"I see a spirit by thy side,
Purple-winged and eagle-eyed,
Looking like a heavenly guide."

"If he bid thee bow before
Crowned mind and nothing more,
The great idol men adore—
Though his words seem true and wise,
Soul, I say to thee, Arise!
He is a demon in disguise."

"PRISCILLA! Priscilla!" The name was repeated again and again, and yet no response was given; indeed the person so addressed seemed not to hear the speaker, if one could judge by the far-away, absorbed look of her eyes, as she stood at an open window with her arm round a curly-headed boy of some three or four years old.

The name seemed as if it ought to have belonged to some grown-up lady, and was suggestive of a Puritan maiden. And so, when at last the one thus addressed was roused to attention, and turned round saying, "Yes, Miss Vernon; what is it?" One did feel surprised to see that the owner of the name was a young girl of only some fifteen years. She was dressed, as was also the child by her side, in deep mourning; and a close observer would have seen that her large, thoughtful, gray eyes were filled with tears, which she was striving to keep from falling.

Her brown hair—the sort of brown which seems always to catch and glisten between every ray of sunshine—was brushed off a finely-formed brow, and hung in natural curls round her neck. She stood now waiting to hear what the speaker required of her. The answer to her question was given in a somewhat querulous tone—

"What is it, indeed? One would think you should know that without asking. Shut the window, of course, and don't keep little Claude standing at it until he catches his death of cold. You must really try, Priscilla, to exercise your wits a little; I can't be everywhere at once, and there is no one else to manage anything now."

The girl made no reply, but turned and shut the window, and her own eyes for a moment also, as if she would have gladly shut out the spring sunshine and everything else in the world just then; for her young heart was aching, oh! so sorely, and she seemed to have but one wish—to be lying in the quiet grave where her loved mother had been laid to rest just three days before.

"No one to superintend anything now but Miss Vernon."

Oh! She knew that well. No one to care much what she did; no one ever to take her into loving arms, stroke back the sunny hair, and call her "Sissy, darling Sissy." No; from henceforth she would have to live without a mother's loving caresses, and learn to answer to the stiff-sounding name of Priscilla. Even her brothers—she had four of them, all younger than herself—only called her Prissy; and her father always addressed her as Priscilla. "Sissy" had been the mother's pet name for her.

As she left the room, the tramp, tramp of boyish feet met her ear, and up the stairs bounded three handsome boys—Lewis, the oldest, nearly fourteen; Austin, about one year younger; and Archie, a delicate-looking child of seven. They all clustered round their sister, their faces bright as if no tears had so lately stained them, fresh from the open air, and their youthful spirits rising, as the spirits of the young, thank God, will rise even after days of deep sorrow.

"Prissy!" they said in one breath, "do come out; it is delightful in the garden. And there are violets in the grove by the river-side; do come and gather them."

But Prissy turned away. What cared she for violets now when the one for whom she loved to gather them was no longer here to receive them? No, there was nothing in the world for her to care for—no one to whom she could give pleasure; and unheeding the pleading looks of her young brothers, she went to her own room. Ah, Prissy! There were hearts as loving as yours waiting for a look of sympathy, a word of kindness; they, too, miss a mother's welcome, a mother's interest in their simple pursuits, and turn away disappointed.

"Prissy might have come," muttered Archie.

"Oh! She does not care," said Lewis.

Only the grave-eyed Austin said kindly, "Poor Pris! I daresay she misses mother more than any of us. She didn't mean to be unkind, I am sure."

In the meantime Prissy had sought the quiet of her own room, and drawn down the blind to shut out the sunshine, which seemed to mock her grief. Perhaps her conscience reproached her; it may be a still small voice whispered she had done wrong, had been selfish; but if so, she did not listen to it long, only bent her head on the table and cried bitterly.

Her Bible lay near, but she did not open it. She had not yet fully learned the comfort God's Word can give in sorrow. Prissy had been taught to reverence the Holy Scriptures as her father and mother did; to recognize God as the Creator and Upholder of the world, as an Almighty King, the Disposer of all events and the Ruler of the universe. But she rested there; not yet had she learned to know Jesus as a personal Saviour, nor God as a Father who cared for her and counted the very hairs of her head.

Only shortly before her death had even the amiable mother of the family learned to love the person of Christ. But that love once experienced, she had spoken words about Jesus to her children which had sunk deep into the hearts of some of them, and would one day bring forth fruit. On one of her last evenings on earth, she had spoken to the three oldest on the words "Thy kingdom come," expressing the earnest hope that they might each of them help on its coming.

It was Prissy who, with flashing eyes, said she would like to do so, adding it would be such a glorious work to be the means of elevating and bettering the world around her. In after days Priscilla remembered the unsatisfied look that crossed her mother's face as she spoke these words, and how she laid her hand caressingly on her shoulder, and was beginning to speak, when the door opened, and her father entering, the conversation dropped, and was not again resumed.

Professor Warner, one of the greatest mathematicians of his day, was a highly respected and in one sense a God-fearing man; but though fully recognizing the wonderful work of redemption, he had overlooked the need of love to the One who had redeemed him.

In family life, the doctor (for the honour of LL.D. had long been his) was reserved and deeply absorbed in his books. Domestic cares had entirely devolved on his wife, to whom he was fondly attached, though as a rule, he considered the whole female sex infinitely inferior to man.

And when the birth of his first child was announced to him, the expressive words, said with a sigh of disappointment, "Only a girl," was the sole remark he uttered.

"Only a girl!" repeated the incensed nurse. "As if a daughter in a house was not the best of blessings, better a hundred times than your great noisy boys. One would think the master was a heathen to speak like that, as if it was not through a woman that the greatest of all blessings descended to earth."

Despite nurse's indignation, the words "only a girl" became a sort of sobriquet to the little one; and when four boys followed in succession, and were warmly welcomed by their proud father, who prophesied great things of each one, whilst he might be said almost to overlook his first-born, friends and relations declared that, save to her loving mother, Priscilla Warner was indeed "only a girl."

A strangely quiet life she led, shut out as she was from all companionship with girls of her own age. Inheriting in no common degree her father's talents, Prissy, while still a child, became absorbed in studies, the nature of which even her mother was unaware of. For Mrs. Warner, busied with her children, husband, and household matters, superintending also many lesser details of her daughter's education, never knew that her spare hours were spent in the study of mathematics, for which she had a perfect passion.

The only member of the family who knew her secret was Austin; and boy though he was, he had been her first instructor in the rudiments of the science in which he as well as his brother Lewis were daily instructed by their father.

"Why not let me tell father you like these sort of things, Prissy?" he said one day.

But she implored him not to do so, having often heard her father express contempt for women bungling away at matters they could never properly understand.

"No, no," he said; "let a woman be a good housekeeper, and if she can read intelligibly, write plainly, keep a few accounts correctly, make shirts properly, and, if she likes, play on the piano or the guitar, and sing, that is all that can be expected of her. A woman has not brains for higher things."

At such a speech, child though she was, Prissy would flush up with indignation, and determine that one day she would prove to her father what a woman could do. To become famous, to do some grand work on earth, this was the girl's ambition, this the only secret she had kept from her loving mother. The day would come when she would constrain the father (whose praise she esteemed more than aught on earth, and for whose love she yearned) to own that she was something more than "only a girl."

But since the death of her mother, all ambitious thoughts had left the girl's head. She was stunned, and had scarcely even gone to the nursery to look at the little infant sleeping in the pretty cot prepared for her by the hands of the mother who had lived but to clasp her to her heart and give her a dying blessing. A sudden low cry from the room next hers now aroused Prissy, and lifting her head she listened. It was the baby, and she remembered with a pang of reproach, that that day she had never even asked after the child.

Ere doing so, she opened the Bible, her mother's last gift to her on her fifteenth birthday, just one fortnight ago. She turned to the page on which her name was written, and read below it the words, "Thy kingdom come," and these other words, "To every man his work."

"Yes," she said, and raised her head confidently as she spoke, "I have a work to do; and I will do it, and make my father proud of me yet. And how about the kingdom of God?"

She hesitated, then said, "Well, of course, if I study earnestly, I will be able to teach others, and thus elevate the thoughts of many, and so, by bettering the world, hasten on the coming of God's kingdom. Yes; that would be one way of doing it, I think so, surely. But I wonder what Austin would say? Mamma's words about the kingdom seemed to impress him so much, although he said little. I am sure that some way or other Austin will help on the kingdom of God; and so, I am determined, shall I. One thing is plain—I must no longer waste my time."

And forgetting her determination of going into the nursery, she went to the window, pulled up the blind, and taking down her slate and books was soon deep in solving some, to her, new and interesting mathematical problems.

She worked on, unheeding all around her, till darkness began to steal over the sky. And just as she was going to stop, a knock came to the door, and a servant said:

"Miss Warner, your father wishes to see you in his study as soon as possible."

CHAPTER II.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

"In the way that he shall choose,
God will teach us;
Not a lesson we shall lose—
All shall reach us."

IT was with a feeling of wonder and reverence that Priscilla Warner entered her father's study.

The room was almost dark, though the parting rays of light lingered longer there than in the rooms at the other part of the house. Dr. Warner still sat, by the window, with an open book before him.

As the girl entered, he rose and greeted her gently, nay even courteously.

Priscilla noted the change the last few days had wrought in his appearance: his hair was grayer, his tall figure more bent than of yore, and when he spoke there was a tremble in his voice strangely unlike that of former times. Fain would the impulsive girl have thrown herself into his arms and tried to comfort him, as a daughter might have done; but the habit of years held her back, and she only stood before him quietly and respectfully, forcing back the emotions that filled her heart, knowing how her father dreaded what he called "women's scenes."

"You wished to speak to me, father," she said at last, breaking a silence which was becoming painful.

"Ah, yes," he said, raising his head; for he had resumed his reading, and apparently become oblivious of her presence. "True, I sent for you to tell you the arrangements I have made."

Then, as he looked at the girl, he said suddenly, "How old are you, my daughter?"

"Fifteen," she answered; "almost a woman now."

He sighed. "True, true, and, one would have said, doubly needing a mother's care. But we must not question the Creator's wisdom. 'His ways are not our ways, neither are his thoughts our thoughts.' 'His will be done.' And since, for his own wise purposes, he has thought fit to remove from you a loving mother—'truly a woman one in a thousand'—just at the time of life when you, as it seems to us, most needed her care, I have thought it necessary to get some one to superintend you and the household. And I am glad to say your cousin, Miss Vernon, has consented to remain with us for some time at least, and carry on your education and that of the younger children."

A flash of contempt passed over the girl's face as her father spoke these words, but she only said, "Yes, father, so I expected."

The tone of her voice sounded rebellious, and Dr. Warner said more decidedly, "I need not say, Priscilla, that I expect you all to show her the greatest respect, remembering that she is giving up her own ease and comfort for our sakes. Of your studies we will speak another day. You are not specially clever, Priscilla, but you are well advanced, and know nearly enough for a woman, I daresay. Go on in the meantime as you have been doing. And be kind to your brothers, Priscilla; they are fine boys, with splendid talents, and please God will turn out great men and an honour to their country. Lewis specially is a brilliant scholar, and has made wonderful progress in mathematics lately; and he is a good boy, too, although his mother seemed latterly afraid of his being easily led by companions. But then even the best of women—and she was one of them—can never be good judges of boys, at least of such a talented one as Lewis. Austin also, though not so clever as his brother, is steady, and will do well."

At these words Priscilla could keep silence no longer. "Austin not so clever, father! Why, he is more so than Lewis, and often helps him with the most difficult problems. Oh, it is Austin, and not Lewis, that will be the great man."

