her plate away with a trembling hand. She felt she could eat nothing now; that she had no right to anything further.

"How's this?' was the anxious inquiry. Isn't my little girl well? or would she like something else better than grapes?'

Then, afraid of drawing further attention to herself, Eva made choice of some other dainty, and fell to work upon it slowly, for each morsel seemed to choke her.

Oh, the bitterness of wrong-doing! And yet this very bitterness is surely permitted in mercy, and is meant to check us in our course of sin. But, alas! the broad path once entered upon, each forward step seems to strengthen the desire for further advance; one fault but too often leads to another. At least, so it proved in Eva's case.

Perhaps her mother had noticed some disarrangement in the dishes; possibly John had been suspicious, and had mentioned his suspicions to his mistress; or it might be merely that Mrs. Clare had rightly guessed the cause of her little daughter's behaviour at dessert. However it was, the next morning she called the child to her, and taxed her with her fault.

'Did you touch anything on the dinnertable yesterday before you came down to dessert, Eva?' was the grave inquiry. 'Because I have reason to suppose you did.'

Taken by surprise, confused and frightened, Eva, almost before she knew what she was about, had stammered out a denial.

'Nothing?-you are sure?'

'Nothing, I am quite sure,' echoed Eva, this time in a loud, positive tone; and her cheeks flamed as she spoke, and her eyes filled with scalding tears.

I am sorry I should have suspected you,' said her mother, unwilling to disbelieve so decided a denial, and yet not quite satisfied by her little girl's manner.

Eva dashed out of the room and up

into

a quiet landing-place at the top of the house, where there was no fear of interruption. Here, crouched up in a corner in shame and terror at her own wickedness, she wrung her childish hands together, and moaned and sobbed aloud:

'Oh, what have I done? Perhaps God will send some dreadful judgment upon me!'

She almost expected a voice from Heaven to speak to her, and proclaim her condemnation aloud. And who shall say that a voice from Heaven did not speak to her? It is in the lowest depths of our humiliation that Christ's call is sometimes heard clearest in the soul. And there surely came to poor Eva at that bitter moment a gentle whisper, urging her to lay her sin and misery at her Saviour's feet-to seek there for absolution, for renewed strength and peace. The sobs grew more subdued; the little bruised heart was healed of half its pain; the bowed head was raised at length; and very soon timid footsteps made their way downstairs, and the repentant child stood by her mother's knee, confessing all the sad tale, and receiving earthly forgiveness and comfort.

'You prayed to God, Eva: that is the only way in which these matters can ever be set right. He showed you what you must do that the only possible amends to be made for a fault is to confess and be sorry for it, and to try and do better in the future. Perhaps if you had prayed to be delivered from temptation when you stood beside the dining-table yesterday, you might have been able to resist. Even if you had prayed after you had taken what you knew you had no right to take, you might have been kept from further wrong—from the sin of falsehood. Depend upon it, my child, prayer is the surest safeguard for us all in this world of temptation, where we meet at every turn with tables spread with forbidden fruit.' EMMA RHODES.

HAD a great wish to see our dear old home once more, and asked Mary as we were coming from church to walk round that way; but just as we arrived at a turn in the path close to the house, a man— evidently the new master of the placeaddressed me rather roughly. 'This is not a public path, ma'am; I can't allow strangers to trespass here.'

'Sir, we were returning from church, and I thought there was no objection to our passing this way.'

'Well, you cannot go on; let me point out to you the shortest way to the high-road.' My face flushed as I replied,

'Surely times are changed! I have lived here longer than you, and never stopped any neighbour, especially coming from the house of God.'

'Hush, mother dear,' said a gentle voice at my side; remember, "A soft answer turneth away wrath;" we must not allow ourselves to be vexed so easily after the comforting words we have just listened to."

Ah!' I replied, in a querulous tone, 'it is all very well for you to talk that way, Mary; but I'm a poor widow, with my only son lying at the bottom of the sea, and now I am not even allowed to look at what was once my home!'

I was going on in this fretful way, when my daughter addressed the stranger.

'Sir, pray excuse our intruding so near your house; I am sure you will not be angry when I tell you we lived here before you came. My poor mother has been almost broken-hearted at the loss of her son. This is the first time she has been able to attend church since my father's death, and she had a great wish to see the house in which we spent so many happy years.'

The countenance of the farmer softened as he listened to this explanation.

'So you are the people who lived here formerly! That indeed alters the case; and I shall tell you why I was on the watch to prevent any one passing the house to-day. But first, did you say your son had been drowned ?'

"Yes, the ship he was in went to the bottom.'

