my old women in the village, or visit the schools; two things which Mabel Harcourt used to detest, but which Mrs. Philip Lowe finds considerable satisfaction in. Then in the afternoon my husband goes out to see his people, and I sit quietly with my reading, or write up my journal here. That is the dullest part of the day to me. Afterwards, in the evening, comes our own hour together. Philip is as jealous as ever of that time; whatever work I have is put away for him then, and we talk over the past, and sometimes dip into the future.

We have known sorrow too. There are some things even in this happy home of ours which are sanctified by death. There is a little grave in the churchyard that I can see from my window. We have an empty cradle, a drawer full of playthings, never used now, but often wet with tears. We have some tiny shoes that she used to wear; a little brown hat and pink pinafore, that I have watched so often glancing about on the lawn, but will never be worn any more. A picture-book too, with the marks of her busy fingers on its pages. These

things are very precious to Philip and me now. Often in our eventide stillness we speak of our little Maud all that she was, all that she might have been; until, when we grow sad, we comfort ourselves by remembering what she is, and are content, nay, even thankful, to think

"That He whose love exceedeth ours

Hath taken home His child."

It is not always that we can feel like this, though. Sometimes it is a very painful memory; once it was a very bitter memory. Even yet, when Philip is away, I weary for her very much. I cry out for my darling again.

But I was thinking about her once, and opened my desk to look for a picture that she used to be very fond of. I found, lying close beside it, a white-veined ivy leaf. Then I thanked God that my only one, my child Maud, had been quietly anchored yonder, before any of these things came to her.

Poor Mrs. Tresilis! I have been thinking over again that Scarbro' time-all of it that belonged to her. I often think of her now, and

wish I could pray for her. Ah! I should have done that long ago! I picture to myself the slow dying out of hope from her life; the quick over-mastering tide of remembered love that would quench all other thought when he came back again; and how, weary, perhaps, and restless, and despairing of any other quiet, she had wildly hurried herself away into that "great hereafter" of which she spoke. Dying alone, unwept for, that same hour that Philip and I were so happy. And then I read the letter over again that I had once sent to her, and resolved that another time I will work while it is called day. What was it that kept me too from drifting away to those dreary shores of unbelief, and wandering at last without one spark of faith or gladness into the dim shadowy future? There was something alike in our minds, I know there was; what had I deserved more than her, then, that God should send me Philip to lead me on with a gentle hand away from all my doubts, whilst she lived and died with no one to tell her of any of these things? Perhaps if I had spoken kindly to her about them- But it is over; one

can do nothing for her now, not even pray for

her.

I like to think of that long walk over the cliffs

of his

at night, when Philip came to meet us, finding me in that cave. I don't call it a lucky

thing now, he has taught me better.

Next,

looking back over my little book, I come to that morning, a good while after, when the letter came to say Mr. Lowe was coming. I have that letter yet, Philip, in my desk, side by side with one of those Lingold autumn leaves, and a single palmy leaf of sea-weed somewhat withered now—that I once gathered on the rocks with you. The first time I ever saw your handwriting, Philip. What a spot of sunshine that morning was; what a spot of sunshine it is still, though I have known many brighter since! I will not think about the blackness that followed, the utter, despairing hopelessness. Let me rather think of the love that led me through it all to find rest in Heaven, of the patience which gave me time to mend, of the wisdom that taught me humility, and gave me the heart of a little child; such a heart as you have, Philip, though you are so noble and so

firm; for all the experience which taught me

that

"Knowledge by suffering entereth,

And life is perfected by death."

Maud has been to stay with us since I came here. She is very much altered, very much indeed. I don't call her my "little sister, Maud," now. There is something so very grand and pure about her, reminding me always of that picture of Dante and Beatrice that I was copying once when Stephen Roden and she sat together in the window. She does not look what I should call happy, but so thoroughly at rest. There is such utter peace upon her face, that fair little face that once used to be so full of glinting hope and sunshine. Maud's future will be very beautiful still, for heaven and for earth, I know it will.

And I have been once, only once, to Braeton since I was married.

Philip exchanged duties with the rector, and we went for a month.

The dear old place is just the same as it used to be; just as full of gossip and innocent, petty scandal. I had been married two years before