Dr. Warner looked up amazed at his daughter's vehemence, but shook his head. "No, no, Priscilla; Austin is not 'fit to hold a candle' to his brother. But what can a girl like you know about mathematical problems? No doubt both boys help each other, but the real helper, I fancy, is Lewis. Girls cannot understand these things."

It was in Priscilla's heart to tell that the real helper was herself. It was to her that Austin came in his difficulties; and when they had together worked out the problems, he helped Lewis.

A long silence followed this conversation.

Dr. Warner had resumed his book, and still Priscilla remained, awaiting further orders. But her father gave no sign; apparently he had forgotten that she was in the room.

At last she summoned courage to speak again.

"Have you no further orders to give me?" she said.

"Oh, yes," he replied, a shade of pain crossing his face as he did so. "About the babe. It must be baptized, and soon, but not in church. It is not a strong infant, so Mr. Lascelles says he will baptize it here. But its name, my daughter—what shall we call her?"

"Mary," said Priscilla. It was her mother's name, and therefore very dear to her.

But her father shook his head.

"No, no, not that name. My lips would refuse to utter it. Let me think. Scripture names are suitable for girls, and this—alas!—is another maid-child. Stay, we will call her Ruth. I like the character of Ruth. A true woman she was, affectionate and loving; knew her duty, and did it, without much talking either. Yes, the infant shall be called Ruth."

"Now about godmothers and a godfather. Let me see. I wonder if Miss Vernon would be one? We will ask her. And the other? We might get—" But ere he could finish his sentence, Priscilla interrupted him.

"Father, if you have no objection, I would like to be one of my little sister's godmothers."

"You!" The exclamation was not complimentary to her, and the girl was stung by it.

"Yes, father," she said, "though I am 'only a girl,' still I can surely take charge of my little sister as well as Miss Vernon."

"Take charge! Yes, my daughter. No doubt you can do that; but this is not merely a matter of taking charge, it relates to higher things—to train her in the knowledge of God. Can you do that, Priscilla?"

The girl's eyes lowered. "I will try," she said, "God helping me."

"Well," was the reply, "if you desire it, I will not say no. I mean to ask Harry Lascelles to be the godfather."

"Harry Lascelles, father! Do you think he will consent? He is so little at home; and now he is on the eve of setting off for a voyage of some years."

"I know; but I believe he will consent. And though young Dr. Lascelles is not as gifted as my own sons, he has good common sense and high principles, and I will be glad to give my poor motherless babe such a godfather. I expect the child will be baptized between services on Sunday first. See that everything is ready for the ordinance—or wait, I'll tell Miss Vernon about it. You can go now. Good evening, my daughter. God bless you;" and as he spoke he laid his hand gently on her head.

Something in the touch overcame the girl, and, unmindful of her father's dread of "scenes," she sobbed aloud, "O father, father! Don't send me away; let me stay beside you, and comfort you. And oh, father, love me; I have no one to care for me now."

Never had Dr. Warner felt more perplexed; no problem was so difficult for him to solve as this of a "girl's mood," as he termed it. What to do or to say he knew not. His wife had never acted thus.

He raised the sobbing girl, who had thrown herself impulsively at his feet, and soothed her as one would a fretful child. "Love you? Of course I do. And your brothers, Priscilla? You have their love surely. Only you know it is not my way to make a fuss. I never did, even with your mother; and she had too much sense to expect it. Women, Priscilla, are naturally impulsive; and it is a great thing when they learn to control themselves. No true woman gives such way to her emotions as you are doing now, my poor child."

At these words the girl freed herself from her father's arms and stood upright, once more the apparently cold, unimpulsive girl she so often seemed to be. She saw now how hopeless it was to get nearer to her father's heart.

"Forgive me," she said. "I will try and do as you wish; and if I cannot be a comfort to you, will try at least not to be a burden."

And without saying another word, she left the room.

For a moment her father stood lost in thought. "Strange child," he said. "I wonder what she meant? How could she comfort me? Girls are so difficult to understand; and yet I would fain do my duty by her, poor child! And she has a fine face, too, and splendid head. Her brow reminds me more of my grandfather's than any of the boys do, and he was one of the greatest mathematicians of his day. Strange, is it not?"

Then ringing the bell for a lamp, he resumed his studies, and Priscilla was forgotten. She was "only a girl."

CHAPTER III.

A BAPTISM.

"Jesus, bless our little one
With the shining hair!
We would hold our treasure safe
'Neath a Father's care."

THE quiet baptism was over, and Dr. Warner, who had been much overcome during the ordinance, had left the room, followed by the vicar.

The sponsors alone remained behind—Priscilla holding the babe in her arms, a strong gust of love towards the helpless little one filling her heart; and silently she was asking help to be faithful to the vows she had taken as regarded the upbringing of the child. So absorbed in thought had she become, that she had not observed that Miss Vernon also had left, leaving her alone with Harry Lascelles.

These two were fast friends, though the young navy doctor was ten years her senior. He was an orphan, brought up from early childhood by his maternal grandfather, the vicar of the parish, part of which was in the town of Hereford, in the suburbs of which Dr. Warner's residence, "The Grove," was situated.

Harry was a fine, open-hearted young man, with a large amount of common sense. He was a Christian in the fullest meaning of the word; and he really strove, like his divine Master, to "go about doing good."

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might," was, as the vicar loved to say, the motto of Harry's life. His bright, cheery ways made him a special favourite with all the youngsters at the Grove; and a groan of vexation was heard from the boys when it was announced that Harry Lascelles was about to start as naval doctor on a long expedition to the African coast.

He was the first to break the silence when he also discovered that Priscilla and he were left alone with the little one whom they had unitedly promised to train for God. He stepped forward and, with the freedom of an old friend, laid his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Poor Sissy!" he said (using unconsciously her mother's pet name for her). "I am so sorry to have to go and leave you all in this time of sorrow. I, too, feel as if I had lost a mother in dear Mrs. Warner, and am so glad your father has asked me to be godfather to the wee motherless babe; but the real charge, Sissy, will devolve on you. You have, indeed, a great work before you in the care of all these children, for it is to you, far more than to Miss Vernon, they will look to fill their mother's place. And such a mother! You have, indeed, a work to do which even the angels might envy!"

The girl looked up, restraining with an effort the choking sob which the sound of her pet name had evoked.

"Yes," she said half proudly, "I have a work to do, Harry; and I am determined to do it—to prove to my father that, though 'only a girl,' I can do as much as a man, ay, and more than many of them can."

The words and tone startled the young man, and he answered quietly, "I do trust, Prissy,—" (he had dropped the pet name now), "that you will indeed prove to your father that, because you are 'only a girl,' you can do a work in which the greatest of men would fail; but take care you find out what that work really is."

She gave no answer, but said abruptly, "And you go to-morrow, Harry, and may not be back for years?"

"Even so," he replied. "Don't forget me, Prissy. And one word ere I say good-bye: look lovingly after the boys. They will sorely miss their mother," and he lowered his voice as he spoke. "Make the evenings at home as cheerful as you can for Lewis."

"Why for Lewis?" she said half-angrily, for he was not her favourite brother, and she fancied that others as well as her father thought more of him than of Austin.

But ere Harry could answer her question, the door opened, and Lewis, followed by Miss Vernon, reentered.

And in a few minutes, Harry Lascelles' farewell words were spoken to all three. And imprinting a kiss on the forehead of his little, sleeping god-daughter, he said, "Of such is the kingdom of God."

Then turning to Austin, who stood near him, he said (as if in allusion to something they had talked of before), "We must all help on the kingdom of God, not only by doing great things, but also little ones." And with these words he was off, to do the work of life appointed to him in scenes far distant from the quiet vicarage where he had been brought up.

Priscilla stood a minute or so still with the infant in her arms, a stunned feeling in her heart. She had heard Harry's farewell words in a sort of stupor, and hardly yet realized that her kind, cheery friend's good-bye had been really said, and that years might elapse ere he would be again at home.

Miss Vernon's voice aroused her.

"Give me baby, Priscilla," she said kindly. "You look tired. Had you not better rest a bit before church time?"

"Oh, I'm not tired," was the reply. "I can take baby to the nursery myself. I'll join you all before you set out for church;" and so saying she left the room.

Her heart was full, but not a tear fell till she was alone; then it seemed as if her very heart would break with the feeling of desolation and misery that overwhelmed her. Would life, she asked herself, be always like this—one great sorrow, with none to love or help her? The only voice that answered her question was that of conscience, and she tried not to listen to it; but she caught the words—"Are you going the right way to win love, or are you not rather repelling it? God has given you plenty of work to do to deaden the sense of desolation; and are you not putting it from you and preferring your own work?"

No wonder that downstairs Miss Vernon was chafing at the coldness of the girl to whom she was at least desirous of acting kindly; whilst the boys were heard to mutter that Prissy was as changed as she could be, and never cared to please any one now.

The same spirit of discontent and weariness pervaded the household all the rest of the day. More than ever the gentle mother was missed then; and not without a pang of compunction did Prissy hear Lewis, as he kicked off his boots ere going to bed, mutter that the day of little Ruth's baptism might truly be called the "Black Sunday."

"How could it have been otherwise?" she said.

Yet the thought would arise that she might have made it different to the boys at least; but she comforted herself that next day, things would be better, and she, occupied with the great work of her life, would be happier also. Yet even in her dreams the question arose, Was that the work which Harry had said "angels might envy"? Was she really going by it to help on the "kingdom of God"?

CHAPTER IV.

LA BELLE GABRIELLE.

"All hearts do pray, God love her!
Ay, and always, in good sooth,
We may all be sure he doth."

THE summer sunshine, which was lighting up with renewed beauty the woods in the neighbourhood of the Grove, and painting in exquisite colours, as with the finger of God, the flowers in many gardens, fell only feebly in some of the narrow dingy streets in the great over-crowded cities.

A few rays only had found entrance into one house in a narrow street in the town of Birmingham; but those rays were joyously welcomed by the inmates of the dwelling.

"See, maman," said a bright-looking young girl about the same age as Priscilla Warner, "said I not ere long the sun would be round here to cheer us up? Only see!" And as she spoke, she drew up the blind.

The lady whom the girl addressed as mother looked up with a smile from the couch on which she was reclining.

"'Tis well, Gabrielle," she said, in a sweet tone, though with a foreign accent, "that thou canst look out for sunshine and make the most of it when it shines, only too seldom in this triste contrée. And truly everything looks dark just now—my long illness, the boys' education, the expense of having to keep a nurse for the babe, and, now that the long holidays have begun, your father having so few pupils; and then, though we have not too much sunshine, yet the air feels sultry and the house close, and—"

"Fi donc, maman," said the girl with a silvery laugh. "What a list of woes you have given, the poor maman! But see! Hast thou not taught thy little Gabrielle to look at the mercies as well as at the trials of life? Now, then!"

And seating herself on a low stool near the couch, and taking the baby (which lay beside its mother) on her lap, she began playfully—

"True, thou art ill, and that is the worst of all the troubles; but the doctor says you are getting better. Then is it not good that the petits garcons are so well that they can be at school? And has not the nurse been a comfort to thee as well as an expense? And I do believe her coming saved the life of ma petite sœur, my little Jean—my Scotch lassie, as le père calls her, while I am his French one, his Gabrielle."

"And see, again, as to pupils. Well, 'tis a pity about that; but then papa is so clever, and paints so charmingly, that I am sure some day he will get a good appointment. And then, mother, we know le bon Dieu lives and cares for us. How often you have told us so! And only this morning, before he went out, papa said, 'We must trust the Lord—'"

"'He never yet forsook at need
The soul that trusted him indeed.'"

