name, and entered a stupid memorandum, in his rather sparsely-used minute-book, to the effect that "The WaterLily was in full bloom on the inst."

Hitherto the deep interest which was inbred in Lilian's heart in relation to the cause of Temperance, had displayed itself in many a still course of active benevolence; and there were many in the Band of Hope who revered her almost too much to chalk up her name and shout it out on holidays, but who loved her too much also ever to forget "the honey and nuts," moral and material, with which she had encouraged their juvenile vows. She had no particular motive for assuming so prominent a post. She knew, indeed, that her spiritual adviser would be there; but she was too conscious of having followed any advice but his in religious matters, to feel otherwise than uneasy when she saw him in that capacity, and as yet there was no relenting in the manner of her father towards Henry Wilton in the character of a lover. As soon as she had decided on being present, the thought occurred that if she could only persuade her poor father to accompany her, he would certainly be amused, and might be converted; or, at least, helped in some way or other to shake off his infernal thrall.

In the course of the morning she persuaded him to direct his steps to the Park where the happy concourse was gathered; and as they wandered from group to group, they felt all the more freedom and pleasure from the fact that few knew them; and certainly none of the gay multitude were aware that in that shrunken, feeble, melancholy man, was the indirect source of all their peace and pleasure of the hour. As they moved on to the spot where the noise was the loudest and merriest, they became aware that Mr. Barton was a spectator, and in one heart there was a painful echo of the prayers which the old man was offering up to heaven. As the day wore on, Charles grew languid and sickly, and Lily felt that she could not press him to accompany her in the evening. We have seen, however, that Charles was awaiting her at the close of the meeting; and we have now to say that he had been an unnoticed auditor of nearly the whole proceedings. Perfect silence was maintained on his part till they reached their

home; then he seemed in haste to tell his daughter that he had been present, and what he thought of all that he had heard.

'Lily, my child, it will be a blessed thing for you, and those of your age, that you need never fall into the snares which have mastered and undone your father. Those men have got a truth-a saving truth, indeed; but its power is not equal to my case. All that is past for me; and, besides, they do not even handle their truth as if they thought it could do me good-as if they really knew how terrible is the foe they seek to crush. Surely they have never known this living death! That poor tinker-why, poor soul, he may have been a drunken fellow-overdone the beer a little; but what does he know of the hell-rack through which I am fighting my way to the grave? Then Mr. Talbot-why, what good can he ever do? Does he think that the show of his own temperate life will be a healing balm on the wounds of the poor drunkard? I tell you, Lily, if he were a merciful man, he would stay at home, and nurse his virtue quietly. Why, Lily, I tell you, his words, so cool and sweet, are blister-they aggravate and drive to despair: what does he know about the matter? It is all very fine to praise up Temperance, and the like; but he might as well read Milton's 'Eden' to the lost in the 'burning marl.' There's that minister of yours, too. I don't know whether he knew I was there listening; but he could not have cut more cruelly, if he had known."

"Oh! but, father, he did not know; he would not have spoken as he did if he had seen you there-I'm sure Mr. Wilton would not."

"Well, well, I don't know; and what's more, Lily, I don't care-just reach me the brandy. Now, I thought much more of that young Dissenter with the moustache: I believe that man has gone near being scorched, and he speaks like a scorched man. But, oh, my God! was there none of them that had the honesty (for some must have known) to confess that there were cases which they could not reach, for which they knew no remedy, and for which they felt no hope?"

He sank into momentary absence, and, lifting up a look of love and anguish to his daughter, he said :—

"Oh, Lily! I wish I had not gone. I feel more than ever how hopeless I ought to be; and yet it has moved me, in my weak state, so much, that I can hardly bear to see my father to-night. Bring me word how he is, and I will go to

bed."

On her return to the room where her father was, she found him in a fit of violent, passionate weeping; and from her own eyes the drops of sacred sorrow were stealing fast. Scarcely able to speak, she laid her hand on his shoulder; and when he turned, she fell upon his neck and kissed him, murmuring with sob-broken voice :

:

"Father, he is going fast- -so peaceful, and yet he cannot die without one word from you. He wants to die, and be at peace; but he calls for you-he stretches out his arms to grasp you-and then he says: 'No, no; do not bring my boy-it will be too much for him. Is he not dying, too? Then we shall soon meet-meet again; but how-where?' And then cries for you again, and says: 'One drop of water -only one;' and when I placed the ice to his lip, he said: 'No-I mean one word with Charles-where is he? Can he not come? Will he not? Dare he not?' father, his looks glare with fury; and in his frenzy he cries: 'Oh! what hath torn my Charles-my boy-from Heaven and me?' Will you go to your father, father? Can you speak the word he needs-that blest viaticum? Dear, second father, how I love him! Dearest father, must I plead for him with you ?"

