and sickness, ere they gain sure [footing on the other side.

They found, laid very near his heart, the Testament which he always carried with him, and folded within its leaves, just upon that verse in the Revelation, "There shall be no more death," one single little blue harebell, not dry yet from the dew which had gathered in its tiny cup. Both were given to Maud; two other beads for the rosary of memory. But she never knew, neither did any one else, how and when that flower was plucked, nor how very gently upon its blue loveliness the thought of her had been laid. Like many other things which we cherish reverently among our treasures, it was full of unspoken meaning, full of a story which no one, even she who loved it best, would ever read or think of.

He was laid with little Walter in Mr. Harcourt's vault; the great, stalwart, brave man, side by side with the unconscious child who had scarce gone a step in life's journey; alike safe, alike innocent, alike watched over by Him who will ever keep that which is committed to Him. And

the yew-tree that grew by the west window spread its arms over them both, and wrapped them, night by night, in its friendly shade.

After that Maud began to live her woman-life.

Long ago, when she was a very little girl, her Papa had taken her and Mabel to see an exhibition of dissolving views at Marbrook. One of them she remembered well. It was a broad, bright, beautiful landscape, with blue hills girding in the distance; uplands, dotted with manytinted woods, swayed their robes of greenerie in the sunshine; a little rill danced across the foreground, with beautiful, rich plumy flag leaves fringing its banks, and golden lilies dappling its surface; while bright-coloured flowers shone from mossy dells, and over all bent the clear blue sky, flecked with white and fleecy clouds.

But even while the little child Maud held her father's hand, and laughed in gladness to see this pleasant picture, it began to quiver and tremble and dissolve. The richly-clothed uplands melted away, and pale clustered columns rose in their place. A tesselated pavement hardened over the bright flowery foreground. The blue sky changed

into a groined and traceried roof; rich stained windows, with massy arches of stonework, looked out one by one upon the purple distance, and through them the sunlight poured in upon altars and shrines for prayer. The landscape was gone, quite gone, and in its place the bewildered child looked upon a grand old cathedral of the mediæval time, with its long dim aisles and upreaching columns, and mysterious lights, and carved roof, and storied windows.

Maud had never thought of it since, until now, in the first solemn hours of this woman-life of hers, it rose before her as a symbol of what her future must be. Already the landscape, with its laughing light and kindling sky, its dancing rill and springing flowers, through which, child-like, she roamed, had changed, and dimmed, and deepened; and looking around her, she seemed to be standing in a vast cathedral, with its holy light and solemn music, its shrines, and altars, and places for prayer. God help her to be thankful for its quiet, its utter, utter stillness and repose. God help her to be thankful that, in its one deep grave over which she knelt, there was no

sting, no remorse. God help her, that, learning at last to look upon it as holy ground, she might rest there peacefully, and even pleasantly; not wanting sunlight through the storied windows of Hope, nor music from the grand, sweet, choiring voices of the future.

Maud never 'asked, though many others did ask, why this great trouble had come to her; why so suddenly the brightness had been taken out of her life. Enough for her that God had sent it, who sends nothing unwisely. Yet, who shall blame her that sometimes, sadly and with great longing, she looked back upon the landscape of the past, and forward with somewhat of awe to the cathedral future?

It is not easy to learn that God's purpose for us is ever from the less to the greater; and that, when the dream of life is over,' and the hand of the spoiler surely laid on whatever of earthly hope we had treasured up for ourselves, it is only that we may pass forward to that surer guerdon of rest which awaits us yonder. Once having left it, there is no return-none-to the

shore from which we sailed in all the fresh expectancy of early promise. But it is a precious thought, that if not for this little life of earth, at least for that other one of heaven, the best always lies before us. We leave in the past nothing that the future cannot far more than repay. Let no one say then, of any joy that has been lent, "It is vanished and returns not." It has only gone for a little while; travelling a few steps farther in our pilgrimage, we shall meet it again, fairer than ever we knew it before. It is through such shoals and quicksands and rocks as these that He bringeth us to rest at last.

And so trusting, Maud lived quietly and patiently on. Shaken suddenly from her nest of girlish hopes, she had been taught to spread her untried wings and mount to a purer air. Without trouble she would have been always very lovable, very gentle, very winning; with it she became as thousands more do every day become, if only we knew it, and could honour them for itthe brave, noble-thoughted woman.

All glory to Him who so leads His children, by