"God bless my little sunbeam," said Mrs. M'Ivor, as she drew her daughter into her arms, and in her native tongue (for by birth she was a French woman) called her many loving names.

Gabrielle M'Ivor, whose life was to exert an influence over more than one of the characters in our story, was indeed a lovable girl and fair to look at.

As yet small in stature, with the neatest of figures always set off to advantage by a dress of a perfect fit, simple and inexpensive, yet with an air of elegance about it that many of her companions in far more costly array strove to copy in vain. Her face, if not perfect in feature, was yet wonderfully bewitching, with its sparkling black eyes, so thoroughly French, and the wealth of hair, that glory of girlhood, so prettily arranged and contrasting so strikingly with the black eyes. For it was really golden, inherited from her Scotch father, though his undoubtedly inclined to the unromantic shade named red.

But Gabrielle's charms were more than "skin deep." She had the promise of being a noble woman—self-forgetful and loving. With all the brightness and light-heartedness of a French woman, she possessed a good portion of Scotch solidity and firmness, and above all a real trust in and love to God and her Saviour Jesus Christ. She also (though in a different way), like Priscilla Warner, felt she had a work, and a great one, given her to do on earth, and like Priscilla, she was ambitious to do it.

The M'Ivors, at the time we write of, had been for five years settled in the town of Birmingham, where Mr. M'Ivor was a teacher of drawing. But although he had a good number of pupils, yet his wife's long illness, and the needs of a family of seven children, of whom Gabrielle was the oldest except one, made it hard work to keep the wolf from the door.

André, the oldest, was a clever, plodding lad of some sixteen years, steady, and very considerate of his parents as well as of his sister Gabrielle, to whom he was fondly attached. Despite his Scotch origin, his appearance was thoroughly French, though his mother laughingly told him in character he was altogether a canny Scotchman, quiet and firm. The younger boys—Jules, Philippe, and James—were bright, healthy children, quick and affectionate, giving their mother and Gabrielle no end of work in patching clothes and darning stockings for them.

Such is a slight sketch of the family into whose small dwelling the summer sunbeams peeped on the morning we are writing of.

Mother and daughter had remained silent for a short time, when the door opened, and a tall, fair-haired gentleman entered with a bright expression on his clever, sensible face.

The invalid looked up with a happy smile.

"Ah, Jacques," she said, "how soon you have returned! That is pleasant."

But Gabrielle, with the keen eye of youth, had seen something in her father's face that she read quickly, and springing up with the baby still in her arms, said—

"O papa, thou hast heard good news, I am sure. Has the appointment we have hoped for so long come at last? Oh! I see it has by the look in your eyes. Tell us what it is, dear papa; tell us quickly, please."

Ere answering, Mr. M'Ivor seated himself by the couch, and taking his wife's hand, he said quietly—

"The Lord is good, Marie. We have reason to thank him. I have just received a letter from an old and revered friend of mine, Professor Warner of Hereford, offering me the situation of drawing-master in a large collegiate school there, with the option of giving private lessons to any other pupils. There is, he writes, a good house and garden provided, and the yearly salary is good also. What do you say? Shall we accept it? Come here also, my little Gabrielle, and tell us what you think about the matter."

"O papa, is it not too charming?" said the impetuous girl, putting the baby on her father's knee, and stooping as she spoke over her mother's couch. "Only to think of it! A house and garden, and money enough to keep that horrid wolf, that even I was beginning to fear, from our door. And now we shall be able to get nourishing food and fresh air for the pauvre maman, and she will get well again; and André, our dear, good André, will get some good opening as a teacher also, I daresay. Oh! We have reason to thank God, who has been so mindful of us. Mamma, speak; say, is it not delightful?"

"Indeed it is, my precious sunbeam; and I feel it a loving rebuke to me for my want of faith and trust in Him who has never forsaken us. Of course, Jacques, you will accept the offer, and thank Dr. Warner warmly for his kind remembrance of you."

"No fear of my not doing that, Marie. But are not our first thanks due to Him who put it into Dr. Warner's heart to do this kindness?"

And so saying the father bent his head, and, with Gabrielle kneeling beside him and his wife's thin hand still clasped in his, gave thanks to their heavenly Father, who had remembered them in their time of need, and brought them into a "large place," for Christ Jesus' sake.

Whilst they were thus engaged, the door opened, and a fine-looking young lad entered, and stood, cap in hand, with bent head and reverent look, till the prayer, or rather the thanksgiving, was ended.

Then he came quietly forward, and touching his sister lightly on the shoulder, said, "Gabrielle, what has happened?"

The father and mother could not refrain from smiling at the vehemence of Gabrielle's reply, as she told the news to her favourite brother, whose brow lightened and eyes sparkled with pleasure as he listened.

Then going forward to his parents, he said, "This is good news indeed. I am so thankful. Now, please God, I shall be able to do something to help you all."

"Indeed, André, you have done that for some time," said his mother, looking with pride and fondness at her first-born son.

And even Mr. M'Ivor, who was not given to lavishing praise too freely, echoed her words, and laying his hand on his boy's shoulder, said—

"God has been good to us in all our children; has he not, Marie?"

André M'Ivor was, in truth, a son whom any parents might have been thankful to possess—thoughtful and firm, clever and steady, actuated by the love of God, and desirous of living to his glory; yet even on religious subjects reserved and reticent, seldom expressing his feelings except to his sister Gabrielle, but by his earnest Christian life bearing a noble testimony to his Master. He, too, realized that God had given to every man his work, and expected him to do it. And he also sought to do what in him lay to hasten on the coming of God's kingdom.

And thus it happened that when the summer holidays were over, and the October sun shone on stubble fields and played on the heads of groups of young and old engaged in many an orchard gathering the rosy-checked apples to store up for winter use, and schools were reopened and studies resumed, the M'Ivors found themselves comfortably settled in a pretty suburban cottage in the town of Hereford, ready to begin with grateful hearts the work which God had given them to do.

CHAPTER V.

HELPING ON THE KINGDOM.

"Jesus, Master, whom I serve,
Though so feebly and so ill,
Strengthen hand and heart and nerve
All thy bidding to fulfil;
Open thou mine eyes to see
All the work thou hast for me."

ON just such an October morning as we have spoken of in our last chapter, Austin Warner stood lost in thought. School-boy though he was, and one of the most eager of them at all boyish games, yet there were times when grave thoughts and even anxieties pressed on his heart. All was not going well in his home life, and he knew it. Since his mother's death, everything had become changed; and the question he was asking himself that morning was, how far he could hinder the growing evil.

He had just prayed the Lord's Prayer, and the petition, "Thy kingdom come," was ringing in his ears. Was it not, he was asking himself, a solemn mockery to repeat those words day by day, and yet do nothing to help on that kingdom, or at least to try to prevent the increase of Satan's one?

True, he was young, and could not do much; but was he doing what he could? Lewis, his loved brother, his constant playmate and companion, was, he feared, going far astray from the kingdom of God, and he knew not how to stop him. Nay, he was afraid he had most unwillingly helped him on his downward path; for often lately, rather than let his brother fall under his father's displeasure, he had written his exercises for him, and more than once worked out his mathematical problems also, for Lewis had got into the way of remaining out in the evenings and spending them with idle companions, saying:

"It was so dull at home now he could not stand it. Priscilla, not he, was to blame if he went wrong. A fellow must have amusement somewhere."

Thinking on these things, Austin resolved to delay no longer, but speak to his brother, and beg him to begin the session in a new spirit. Rousing himself from his reverie, he ran downstairs to the breakfast-room, where he found Priscilla alone, Lewis not having as yet appeared.

"Good morning, Prissy," Austin said in a cheerful tone.

But though his sister smiled in reply, and echoed his words, she looked tired and listless.

"Lewis is late again as usual," she said. "I can't think how he will get on at school if he goes on in this way. Miss Vernon should speak to him, or do something in the matter."

"Miss Vernon has spoken to him, Prissy, and very kindly too; but don't you think if you did, it would have more effect? Indeed you don't know into what difficulties he is getting himself; and it will just break our father's heart if any complaints of Lewis reach his ear."

"You are not afraid of that?" said his sister, now almost pale with fear. "I would not have my father vexed on any account, for we all know how his heart is bound up in Lewis."

"Will you speak to him yourself then, Prissy?" urged Austin.

"What use is there in my so doing?" she replied. "I did once, and he said something about it being all my fault, and that when mother was alive it was very different. As if," went on the girl passionately, "I needed to be reminded of how different every thing was when she was alive. I only wish I could get away from it all, and live to some purpose in the world."

Austin drew near his sister, and put his arm lovingly round her. "Prissy," he said, "don't you think if we were really doing well, the little things God has given us to do, we would be living to some purpose, and helping on his kingdom?"

Austin's grave, earnest words touched the girl's heart.

"I do believe you are helping it on," she said; "but as for me, everything seems wrong. Even in what I thought was to be my great work I have come to a standstill. I can go no further in either mathematics or astronomy without a teacher, and my father would not instruct me in either, I know."

Austin smiled a loving arch smile. "Poor Prissy!" he said. "But don't be vexed if I say I'm not sorry you have come to a standstill in these things. Don't despair—you will find a use for them some day; but at present we need you sorely for many things, Prissy. There is work, and plenty of it, lying at your hand. But I must go and see if I can get Lewis out of bed."

He bounded upstairs, and soon returned with Lewis to the breakfast-room, where Miss Vernon was presiding at the tea-table, and Dr. Warner and the children had assembled.

"Late as usual, boys," said the professor, not angrily, but with a pleased, proud look at the two handsome lads as they entered arm in arm. "Sitting up too late at night studying, Lewis, I fear; but remember the saying, 'Early to bed, and early to rise, is the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise.'"

Breakfast over, both boys set off to school, and Austin gained courage to speak a word to his brother.

"Lewis," he said, "have you spoken to young M'Ivor in your class? He is such a capital fellow. Might we ask him to come and walk with us next half-holiday? He has made friends already with the best set of boys in the school, and it would be jolly for us to join them. You know, Lewis, it would grieve our father terribly if he knew how you spend your evenings with Smith and Roberts and that set. Do begin this session afresh, and remain at home in the evenings. Is it not mean and wrong to let our father think you are studying hard, when all the while you are really worse than wasting your time?"

"Well," said Lewis, "I know it is not right; but what can one do? It is so horribly dull at home. Prissy pores over a book the whole evening, and never speaks to any one; and Miss Vernon's head is always aching, and she stays in her own room. We have such jolly times in the club-room; and we are not doing any real harm, at least I don't. But, old boy, I daresay you are right, and I don't want to vex you, so maybe I'll try and endure a night at home if I can."

As soon as school was over, Austin ran home and got hold of his sister.

"O Prissy," he said, "Lewis has promised to begin to stay at home in the evenings this session. Will you try to make it bright for him? Do try, and I'll do all I can to help you."

But Prissy's mood had changed since the morning. She had got a new book on astronomy, which had at once occupied her mind. She had already been obliged to lay it down several times in order to obey some positive command of Miss Vernon's, and she was looking forward with eagerness to the evening, when she would be free to study it unmolested. For Priscilla's idea of spending a pleasant evening was to set the children with some picture-book or solitary game round the table, telling them to make as little noise as possible, as she wished to read.

So when Austin spoke she only replied testily, "Really I think Lewis might learn to spend his evenings rationally like other people. What does he wish to do? Does he need you or me to play with him, as if he were a baby, requiring to be amused? It is too absurd, Austin. You, like every one else, seem bent on spoiling Lewis."

