Wood, and within sight of the Glinton house, now hers no longer, Maud knelt; and through tears that no bravery could keep back, and through grief that must have way, she prayed. Not for him, she knew-blessed knowledge that he was safely anchored where no prayers of hers could brighten his rest and glory — but for herself, that she might have strength for all trial, and patience for all waiting; the strong, true, loving heart, the willing right hand for all toil; for light to walk humbly and reverently through the rest of her lonely life, until in another and purer world God would give back all He had taken from her here.

And then for all who like her mourned over those who were not; that to them, as to her, the hope of future rest might spring and brighten ; and that all sorrow, wherever sent, might yield its heaven-intended guerdon of purity and noble

ness.

So praying, the bitterness of death passed away. Maud arose, sad, it is true, and chastened; for, with the memory of that morning upon her,

must she not always be so? But no longer weary or despairing, as those who have no hope; no longer girded in by the misty horizon of a halfrealised dread, but able to look forth clearly and steadily unto the land that is very far off.

From that grassy altar, from that lonely place of prayer, Maud arose with the grand seal of suffering upon her brow, the high signet stamp of heaven upon her pale face, the holy cross of grief to consecrate her whole future life, and lift her, even through its pain, to a nobler, purer being.

And so home again through Lingold Wood. Treading all the way upon quivering bars and flashes of sunshine, which lay over the flowered and mossy ground; beneath waving leaves and gushing song of birds; among a leafy choir of voices which seemed to chant for her the anthem of this her new consecration; through the orchard where Pet and Muffie came wistfully to her again; she could give the mute, pleading creatures their morning caress now, and send them away in peace; across the garden, bright with many-tinted flowers,

and under Stephen Roden's rose, which she reached down and gathered very reverently.

Home again, to meet as bravely as she could those sad, wistful faces, and sorrow-laden hearts, that would have given her sympathy if they dared. Home again, to gather up the precious relics of her departed life; to lay away the flower whose rosy colour was to have been the herald of his return the glove she had just been mending

for him—the little scraps of music he had copied for her -the books he had read to her. Home again, to live from day to day as purely and worthily as she might, a life upon which lay henceforth the dignity of a heaven-sent grief. Home again, to take up all her little duties; to be as she had ever been, the dutiful daughter, the kind sister, the faithful friend. Home again, to strive, and wait, and pray; to carry patiently and reverently that cross which in some form or other comes so surely to us all. And home again, to cheer herself in all weariness and solitude with those pleasant words of Stephen's the last she had ever heard him speak

"After all, Maud, it is only a little while."

It was thus, through this burning baptism of tears, and afterwards across this kingly threshold of Hope, that Maud Harcourt passed from girlhood into womanhood.

CHAPTER III.

THAT day, the day of Maud's first great grief, - passed solemnly over, and night came, bringing with it sleep, and, for awhile at least, merciful forgetfulness of all that had gone before it.

She was awakened next morning by the gay carolling of the birds in the jasmine branches ; by a pleasant sound of whispering leaves, as the breeze came lightly dancing up through the orchard-trees, and by the merry glinting in of the sunshine through half-drawn white windowcurtains upon the flowers- his flowers-which he had given her the night before he went away; and of which not a petal had curled or a leaf withered, because of that dew of friendship which rested always so lovingly upon them.

At first sight of them, there came over her a