This grace peculiar will the gods afford

To thee, the son of Jove, and beauteous Helen's lord."

The work-woman only made answer, "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him."

But Millie would not be satisfied with this. There was an innate waywardness in her heart, an inexplicable feeling, which found pleasure in opposition, yet was withal so sportive, and sometimes so melodious in happy laughter, that the expression of it was not repulsive. On the contrary, it was invested with a grace which compelled one to acknowledge, that though thorny it was a flower still.

Most perseveringly she went on to tell Mary of the friendly deity who sent a ram with wings of gold to bear away Phryxus and Helle from their cruel fate. She narrated Helle's downfal, and told Mary how from that time her name was associated with the waters of the Hellespont; and Millie well knew what effect this fable had made on the mind of the gentle seamstress, by her quiet but ready answer: They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint."

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Millie was anxious to call Mary's attention to the subject of the oracles, approached only through dangerous paths and besetting rocks, and in her grave earnestness one might have imagined that she was

overshadowed by the Delphic presence or Dodona's oak. She spoke of the rich and powerful who laid costly offerings at Apollo's shrine, and of the favourable responses that wealth could purchase. Mary only interrupted her with a passing obsrvation, "Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money: come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money, and without price."

Then Millie went on to explain how the mutterings of those dangerously approached caves were treasured as prophecies, sometimes having an effect on the movements of nations.

There was a tremulous tone in Mary's voice as she made answer, "And the Lord descended in the cloud, and stood with Moses there, and proclaimed the name of the Lord. And the Lord passed by before him, and proclaimed, The Lord, The Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth."

During these conversations, the evening sunlight would stream in on them in all kinds of fantastic forms, sometimes deepening the soft hue of Millie's cheeks into crimson, and then throwing the green twilight from the trees on Mary's brow, imparting to her a pallor deeper than that which belonged to her wonted aspect. At other times its fluctuating gold would mingle with the colouring of the grey wall, till it seemed the very shadow of the wavy sea. Then the soft rays would quietly return,

and sinking down into the golden west, leave twilight to stand gravely by the attic window.

"I had almost forgotten to tell you, Mary," said Millie, and the stars were looking down on them, encircled by the lingering summer daylight, "of the triumphant processions of the victor,-how the laurel and ivy arched over him, and flowers were strewn at his feet,—and how a nation's applause was the loud voice that greeted him."

"But, dear Miss Millie," the seamstress replied, with a grave sweet smile, "the Christian who, in the strength of his God, resists the temptations of the world, has a promise to lean on, that even in this life may fill his heart with holy gladness,- To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in his throne.""

Millie's look is so softened. She smiles, but it must be by mistake, for there are tears in her eyes. Happy evenings! pleasant communings! Memory! keep them in your most hallowed places.

CHAPTER VII.

THE VILLAGE.

THE Avon glided quietly through the simple Warwickshire village, on which the chateau, from its

gentle eminence, looked down. Seen from afar, the small hamlet appeared picturesque enough, but on a nearer approach, its narrow unmacadamised streets, and low, irregularly-built houses, dispelled the softening effects of distance, and might, perhaps, have borne a comparison with life, looked on as in youth, and its sterner aspect when in actual contact with the world. Amidst the grave-stones, some of which were mildewed and moss-covered by time, stood the ivied church. The parsonage, built in the style of an old-fashioned farm-house, was but imperfectly separated from the dwellings of the dead by a thick barrier of beautiful horse-chestnut trees.

The flowers took a wider range, blossoming amongst the tombs with peculiar beauty and fragrance, bright honeysuckles clasping the monuments, and typifying unconsciously the heavenly hope that beautifies the grave; roses, in their richest summer bloom, pressed their soft cheeks lovingly against the cold stones, breathing out fragrance amidst the shadows, emblematical of Sharon's Rose, whose presence makes beautiful the valley of death.

The High Street boasted of its tidy savings' bank, enclosed in neat iron railings, some unpretending alms-houses, and then a long line of shops extended to the fields,—to the wooded land where evening was born, and where, through tangled boughs, the golden light of parting day settled for a few moments on many a window-frame, as if to bring down passing thoughts of heaven to the earth-bound heart.

Then the evening star appeared, and in the far perspective of that street seemed like the spirit of departed day, watching over the inhabitants of the little hamlet.

On the river bank, and on the hills around, beautiful villas were scattered, some discernible only through the tremulous shadows of trees that surrounded them,―others standing boldly out, and in the strength of their architecture reminding one that they belonged to the stately homes of England. There was quiet traffic visible in the High Street ; the spirit of industry in its most simple garb.

Occasionally, ladies, with embroidered robe and finely-wrought parasol, might be seen in the streets at mid-day, and a light, low carriage at some humble shop door would indicate that its merchandise ex

tended far up the hill-side. But the rough pavement more generally at that time responded to the light tread of childhood, for the large school then sent forth its tide of infancy, which, having been restrained for many hours, poured through the streets in noisy and impetuous torrent.

The commerce of that little place, even when in its plenitude, was carried on with a noiselessness that would be altogether incomprehensible to the London man of trade. Not that there was any lack of energy, but it was an under-current and not immediately visible, perhaps from the circumstance that the success of these shops did not depend on the influx of petty customers, but on their connection with the