after the last great conflict. Jesus, the same yesterday, today, and for ever;-Jesus, the Author and the Finisher of Faith;-Jesus, placing the helmet on the soldier's head, and the crown upon the victor's brow, was the subject of Ethelda's gentle speaking. To enlist under His banner, to fight beneath His cross, to receive glory from His hand, were the objects of her earnest persuasion. The more she loved the people, the more fervently did the prayer arise that all, men, women, and children, might partake of the great salvation.

Ethelda heard of illness in one of the huts. It was the big girl of sixteen, who from the first had seemed wholly unmoved. She had had a sudden attack of inflammation; and the doctor, who had been over, had given no hopes of her recovery. Ethelda stood for some time by her bedside, and endeavoured to rouse her, even then, when life was so quickly ebbing, to look to Christ, and to be saved.

"I am not afeard," she said, in a displeased tone. "Not afraid to meet a God about whom you have never cared?"

"I have cared. I have worn this sacred bit thing all my life; and the praist told me I could not be lost, if I only kept it;" and she showed a charm that hung round her neck.

"And do

you believe that thing can save you? "The praist told me so. I'm quite content. I'd rather you left me."

(6 Will you let me kneel beside you and pray?"

"If you like, you can."

Ethelda knelt and prayed that poor Bridget Dunn might even now be saved-might still go- unto Jesus, and giving up her trust in that which could not save her, might lay hold of Him as her only hope. When Ethelda rose, Bridget did not speak. A stupor seemed to have come over her, and there was little probability that she would regain conscious

ness.

Ethelda left the hut, oppressed in spirit. "Who, who is sufficient for these things?" she inquired. She felt her own total helplessness in delivering a soul from death; but she took her poor people yet more perseveringly unto Jesus, telling him of all their wants, and saying, "I cannot let Thee go, unless Thou bless them."

The groom was on the sands with the horses, and Ethelda and her friend rode home, rejoicing that they had not been prevented coming, encouraged by the great things that God had done. Yet Ethelda could not wholly regain her spirits. Poor Bridget's case was an awful testimony to the truth of God's word, "He, that being often reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy."

ABOUT Christmas time, Ethelda received a letter in strange handwriting, and with the Edinburgh postmark. The direction was traced in very faint ink, and was evidently written by a trembling hand. The signature was that of Salome,Salome, who had been continually in her thoughts, of whom she had never ceased to make mention in her prayers, concerning whom she had often wondered, whether enrolled in the Church of Christ militant, or admitted to the ranks of that Church triumphant.

The letter told of past and present sorrows, of bitter waters tasted, of deep rivers passed; and yet it told of joy in the Lord Jesus, of light in the midst of darkness. Salome had never left Scotland.

For some time she and her father

His heart

had remained at Rothesay, benefiting by its mild and healthful
air. And yet the poor old man enjoyed it not.
was bowed down, because of the apostasy, as he conceived, of .
his children from the God of their fathers. He sometimes
conversed with Salome, but he felt and confessed the futility
of his arguments. At length, in an evil hour, he wrote to
his brother in London, and opened to him the grief of his
lacerated heart. The brother and another learned Jew came
down to Scotland, to turn Salome from her Christian faith, if
possible, by strong and learned arguments; or, if these were
ineffectual, by bribery, or by threatenings. The former
were altogether futile. Evening after evening they talked,
until the widow's physical strength was exhausted, but they
could not shake her faith in the crucified Jesus of Nazareth;
they could not pluck out of His hand the sheep which had
entered His fold. And then they urged the father to cast
her off altogether, not to suffer a child who had departed
from the faith of her forefathers to remain beneath his roof.
"No," said the old man, "I cannot help her faith. She is
not long for this world. I will persuade her to make no
profession of her belief, but rather to conceal her Christianity.
Then she may continue to abide with me, and ere she is
gathered to her fathers, we may yet welcome her return to
the faith in which she was begotten."

"Then, only on condition of her faith being concealed,

shall she remain in your house."

"Be it so," replied the Rabbi.

"And the child must be taken from her."

"Not whilst her mother lives; yet a little while, and poor Adah will not know a mother's love."

The Rabbi soon told Salome the terms on which it was resolved that she should continue with him. "I would have dealt more harshly, my child, but thou art my only remaining one; and I pray God that thou mayest yet see the error of thy ways, and turn from thy backsliding."

"Father! my own precious father!" said Salome, weeping convulsively, "it cannot be; I must confess the Saviour I have found;-I cannot deny Him."

"Your health, my child, may be an excuse for your not going to worship, if you will it. Only let it not be known that you are a Nazarene."

"Oh, father, do not tempt me! My Saviour has said, 'He that is ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.' I must confess Jesus." Then, Salome, dost thou leave thy old father in his age? Dost thou bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the ?"

grave

"Oh, father-my dear, good father! so kind, so loving, how I love thee!" and she laid her aching head upon his shoulder and sobbed there: the struggle endured but a little while; at last she added, "I cannot conceal my Christianity." "Is that thy final word, Salome ?"

"Yes, father; I cannot say otherwise."

"Then go, my child, an outcast from thy father's house; and when thy head shall rest upon its dying pillow, then