'Well, yesterday a young man arrived here, saying he had met with a shipwreck, but escaped with some others of the crew on a raft, and after many hardships and adventures made his way to his former home. Much disappointed at finding it occupied by strangers, he told me his story, and requested a night's lodging; but this morning, feeling ill from over-fatigue, he begged of me not to allow any one in the neighbourhood to know of his arrival until he was able to search out his mother and sister, and announce his own safety. Now, if you will come into the house, you shall see this young man.'

'Mother,' whispered Mary, as we entered the well-known door, 'I asked God to give you comfort to-day, but I little thought He would be so good as to do it in this way.' "Willy! my Willy!' I cried, clasping the long-lost boy in my arms, 'I never thought to see you again!

Ob how merciful God had been to me in watching over my dear son through so many dangers, and bringing him back safely! And how ungratefully I had fretted against His chastening Hand! Long, long shall I remember this happy Sunday, when, after all my troubles, I had sought comfort in the House of God, and had found so much more than I had dared to expect.

S. T. A. R.

'SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD.'

SH

(Continued from p. 71.)

HE went about her work with so bright a face that even Mrs. Steele noticed it, and thought that Miss Moore was getting over her troubles.

Bertha's great desire now was to make money, for her tiny stipend would not suffice to keep both her and her boy, as she began to call Tim to herself. The rainy-day fund would not last for long.

Fortune favoured her here. Mrs. Steele was invited to an evening party, and required a lace cap made up. The milliner who usually did such work being ill, Bertha good-naturedly offered to try her hand, and succeeded so well that Mrs. Steele declared nothing had ever turned out so becoming to her as the cap in question. This emboldened Bertha to stammer out that she wanted to make a little more money, and could Mrs. Steele give her any work to do in an evening. After that she needed no occupation, and could hardly afford time. to keep her own clothes in order, she was so busy trimming hats for the little Steeles, and working embroidery for Mrs. Steele and her friends in the town. True, her pay was not large, but it contented Bertha.

She begged a holiday once to see little Tim, going over in the carrier's cart; and, in spite of sad recollections, it was a day of

real joy to her. He was lying peaceful and contented in his cot, and though the nurses shook their heads over his case,' he was very happy, and greeted Bertha as an old friend.

At Midsummer her holidays of four weeks long would enable her to come to Mooreside pretty frequently, and on mentioning this to the lady superintendent of the little hospital, she received a kind invitation to come and stay there, taking the place of nurse who wanted a holiday,-a plan that filled Bertha's heart with joy and gratitude.

When the time came, Mrs. Steele was surprised at Bertha refusing her advantageous offer to take her to the sea with them; of course stopping her salary, as it was the holidays.

'So much more cheerful for her than going back to Mooreside,' she said to her husband; but perhaps it is as well, for her clothes are hardly fit for the Parade.'

Mrs. Steele was right, the somewhat rusty black dress would look most fit by little Tim's bedside.

And there it went. But Bertha's smile faded and her heart sank as she entered the peaceful room: she was only just in time— Tim, her boy, was dying. She had procured for him comfort and peace, but she could not buy back life for the little sufferer.

And those beside him told her that it was best so. Tim, wise beyond his years, saw the cause that made the tears swell in her eyes, and he bade her not to fret, he was going where every one would be good to him.

Poor Bertha, she could not help the bitter cry: But I shall be left alone again; I have no one to care for!'

Tim look puzzled a moment, then taking her hand, and turning his wistful face to her, asked,

'Couldn't you care for mother and the little ones?'

Yes, indeed, there would be many left in the world who needed care when this poor child was in Heaven. But a drunken woman and helpless infants, could Bertha do aught for them? For Tim's sake she would try.

The unhappy woman was in prison, but the victim of her blind anger had not died, so her sentence was not so heavy as it would have been.

Bertha resolved to seek her out when she returned to Widebridge, and she felt easier at heart when she had promised Tim to care for her and the little ones.

A few more days of bodily suffering and patient looking for release, and Tim was at rest.

Bertha felt her loss sorely, while she could not but thank the good God Who had allowed her to be at hand at the last. It was a comfort to have his parting look, and to be present when the sweet words of the Burial Service were read over him.

A little time still remained before she need return to Widebridge, but for Tim's poor mother she need never have gone back, for she was offered a permanent place in the little hospital; in that time she employed her spare moments in planting flowers on Tim's grave, and weeding and arranging the plot of ground where her dear ones lay.

She had been so busied early one morning, and had gone to fetch something that she needed, when on her return she was shocked to find a wretched-looking woman. lying outstretched on little Tim's grave. It needed no one to tell her it was Mrs. Haig.

Only out of prison the night before, the poor creature had sought her children, and hearing some rumours of the boy's death at Mooreside had made her way there. living were as nought to her beside the dead.

(Concluded in our next.)

The