But even as she spoke, Harry Lascelles' words, "Make the evenings pleasant at home for Lewis," rose to her remembrance. And she said, "But if you wish it, I will see what I can do."

Perhaps she did try; but if so, she failed. The evening seemed long and tedious to Lewis. He asked for music, of which he was very fond; but his sister said, "Oh, really I could not play to-night. I have not practised regularly for a long time."

"Well, then, let us have a song," he said, "and Austin and I will take a part as we used to do."

But Prissy answered, "I can't sing to-night. Don't you hear how hoarse I am?" And turning away, she resumed her book.

And Lewis, muttering, "I can't stand this, Austin," rose and went out, slamming the door after him.

When, ere lying down to rest, Prissy repeated—dare we say prayed?—the Lord's Prayer, and asked that his "kingdom might come," did she think she had tried to help on its coming in the heart of her own brother that day? Or, rather, were there not evil spirits rejoicing that night over the fresh hold they had got on a young soul, which they might have been hindered from having by a sister's loving words and holy example? Yes, Priscilla Warner had done a work that day, but it was in the furthering of Satan's, not God's kingdom.

Did angels envy her that work, as Harry Lascelles said they might have done the one God had given her to do? Alas! Alas!

In his own room that night, Austin Warner waited, as he had often done before, till he heard his brother's step returning at a late hour, and then hastened to open the door for him, in case a ring or knock should bring their father out of his study to ask who was there.

He opened it in silence; and without speaking a word, Lewis slipped off to bed.

Austin went to bed also; but in doing so, one low bitter cry rose to his Father in heaven: "O God, forgive me. I did try to help on thy kingdom to-day, but have failed. For Christ's sake, forgive; and help me to begin afresh to-morrow. Oh! Save my brother Lewis from the evil one, and open my sister's eyes to see the truth."

Had his efforts been altogether in vain? Or was the fact that both Priscilla and Lewis lay down that night with troubled consciences not the effect in some measure of his brave endeavours to help on the kingdom of God?

CHAPTER VI.

THE LOST CHILD.

"Is there in God's world so drear a place
Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain—
Where tears of penance come too late for grace,
As on the uprooted flower the genial rain?"

OCTOBER was drawing to a close. The bright-tinted leaves were falling with every gust of wind; but the air was pleasant, and Priscilla Warner had taken her book into the garden to enjoy it in quiet, nominally taking charge of little Claude, who was amusing himself gathering the leaves into heaps.

Baby and nurse had come out also; and for a while even her loved book was put aside whilst Prissy took her little sister in her arms and carried her up and down. Truly baby Ruth might be called her sister's guardian angel; for the love which had sprung up in her heart to the little one, who, like herself, lacked a mother's love and care, was beautiful to see, and that love was, under God, the means of preventing the girl's heart from turning cold and hard.

The almost passionate love she gave her father seemed thrown back on her to smoulder only more deeply within her. But with little Ruth it was different. The baby returned her affection, and clung lovingly to her sister, following her with her eyes, and nestling confidingly in her arms as she would have done in those of her mother. And however busy Prissy might be, one sight of those baby arms extended to her was enough to make her stop any occupation in order to take her into her arms.

And even when her father let this motherless babe get a place on his knee, and apparently in his heart, which Priscilla had never got, she stifled her rising feeling of jealousy, and became happy in seeing that Ruth, though "only a girl," was gaining a warm place in her father's affection.

Poor Prissy! Once or twice when she saw the babe seated on her father's knee, where she never remembered to have sat, her eyes would fill with tears; and one day she amazed the doctor by saying, "Happy Ruth! I wonder what it feels like to sit on your knee, father."

He pushed the spectacles he wore up on his brow, and looked at her for a moment, then said, "What do you mean, my daughter? Did you never sit there? Ah! true. I remember I did not care much for babies when you were little. But then you had a mother's knee to sit on, and my wee Ruth has none. Don't grudge her mine, Priscilla."

And she did not. And now on the October day we are writing of, as she walked up and down she was thanking God for the blessing of possessing the love of her little sister.

Presently nurse came to take the child; and Prissy resumed her book, and became so engrossed in it that she forgot everything around her—how time was passing, where she was, and even the fact of little Claude's existence. At last a voice roused her:

"Priscilla, are you never coming in to luncheon? And where is Claude? Nurse is vexed he has remained so long out of doors. He should have been ready for his dinner now."

The speaker was Miss Vernon, and Prissy sprang to her feet in dismay.

"Oh, I am sorry, Miss Vernon," she said; "but I never thought it was so late.—Claude! Claude!" she called, running down the garden path. "Where are you, child?"

But no reply came, and both she and Miss Vernon sought in every corner of the garden in vain; no Claude was to be found.

Could he have gone into the house? No. Nurse left baby and joined in the search; but the child was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly Priscilla observed that a back gate which was seldom used, and which led from the garden to the common, was open, and she at once suggested that Claude might have slipped through and got out on the common. True, the children were forbidden to go there alone; but Claude was young, and might have forgotten that.

The common was searched in all directions, but with no success; and with an unspeakable pang of agony, Prissy remembered that not far-off there was a deep pond. She feared to speak of it. Oh, if only Austin were home; if only she could keep her father from knowing. Surely in a little, the child would be found; he could not have wandered far. Poor little Claude! How could she, oh, how could she have neglected him so? And why did Harry Lascelles' words about the work which angels might envy come into her memory now?

Just then, to Miss Vernon's great relief and to Prissy's dismay, Dr. Warner entered the garden and demanded what was the matter.

"Claude amissing? What do you mean?" he said. "Who had charge of him?"

"Priscilla," was the answer.

"What was she doing to allow a child like that to go off by himself?"

"She was studying," replied Miss Vernon.

"Studying? Nonsense! What could she be studying?—Bring the book to me, Priscilla," he continued; then lingering a moment to look at the name, and muttering, "Astronomy? Absurd! What can a girl know or care about that?" he quickly pocketed the cherished volume, and without vouchsafing a word to his daughter strode off in search of the child.

But all searching proved useless. And during those long hours of suspense, the voice of conscience, which Prissy had stifled so long, made itself be heard, and her eyes were at last opened to see her error. Oh, how she had been neglecting her God-given work for her own selfish ends and ambitious purposes!

At four o'clock, Lewis and Austin returned from school, and were startled by the troubled faces that met them. Dr. Warner was like a man possessed, walking up and down unable to decide what measures to take next. It was Austin who suggested, though in a low tone in case the words should reach his sister's ears, to drag the pond.

"God help us!" said the father. "Are you afraid of that? Is it possible? Shameful neglect! It is unpardonable in Priscilla."

"Stop, father," said Austin; "don't speak hastily to poor Prissy. Look at her; she is heart-broken."

At that moment, the gate which led into the common was opened wider, and André M'Ivor entered, bearing in his arms the motionless figure of little Claude.

With a cry, half of despair, half of thankfulness, Prissy darted to him and took the child in her arms.

"O Claude, darling Claude, speak! Just one word!—He is not dead! Oh, say he is not dead!"

"No, Miss Warner," said the lad in a calm, firm voice, "he is not dead, only faint from the effects of a bad fall; and I think he has dislocated his ankle. See, he is looking up. Let me carry him into the house."

But Dr. Warner strode up, his face white and stern.

"Thank God, and you also, M'Ivor," he said.

Then putting Priscilla determinedly aside, he carried the child home himself.

"Get Dr. la Rue instantly."

And allowing no one into the room save nurse and Miss Vernon, he sat down to watch till the doctor arrived.

In vain Priscilla sought admittance. As yet her father's wrath against her was too great to permit him even to look at her.

But when the doctor arrived, the girl forced her way into the room and heard his opinion.

Yes; Claude would live, he believed. He had sustained no serious injury; but a bone in the ankle was broken, and it would probably be weeks ere he would be able to walk. He must have perfect quiet now, and get the person he liked best to be with him.

"I suppose that will be his sister," said the doctor, turning kindly to Priscilla.

But the child, who was conscious now, shook his head and said—

"No, not Prissy. Prissy always say, 'Go 'way, I'se busy.'"

Poor Priscilla! For one moment she caught her father's eye fixed on her, now not so much in anger as in disappointment and grief. And without saying a word, she went to her own room and threw herself on her bed in an agony of tears. But they were more tears of shame than of anything else; and her cry was:

"Mother! mother! I've gone all wrong since you left me, and poor Claude's accident is my fault—mine only."

I think when the angels heard that cry they were glad. The first step to betterness is, they know, when a soul acknowledges it has sinned. And ere Prissy went to bed that night, after kissing Claude, she sat a while and thought about the kingdom of God and the work she had to do. Then the conviction flashed on her mind that she herself had never yet taken the first step into that kingdom of which it is written:

"Unless ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter therein."

CHAPTER VII.

THE TURNING-POINT.

"The blessing fell upon her soul:
Her angel by her side
Know that the hour of peace was come;
Her soul was purified."

"WHERE are you going, Gabrielle?" said her mother, as one morning, shortly after Claude's accident, the bright French girl put on a dainty little hat, and placing two rosy-checked apples in a small wicker-work basket, was preparing to go out.

"Ah, maman," she answered, "I was just going to tell thee I was setting off to the Grove to ask for the pauvre petit garcon—André's protégé, we call him. Was it not a merciful thing that André should have passed by that part of the common and found the child lying behind a clump of furze bushes, where no one would have thought of looking for him? You know, ma chère mère, the doctor thinks the child had caught his foot in a hole and fallen (there are so many of those small holes in the common), and the fall had stunned him, so he lay motionless, and never heard his name called again and again by his father and friends. Poor Mam'selle Warner! They do say she blames herself for not taking care of the child; and André declares her face was white with fright. I am so sorry for her."

"Pauvre petite fille!" said Mrs. M'Ivor, "She must have plenty to do with all those motherless children, for Miss Vernon, on dit, is not at all strong. Yes, go, ma fille, and find out how they all are. I wish Miss Warner would come to see me, as I am not yet strong enough to walk so far as the Grove, and I would like to try and comfort the motherless girl, whose father has been so kind to us."

Priscilla Warner was seated alone in the parlour of the Grove, cast down and weary. Claude was still very ill, for fever had set in; and she was feeling intense grief that he never asked for her, though he would smile when she entered the room.

Then her father, her loved father, had spoken sternly to her, and told her plainly he was sorely disappointed in her, and had forbidden her to take out little Ruth even into the garden unless nurse or Miss Vernon were with her. Against this sentence she had protested strongly.

"O father, don't say that—please don't! Surely you can't think I would neglect Ruth, my darling little sister. Oh, don't wean her love from me; leave me that at least! O father, don't!"

But Dr. Warner was not moved by her entreaties. "I wish to wean no one's love from you, Priscilla," he said; "but I cannot have the child's life perhaps sacrificed to your carelessness. You don't seem to have won the children's love as you ought to have done. I fear you seek your own pleasure before theirs. Your mother never did that, Priscilla; it was always others first and herself last with her. I am disappointed in you, my daughter. You can go now; and remember what I have said."

Priscilla moved to the door, her heart too full to admit of her saying a word; but her father's voice recalled her:

"Stay a moment, Priscilla. What were you doing with this book?" And he produced the cherished "Treatise on Astronomy."

"Studying it, father," she replied, and as she spoke she looked him full in the face.

"You!" The tone of contempt in which the word was said was hard to bear. "Well, I do think, considering the fact that you could not really understand a word of it, that was a profitless way of spending your time. If you wish to know the names of the stars, why not ask myself or your brothers?"

At these words Prissy broke through all constraint. "Names of the stars, father?" she said. "Why, I have studied astronomy for long. I can answer you any question in that book you like to ask me—indeed I can. Father, I am not a fool; try me and see."

