was so quiet and stay-at-home,' for the peace and comfort which reigned in the shopparlour and the upper rooms of the house, undisturbed by children's pattering feet and merry voices. Nay, even some of the happier mothers in that part would return to their many cares and nests of young ones, and say, with a sigh, After all, those who have no family are best off. And if one never has them, one never misses children.' Little they knew how grave, silent Mrs. John Parkinson felt a strange thrill and longing go through her heart at the sound. of a baby's noise, or the glance of a bright child's eyes, and how she would willingly have worked harder and fared far worse for the joy of having little lips to say to her, 'Dear mother!' However, she was not unhappy; she was a good wife to John, and never in all their married life had there been any serious disagreement between

them.

One thing they needed-the one great thing which alone is really necessary--the love and fear of God. Years before, as a girl, Emma White had been the only child of a good, pious old father and mother; but when she left them early impressions faded, and gradually she settled down into what she now was a good woman as the world takes it, for she was honest and upright; but of personal religion John Parkinson and his wife knew nothing.

A little mission church was started in the town; the old parish church had its own supporters, and the place was large enough to need another, so that upon a site of ground not far from the Parkinson's shop the temporary church was erected, and drew together many worshippers.

When neighbours asked John Parkinson if he would not go to the church, he laughed merrily as he answered, 'No, no; I've done without church-going these many

Mrs. Parkinson laughed too, and shook her head, and yet a serious look followed the smile-perhaps some passing thought of old, old days; and the good, long-buried parents brought it there!

Time went by. A fine new church filled the space which the smaller building had once occupied, and it was found that Longford must have needed it sorely, for every seat in it, as well as in the old church, was filled. But neither the grocer or his wife had set foot within its walls; neither had they altered from their first opinion, that they did very well without church-going.'

At

That winter a severe cold attacked Mrs. Parkinson, one she could not shake off either. In spite of her contempt for weakness and illness of any sort, she had to lay up,' and nurse herself in a way which was quite contrary to her usual custom. length she could hold out no longer, and had to give in to the illness which was creeping over her, which the doctor pronounced a case of low fever, from her neglected cold. One night she rambled painfully, talked of home, and childhood, and early days, and knew no one who bent over her. If I had not given it up, mother,' she said, 'I'd think of it all now: but I can't. Oh, I am afraid to die!'

John Parkinson was distressed to see her so, although he believed that it was only a turning-point in her illness, and he could not bring himself to think for a moment of death being possible: still, he longed to comfort her, and, remembering that sick persons were often read to, he asked, 'Should

he read to her?' She seemed more sensible then, and answered, 'Yes, yes! the Prayerbook that mother gave me on my weddingday.'

What a search Parkinson had for that Prayer-book! but at last he found it at the back of his wife's tidy linen-press, and when he returned to her bedside she was sleeping quietly.

Next morning the doctor pronounced that Mrs. Parkinson would do;' and, indeed, she began to amend quickly: but there was a strange expression on John's face, which one hardly expected to see there when the great anxiety was gone. The fact was, he had been reading the neglected Prayer-book, just for the sake of passing the hours of watching; and, do what he would, something he found there would keep fixed in his mind.

In a few weeks' time Mrs. Parkinson was blithe and brisk as ever; no serious thought was left from her illness, nothing but the desire to put all things straight which had been a little neglected whilst she was laid by. But she soon noticed that her husband was more thoughtful than usual, and that he lingered in the shopparlour late into the night; and if she asked him what he had been doing, he would say that he was reading-' only reading.'

At last one night she went quietly back -not from idle curiosity, but because sometimes she fancied a shadow was creeping up between them, and she thought perhaps a word or two would put it right. But when she saw her husband reading the old Prayer-book, which had lain forgotten so many years, she was struck with surprise. "Why, John!' she exclaimed,' what are you reading that for??

For a moment a frown passed across his face; but it changed to a look of calmness.

'I got it out when you were ill, Emma; and somehow there was no forgetting it. It seems as if all my unbelief was melting away when I read the Creed which I learned when I was a boy-"I believe in God the Father Almighty." And after all, wife, we haven't lived as if there was any God in Heaven or earth.'

Was the wife sorry? Yes, really. I believe she feared for John taking up new ways and thoughts: but the habit of being guided by him was useful now; and so it came about that, after a while, they read the Prayer-book together, and the result was that they were soon seen amongst the worshippers in church, and were two of the most regular attendants.

Still the old shop prospers, still the grocer and his wife are a cheerful, thrifty couple, and, outwardly, all is much the same with them as ever it was. But the change is between their own hearts and God: He knows that they who were far from Him are near now by faith in their Saviour, and that they truly sorrow for their past neglect of His boundless love.

On summer evenings, when the day's business is over, John Parkinson often drives his wife to the village, some ten miles off, where she lived as a girl, and where her parents are buried; and as she puts fresh plants around the grave, or gathers the fragrant roses which bloom so sweetly there, she often exclaims, in the fulness of her gratitude to God,

'Ah, John! if my good mother and father had lived to see us now they would know their prayers for me were answered. But they know it up in Heaven-I'm sure they do, John; they know that, by God's blessing, we have been roused up to believe in Him by reading in that very Prayerbook which they gave me when I left them so many years ago.'

JUST at this crisis in Roger's life came little Bell, and looked kindly upon him. And Roger, as we have seen, had a corner in his heart all ready for her. They had talked her over at the Weirs.

'She's mair like our little Mary,' said the father.

Mrs. Weir bustled about, and missed a ball of yarn; she could not yet hear unmoved the name of the last born, who had stayed so short a time with them, and yet made herself so dear.

big tears over the churchyard grass which covered her.

But that was a long time since; she was something sweet, and soft, and sinless to him now, and the remembrance of her was like the scent of flowers.

Roger was sorry his mother never spoke of her, but he respected the silence; still it pleased him to hear her name on his father's lips, and coupled with that of little Bell, who was good to him.

By-and-bye he got up and wandered to the churchyard. In a shady corner was a little grave marked by an ivied cross; just | now it was one blaze of flowers, sweet and bright geraniums and heliotrope, grander flowers than they had in the cottage gardens. Roger liked it to be so, and each Sunday went to church with a posy from Mary's grave in his coat.

When Mr. Swayne first came to Moor Thornton this little grave was new, and it struck him as being an object of care and interest to some one. For a pattern of oyster-shells bordered it, and at the head, propped against a large foreign shell, was a card worked in silk, Little Mary,' with date of birth and death, with a frame to guard it from the weather.

.

It was not long before Mr. Swayne met Roger, then a lad of twelve, carrying a double-daisy to the grave; from him he soon learned little Mary's brief story. A few flowers from the Rectory paved the way to a friendly feeling with the lad, ! and presently, as Mr. Swayne hoped, the oyster-shells were either hidden by them, or removed. A wooden cross was next added, Roger's own work in spare hours. and over this ivy had climbed till the wood was completely hidden, the card still leaning against the foot, though half concealed too. Little Mary's grave was now an object of interest and admiration to the