schoolmaster and his wife have been living there till the schoolhouse was finished, but they move to their new home in a few days. I shall see the squire this evening, and will settle about it for you."

Grace's heart was too full to speak, but her looks told her deep gratitude.

"You will have some dinner before you go?" added the Clergyman; "and let Mrs. Wyndham know you are here, she will like to see you."

With a thankful heart Grace left the rectory in the evening, loaded by Mrs. Wyndham with delicacies for her mother. The prospect of returning to her own dear home seemed to give the widow new strength, and she waited impatiently to hear from Mr. Wyndham what the Squire had settled about the cottage, and when they were to go.

It was not many days before Mrs. Fielding, seeing from the window the Clergyman coming towards the house, told Grace to run down and show him the way up the dark staircase. After staying some time with the widow, and promising to send his mother's donkey-chair in a few days to fetch her, he rose to leave; and as Grace went down stairs with him, he inquired for Amy. Grace, who was longing that he should have some talk with her sister, answered by calling her, and at the summons Amy appeared from the room below; for Grace had taken the first opportunity of increasing her mother's comfort, by hiring another room. On seeing the Clergyman, Amy again retired into the room, and Mr. Wyndham saying he wished to see her, Grace opened the door and then left him, to return to her mother. Amy had sat down, and was crying bitterly. Mr. Wyndham went up to her, and taking her hand, said kindly, "You have, indeed, had a hard lesson, my poor child. Has it taught you your sin ?"

With a faltering voice Amy answered, "Yes."

"And now tell me," continued he, "why did not your love to your mother last? She used to be almost your idol." "It was not love, sir," answered Amy.

"You are right," replied Mr. Wyndham: "it was merely the selfish indulgence of a pleasant feeling. Selfishness was its root, and when it was to be proved by self-denying obedience it withered. Filial love is a duty; but if it be not regarded as a duty, and regulated by the rules of duty, there is danger of its becoming a snare and sin. If, then, where nature and duty agree there is need for watchfulness, what must there not be where the path of duty runs contrary to our natural inclinations! Think of this, and pray over it, my child. You have strayed widely from the path of obedience; but, blessed be GOD! the most wandering

sheep may be reclaimed. You will find it hard not to fall again into your first error now that your mother is so unexpectedly restored to you; but be of good courage; strive heartily, pray earnestly, and doubt not in His strength Who invites you to repent and live, that even this temptation of the evil one will gradually cease to have dominion over you. And now," he added solemnly, laying his hand on Amy's head, who knelt before him, "may the GOD of Love grant to you, His erring servant, Repentance, Pardon, and Peace, for His blessed SON's sake." Amy whispered an earnest Amen, and Mr. Wyndham left her kneeling. Amy watched, and prayed, and strove; and her love was no longer selfish. It was pure, holy, self-denying; and she had her reward in the approving testimony of her conscience, and in the dying words of her mother when some years later she was called to her rest.

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The sisters knelt together beside the death-bed. They had joined in the blessed feast of the Eucharist; and their mother was, they thought, no more. The setting-sun shed a sudden glowing light on the bed, and the dying woman's lips moved feebly. The girls bent over her, and heard, "Bless you, my children-my own Amy may GOD reward- :" and with this broken sentence, her spirit passed away.

Nooks and Corners of Old England.

No. III.-ILFRACOMBE, N. DEVON.

THOUGH Scarcely coming within the strict definition of a nook and corner, lying in a far-off spot of which scarcely any one knows, yet Ilfracombe may well find a place here for more reasons than one. Many, very many of our readers, we doubt not, have sought in this quiet spot for a renewal of impaired health, and therefore know well the rich character of the scenery, mountain, hill, and dale, in which it abounds. From a very useful guide-book published by Mr. Banfield, we learn that Ilfracombe (which derives its name from the British word Kum, a valley,) was a manor in Edward the Confessor's day, in the tenure of one Robert, and guilded (taxed) at the rate of one hide (a hundred and twenty acres) and one jarding of land.

During the civil wars Ilfracombe was also a place of some importance; for about September, 1644, "Sir Francis Doddington with his horse fell upon Ilfercombe, a small sea-port

not far from Barnstaple, and took it with twenty pieces of ordnance, as many barrels of powder, and near two hundred arms. The gaining of this place much facilitated the repossessing of Barnstaple."

But we are digressing, as the engraving reminds us that we have to do with the church and not the town. As will be seen, it stands upon a hill, and is surrounded by hills. From the churchyard we have a beautiful view of the sea and the surrounding country.