And then,

"Lily, I tell you, I cannot-I know what he wants. I would not mock him with a lie, which he will discover in the first moments of his immortal waking, and I cannot speak this one word; yet I would see him die. Who has a right to be by in such an hour, if not an only son, even though his presence be itself a curse? Help me, dear, and I will go. I will bless him for his long love, so vainly spent ; I will try to comfort him, but I will not lie. It could make no difference to him now; and, God knows, I have more of sin to answer than I can ever bear."

CHAPTER V.

THE BLESSING PREVAILS.

THE chamber of death looked more like the vestibule of glory than the entrance to the grave. By the sick man's desire there was a flood of light, and even then his failing sight could only discern the glimmer of the brightness without; but in the long intervals of his one anxious sorrow he declared that within there was a light more resplendent than summerthe light of heaven flashing through its opening gates-long seen by faith, now changing to eternal sight.

Standing by the bedside, or bending over it, as in holiest tatitude of waiting faith, was the young clergyman and his friend, Miss Bethia. Henry Wilton knew that he had come there rather to learn than to teach-to win fresh glimpses, amidst that death-scene, of the truth that was the Light and the Life of the world. But he could not control his grief and indignation (or call it by the gentler name of pity), that so bright a sunset should be crossed with one dark, stormy cloud. He knew now the painful secret of the old man's life. He had long known the private spur to diligence and zeal for others which that old man's love for Charles had furnished, and he almost blamed himself that he had never tried to rescue the unhappy father of his beloved, if only for her sake; and that this glorious farewell to earth might have been undimmed by a sorrow.

"Is he come?" said Mr. Barton, with his head turned wistfully to the doorway; "is my boy here?"

"I am here, father; I have come to see the joy with which a good man can die."

"Say rather, my dear boy, to help an old man to cast off his last care of earth and time into a Saviour's hands, that he may fall asleep in peace. Will you help me thus, Charles?" And he laid his hands upon the shoulders of his son, gazing with his fast failing eyes right through the pallid countenance close to his own. His whole frame shivered as he felt the hot breath of his son, and he cried, "Oh, this is not my son ;

some spirit of evil, surely, come to torment me for the last time. I should remember Charles. He was a darling babe, and we loved him more than all besides; and when she went and left me, he was a noble healthy boy, fresh with the dew of life; and he grew in wisdom as in years-grew into a noble presence a man. But ah, I forgot-the wound! the poison! the fell curse!-where is it? Let me press my lips upon that wound, and suck the poison out. Oh, Charles, I cannot die-I am weary of dying, and yet I cannot loose the cord till I tell, and ask, and hear. Was I wrong, in my thoughtful tenderness, to spare your young heart the blighting knowledge of the curse that rests on you, even to this hour? I know not, but if wrong, my God hath pardoned me. I feared to tell you all. But now I go away to meet my Alice and my Judge, she shall not witness against me. I have not driven you to despair by telling you of her sin and her dreadful fate. I will not hold back the secret, now that death is upon us both, lest I should be charged at last with not using the power I had. Charles, your mother was the loveliest of all lovely beings, and she was as full of love as loveliness; we two built our earthly bower as you have done, ‘all too near the summer edge,' and when the winter torrent came, it swept our earthly bliss away for ever. Poor Alice! she was stripped and poor, and shelterless in the pitiless, pelting rain. I would have warmed and comforted ;—I would have shared my riches of faith; but in her distress, she would not have my scanty comfort. I need not recount the quick-coming shock which spoiled her of her all ;-you have read the record of many child-deaths-your brothers, Charles, and sisters; little ones torn from the fondest breast that ever pillowed child of man. Alas! she would not look upwards in her hours of woe. She felt that her strength and healthy joy of life had gone. In oft-recurring moments, the languor of her fierce strife was like death itself, and she flew to wine-to wine, Charles, do you hear? And it played its fantastic, cruel, murderous trick with her, as it has done with you. She bowed her weak heart, and became its slave, and in a few days—a few weeks, it rose and slew her-dashed her reason from its throne, crumbled her heart's love to hot ashes, and swept away like