Miss Rachel looked on all this with a pensive and devotional feeling. The heavens plainly declared their Creator's glory, the mellow light traced out his handiwork, and in the transparent pencilling every bough and leaf were discernible.

But that He who thus mantled our world in beauty was willing to stand by her couch of languishing, and make all her bed in her sickness, she could not comprehend; and, by some strange infatuation, she had persuaded herself that there was melancholy attached to such a thought,—therefore she felt the burden of life, but made no effort to cast it on God.

There are some characters so sweetly moulded that they need but the turning away their thoughts from the dull twilight of their sorrows, and fixing them on Jesus, the Bright and Morning Star, to make them all that is lovely and of good report-and such was Miss Rachel. The heavy shadow of bodily suffering hung over her spirit, and in intellectual converse and physical rest she sought soothing for her soul. The waters of life, given freely when sought in the name of Jesus, were disregarded, and she went on her quiet way, in meek endurance, it is true, but not in cheerful resignation, with much that was amiable and attractive about her, yet without that spirit on which the eye of the Lofty One looks in love,—without being willing to receive as a little child the kingdom of heaven.

Through Millie, Miss Rachel had learned Mary's sweet character and confiding Christian faith.

Sometimes these communings would take the form of argument; but when opposition assumed too direct a character, it was repressed and softened by affection. Millie's playful observations, which stole in even on this grave converse, would often outrun Miss Rachel's quiet comprehension, and then Millie would have to call them all back again, and step by step go over the same ground with sadder thought than before.

Miss Rachel could not altogether understand the simplicity with which Millie traced out the plan of salvation, Christ the great sacrifice, and guilty man, by faith in him, presented, clothed in the righteousness of Jesus, faultless before the Father. Occasionally they would have discussions about the nature and necessity of good works, strangely free from that tenacity of opinion which usually characterises such arguments; only Millie's cheeks would kindle into warmth at the bare idea of leading a careless life, the supposed result of God's widespreading mercy. She deprived, as it were, such a thought of existence, by placing before it the Saviour's injunction, "If ye love me, keep my commandments;" and endeavoured to prove how much easier it was to disobey, while, amidst the shadows of forms and ceremonies, redeeming love became indistinctly remembered, than when in simplicity keeping that promise near the heart, "He that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of

my Father, and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him."

And sometimes the young moon looked down on their communings, as, like a disk of pearl, it slowly rose above the silvery ash-trees into the sky of night.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SHATTERED NEST.

ONCE or twice Millie had heard from Mary, who was battling with life," faint yet pursuing," "having nothing, and yet possessing all things." With Miss Rachel's assistance, Millie made up a parcel of many useful articles, and sent them to the dear seamstress.

Flannels for the blind grandmother, a neat, strong dress for Mary, with tea, sugar, bacon, and many other things to which she knew the dear seamstress had been accustomed at the chateau.

It must yet be at least two months before she could hear from Arthur, and she sometimes fancied that old Father Time must be lame, so slowly did he tread down the passing months.

Millie spent some really peaceful days at Cedar Lodge. The former gladness had certainly passed away, or rather it had grown out of its infancy, and was wearing that chastened maturity which is so peculiarly its characteristic, as its acquaintance

deepens with time. Yet this was not all,-positive sadness had crept in, and more than one heart was under its influence. This was in a measure revealed by Florence's thoughtfulness, which had become so imbued by melancholy as almost to have lost its original character; and by Millie's earnest effort at cheerfulness, which after all failed in approaching the reality. But Kate's laughter rose on all this, musically as ever; and if it was somewhat imbued with sadness, it was the melodious melancholy of a stream.

With Millie's affection for Florence, there had mingled an almost imperceptible uneasiness, which she shrunk from acknowledging even to herself; and in proportion to the strength of this apprehension, was her determination to resist it; so that whilst this anxiety was torturing her mind, she would take from Florence's passing excitement, or fitful colour, a plea for believing in her improving health.

Of Mr Pemberton, Millie saw but little. He always contrived to be out of the way when she was at the Lodge. Mrs Pemberton's manner was constrained, though not cold. There were feelings in her maternal heart which always became tumultuous at the sight of Millie, yet she loved her to be with Florence,—unconsciously, perhaps, seeking by her indulgence of this association, to infuse some palliating influence into the stern nature of her remorse.

Sometimes she would stand unperceived at the window, watching those girls as they sat under the

sycamore tree, with an expression of countenance so desolate in its sorrow that, as you looked at her, you became convinced that trial had made sad inroad on her heart, and grew anxious that some light from above might rest on her troubled spirit, revealing to her even the outline of the land that is very far off.

She had indeed begun to feel as she looked at Florence, the utter insignificance of this world's gains, honours, applause, or losses, but not yet did she seek first for her child the kingdom of God and his right

eousness.

Sir Hugh Fairfield, a young baronet, had lately been staying with the Pembertons; indeed he was a distant connexion of theirs, and this had been a long-promised visit. He was a gentlemanly young man, with a great deal of Florence's quiet manner about him. From the first moment of introduction he was pleased with her, and in a little while never seemed happy when out of her presence. Florence drew back into herself, and was both perplexed and distressed at his attention. Once when her father ventured to have a whispered joke on the subject, she put both her hands on her side, as if in sudden pain. He became persuaded from this that his best plan would be to let things take their quiet course; and great was his delight, a few mornings after, on entering Mrs Pemberton's dressing-room, to be able to tell her that the wealthy young baronet had sought permission to pay his addresses to Florence.

Mrs Pemberton was a quiet woman, and especially