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get over odious Latin and tiresome Greek; and then, perhaps, I may find out their concealed treasures. won't give up!-Excelsior!" And then the youth would proceed to his little room to spend some hours in close, plodding study.

On the morning following the last recorded conversation with James Clark, he commenced his reading earlier than usual, that he might spend an hour before luncheon in running over to the invalid's with the large printed text which he had prepared. The poor boy was much worse; the difficulty of breathing had greatly increased, and his incessant cough occasioned much suffering. He was, however, more comfortably seated than before, being placed in a rough but commodious armchair. He was much pleased to see the text that Rowland had brought. He placed it before him and read it over to himself several times; and then looking up, his eye moistened with the tear which had been gathering,

"Yes, yes; 'from all sin'-thank you, sir," and then very slowly and solemnly he added, "Thank the Lord." Rowland felt encouraged, and uttered some sweet words of comfort; and as he left, the poor lad grasped his hand, and spoke as his breathing permitted, "God bless you, sir! bless you! I'm happy now. The drop of blood is a' enough for poor Jamie Clark." Rowland had intended speaking to temporal needs, which he thought

the mother of various

might require to be supplied, but his heart was too full.

He left the cottage silently, thanking his God. in his inmost soul.

When he returned home, he begged Mrs. Crowe to take to the poor lad in the course of the evening whatever she thought might be useful. The worthy housekeeper repaired to the cottage as soon as possible, with a refreshing draught for the sick one, and some wine, should it be needed. He was stretched upon his straw pallet, gasping for breath. Some neighbours stood beside him, and one was Edward Arnold, the thoughtful framer of the rough arm-chair. Whilst Mrs. Crowe remained, the dying lad lay for a short time in comparative ease. Edward proposed to pray, and he commended his soul to the Saviour's care. After he rose, he inquired, "James, where lies your hope?"

The poor lad raised his languid eyes, and faintly uttered, "The blood."

The struggling for breath again was heard, and Mrs. Crowe left the poor boy in great bodily agony. It lasted but a few hours. Ere the morning's sun arose, his spirit, washed in the blood of the Lamb, returned unto the God who gave it, and joined those of just men made perfect.

Rowland had never thought that with poor Jamie dissolution would be so rapid. He rejoiced to know, that in this lately ignorant, careless boy, there had been manifested *another trophy of "Victory through the blood of the Lamb;" but to his own mind, God, by Jamie's death, seemed, in the voice of warning, powerfully to speak, "Work, whilst it is

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called day, for the night cometh when no man can work." He remembered the families on the links, concerning whom he had neglected the dictates of conscience, and he determined to seek their habitation without waiting the return of his beloved Ethelda.

CHAPTER X.

FIELDS WHITE UNTO THE HARVEST.

"Go, labour on! spend and be spent,

Thy joy to do thy Father's will;

It is the way the Master went,

Should not the servant tread it still?

See thousands dying at your side,

Your brethren, kindred, friends at home;

See millions perishing afar;

Haste, brethren, to the rescue come."

SOME days had passed before Rowland had the opportunity of accomplishing his purpose, and then the one came, on the evening of which, Ethelda, with her precious little charge, was expected at Alleyne. Rowland felt much inclined to wait one day longer, but a faithful inward monitor warned him of delay. "What would Ethię take to those people to win their regard?" thought Rowland; and then the idea struck him of a roll of coloured engravings of ships, which might amuse the children, and having sought out the six brightest of these, and put them into his pocket, with a school Testament of good print, and a few large-printed,

striking tracts, he mounted Jeanette, and cantered off in the direction of the links.

Rowland had much personal bravery. Fond of horsemanship, there was not a steed too fiery for him to mount; delighting in clambering, there was hardly a crag upon that rocky shore which he had not gained; excelling in rowing, the stormy sea had to him its special charms. Nor was he deficient in moral courage. At school he dared to say,

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No," when he thought an action wrong, and would not care to be called mean, rather than exceed the allowance permitted by his father. Yet there was a foolish bashfulness in his disposition that was most difficult to conquer, and often showed itself on occasions almost absurd. At one time he would rather have met a wild bull than have spoken to Mrs. Crowe, and an hour's search for a favourite plant was far preferable to asking an under-gardener if he knew where it had been placed. It was with this feeling of timidity that he approached the sand-huts. The doors were wide open, but no one was to be seen. He stood outside, and knocked at one very gently. No reply. He knocked again with the same result-he knocked again, and more loudly, but in vain. He was turning away, when one of the curlyhaired children came running round. The little fellow in his turn was afraid, and as Rowland said, "Here, my little man," he ran away as fast as possible. He waited some time, hoping that the child would return, but no one appeared. The other huts seemed likewise empty, and he was on the point of giving up the attempt as hopeless, when a

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