Perhaps, after all, Mr Foster's discernment was a
He certainly did not com-

little at fault just now.
prehend the bewilderment of Millie's feelings.

She

did not let go her hold of the great Rock; but though she trusted whilst she feared, it was. but faintly, for the star of faith was shrouded, and as the breeze of life swept on, billowy thoughts heaved and swelled at its bidding. To every thing she gave but a wearied and listless attention, for smouldering and spreading out, though not yet blazing up into settled purpose, was the strengthening resolve to go forth into life, and resolutely to pursue any employment which might free her from the shackles of her present obligations; what matter though polished by courtesy, and softened by kindness, they were fetters still. And Millie was in bondage to a tyrant, whose name was Pride; but of this slavery she was not at that time aware.

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN ANGEL'S VISIT.

SORROW!" The sorrow of the world worketh death." The withering consciousness of sin, uncheered by any sense of God's pardoning mercy through Christ. Man, struggling with life's billows alone and in darkness, with but the phosphoric gleaming of the waters around him, which is the wisdom of this world, and

the dayspring from on high altogether concealed from his view.

Light of lights, shine on such hearts as these! Send down thy Spirit of truth to convince them of their danger; and then let the still, small voice of consolation say, "Fear not, for I am with thee!"

Sorrow!-sanctified sorrow!—the furnace which refines and makes beautiful,-the thunder-storm that converts the sullen atmosphere into light and sportive zephyrs, the darkening mists which dim the clear blue sky, only to bring the fertilising rain,—the night, the dismal night, with its gifts of dews and moisture, invisibly sustaining the thirsty land, which otherwise would be bleak and sterile soil. The sablewinged angel of God, ever at work amongst the sons of men, spreading its shadow over earth's brightness, but causing the glories of heaven to come out clearly in that darkness, rich in starlight promises of comfort, which soothe and gladden the soul, and with low but melodious music, gently rising above the din of earthly care, breathing out the heavenly message, "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee."

Sorrow!-God's dull-robed mysterious messenger, breathing in sighs, and speaking through tears; walking this world with its handmaids—change, remorse, parting, and death; lingering by the dark shores of despondency, and often veiling from us the fitful glimmerings of faith; extinguishing the smouldering

cinders of comfort in its night of weeping, and calling up fierce winds, which seem to place in jeopardy the bark of life. Yet God's minister, still drawing harmony forth where all seemed discord, and light from the very darkness it created; bound by an indissoluble tie to omnipotence that is fathomless, to love which is infinite; giving to suffering the name of good, and converting, at its Master's bidding, the grievous chastening into the choicest blessing.

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Happy, thrice happy, are those who in tribulation can say, Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him!" for they have obtained the promise, that "all things shall work together for their good."

The large dining-room at Cedar Lodge gave one the true idea of home,-of home in its comfort, and not in its ostentation. It was so cheerful, and yet so shadowy, with its familiar pictures, that had looked from infancy on Florence and Kate. There was the massive sideboard, with its embrasure for the large wine-tub, where, on Christmas evenings, and other happy holidays, they had played at hide-and-seek.

Then it looked out so pleasantly on the sloping lawn, with its tufts of evergreens and rich flowerbeds. The river would not be shut out, and could be distinctly seen, during the long summer evenings as they sat at dinner, whilst soft grass, and moss, and flowering rushes, and delicate-looking water violets, and the simple but elegant meadow-sweet, all clustered to its sides, to watch it in its beautiful but

perpetual passing away. A picturesque wooden

bridge, tangled in blossoming creepers, led over it to some low cottages, whose thatch was mingled with honeysuckle and wild roses, and which seemed as if by combination to have clustered together in the very spot where they caught in their fall from heaven the purest and most beautiful touches of light.

On this view Mrs Pemberton looked, as she sat at the head of the table. She was more than usually depressed, and took in from that beautiful world but tokens of doom.

An elegant young ash tree, close to the window, showed some signs of autumn,-on one or two leaves of its boughs there was just what is called the tinting, scarcely the fading of the leaf,-the gentlest monitor possible, telling that the brightness of its bloom was over. Not another tree before her bore such an impress; on all around summer still rested. And just such an unmistakable warning had Florence that morning given of the frail tenure by which she held life.

She had been busy with Kate in the drawingroom; and, in their girlish fancies, they had determined to move the small, light piano a little nearer to the window. Kate, in the elasticity of her strength, went merrily onwards, but her assistant faltered and fell,-Florence fainted. She was soon restored, and seemed almost as well as ever; but from that moment, in her mother's heart, she was associated with death.

And from that time Mrs Pemberton held the full

cup of sorrow to her lips. In uncomplaining agony she watched the smile, which became dearer to her every hour in proportion as it was associated with decay. She listened to that sweet voice, till, in its softened and thrilling melody, it seemed but the knell of happiness that had departed; and yet she smiled, and by a mighty effort talked of hope, whilst her heart was almost paralysed by its fears.

Thus nerved by the strength of affection, Mrs Pemberton endured; and not even Florence-gentle, loving Florence-fathomed the depth of her sorrow. There was to be music that evening. Mamma had asked for it; and Kate sung many an old song, and some new ones too, and Florence grew brighter, much brighter, and would sing also.

How clearly her voice rises on the silence!—all is still, but Mrs Pemberton can hear the throbbings of her own heart.

"There was no storm in heaven,

No trembling earthquake felt,
But the quiet blossom withered
In the bower where it dwelt ;
Its smooth stem was not broken,
But the work of death was done-
They remembered, in their sorrow,
They had shut out the sun."

It was by one of those sudden and irresistible impulses, with which reflection and consideration have nothing to do, that Florence made choice of that song. Not for worlds would she have wounded her mother, who had left the drawing-room. The shafts