and does but set our feet upon a surer track for Heaven.

For after all, Maud was no philosopher. She had not learned yet, as some master-spirits have, to say to all manner of human happiness, "I have no need of thee." She was but a simple, unlearned girl, a child almost in her knowledge of trouble, until this first great grief had come, and with its rough but wholesome touch opened the eyes of her soul to know how wide and serious, and ofttimes painful a thing is this life of ours. And even yet, that vision was not quite clear. It takes us long to accustom our eyes to a new light; we must be content at first to see men as trees walking, to have only a vague indistinct consciousness of the new world wherein the sight-giving touch of grief has placed us. By and by it will become more clear; then we shall tread with steadier step, and learn to be thankful for the "open vision," though it be not always of things joyful.

But Maud had the one thing needful, which She knelt and

many a master-spirit lacks.

The moments rolled on; the old year hastened to its close.

Gaily from the ducal galleries of Mossingay, and from the silken curtained drawing-rooms of Sir Everard Albyn's stately home, the tides of music floated. Still from the latticed windows of the village inn the warm light danced out through the clustering ivy leaves, and lay upon the quiet street, while quick, pattering footsteps were heard within, and gay ringing laughter as the jest went round. The old yew-tree swayed its long arms drearily to and fro upon the grave by the west window; the wind came sighing up the orchard boughs and whistling through the old beech tree's leafless branches. Sadly, slowly, solemnly, the church bells gave their farewell to the dying year, and then paused for silence until it was gone. And still Maud knelt and prayed. Prayed there in that same room, where, twelve months ago, she only dreamed. Shall we mourn over anything which turns our dreams to prayers?

Ere she arose, a feeling of infinite rest had dawned upon her; a strange, new consciousness of life; a hope which overpassed all bounds of

sense, and anchored firmly and for ever on that coming time when the former things should have passed away, and joy, fulness of joy, be hers. In those still moments of prayer, the bitterness of death had passed for ever. After that, Maud's sorrow was a conquered sorrow. The dawn of the new year brought with it for her a very sweet and lasting peace, such a peace as is given only for the price of tears. Looking her grief face to face, as indeed she must always do to the end of time for there could be no forgetfulness of that it began to wear a new and quiet expression, awing her no more, nor filling her with terror as once it had done, but walking side by side with her, quietly and gently, wearing no front of gloom, only a grave, sweet stateliness.

There is a sort of crisis in the indulgence of any grief, beyond which, if we go, it gets the mastery over us, and claims for itself, all through the rest of our life, the tribute of an incessant and bitter remembrance. Maud had mercifully been stayed short of this. She had learned, before a morbid brooding over her grief became habitual, to look above and beyond it;

to take life as it was given to her, no longer glad or golden; and love it, not as for her own good entirely, but for others. Ah! how many there are who do live such a life men and women of whom the world is not worthy; who, having slowly and painfully watched the putting away from them of all that we call happiness, do yet go out among their fellows full of sympathy and loving-kindness, with tender words for those who suffer, and with answering smiles for those to whom the sunshine of hope is yet unclouded. Henceforth Maud Harcourt was to be one of these.

Truly it had been a hard lesson to learn, this divine self-abnegation, most lessons are so that teach us more of life and more of our own hearts. Perhaps very often, whilst we are comforting ourselves in our little passing sorrows by the sympathy of those we love, we forget to think how hardly they have acquired that gentle art; how very rude and rugged the steps may have been which led them up to those calm heights from which they now reach down a helping hand to us on the lower beaten track of common life. We

watched them toiling up the steep ascent, and saw the scars they bore, with a "poor thing" sort of pity, easily expressed and soon forgotten; and, now that they have reached the mountain top, where the scars are healed and the weary feet at rest, we take the flowers they let fall upon us, and comfort ourselves with their pleasant fragrance, never thinking how they learned to gather them. Ah! we are very selfish! Well is it for these shining ones who walk above us, perfect through suffering, that they have learned to live, not for our gratitude, but for our weal!

It was because this lesson had only just been learned, and the strain of it still tightening upon her, that Maud, sitting there in the creeping, glinting fire-twilight, felt a sort of loneliness come over her. Look at it as she might, life could never again be to her what it used to be, and she could not, without a little wrench, say goodbye to what had once been a great hope and gladness to her. She could no longer tread with just so light a step the beaten path of daily cares and duties, or sustain with just so steady a voice