"Good-bye, God bless you, Rupert, and bring you back safely to me.”

Then the parting was over, and he was gone. Stephen handed Christina into her carriage without a word, and forbore to look at her or speak to her till they had driven some little way. When he at length turned towards her, be was struck with the change in the countenance which had hitherto been so serene and brave. She was leaning back helplessly, her eyes half closed, her whole attitude one of utter dejection; tears were trickling down her white and wearied face, and though when Stephen moved she put up her hand to dash them away, she was not quick enough to prevent his seeing them. His thoughts of Rupert at that moment were not very charitable or brotherly, but he did not utter them, and only opened the carriage window further to give her more air, and picked up her scent-bottle, which she had dropped.

"Thank you; I am a little tired," she said, apologetically; "I did not sleep very well last night." Then rousing herself, she added, "What a stupid companion I am to you! I was going to ask you to dine and spend the evening with me, if you had no better engagement; but really I am ashamed to trespass so far on your good

nature."

"You know I am at your service completely, both for to-day and to-morrow; but if you were not so tired, I should like to ask a favour of you."

She brightened at once, and looked as though a request from him were an agreeable surprise. "I am not tired to signify; if you will let me do anything for you I shall be so glad," she said.

66

'Well, I will tell you what I mean; but you must not do it unless you are quite inclined. My good tutor's mother, old Mrs. Norgate, has just come to town unexpectedly; I saw her for a few minutes this morning, and she asked after you and Rupert, and expressed a great wish to see you. I told her that you were going down to Redlands to-morrow, and that I hardly knew how to bring about a meeting, so she did not press it, but it would be a great pleasure to her I know, and we

shall almost pass her lodging on our way to Eaton Place."

"And you would like me to go with you to see her? Oh, I can easily do that. I have heard Rupert speak of her; she is a cousin of his, is she not ?"

"A cousin of Laura's," he answered; a sort of lingering sweetness in the tone with which he spoke the beloved name; "and a very dear old friend of mine. It was through her that I first became acquainted with the Margessons, they are connections of hers, and she has left her pretty little Devonshire home now, chiefly on their account. Mrs. Margesson is ill, as you know, and the good old lady is bent on carrying her off somewhere for change of air; she is one of those people who seem only to live to do good. I should like you to see her, if I were sure the visit would not tire or pain you."

"It will not; please let us go; how kind of her to wish to see me." But she looked a little frightened as they drew near the house where Mrs. Norgate had taken up her temporary abode, and perceiving that Stephen remarked her changing colour and trembling lips, she whispered, "Don't be afraid for me, I am quite well; but I have never seen any of Laura's relations before, and I know Mrs. Norgate will wonder how Rupert could have married me!"

It was the first hint that she had ever given him of her veneration for Laura, and her consciousness of her own vast inferiority. It gave him quite a new glimpse of her character, and there was genuine respect and kindness in his tone as he strove to soothe and reassure her. He actually felt as if it were a very dear little sister that he were taking to show to Mrs. Norgate, and was prepared to be disappointed and annoyed if the old lady refused to admire.

She did not look as if that were likely when she rose from her arm-chair as her maid announced " Mrs. Anson," and came forward with cordial welcome to meet the graceful girl in deep mourning whom Stephen was introducing as his "sister." He could see that she derived a favourable impression of Tina from the very first glance, and that Tina was no less charmed with her. They were

just the sort of women who were sure to get on together, though one was old and the other young.

Mrs. Norgate had once been "the beautiful Miss Brabazon,” and even in her old age retained traces of a grave aristocratic type of beauty, united with great sweetness and mildness of expression. She was very much what Laura would have been, had Laura lived to be old, and though she had known sorrow and sickness and at one time poverty, for she had made what the world called a bad match, that is she had married a good man without money, the brow which the silvery hair shaded was serene and smooth as an infant's, and she looked a very picture of "that calm old age which conscience pure and self-commanding hearts ensure." She was one whom

everybody loved, and in whose presence every one became gentle; perhaps it was the grateful consciousness of this that gave such joyousness to her smile, and made her greeting even of strangers so frank and trustful. Kind soul and sweet, she believed heartily in the kindness of others, and without knowing it, was a thorough optimist, seeing always the best side and believing it to be the

true one.