Dr. Warner looked at his daughter in amazement. "You have studied astronomy, Priscilla! No wonder, then, that your home duties were left unfulfilled. You know I strongly object to women bungling over subjects they can make nothing of. You had better give up playing at that sort of thing and attend to your proper lessons and duties."

And Priscilla, without a word, left the room and went to the parlour, and sat down in the frame of mind we have already described.

She had sat there for some time when the door was opened, and Miss M'Ivor was announced.

Priscilla had never seen Gabrielle before, and the bright face and winning manners of the girl captivated her at once.

"How is the little Claude to-day?" she asked. "Maman and I were so sorry for you, Mam'selle Warner; and I could not rest till I heard how you all were to-day. Ah, I know how anxious you will be, and how one loves the little brothers. André says he will never forget how frightened you looked. Is he, then, better to-day?"

Priscilla's eyes filled with tears as she replied, "Poor little Claude! He still suffers much; but the doctor says in time he will be well again. We were so grateful to your brother, Miss M'Ivor, for finding the child. I had intended to call at your house to-day and thank him."

"Ah, André was only too glad, he loves the little ones so much; our boys all cling to André. You see that mamma is so far from strong that André and I have had a great deal to do with the little ones. And it is pleasant to be able to help them, is it not?"

"Yes," said Priscilla; "but boys are difficult to manage, and they are so exacting that if one would study, you cannot be always attending to them."

Gabrielle laughed a sweet silvery laugh. "Ah, yes, 'tis true these little fellows think one has nothing to do in life save to attend to them. But what then? It is our work which the good God has given to us elder sisters, is it not? And we can easily put aside our loved studies to do his will and win their love, can we not?"

Priscilla shook her head. "Ah, but if one loves study," she said, "it is not so easy."

"No, truly," replied Gabrielle; "it is often a little cross which Jesus asks us to carry for him," and the girl's voice softened as she spoke. "He bore such a heavy cross for us. And then love lightens our little crosses so. Who knows but we may have the honour of leading these little ones into the kingdom of God? At all events, mamma says we must see to it that we do not by our selfishness cast a stumbling-block in the way of one of the little ones, and so keep them back from the kingdom. André does not, I am sure. Sometimes I am afraid they see it is an effort on my part to put aside my books to attend to them."

"Then you love study?" asked Prissy.

"Oh! So much; but, voila, there is not much time for it with all these little ones. And you, Miss Warner, must feel that also. See, here I brought these rosy-cheeked apples for the poor little Claude. Do you think he will care for them? Of course I know you have plenty others in your garden; but these are so pretty, perhaps he may fancy them."

"Thanks," said Priscilla; "they are beauties. I am sure Claude will like them; it was kind of you to bring them."

"Mamma begs you will come and see her, Miss Warner. It will be a real pleasure to her, if you will come; and I am sure you will love her. She is so sorry for any one who is motherless; and so am I," said the girl, with a look of love and pity in her eyes that went to Priscilla's heart. "Ah, what should I do without the dear maman? The world would indeed be triste, oh, très-triste then. But you have such a good brother, Miss Warner, André says. Mr. Austin Warner is so good and kind; and you should hear how the poor sick lad Anthony Smith speaks of him. He told papa the other day, if ever he got into the kingdom of God, it would be through Mr. Austin's showing him the way."

Then rising, Gabrielle said good-bye, and with a bright smile departed, leaving Priscilla cheered in spite of herself, and humbled as she thought how Austin, hard-working student as he was, was not only trying to lead his own brother, but others also, into the kingdom of God, whilst she, self-absorbed and self-seeking, had hindered rather than helped others from entering therein. She had grieved her father, neglected her brothers, and forgotten her God.

Was it too late to amend her ways? A voice seemed to say, "Not yet, not yet: turn ye, turn ye; why will ye die? Call upon me in the day of trouble." And she did. As a little child Priscilla Warner entered the kingdom of God that day, and took hold of Christ's strength and power to overcome her selfishness, and enable her to do the work God had given her to do, and in so doing to help on the coming of his kingdom.

CHAPTER VIII.

A DARK CLOUD.

"Perhaps in Life's great tapestry, the darkest scenes are where
The golden threads of Faith glance forth most radiant and fair."

THE sweet, fresh spring-time had come again. Violets were peeping modestly out in the woods, and opening buds were swelling on every tree, speaking to every thoughtful heart of resurrection life, bringing back to the mind of Priscilla Warner, as she walked across the common and through the little wood near the Grove, the last spring-tide, when her loved mother had been called to the home above.

Very pretty the young girl looked as she walked on that April day, bent on an errand of kindness to a neighbouring cottage. For, despite the sad memories that filled her heart, Priscilla's face wore a look of peace that had never been there even in her childhood's days. Ever since the October day when, through little Claude's accident, Prissy's eyes had been opened to see her own selfishness and sin, she had been a changed girl.

Not all at once had the victory been gained; again and again self rose up and became conqueror. The habits of years are not so easily overcome as some would have us believe. But the girl knew from that day where to seek strength to conquer. She knew that the indwelling power of Christ alone could do the work in and for her, and that in him she would be more than conqueror.

And the change told on all her actions. Ere Claude had fully recovered, he learned to look with pleasure for the visits of his sister, who willingly then laid aside her own pursuits to amuse him. And poor Miss Vernon, who had her own burden in life to carry, soon felt the difference in Priscilla's mode of acting toward her. And so, although, as we have said, the old spirit of ambition and self-seeking did from time to time assert itself, Priscilla was advancing heavenward step by step, kept by the power of God.

She was crossing the common on the day we write of, to carry some strengthening jelly to a sick child, stooping every now and then to pluck some opening spring flower to put into her father's study, so that when he raised his eyes from his books they would have something fresh and sweet to rest on. She had just spied some of the early golden celandine, and was going to transfer it into her basket, when she saw André M'Ivor coming towards her, and she went forward to shake hands with him. These two were old friends now; and André's mother and sister had become the motherless girl's most cherished friends.

"How are they all at the cottage to-day?" was her greeting. "I hope Mrs. M'Ivor feels stronger, and that Gabrielle's cold has left her?"

"My mother and Gabrielle are better, thank you; but—" and the lad hesitated ere he spoke further.

And his dark eye fell as he glanced at the peaceful face of the young girl; for well he knew the words he had to say would cloud that peace and bring a shadow over her heart. But they must, nevertheless, be spoken.

"Miss Warner," he said, "I was on my way to the Grove to speak to you on a subject that I fear will give you pain."

Priscilla started, "What is it?" she said. "Anything wrong with Austin?"

"No, not with him."

"Then it's Lewis?" she queried. "What of him?"

"Yes; it is of Lewis I came to speak. Miss Warner, something must be done, or your brother's whole life will be wrecked. Austin has done all he can; but he is a younger brother, and has no authority over him. Dr. Warner must be told. It is, believe me, mistaken kindness to conceal from him that Lewis spends his evenings with the most good-for-nothing set of fellows in the school; and latterly they have succeeded in enticing him to join them in associating with a set of gamblers, and I have learned for certain that your brother is losing money every night at billiards and cards."

Priscilla started. "Mr. M'Ivor," she said, "that is impossible. Where could Lewis get money to lose?"

"Ah, that I cannot say; but 'tis even so. And the rumour of it has reached the ears of the headmaster, and if steps are not taken immediately, he will make the whole matter known himself to your father."

"No, no, Mr. M'Ivor, that must not be. What can we do? Oh, if only my father could be saved this pain! He dotes on Lewis, and the knowledge of his wrong-doing will break his heart."

"Believe me, Miss Warner," said the lad in an earnest voice, "I would do what I could to save Dr. Warner and yourself a moment's pain, but I fear it is too late. I have spoken often to Lewis, and entreated him to give up his idle associates and spend his evenings as Austin does at home; but—"

Priscilla almost groaned. Too well she knew whose blame it was that Lewis had ever begun to go out in the evenings. Truly her sin had found her out; and she was learning, as so many have had to do, that the deadly effects of our past sins, even though we have repented of them and been forgiven, will crop up and bring forth fruit in others to our grievous sorrow. Oh, for Harry's counsel and help now!

Again she turned to her companion with the question, "What can be done?"

"I hardly know," was the reply. "I shall consult my father; but, meanwhile, is there no one to whom you could confide the story who might influence Lewis? I believe that if he would promise to begin a new course of life, Dr. Ashby, for his father's sake, would hush up the matter and give him a chance."

Priscilla thought a moment, then said, "I shall go to the vicar and ask his advice; he is a kind friend, and likes the boys."

"That will be well, Miss Warner; and in the meantime I will do what I can."

"Many thanks," said Priscilla, and turned off, taking the road which led to the vicarage.

A cloud had indeed fallen on her; the bright spring morning had lost its brightness for her, and her conscience was bitterly reproaching her.

The vicarage stood in the midst of rich meadow-ground, and in summer was over-canopied by leafy trees. In front was a carefully-kept flower-garden, and at the back a well-stocked orchard sloped down to the river. From the garden, the vicar saw the girl approaching, and went to the gate to bid her welcome. He had a warm heart to Harry's friends, the young people at the Grove.

"Thrice welcome," he said, "Miss Priscilla. How is Dr. Warner? Nothing wrong, is there?" he added, as he remarked the shade on the girl's face.

Then Priscilla told her tale, owned her own fault, confessed how far short she had fallen of her duties regarding her brothers, and told also of Harry's warning as he bade her farewell.

The old man listened attentively as she poured out the tale, interrupting her now and then by exclamations of sympathy or disapproval.

"And your father knows nothing of all this, Priscilla? Does he not sit with you in the evenings?"

"My father! Oh no, Mr. Lascelles. He is buried in his books the whole evening. You know he is engaged writing on mathematical subjects just now."

"Ah I true, true. I forget. Still, surely—ah! Well; one must not blame a father to his child. And Lewis? Why, he is the pride of his father's heart. I know your mother did fear he was a boy who would be easily led astray. And I fear—yes, yes—I too have done wrong. I should have looked after the boys a bit, knowing how absorbed your father was in his studies. Gambling too! Who would have thought of it? I wish Harry had been at home. I have no way, no influence with boys; but of course I'll see Lewis and talk to him. I will try this very afternoon to catch him as he comes out of school. I am so grieved. And, my dear, you also have been wrong, decidedly wrong. Still—" (and as he spoke he laid his hand kindly on the girl's shoulder) "you were young to have such a charge. But now let us go indoors, and we'll tell our heavenly Father all the trouble."

And he did; and the girl rose from her knees comforted, and saying good-bye to her friend, took her way once more to the cottage whither she had been bound, and after speaking a few kind words to the sick child and others there, went home longing for the hour of Austin's return, when she might take counsel with him.

As she neared home she met her father with a letter in his hand.

"Priscilla," he said, "I have just met young M'Ivor, and asked him to tell Austin I wished him after school to take the train and go to Garnet Hall to deliver a letter to my friend Mr. Harris, which I wish him to get this evening, as it is on a matter of importance. They are sure to detain Austin for the night, so you will understand his not coming home. Are you well, my daughter?" he added; for the girl had suddenly turned pale.

Austin away from home at the very time she needed him so much!

It was a trial; but she mastered herself, and said, "I am quite well, father; why do you ask?"

Her colour had returned, and as the professor looked again at her, he thought he had been mistaken, and said, "I see I was wrong. I thought you looked pale and tired; but no doubt it was my eyes. I often think they deceive me now-a-days. Ah, me! What would I do if my sight failed me? You won't expect Austin to dinner, at all events."

