understand it better now, and I can be tender with them, remembering that perhaps some of them too may have had trouble, even as we have. Nay, indeed, I know it is so. Poor Mary Dale has never been the same girl since that week the soldiers came recruiting through Braeton, and wiled away that simple John, the carpenter's lad; and when she hears anything about war now, she looks so keen and earnest, and she comes down to us sometimes to beg the newspapers and see if there has been any news from India. Poor Mary, I will go and talk to her some day, and try to comfort her. When the class was over, I went to see old Lizzy Machin and read to her. I generally have my own little testament when I go there, but this Wednesday evening I had left it at home, so the old woman gave me her great brown leather-covered bible. It opened at that chapter in Isaiah about the desert rejoicing and blossoming as the rose; the same it opened upon so many months ago, that morning when Philip was coming to see us. I read the chapter through, with a heart full of many thoughts, thoughts that she, in her quiet, monotonous life, knew nothing of.

And then I left her to go to church. It wanted more than a quarter of an hour to the service, but the perfect hush and stillness of the place seemed all I needed just then; so I went in.

I could not help thinking, as I crossed the threshold, leaving the glowing sunshine, the waving chestnuts, the blue sky, behind me, and entered the cool, dark, shadowed aisle that led to our pew under the west window, of that other and higher change through which our spirits, Maud's and mine, had passed, from the bright

ness and fervour of early hope to the still, calm, even rest of faith, the utter ceasing from our own works, our own longings, our own aims, the simple waiting for Him, the rest that remaineth for His people. And as I sat there, watching the light come in through the stained windows, casting the flickering shadow of the old yew tree, the tree that shelters Walter's and Stephen's grave, on the column before me; and as I listened, half sleeping, half waking, to the monotonous sound of the bells which had just begun to chime, there seemed to come before me, in a sort of dream, the whole of that past year with its joy and sorrow,

its tumult and rest. Once more, and for the last time, I bent over the grave of my bygone life, and read the inscriptions written there as one hope after another had died and been buried. Strangely mingling with the stained windows, and clustered columns, and groined roof of the old church, in that dim hazy light, there came up again long reaches of cliffs stretching their white arms to the sea; a pleasant murmur of blue waves plashing on the shore; salt spray flinging up high and bright over the dark rocks; drooping tresses of many-coloured weed drifting to and fro. Back again, too, came the autumn woods where crimson leaves lay thick upon Lingold Lake, and the golden sunset shone upon us for the last time. And then, like a swiftly rushing tide, separating me from all that had gone before, I remembered my first sorrow-the death of my one great hope, followed by Maud's, whose shadow lay upon us even then.

Thinking of all these things, I did not notice that the church had filled with people, and the bells ceased to chime. By and by the organ prelude began, part of that Twelfth Mass of Mozart's

that he used to be so fond of. I found the place in my prayer-book, and rose, my eyes still bent down, and my heart still going out after those long-ago times, when suddenly a quick, bright, thrill leaped through me. I looked up for one little moment, and then down again to look up no more. It was no well-accustomed voice, such as we had listened to for years and years back, that read out the beautiful opening exhortation; it was no white-haired pastor's head that the sunlight gleamed upon, no bending timeworn form that stood within our old oak readingdesk.

It was Mr. Lowe,-Philip, my Philip.

God forgive me, that all through that blessed service my thoughts were far away from any spoken words. God forgive me, that in far other language than our holy church teaches, I praised Him for that day's life,-that while others prayed for protection, guidance, and pardon, I could but weep with a feeling there is no name for. God forgive me, that, overpassing the sense of all he said, I only knew it was far above any other joy to hear him speak again. I don't know

if he saw me or not. I never thought of that. To know that he was there was quite enough; his very presence was rest. O blessed time! O blessed sunshine! O blessed service of peace and thanksgiving!

The sermon seemed very soon over. I came out with the rest of the people, and home by myself through the Braeton plantation. As I walked slowly along, it seemed to me as if it might all have been a dream-just a blessed heaven-sent dream, to strengthen me for daily labour and patience, and to keep the memory of him fresh and pure in my heart. When I got home all was quiet as usual. Maud had not yet come back from the Lingold Wood, where she had

gone early in the afternoon. Papa and mamma were having their evening reading in the diningroom, and asked me to join them, but I only wanted my own thoughts then; so I went into the drawing-room, and sat down on my low stool within the shadow of the curtains, looking out upon the garden and the meadows beyond.

I don't know how long I sat there-it must have been a very long time, though, for the streaks