Millie's cheeks grew crimson, and she stood abashed at her own earnestness, but the next moment entirely forgot self, from the eager tone in which Mrs Pemberton made inquiry, "Where shall I find Him?" "He is not far from every one of us," Millie gently replied, "He that seeketh findeth."

There was an affectionate "Good night!" and Millie went forward on her little work of love, whilst Mrs Pemberton lingered amidst the dews and flowers to pray, with an earnestness hitherto unknown to her, that "God, for Christ's sake, would draw near to her soul." "Him that cometh unto me, I will in nowise cast out; "blessed words, faithful and true, spoken by One who is ever mindful of His covenant!

Is it possible, that on Mrs Pemberton's confusion. of ideas and distress of mind, something like calm now rested? Had she already drunk of the brook by the way? The first trembling breath of prayer in the name of Jesus is wafted to the right hand of God. It is not on the devoted Christian, or on the active disciple only, that the dew of blessing rests,— the promise stands firm: "Every one that asketh receiveth,"-"I will make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water."

All was silent as Millie approached Cedar Lodge. The moon was mingling its silver beaming lovingly and beautifully with the light of departing day. Gently she opened the folding-doors by the sycamore tree. There alone, with the deep evening, sat Florence, on a low ottoman, by the window; and in

the dim purple light Millie could see she had been weeping.

In her softest, tenderest manner, sitting down by her friend's side, she encircled her waist, and, with something like a smile, said, "I have a message for you, dear Florence."

"O Millie," replied Florence, with an irritation unnatural to her, "if you do not wish to kill me, say no more about Sir Hugh. He has been telling me this evening, that my father gives him leave to seek my affection; and though I assured him that all my heart was given to another, he appears not to believe me; and now, oh misery! you are come from mamma to urge me to obey."

"Florence, dear Florence," said Millie, sorrowfully, "indeed, indeed it is not so. I am the last person who could wish you to forget."

"Forgive me, dear Millie," answered her friend; "grief is wild, and I feel bitterly my father's unkindness in permitting the attentions of Sir Hugh Fairfield; but what am I saying?" she musingly continued, with a look of perplexity and despair.

"Suppose I were to say," said Millie, gently smiling, "that mamma begs me to tell her daughter how tenderly she has loved her through all this sad estrangement, that Sir Hugh shall no more trouble her, and that now again, as in days of yore, she must pour forth her cares on her own mother's bosom." Poor Florence! she had never spoken to Millie of her parent's altered manner; this had been a feeling

too deep for their familiar discussions, and now the sudden knowledge that all this coldness was about to be dispersed, seemed more than in her weakness she could bear,—with some difficulty she reached the sofa, and then fainted away.

Mrs Pemberton, who after a little while had followed Millie, was soon at her daughter's side, chafing her temples, rubbing her thin hands, and administering restoratives. Millie stole softly from the room, and when Florence returned to consciousness, O how fervent and complete was the reunion between mother and child! Words had little to do with it but tears and smiles were there. When Millie returned, Florence met her with a look in which there was so strong an expression of the old happier time, that her thoughts flew off instantaneously to Mr Strafford. There was a good deal to arrange about Miss Rachel, and Florence was full of business, whilst a gentle animation was apparent in her whole manner. The familiar order of things was restored, and throughout the whole of that evening the confidences so long hidden by a mistaken reserve came forth into warm and tender life. Kate, with a gush of laughter -glad, yet of that peculiar tone which shows it sympathises with sorrow-was continually drawing out all that bore any relationship to merriment in the discussion; colouring Miss Rachel's introduction to the young baronet in the sportive hues of her own imagination; and all the while Mrs Pemberton sat with her arm round Florence, in that

frame of mind which is so characterised by silence that any conversation becomes an effort, yet contriving to give her earnest interest to Florence, and even a response of laughter to Kate.

On Millie's homeward walk that evening rested a quiet spirit of thankfulness not of this world,—so that whilst, with strengthened confidence, she prayed for her friends, those words fell chimingly on her ears, "I will put my fear in their hearts, that they shall not depart from me. Yea, I will rejoice over them to do them good."

CHAPTER XXVI.

FLEETING IMPRESSIONS.

MISS RACHEL entered with peculiar and earnest delight into the little scheme that Millie unfolded before her, and all the while the clear autumn sunlight in her eyes might well have been mistaken for spring beaming.

She went through her introduction to Sir Hugh with a grave sort of quietness, and then talked of the country,—of the flowery slopes and pleasant walks in her immediate neighbourhood, which could of course only be seen to advantage after taking an early tea at the cottage.

Sir Hugh was there at the appointed hour the

next evening, and Millie had an engagement at the Pembertons.

There was peculiar fascination for Miss Rachel in the work about which she had engaged; her innate refinement, her delicacy and exquisite woman's tact, all were brought into action; and so skilfully did she conduct the matter with the young baronet, that he felt himself indebted to her for the explanation, and they talked of friendship together, till he almost forgot he had been that very morning seeking love.

Sir Hugh had been greatly pleased with Florence, and contented with this predilection in her favour, he would have married her without once considering if he had the depth of affection necessary to satisfy

such a heart as hers.

He was fairly disappointed, it is true, but there was an honesty about him which at once comprehended the mistake he had made; he confessed he had been acting in the dark, taking Florence's protestations of engaged affections as arising simply from the natural coyness of a somewhat secluded girlhood. He did not wish to supplant another, and if Arthur were even in a measure like Miss Howard, he must of necessity be irresistible. Yet, in spite of his cheerful manner, a sorrowful expression blended itself with his smile, as if a draught of chill air had unexpectedly found entrance into his warm thoughts; but he was one of those who would wrap his cloak around him, and soon feel right again.