And he walked off, leaving Priscilla with a very heavy heart.

Just then little Claude, strong and healthy now, ran up to her, saying, "O sister, do let me see what beauties of flowers you have got in your basket."

And the child was not thrust away with an impatient "Don't be troublesome, Claude," as he would once have been, but stooping to him, Priscilla let him take a peep at the sweet, fresh spring flowers; then taking his hand, walked with him to the house.

As they were ascending the front steps, she caught sight of Lewis coming up the avenue. But he suddenly turned off, leaped over a low wall into a field which bordered the river, and was soon out of sight.

CHAPTER IX.

OUT IN THE WORLD.

"Oh the dire mistake! Fatal freedom to choose!
Had he but taken a fair path, sheltered, level, and straight;
Never a thorn to wound him, never a stone to bruise;
Leading safely and softly on to the Mansion Gate."

IT was almost dinner-time when Priscilla, with baby Ruth in her arms, went downstairs to the drawing-room. Miss Vernon and her father were not yet there, and she stood for a moment looking out of the window, when suddenly the door opened, and Lewis entered, cap in hand. He looked flushed and excited, she thought, and she could almost have fancied he had been crying, his eyes were so swollen.

He came forward to her hastily and said, "I am going to dine out, Prissy, with a friend. My father knows. I have not a moment to spare.—Good-bye, little babsie," he said, giving the child a kiss.

Then, to his sister's utter amazement, he threw his arms round her neck, kissed her passionately, and saying, "God bless you, Prissy; don't let any one wait up for me," he ran out of the room.

Priscilla was going to follow him, when her father and Miss Vernon entered; and nurse having come also to take Ruth away, dinner was announced, and all three went to the dining-room.

Dr. Warner, when they were seated, remarked, "It seems Lewis is engaged to dine with a school friend, so we are not to have either his company or Austin's to-day."

"So he told me," said Priscilla. "Do you know, father, where he is going to dine?"

Dr. Warner thought a moment, then replied, "I think he told me, but the name has escaped my memory. Some school-fellow, I suppose. At all events I know it's all right. A steady lad like Lewis can be trusted; and he so seldom dines out, I thought it best not to interfere, though I fear he will sit up too late studying to make up for lost time."

Priscilla spoke not. She felt sick at heart as she thought of the shock her father would sustain if bad accounts of Lewis should reach his cars. Oh, if she could only save him that pain!

On leaving the drawing-room after kissing both his sisters in the impulsive way we have described, Lewis Warner ran up to his room—that pleasant room where Austin and he had slept from the time they were little fellows, proud of the honour of being transferred from the nursery to a room of their own. He shut the door, and hastily opened drawer after drawer, taking some article of dress from each of them, then packed them into a travelling-bag. Then going to the mantel-piece, he took from it two photographs which stood thereon, and put them also into the bag. At the one, which was that of his father and mother together, he did not trust himself to look, but at the other, he glanced for a moment. It was a picture of his brother Austin standing with Priscilla beside him.

"Poor Austin!" he said to himself. "Noble fellow! What I am going to do will almost break his heart. And Prissy—" Ah! It was well for Priscilla that she did not hear the muttered words—"it's no good blaming any one, but Prissy could have hindered this, if she had tried. Now, if mother had only been alive—"

But at these words the boy's voice failed, and a great sob choked his utterance. He stood for a moment beside his white-curtained bed, where she had often stood, and bending over him had "kissed him good-night" so many a time.

And whilst all the time knowing the evil he was premeditating, shall we condemn it as a strange inconsistency that he knelt down at that bed and sobbed out the words, "Our Father which art in heaven, forgive me, and bless them all"?

"That was no real prayer," some reader will exclaim. Perhaps not. God knows. But at all events it was a cry heavenward from a young, erring, saddened heart, not yet altogether hardened in sin, round which "trailing clouds of glory" from God still hung unwilling to depart.

He started from his knees, closed the bag, and going softly downstairs, once more entered the drawing-room and stood a moment, just a moment, before his mother's picture. He gave one look, stifled a rising sob, and with a half-uttered cry of "Mother! mother!" he left the room, went out of the house, and took a cross-road to the town.

Late that night Austin Warner returned to the Grove. He had done his father's business, and being anxious to be at school early the next day, had resisted Mr. Harris's kindly efforts to detain him all night, and had returned.

Priscilla and Miss Vernon had retired to rest ere Austin came back; and fearing to disturb his father at his writing, Austin went to his own room. Lewis was not there; but he had not expected that he would be so, and taking out a book, he began to study, awaiting his brother's return. Long he waited. One o'clock—two—three—four struck, but no Lewis came. Never before had he been so late, and Austin became alarmed. Where could he be? Alas! He knew well the set he was now associating with. Could they have detained him purposely?

Uneasy in reality now, Austin put down his book and began to walk up and down the room. As he did so his eye rested on the mantel-piece, and he observed that the pictures were removed. A terrible panic seized him.

He instantly opened the drawers. His worst fears were thereby confirmed: Lewis's clothes had been mostly taken away. What did it all mean?

Just this, that long ere the clock struck four, Lewis Warner and a companion in evil had left Hereford and were on their way to Portsmouth, where some days before, through a so-called friend, they had secured places on board a vessel bound for Africa. Poor Lewis! He cared little where he went, so that he could escape the shame and sorrow of seeing his father's grief when the news of his loved son's fall and disgrace should reach his ears.

In a moment Austin understood all, and at first remained motionless, struck with amazement and distress. Then he left the room and knocked gently at Priscilla's door.

CHAPTER X.

THE SEARCH.

"As thy day thy strength shall be!
This should be enough for thee;
He who knows thy frame will spare
Burdens more than thou must bear."

GABRIELLE M'IVOR was an early riser, and on the Spring morning following the evening when Lewis Warner had left his home, she had risen earlier than usual. For she had long ago discovered that if she desired a quiet time for study, she must obtain it ere little busy feet had begun to run about and little voices call out for "Sister Gabrielle."

She had just finished dressing, and had thrown up the window to admit the fresh air, when she saw Austin Warner coming quickly towards their cottage. She was the only member of the household yet astir (even their maid-of-all-work being still in bed); so knowing there was none else to do so, she ran downstairs to open the door.

"What is the matter?" she said, as Austin's pale face told too plainly something was amiss.

"Is Miss Warner ill? Or—"

But he interrupted her courteously but firmly.

"No, no," he said, "they are all well. But there is something wrong. Could I see your father for a moment, Miss Gabrielle?"

"Oh yes," she replied. "But come indoors, and I will get him directly. He is not yet dressed. Is there immediate hurry?"

"There is." And without another word, he followed Gabrielle into the sitting-room, and remained there whilst she went to tell her father.

"Mr. M'Ivor," said Austin, as that gentleman entered the room, "you love my father, I know. For his sake will you help us? Lewis has left his home."

Mr. M'Ivor stood aghast, hardly taking in the full import of the words.

"Left his home!" he repeated. "You don't mean he has run away?"

"Even so," said Austin.

And in a few words he told all he knew. The letter which the headmaster had received telling of Lewis's evil doings; the lecture he had that day given to Lewis, along with the threat of making all known to his father next day; the emptied drawers; the abstracted "photos;" Priscilla's account of his hurried embrace of herself and little Ruth—all was told.

Mr. M'Ivor was a man of deeds, not mere words. He moved towards the door, took his hat, and, followed by Austin, set off at once to the railway station. But there they found difficulty in tracing the fugitives.

The station-master, who knew the young Warners well, said he had not seen any of them for some days.

"What," asked Mr. M'Ivor, "is the hour of any London train after six in the evening?"

"Well," was the reply, "there's one leaves this about eight, and another at two A.M."

"Were there many passengers from Hereford by the eight o'clock one?" queried Austin.

"Well, yes, sir, there were a good many."

"Any young lads?"

"Three or four, I think."

"And Mr. Lewis Warner was not amongst them?"

"Not that I saw, sir."

Just then a porter came up, who said he believed he had seen the young gentleman, but he was not alone. He thought he got into a third-class carriage.

"Had he a bag with him?"

He rather thought so, but could not be sure.

"Do you know the name of the lad with him?"

"No, sir; I did not see his face. He had his cap slouched over his brow, and Mr. Warner wore his in the same way."

And that was all they could find out.

One thing was certain—Dr. Warner must be told all, and his advice taken as to what should be done. Priscilla had told Austin of her conversation with the vicar, and Mr. M'Ivor thought it would be well to get him to come with them and break the sad news to the father.

The professor had just entered his study, ready to begin his early morning reading and writing, when the door opened, and Mr. M'Ivor, followed by the vicar and Austin, entered.

It was Mr. Lascelles who told gently and briefly the tale. The professor sat like one in a dream, then started to his feet.

"Lewis," he said, "my boy, my noble boy, fallen a prey to sharpers! How can it have happened? There must have been great blame somewhere.—Austin, did you know? Did you let your brother be led astray (you know the finest natures have all their weak points, and perhaps even Lewis had his) without trying to help him? And Priscilla—she is no child now. Did she not try?—Spent the evenings, you say, gambling? Why, 'tis impossible. Was he not in the drawing-room every evening? Speak, Austin; tell them it is all a mistake; it could not be."

And the father sunk down into his chair and groaned aloud.

Mr. M'Ivor came forward, saying, "Dr. Warner, you must rouse yourself and act, if you would have your son restored to you. This is no time for throwing blame on others. But I must free Austin. He has acted well towards his brother, and tried all he could to keep him back from evil companions; and even in concealing the matter from yourself (which I fully admit was wrong), Austin meant kindly to his brother. What we have now to do is to decide whether you will at once send some one in search of your son; and if so, where? My own idea, and that of André's as well, is that he will likely have gone to some seaport town to try and get on board some foreign vessel, being anxious to escape the disgrace he knew would fall on him."

Whilst they were thus speaking, Priscilla entered the room, her face pallid and sad, but with a look of energy in it. She seemed during these few hours to have left her girlhood behind her, and stood amongst them as a helpful woman. She went straight to her father, and said, "Father, blame me, not Austin. I have sinned. Had it not been for me, Lewis would not have left his home. I might, had it not been for my own selfish ambition and pursuits, have made the evenings pleasanter for him, and so have prevented all this misery. Of late months I have tried to make things different, but it was too late."

Dr. Warner said not a word; conscience was whispering to him that he too had neglected his fatherly duty. He rose from his chair with a bowed head and trembling limbs; but it was on his daughter's not Austin's shoulder that he leaned for support.

All inquiries were made regarding the name of the lad who had left Hereford along with Lewis, but no clue either to him or the probable destination of the runaways could be obtained.

Telegrams describing Lewis were sent to London and one or two of the seaport towns, and at Dr. Warner's special request, Mr. Pryor himself, accompanied by Austin, went to London and made all inquiries they could concerning the fugitive.

But no trace of Lewis Warner could be found, and no word came from him to the friends whom he knew loved him well.

To the eye of man, the once cherished son and brother had turned his back for ever on his father's house, and gone far astray from the kingdom of God.

From the hour his favourite son had left his home, Dr. Warner became a changed man, and for a while even his loved studies lost their attraction. In vain Austin tried to interest him as of old, bringing many of his difficult problems to him to solve, and in all his varied studies seeking his help. Aid was always given, but the pleasure in so doing which he had once so keenly experienced was gone. And as time went on, both Priscilla and Austin grieved to see that even reading seemed an effort to him, and he would sit for hours with his hand covering his eyes, as if lost in thought.

Poor Priscilla! None can tell how she suffered as she witnessed his grief, and reflected that much of this bitter sorrow was, in part at least, caused by her wrong-doing.