In the church itself there is not much to attract attention, save its antiquity. It consists of a nave, chancel, and north and south aisles. The tower is situated in the centre of the north aisle. The windows are Perpendicular in their tracery, which Rickman fixes on as the fourth or last division of the Gothic style, a form much adopted during the middle of the fourteenth century. The clustered pillars near the pulpit and centre of the church are of older date, probably marking the transition from the Decorated to the Perpendicular style.

Considerable attention appears to have been paid to the altar, the covering for which is the most magnificent we ever saw, and shows what advantages would result to our Church, as far as decorations are concerned, were the ladies to devote some of their time and talents to Church embroidery. It was the offering, we believe, of a private individual, and will not lose its reward. The rails in front are of a somewhat mean description, and we confess to have no liking whatever for a by no means

elegant chandelier that hangs before the altar. In the south wall of the chancel is a piscina, and three chairs for the Priests are worthy of examination, although we hear that formerly there were some handsome gothic sedilia, which for some reason or other have been removed. There is a very fine old Norman font.

Texts of Scripture are found in every part, and those in the chancel are worthy of note, because of the doctrine of "worship with substance," and the counsels of perfection which they contain. Some of the texts are exceedingly appropriate.

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"For

the Priest's lips should keep knowledge, and they should seek the law at his mouth, for he is the messenger of the LORD of hosts." (Mal. ii. 7.) "For he that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the LORD'S Body." (1 Cor. xi. 29.) He that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth unto the LORD; and that which he hath given Him will He pay him again." (Prov. xix. 17.) "I will wash mine hands in innocency, and so will I compass Thine altar, O LORD!" (Ps. xxii. 6.)

There are various monuments in the church to persons connected with the town, some of whom have honourably distinguished themselves in their country's service.

W. B. F.

The Children's Corner.

SISTER'S CARE.

CHAPTER I.

The dead leaves

ONE cold gusty evening in November, Mr. Perceval, the vicar of Hatton, was walking quickly homewards. were whirling about in his path, and every now and then a shower of raindrops fell on him, as the wind shook the branches over his head, where some few brown and yellow leaves were still left. It had been a stormy afternoon, and Mr. Perceval had been to a distant part of the parish, over a very wild exposed heath, so that when he turned into the lane, at the end of which stood the vicarage, he could not help feeling glad to see the cheerful red blaze shining from his study window, and to know that there sat his sister Emma ready to give him his usual welcome. As he walked on, however, he fancied he heard some one running behind him; he stopped and listened, but thought he had been mistaken; he was just going on, when the sound of little footsteps, and at last

of a child's voice mixed with sobs, made him pause and look back into the gloom.

A little girl about ten years old, battling with the strong wind, and holding her scanty cloak tight round her, soon came up to him.

"O sir! O Mr. Perceval!" she began, and then burst into a flood of tears which quite stopped her voice, only she held his coat fast as if afraid he should leave her.

Mr. Perceval stooped down, and in a soothing manner said, "What is it, my little maid? Take breath; don't be in a hurry, I am not going, or do you want me to go with you? Is that it? Are you not little Lizzie Grey ?"

"Yes sir, I am; and O do please come to mother, she wants you so bad!" and here her voice again failed her. After a few moments she went on, "Mother is very ill, sir; the doctor has just been and says she can't get over it, and she says she can't die easy till she's seen you, and father's at work at Mr. Croft's, and he does not come home till so late, and my sisters are out, and mother's got nobody but me and little Katie; and oh! sir, if we don't make haste, perhaps she will die before I get back, and what shall I do then?"

Mr. Perceval immediately set off down the lane, Lizzie by his side: he took hold of her hand to help her on, and as they walked he found out more of the circumstances of her mother's illness than she had first told him.

Mrs. Grey it seemed had caught a violent cold about a fortnight before, but had taken no heed of it till the day before this one, when she was so ill that she could not go to her usual work, but no one had thought her in any danger. Her husband left her to the care of little Lizzie, saying she had better ask Mr. Lake the doctor for some stuff to do her cough good; and her two elder girls, Susan and Phœbe, went as they always did to a cottage about two miles off, where there was what is called in that part of the country a lace-school. Young girls about their age, sixteen and seventeen, meet together at some person's house and make lace, which this person sells for them. A great deal of harm is often learned at these places, and Susan and Phoebe Grey were certainly the worse for it. Mr. Perceval found on questioning Lizzie that her mother had been much worse all the morning, and that just before dinner she had broken a blood-vessel, that Mr. Lake had been to see her, and said she could not live long. The poor child was quite bewildered with fright and grief, and had not thought of going for her father, but directly her mother had mentioned Mr. Perceval's name, she had run off to find him.

The Greys' cottage was some little way from the village, nearly a mile in fact from where Mr. Perceval had stopped. It was rather lonely, and stood on the edge of the heath I mentioned