wanted at home.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ABOUT a month after Jack's return, as he was sauntering home one afternoon along the road which skirted the churchyard, he observed a man walking among the graves; he looked again, and the man raised his hand as if to shade his eyes. "Ah!" thought Jack, "he has been weeping over a newly-made grave, perhaps of a father or mother, and even the rays of the setting sun are painful to him." But the man had not been weeping, and he was not conscious of the light, except so far as it enabled him to discern an object upon which he was intently gazing. When Jack reached the summit of a little height behind the church, he paused to watch the bright orb of day descend below the horizon, to wake another world to life and labour, gilding, as he disappeared, the gray clouds of evening. A quick step behind made him turn round, and the next moment a hand grasped his arm :— and thus it was that Tom Hickey and Jack Jones met again, after a lapse of many years. For some seconds they gazed at each other in mute amazement. Tom was the first to speak.

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So you were not drowned!" he said. God!"

"Thank

"The Bible?" interrupted Tom. "Yes." "And the message which almost

"I sent no message," said Tom, eagerly.

"Well, you gave information about my father which led to it. I can tell you," continued Jack, becoming greatly excited,-" I can tell you it almost killed my father."

"Believe my word," replied Tom, scarcely less agitated," believe me, I never sent any message, and don't the least understand what you mean. "Most extraordinary!" said Jack.

"Let me tell you all I do know," pleaded Tom, "and don't run away with the wrong end of a story." "Do!" said Jack, more calmly, and they walked on slowly together.

Like many another mystery, it was easily solved by a few words of explanation. Tom Hickey had, as Mrs Harpur said, "gone northwards," when Jack left Bloomfield, and had been living at Shields for some years. His trade was that of a journeyman carpenter. The day of the wreck he was working two miles from Shields, and, as the job was a heavy one, a friend gave him a shakedown for a couple of nights, and he did not return to Shields until after J. J. was buried. "I never laid eyes on him," he said, "or I'd have seen it wasn't you, Jack; for when a friend lies deep in your heart of hearts," and Tom grasped Jack's arm convulsively as he spoke," you 're not likely to mistake his face, even though it was 'washed out,' as the people said."