Miss Vernon, to whom she now often turned for counsel, comforted her as best she could. But it was in Mrs. M'Ivor's motherly arms that Prissy sobbed out her grief, and it was Gabrielle's kind words and loving ways that cheered and brightened her path. Whilst the hourly increasing love which little Ruth showed to her was a source of untold pleasure.

And through those long months of trial, those who loved her most could see that the kingdom of God, which "cometh not always with observation, but which is within us," was indeed possessing more and more fully the heart of the talented girl.

CHAPTER XI.

HOME WORK.

"The trivial round, the common task,
Will furnish all we ought to ask—
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God."

THREE years had passed since Lewis Warner had left the Grove, and as yet, no news had been received of him.

When one morning in autumn, Austin, now a fine-looking young man of eighteen years, stood in his sister's boudoir.

"Prissy," he said, "I want to know if you have forgotten your mathematics and entirely given up your study of astronomy?"

His sister looked up with a smile. "Forgotten them?" she said. "Certainly not. I always intended to tell you, Austin, that shortly after Lewis left us, I had a long talk with Mr. M'Ivor on the subject of whether, knowing my father's prejudices on the matter, I should relinquish altogether my study of those subjects. He asked time to consider ere he would advise me. You know he is a 'canny Scot.' Well, next day he came and said he had thought over it, and he believed it was not my duty to give up studies for which I had a God-given talent (I should tell you he had examined me in both mathematics and astronomy), and for which he believed I would one day find a use. So, Austin, ever since then, with occasional help from André M'Ivor, I have gone on steadily with my studies, rising an hour earlier in the morning to find time for them, so that I might never again be tempted to neglect other duties."

"I have tried, Austin, to make home different for you and the younger boys, and so help on the kingdom of God. Would that I had done it always; then perhaps Lewis would never have left his home, and my father would not have been the heart-broken man he now is."

Austin put his arm kindly round his sister's shoulder. "Indeed, Prissy," he said; "you have succeeded in making our home life very different from what it was. Archie and Claude will have no excuse to spend their evenings in bad companionship. Your playing and singing, our various readings and pleasant games, render our evenings at home, as the M'Ivor boys say, 'regular jolly ones;' and I own I am glad you have resumed your studies, for the fault lay not in your devoting time to mental improvement, but in your doing so in a wrong way and from a wrong motive."

"But my reason for asking specially about it is this: you know that to-morrow I set off for Cambridge, and if you can spare an hour three times a week, I am going to ask you to carry on a work I have been doing for a week past. You know Joe Anthony, the carpenter's son, who is confined to his couch? Well, the lad has a great love for study, and at his urgent request, I have been teaching him mathematics; and if you, dear Prissy, would continue to do so, he would be so thankful."

Prissy's eyes glistened as she replied: "Oh, I will do so gladly. I can now easily give the needed time; and I am so thankful that an opening has been given to me to use my talent to help a fellow-creature, and not merely to gratify my own ambition."

"That's all right then, Pris," said her brother. "I'll tell Joe to-day, and show you afterwards how far he has advanced in the study of mathematics. But there is my father calling for me. I must be off now; and I want to run down to the M'Ivors to say good-bye." And so saying, he ran off.

Priscilla then went to her book-case, and with a heart full of joy, took down some of her loved books, and began to glance over the earlier lessons in Euclid. She had just seated herself for a quiet hour of study, when some one knocked at the door, and Archie and Claude bounded in.

"O Prissy, this is jolly! Dr. Sparling has given us a holiday, at the request of Major Wright, who has just returned from India, and who was head-scholar at the school before he went away. Isn't it first-rate, Prissy? And it being Austin's last day at home too makes it all the better. We want to go some good expedition; and the M'Ivors are to join us. And you'll come also, won't you? And, Prissy, do get us some sandwiches and biscuits, for we will be away nearly the whole day. Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for Major Wright!"

Adieu now to Prissy's quiet hour. But if she was disappointed, no trace of so being was allowed to be seen by the boys; but with a good-humoured, "Well, well, if holidays are the fashion, I'll take one too," she put back her book on the shelf, and set off to see to the filling of a basket with eatables for the hungry boys—returning, ere she went downstairs, into the nursery for one minute, to comfort herself with a kiss of little four-year-old Ruth, the pet and plaything of the whole household.

The next morning, a large party of friends met at the railway station to bid adieu to Austin Warner, as he set off for his first term at Cambridge University. He went followed by the good wishes of all who knew him. He left Hereford as the head-pupil of its principal school. His abilities, said Dr. Sparling, were of a high kind, specially as regarded mathematics. Dr. Warner, truth to say, had been greatly surprised at the development of Austin's talents, for, in his undue love to Lewis, he had failed formerly in doing him justice; and it rejoiced Prissy's heart to see that now, in spite of himself, he was beginning to mark with interest and take pride in his son's scholarly attainments.

Father and daughter walked slowly home together, Dr. Warner's thoughts turning to the son so dear to his heart, of whom he had heard nothing for three long years. Where was he now, and what sort of life was he leading?

He startled Prissy by the sudden question, "Priscilla, have you observed how like Archie gets to poor Lewis? There are times when the likeness almost pains me. And—" he paused a moment—"he resembles him in character likewise. He is easily led by companions; Dr. Sparling told me so to-day. MY daughter, we must see to it that he is not compelled by the dulness of his home to seek bad society."

Prissy coloured. It was the first allusion her father had made for years to the part she had had in helping Lewis in his downward course, the first time he had mentioned that son's name for long months.

"O father," she said, "I do not think you need fear for Archie in that way. He dearly loves his home, and our quiet, happy evenings. But I do fear he will miss Austin's company, and the assistance he has given him in his studies."

"Ah, there it is again!" said the professor. "My time is so occupied just now, what with writing and correcting proofs of my new book, that I fear I shall not be able to give Archie the help he requires, specially in his mathematical studies. Besides, my eyesight is not so good as it used to be. Surely my spectacles are not strong enough. There are times when I can hardly see to read at all."

Prissy looked up alarmed. "Why," she said, "did you never tell me that before? Ought you not to consult an oculist about it? Perhaps you should rest your eyes a while. Father, can I not help you? Surely, at least, I can assist Archie. Say I may; do say so. Let me at least read to you."

Her father patted the girl kindly, saying. "Nay, nay, Priscilla; I did not mean to alarm you. I daresay my eyes are just wearied; and I am getting old, you know. And, my daughter, as to your reading to me, I fear treatises on mathematics and astronomy would soon weary you. They are rather uninteresting subjects to those who comprehend them not."

Prissy bit her lips. This was not the time, she felt, to tell her father how much she understood of both sciences. It was a temptation to do so, but the discipline of the past years had worked its end. She could now in patience possess her soul. The kingdom of God, the spirit of meekness, long-suffering, and love, was growing in her heart. The great lesson, which all God's children have sooner or later to learn, "to be still and wait," was being learned by her.

So now she only said, "Well, father, when you think I can help you, do ask me; and, in the meantime, promise me not to overtask your eyesight."

"Poor Priscilla!" said her father. "I believe you would help me if you could; and in one way you do, my daughter—you do. Now that Miss Vernon has left us, I could have little comfort in studying, if I did not know that you were keeping all straight in the house. No want of love towards you now, Priscilla, on the part of the little ones."

He said this with a smile, as Claude and Ruth came bounding up to their sister.

Prissy's heart was too full for speech; any words of commendation from her father were precious to her.

They walked home almost in silence after that.

Then nurse having come to take the children off for a walk, and Dr. Warner having gone indoors, Priscilla set off to a neighbouring village to visit some poor people, amongst whom, by her kind words and actions, she was helping on the kingdom of God. In more than one family she had acted as a peacemaker; and there were little children there into whose young hearts she had dropped a seed of heavenly love, which already had proved to be the beginning of that kingdom of God which is within us.

Into one house she entered—a small, poor cottage, but spotlessly clean. A widow woman, with a baby in her arms, stooped over a bed where lay a little boy of some five years. She raised her head as the step drew nearer, and a look of pleasure and relief shone in her eyes as she recognized the visitor.

"O Miss Warner," she exclaimed, "I be so glad to see ye! Charlie's worse, the doctor says. He's as bad as can be. And oh, but, miss, my heart's broke! My pretty lamb! I can't part from him, the darling!"

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Watts," said Prissy. "Has Charlie been long ill? Why did you not tell me sooner?"

"Well, you see, miss, I'd none to send. And when he was first took ill, he called for you—he did. But now I scarce think he'll know you."

Priscilla bent over the dying child and spoke some words to him; but the little fellow's face was turned away, the bright eyes closed in unconsciousness. It was the mother, not the child, she had to comfort that day.

She knew, although their eyes were too dim to see them, angels were round the little sufferer, helping him and ministering to him; and, better than all, the loving arms of Jesus were extended to receive the soul of the little one to himself.

Ere the child's spirit passed to glory, whilst he lay pillowed in his mother's arms (for Prissy had taken the baby from her), he opened his eyes, and with a sweet smile said, "Mother—lady (the name by which he always addressed Prissy)—Jesus."

Then, folding his little hands in prayer, he said, "Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come." He could add no more.

The mother's eyes met those of Priscilla, and in a moment, both knew the little one was already in that kingdom to which Jesus hath said the children who have come to him belong.

It was Priscilla who finished the next clause of the prayer—"Thy will be done."

"Little Charlie is with Jesus now," she whispered.

And the mother dried her eyes as she said, "And it was your hand led him to Him, miss—your voice that taught him to sing the hymns he is singing to-day in the kingdom of God."

If that were indeed so, had not Priscilla Warner done a work far exceeding that which would have gained her any earthly fame—a work which, as Harry Lascelles had said, angels might envy her the doing of?

CHAPTER XII.

AT THE GOLD DIGGINGS.

"More and more my eyes were clouded,
Till at last God's glorious light
Passed away from me for ever,
And I lived and live in night."

FAR away from the quiet English shire of Hereford, under a burning Australian sun, a group of people of all ages, and from all parts of the world, were gathered together hard at work digging for gold. Not long before, a vein of the precious metal had been discovered at Kiandra, and a crowd of people from all parts of the world had resorted thither, allured by the hope of making a fortune.

Gold to be had for the picking it up, or at least by simply digging for it! Such was the idea which had impressed the mind of many who had rushed to the Kiandra gold-fields. Little had they reckoned on the hardships before them—days and nights of toil spent standing above the knees in water; laborious digging, only to be rewarded, in most cases, by small nuggets of gold which, when separated from the dross mixed with it, often proved of little or no value. Whilst provisions, and even the bare necessaries of life, could be obtained only at fabulous prices. Add to this a climate more changeable than that of almost any other part of the world, and you will scarcely wonder that, although in some few cases large nuggets were obtained and the coveted fortune made, to the great majority of diggers, the gold-fields of Kiandra brought only disappointment, and in many instances ruined health and an early grave in a foreign land.

But on the warm day we write of, hope was filling every breast, and work seemed light under its influence; for that very morning in one of the claims, some specially good nuggets had been found, and visions of abundance of gold rose before many eyes. The burning rays of the sun struck fiercely on the workers; but they heeded it not, led on by the thirst for gold. But in the group a momentary lull came, and the word rung out—

"Carry him into the shed, lads. The sun has been too much for him. Carry him in, I say."

The speaker, a pleasant-looking man, putting down the "cradle" in which he was washing the gold, went forward and helped to lift a young lad who had fallen prostrate to the ground in the midst of his work.

They carried him to a canvas hut, and laid him on a low bed there.

Presently he opened his eyes and looked around.

"Where am I," he said, "and what has happened?"

