Though not weeping, her eyes looked as if they were accustomed to tears, yet on her whole face was an expression of patient trustfulness, which told you she had learned not only to hope, but quietly to wait for the salvation of the Lord.

"I have twenty pounds to begin with, dear Mary," said Millie," and you have taught me to work a little."

“Oh, it cannot, it must not be!" replied Mary; 66 my dear young mistress to live here! impossible!" But Millie pleaded, and Mary's powers of opposition gradually lost their force, for she had to contend with the strong delight she felt at the prospect of having such a companion; so all her grave reasoning yielded at length to the happiness which forced itself into her heart, as she began to consider how her home could be made endurable for Millie.

Mary told her young mistress of her heavy trials, and then, in the old familiar way, gemmed the dismal tidings of her poverty with promises whose brightness never waned.

"I have sometimes found it difficult," she said, "to shut out despairing thoughts. At such times, dear Miss Millie, I do not wait till hope is strong again; but I pour out my soul to God with all its dark forebodings, and the spark of faith, almost extinct, fanned by the breath of prayer, grows bright again. Enthusiastic as it may seem to some, when weak from cold, and faint from hunger, I have sat down under the shadow of his love, and drawn an exquisite sense

of comfort from those words, 'He hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.""

As Mary spoke, every tone was fraught with work-room memory, and on the pale serenity of her face the determination shone out to be faithful even unto death.

That night, after feebly opposing such an arrangement, Millie occupied Mary's bed; for in truth she could scarcely stand.

In spite of her earnest wish to convince her friend that she could courageously meet her change of circumstances, she fell asleep sobbing, and then, as if seized by Miss Cheevy's great fear, dreamed of housebreakers, and fancied that one of the men whom she had passed at the rag-shop was trying to enter at the window.

She awoke with a scream, and, in the childishness of her terror, called for Mary, who, on the wild alarm of her dear young mistress, could only pour her Saviour's words of comfort, "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

Mary succeeded, as she generally did, in soothing her dear Miss Howard; and whilst she slumbers again, it may not be amiss to turn for a few moments to Miss Rachel, who found Millie's letter on the snowwhite breakfast table of her own neat room.

When she discovered that her friend was actually gone, she blamed herself entirely for the whole matter. She had been cold and unkind, and had not entered into Millie's feelings. She forgot all her indulgence, and looked on herself as a hard exactor.

Y

She wrote for Mr Foster, called on Mr Pemberton, sent for Lady Puffington, and worked herself up into a perfect fever of excitement. She would have given all she possessed to have made up to Millie for what she was determined to call her hardness of heart. For the first time in her life she almost quarrelled with Lady Puffington, who suggested that she had been too indulgent to her friend. "I owe her money," said Miss Rachel, in despair, " and the nobleminded girl would not take it. She told me in her letter, that she felt the truth of Betty's remark which she had overheard, that she had not earned her salary."

Lady Puffington was not sorry that Millie had left the neighbourhood. The quiet, lady-like way in which she moved in her altered circumstances was a perpetual reproach to one, who could not manage to glide gracefully down the smooth waters of luxury. She had tact enough to perceive, that it did not answer to find fault with Miss Howard, and, therefore, changed her policy, declaring she was thankful she could be happy without a companion (perhaps Sir Timothy had discovered this too),-that she could employ herself comfortably without any one sitting by to look at her. Thank heaven, she needed none of those sentimental hangers-on. Miss Rachel had always professed to be a person of mind, and she wondered she did not make books her companions; and so heartless and angry was Lady Puffington's conversation that morning, that the artificial bond of

union existing between her and Miss Rachel was snapped asunder; and only to Mr Foster, who arrived that evening, did she tell all the uneasy sorrow that wrung her heart.

He was one of those who always seemed to bring in with him an atmosphere of comfort. It was so pleasant, so soothing to Miss Rachel to hear him say, that Millie might be impetuous, imprudent, selfwilled, and wayward, but still a child of Him who says, "Lo, I am with you alway."

He did not exclaim, as persons often do on such occasions, "I said it would be so; I always told you she was unworthy;" boasting in their surprise of a sagacity which had never been theirs. No; he knew too well that this frail human heart of ours must fall in any attempt to stand up alone; and in his quiet penetrating way, he had more than once suspected that Millie was engaged in the restless effort to endeavour to mould the requirements of her God to her own troubled wishes. "I am persuaded, Rachel," he said, with his grave smile and low earnest voice, "that the dear child will be led in safety, though perhaps through much tribulation, to her Father's house." He prayed for her fervently; and, under the influence of his trustful spirit, Miss Rachel grew calmer in her anxiety.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE PORK MERCHANT.

RAIN, rain, rain! Rain on the broad wide ocean, calming the storm and putting the waves to sleep. Rain on the wild rock-land, and rain on the sandy shore. Rain, too, in the green lanes, lovingly resting on the primrose, the cowslip, the violet, and the daffodil. Rain in the fields, abundantly falling on the thirsty meadow, and setting its smallest diamonds on the tender blade. Rain in the forest, the shadowy forest, pattering on the broad chestnut trees, and leaving its pearls in the deepest twilight of the tangled boughs; and rain, too, in the orchard, making the tiny flower-cup of the delicate blossom a chalice of waters for the thirsty bird. Rain on the wandering zephyr, giving its own peculiar fragrance to the earth and to the air. How beautiful is the rain!

Rain, rain, in the dim and gloomy street, falling on the unwholesome atmosphere of the city's narrow lane. Rain gushing from overflowing pipes, and sending its swift and muddy tide on each side of the irregular street, bringing out old mildew-stains from the damp walls, and filling with its unhealthful moisture the attic of disease and death. Rain, forming little mud-pools amongst the uneven stones, on which ragged children noisily launch the paper boat, and revel as in sunshine.