always watches for me coming home from school, and the time will seem long.'

At

'I dare say it will if she's been watching all the time we have been gone,' said Bob. So the two boys started off homewards, running the chief part of the way. Donald's gate they parted, and Donald, carrying his offering of ripe berries for Bessie, hurried in. Bessie, he felt sure, would forgive his long absence when she saw he had remembered her.

It was just growing dusk, and in the cottage, where the windows are so small, it was almost dark. Donald shook the dust off his boots outside, and then lifting the latch of the door he went in.

What was the matter? There was something wrong!

In the gloaming light he could see the tall form of a man, whom he soon knew was the village doctor, who was bending over his sister's couch; and then he could see his mother's form sitting at the head of the bed, holding Bessie's pale face in her arms.

'Why did you leave her?' And as he threw himself down upon the turf, with the scalding tears brimming in his eyes, he felt as if his heart was breaking and he longed to die.

Was Bessie dead? And did she die alone -all alone? Gentle, long-suffering Bessie, ! so trustful, so loving: his sister, his playmate, his friend! Bessie, who, when she was strong and well, thought only of pleasing others! Unselfish Bessie! whose every wish was with his wish, who never hurt him by word or deed; and now, was Bessie gone? gone for ever? and had he refused her one last request?

Ah! Donald, Donald! well may you cry, 'Why did I leave her?' Why, for a short time of pleasure, did you forget all Bessie's unselfish love? Would she have left you so, Donald? No, your heart answers 'No!' Has she not rocked your cradle when scarce more than a babe herself, and waited for hours to see you smile? Who taught you to walk, Donald? and who sat unwearied and lovingly by your bedside when you were ill?

"Oh, Bessie, Bessie!' wailed forth the unhappy boy in his loneliness. 'Never, never, would I leave you again: never would I forget you, Bessie! If you would but live, I would show you how I love you.'

For a long time he lay there sobbing upon the turf, until he was aroused by a gentle tap upon the shoulder. Poor Donald lifted his tear-stained face, and saw the doctor bending over him.

'Go in, Donald,' said he kindly; she is better now: go in.'

'Better!' said Donald, slowly and dreamily. 'Not dead?'

'Dead!' repeated the doctor; 'no, not dead! Have you been mourning for her as dead? Poor boy! It is not so bad as that, and I trust will not be for many a day. Bessie is very ill, and it appears that

this afternoon she was left a long while alone, and, longing to quench her thirst, she got up and crawled to the table to fill her glass with water; but in returning she was overcome by her weakness, and fell back upon the stones in a sort of faint. It was in this state, with the broken glass lying beside her, that your mother found her; and she lifted her up on the bed, and came and called me. Now poor Bessie has come to herself, and is getting on well. So go in, Donald, and help your mother to nurse her. I trust you to make a good nurse. Good-bye.'

With these words the doctor left him, and Donald got up, wiped his red eyes, and went inside.

Bessie was lying back upon the pillows, with all her auburn hair thrown back from her face, and her eyes closed; but she opened them at his footstep and welcomed him with a smile.

'Have you come at last, Donald? thought the time seemed long.'

I

nodded here and there to friends and neighbours who would willingly have stopped him, to hear from his own lips all the wonderful adventures he had met with, but Roger never slackened his steps till he reached the straight walk and bowery cottage.

It all seemed so quiet that he paused at the gate, then the sound as of a bee humming arrested his attention. Under the lilac-bush at the further end of the garden sat Bell, with a picture-book on her lap, which she seemed to be explaining to Johnny, who leant against her. The repetition of words, such as one uses to very young children, struck Roger as strange, but he had no time for reflection; Bell had descried him, and with a shout of joy flew down the walk and seized his hand to drag him to the house.

'Mother, mother,' she called out, 'come, here is Roger!' And then Mrs. Weir came to the door, and neighbours strayed in, and all was happy greeting. Roger had never been made so much of in his life. But what he thought of most was Johnny, the boy he had left so gay, and bright, and clever. Could the pale, shrunken child, with the half-frightened eyes, be him? Every one else had grown used to the change, but it was new and very pitiful to Roger.

'Don't take no notice,' said poor Mrs. Weir; 'strangers frighten him at first.'

'But I am not a stranger,' said Roger gently. Johnny boy, you know me! come here, there's a good little chap.'

Something in the tone or kindly gesture pleased the boy; he left Bell, to whom he always clung, and came to Roger, looking wistfully in his face. You're Roger,' be said dreamily; 'you used to ride me on your knee, and bring me nuts from Shockley.'

It was a long speech for Johnny now;

his mind had leapt over that sad fever interval, and gone back to his baby days, when Roger was nurse and pleasure-giver to his younger brother.

It pained Roger to see how his mother and the neighbours exchanged pleased glances and nods at this little speech, he could not bring himself to believe in poor Johnny's loss of intellect.

All that day Johnny crept noiselessly about with Roger, sometimes smiling feebly at him, at other times listening with wistful earnestness to conversation he could not understand. When bedtime came he did not like being sent away from him, so Roger took him upstairs and stayed till the child fell asleep. Then he said he must go back to Mrs. Darell, who had engaged him to remain with her family while they were in England, in attendance on her invalid boy.

'I shall come again to-morrow,' said Roger. I can always run up for an hour in the evening.'

'But you'll not go back to foreign parts; you'll stay at home now?' said poor Mrs. Weir. 6 Johnny has taken to you so.'

'I'd like to stay,' said Roger, but I'll ask Mr. Swayne, mother; you see they brought me home sooner than they promised that I might help with the children on the journey, and there's the going back; it mightn't be fair to leave my mistress. Johnny's got little Bell, too.'

'Ay, Bell's a good child,' said Mrs. Weir, thoughtfully. 'Johnny would have died but for her but she's none of ours you hear, Roger, she belongs to Mrs. Holmes now.' And then Roger had to listen to the story of the discovery of Bell's parentage—rather a shock to him; he had hoped that the bright little creature was for the future part and parcel of his home.

• Bell and Johnny are only here to see

you,' said Mrs. Weir. Mrs. Holmes is very good, and wants our boy back at Littleby when Bell goes, and Dr. Darell says it is better for him than being here, where things puzzle him and fret him. The sea is all new to him, and after a bit, if he is kept very quiet, they do say they think he may come quite round. But Mrs. Weir shook her head and wept a few tears as she said this; she had not much hope herself. Roger, however, it was very cheering.

Το

'Does Dr. Darell say so, mother? Hurrah, then! we shall have him all right again! Don't fret. I'd give,'-and Roger stopped to consider, I'd give my fifty pounds to have Johnny like he was when I left home.

Yes, Roger meant it; he had now no feelings of envy against poor Johnny: he wondered how he could ever have had them; the somewhat self-sufficient chatter would now have been music to his ears. But he was never again to hear that. If Johnny ever did revive from this long mind-sickness, he would be a gentler and an humbler child.

The devouring lion of giddiness and pride that beset his path had been stricken by the same blow that laid him low, and, would never again threaten his very life. With his doting parents and approving schoolmaster he had been day by day gaining more in head knowledge, and less in heart humility. It would have been a hard struggle for him to have fought the Evil One, so all at once the temptation to sin was put away far from him by an Almighty hand. Some knew that Hand, and saw mercy in the misfortune that had fallen on the Weirs; others, as Alice Swayne said, only thought it strange and sorrowful, this death in life of poor little Johnny.

(Concluded in our next.)

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