Tina felt at home with her directly, and though too much depressed just then to be able to talk as freely and pleasantly as she might have done at a happier moment, exerted herself to speak cheerfully of Rupert and his intended travels, and all unconsciously showed something of her loving little heart, by the way in which she spoke of him and everything connected with him.

When she rose to go, Mrs. Norgate looked so loth to part with her that Stephen prevailed on her to sit down again, and somehow in a few minutes it was settled between them that Tina should remain and drink tea with the old lady, and that the carriage should return for her about nine o'clock. Stephen with a feeling that they would get on better without him, took himself off to dine with an old friend in the neighbourhood, at whose house he was always welcome, promising to look in on them again in the course of the evening. And the forlorn little wife whose heart was yet aching with the pangs of that day's sorrowful parting, found herself tête-à-tête

with one who half an hour before was to her an utter stranger, but whose eyes rested on her with a tender light which recalled those of her dead mother, and brought to her a strange sense of repose, such as she had not felt for months.

VISIONS OF HOME.

WHAT do little children see

When the hour of death draws near?
What can that bright vision be

Which robs death of half its fear?
Where for them is death's dread strife?
They pass free from life to life.

I have known a young child's eye,
Ere its light was quenched in gloom,
To and fro move wistfully,

Following something in the room,
Tracking on from spot to spot
Some dim form which we saw not.

And I said," My little one,
If, as I suppose, you see
Something which your eyes alone
Can distinguish, show to me:
See, I hold your little hand,
Press my own: I understand."

Then I saw her pure brow shine
With a clear unearthly light,
And her little hand pressed mine

As she whispered, "Oh, so bright."
And when these few words were said,
I knew I gazed upon the dead.
Sometimes in the fitful wind,

Sometimes on the autumn sea,
Voices float which say,-" Behind,

In half-forgotten infancy,

Tones of Heaven's high choir were heard
By earth's echo once more stirred."

Mountain masses, range on range,
Skirt with blue the summer air,
And the voice within says,-" Strange,
I have known this scene elsewhere."
Where was this? The memory true
Shows to man the infant's view.

I doubt not-nor can they doubt,
Who have watched the dying bed-
That as life's pale lamp dies out,

Heaven's clear beams once more are shed
On the now remembered shore,

Which our young eyes saw before.

Sion's golden citadel,

Sion's palace of delight-
Ah, what mortal tongue may tell,
What dim eye may bear the sight?

Only when the LORD is nigh
Speaks the tongue and sees the eye.

G. M.

A NEW YEAR'S DREAM.

"This alone is thy concern, to fight manfully, and never, however manifold thy wounds, to lay down thy arms or take to flight. Lastly that thou fail not to fight valiantly, thou must know that this is a conflict where there is no escape, and that he who will not fight must of necessity be either taken captive or slain. Moreover, we have to do with enemies of such a nature and so filled with deadly hate, as to leave us no hope either of peace or of truce."-The Spiritual Combat, by F. SCUPoli.

Ir was a New Year's Day. The year of yesterday had slipped from our grasp; it was gone-gone with its unnumbered mercies, its neglected opportunities, its sorrows and its joys-gone to take its place in the record chamber of the Great King. Another leaf of the Book of Remembrance was turned over and sealed till the Judgment Day, and a new unsullied page was opened before the Judge for each one of us.

It was Sunday, and I was in a fine old village church at afternoon service. The sun hastening to fulfil his appointed task, was surrounded by red snow-clouds, which shed a lurid light upon the stained glass at the west end, and gave a strange reality to the quaint figures in the little windows in the Baptistery. The battle between Israel and Amalek was there portrayed, and with the fitful light it almost seemed to give life to the combatants, while the majestic figure of the kneeling law-giver stood