The man who had so kindly helped to carry him to the hut said cheerily, "Don't be frightened, Will; you're in good hands. 'Twas just the sun was a bit too hot for you, and you fainted, that's all. You'll have to lie still a bit, my good fellow; but I tell you what, if a nugget falls to my share I'll halve it with you. I'm not one to forget the good turn you did me, Will, in keeping me from the gaming-table the week we spent together in Sydney. Thank God you did, my boy, for I know what it would have led to now."

The boy groaned, and turned uneasily on his bed, then said, "Alick, don't say you or any one else owes anything to me; only, God helping me, I'll never touch a card in my life again, nor let any one do so, if I can help it."

"There now, Will," said his friend, "you must not be speaking too much, nor vexing yourself over the past, whatever wrong you may have done then. You're none so old yet, my boy, that you can't retrieve the past and live a useful life in the future. Just wait till you and I get enough of gold here, then we'll away from the whole concern, diggers and all, and either settle in Sydney or go home to dear old England again and join our friends there."

At these words, the lad gave a half-stifled sob; and the digger, thinking he was best to remain quiet awhile, withdrew without saying another word.

But once outside the door he said to himself, "Poor boy, poor boy! I can't think his sin can have been a great one, but it troubles him sorely. I wish he would tell me all about it, and also what his real name is, and then I might help him more. He is but a slip of a lad yet, and a clever one too. He should not be here, 'tis plain; for, as a rule, they are but a rough lot of men we are amongst."

When Alick Barton returned from his day's work to the hut which he shared with Willie Smith, he found the lad much worse, and for many days to come Alick watched beside his friend as he tossed about in the delirium of fever. Many names escaped his lips, but they conveyed little information to the kind watcher, saving that he was sure the lad's father must be alive, for again and again he had called on him, once saying:

"O father, forgive me, only forgive me, and I'll never, never touch a card again!"

Weeks passed, and Barton, as he was called by his mates, was no longer to be seen at work in the claim. It was whispered amongst the diggers that he had been successful in obtaining some large nuggets, and gone off to Sydney along with Will Smith to spend them there.

Others contradicted that story; but one thing was certain, that both Barton and Will had disappeared from the Kiandra diggings.

After many weeks had elapsed, a digger, who had lately come from Sydney, told that the day he had left that city, he had seen Barton going up the steps of a large hospital there. And such was the case. Barton had realized enough at the gold diggings to enable him to take Will Smith along with himself back to Sydney. The lad, although he had so far rallied from the fever which had kept him in bed for weeks, still remained so languid and weak that his friend had become alarmed about his state, and resolved, if possible, to remove him from a place of which neither the climate nor the work was suitable for him.

When he first broached the subject to his companion the lad refused to go.

"No, no, Barton," he said; "I'll not hear of your relinquishing all your prospects of making a fortune for my sake. Never mind me, my good fellow; I'll get better by-and-by, and though I fear I will never make a digger, or get money in a gold-claim, I need not either beg or be a burden to you. Several of the men have asked me to give them some lessons in reading and writing in the evenings, saying they will pay me well for it; for they say, 'What's the use of getting gold and setting up as gentlefolk if we can neither read nor write?' And you know, Barton, there are lots of them can do neither. So you see I'll just stay here and turn schoolmaster. Doesn't that sound grand?"

But the laugh which accompanied these words was so bitter and unboy-like that it grated on the ear of his friend, and his only reply was—

"I tell you, Will, stay here longer I will not; so if you wish to keep school you can try your hand at it in Sydney."

Will Smith held out against moving for a while, but he had to yield at last, and he and Barton began by easy stages the journey to Sydney.

When they reached it, Will was so exhausted that his friend's first care was, through the influence of a doctor there, to get him admitted into one of the best hospitals of the city, where every care and attention would be paid to him. And there, surrounded by every comfort, the lad lay for weeks, having time for serious thought, and experiencing evidently bitter remorse for past sin, learning, as so many have learned, that "as we sow so shall we reap."

It was in the hospital that he confessed to Alick Barton that Smith was not his real name, and that he had left his home to escape the disgrace of being found out to have been a companion of sharpers and a frequenter of the gaming-table. But not all Barton's entreaties could get him to disclose the name he bore, or induce him to write and tell his friends where he was. Not yet would the lad humble himself to confess the sin committed against an earthly father; not yet had he as a little child entered into the kingdom of God.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SECRET DISCLOSED.

"Wait; yet I do not tell you,
The hour you long for now
Will not come with its radiance vanished
And a shadow upon its brow."

A YEAR had passed since Austin Warner had become a student at the University of Cambridge. The name and character he had earned at the Hereford Grammar School had been nobly sustained by him, and the better set of young men soon gathered around him and became associated with him in many a good work.

He had been twice home for a short holiday, but during the chief part of the long vacation, he had been engaged as tutor to a young nobleman. The resolve, made years before, that by God's help he would try to promote the interests of his kingdom, had been carried out; and there was more than one young lad at the university who confessed that Austin Warner, by his consistent character and gentle warnings, had saved them from evil-doing.

The winter term had just commenced, when Priscilla entered her father's study early one morning, anxious to hear the contents of a letter from Austin which her father had just received.

She started as she entered at finding her father sitting with bowed head and the half-opened letter in his hand.

"O father," she said, in an alarmed tone, "what is wrong? Is Austin ill? Oh speak, do speak; tell me what it is!"

He laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and said, "No, my daughter, there is nothing amiss with Austin. But—" and, strong man as he was, a tear fell on the letter he held—"Priscilla, it is best you should know it. I can no longer read his letter. God has stricken me sorely. I am blind—I fear hopelessly blind."

"O father, poor father!" said the girl, as she threw her arms caressingly round him, "Is it possible? Why, oh why have you concealed this from me? Blind! But do not say hopelessly so. You have seen no oculist yet; it may be only—"

But her father stopped her.

"Nay, Priscilla, I have seen an oculist; M'Ivor went with me to one and heard his opinion. He told me I would soon be entirely blind, and now I am almost so. It has come sooner than even he expected it would. It is hard to bear. My last work on mathematics was almost finished; and now, without the help of some one who fully understands the subject and can carry out my ideas, it must be given up. Austin has not the time to do so; and Lewis, poor Lewis, is perhaps no more. But God's will be done!"

At these words Priscilla rose. Her timidity, her fear of her father's prejudices all vanished. With one short cry for help to her Father in heaven, she spoke out boldly.

"Father," she said, "the time has come when you must listen to me. The mathematical talent God gave to you I have inherited. I could not stifle it, though, knowing your dislike to women pursuing such studies, I have latterly tried to do so, but failed; and almost unaided, I have continued the study, till now I know, father, I can help you in any work of the kind you wish to carry on. It was my passion for this study, my sinful, selfish ambition to prove to you and the world what a woman could do, that led me soon after my mother's death to neglect other and more important duties. Ay, and with deep sorrow I confess it, it was my being so absorbed in the study of mathematics that made home so cheerless for my brother, and brought such bitter sorrow on us all."

Dr. Warner started, but said not a word for some minutes; then pushing a slate and pencil which lay near into Priscilla's hand, he said, "Let me try you."

And for more than an hour, he tested her with the most abstruse problems. They were all, to his utter amazement, carefully solved.

"And you have had no teacher, you say?" he queried.

"Only as regards the rudiments of the science, father," she answered. "Austin taught me those."

"Austin! Then he knew?"

"Yes, he did; but at my request, he kept my secret."

"Was that right, Priscilla—a secret from me?"

"You forget, father," she replied, "how often you spoke with contempt of women meddling with subjects out of their sphere. You remember how angry you were when you found I had begun to study astronomy; and how, when I asked you to try me as regarded my knowledge of that subject, you refused to do so. O father, I could not after that tell you."

Once again the professor examined his daughter, and after hearing her correct answers, he bent his head on his hands, and, as if speaking to himself, said, "God be praised that one of my children has so fully inherited my father's talent, though it is only a girl."

And drawing his daughter into his arms, he kissed her as he had never done since her birth.

From that day Priscilla could no longer complain of her father's disparagement of her talents. Many pleasant hours were spent in his study, sometimes transcribing for him or reading aloud some book on his favourite subject. And after studies were ended, Priscilla would open the Book of Life and read aloud of Him "in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge," and yet who hath declared by his Spirit that "the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God," so that "he that glorieth, let him glory in the Lord."

And the old man as he listened became more and more as a little child, and as such more fully entering the kingdom of heaven, led therein by the hand of his daughter, who on her part was becoming day by day liker the Master she loved and served, seeking not her own but her neighbour's good.

Shortly after the scene we have written of, Prissy wrote the whole account of it to her loved brother, ending her letter by saying: "And now, dear Austin, I can see God's over-ruling loving hand in causing so many stumbling-blocks to have arisen in the way of my prosecuting my favourite study. It was indeed well that it should be so, for pride and foolish ambition were the sources of my desire to excel in it. Now, I trust, I can truly say the talent which he has given me I have laid at, his feet and consecrated to his service. And in being able, in however small a way, to help my father, and Archie, and Joe Smith in their loved study, I am more than satisfied. And I realize every day more and more what Harry Lascelles and you, dear Austin, have done long ago—that the noblest work that man or woman can be engaged in on earth is, by the prayerful performance of daily duties, to seek to extend the kingdom of God."

Blindness was indeed a sore trial to Dr. Warner. His whole life had been spent in study; books constituted his world, in the reading of which he had spent so much of his time that he had neglected too much his family and social ties. Now he was compelled to rest. True, with Prissy's assistance, he continued the book which he was engaged writing; but hours once devoted to study were now spent in comparative idleness. In everything he turned to Priscilla for help, and was becoming almost too dependent on her.

Sometimes Prissy's numerous duties almost overwhelmed her, for in addition to her household cares she had to superintend almost entirely the education of the two little ones.

One day when she was teaching Claude, wondering how she would get through the day's work, a light step ran up the stair, and the door opening displayed the bright face of Gabrielle M'Ivor.

GABRIELLE M'IVOR'S VISIT.

"Why, Prissy ma chère," she said, "how tired you look! I don't believe you have had one regular good walk for a month; and 'tis so charming out of doors to-day. There are tiny icicles hanging from the eaves, and the trees have a coating on them like silver. What do you call it?—Filigree. And it is so lovely, they glitter so brightly in the sunshine. See now, Prissy, I shall help le petit Claude a bit, whilst you go and get ready for a walk. Nay, chère amie, do not shake thy head; thou must go and get some fresh air, or I shall tell papa to speak to Dr. Warner about it."

"Oh no, Gabrielle, do not do so, I pray," pleaded Prissy. "It would only vex my father. But indeed I have not time to walk to-day. Claude has been longer than usual over his lessons; and now it is the hour I go to read to my father; and after that I must write to Austin in time to catch the post. And then comes the children's dinner, and—"

But Gabrielle listened to no more.

"No, Prissy; you must get some fresh air and exercise. You are killing yourself; and then when you have succeeded in so doing, what is to become of votre père? Now there is a poor woman in the town who says she 'be's greatly in want of a sight of Miss Warner,' for her spirits be down, and there's none can comfort her like the miss from the Grove. I be's 'too much of a French woman' for she, you know, so do go, there's a chère petite, and I shall stay here and read to the good professor for an hour."

Prissy's face brightened, both at the girl's cheery words, and at the prospect of getting what, truth to tell, she had been longing to obtain—a brisk walk in the winter sunshine, if only she could do so without neglecting her home duties.

"Well, Gabrielle, la belle Gabrielle," she said, "you always do contrive to get your own way somehow; and if you would read to papa for one hour, I would like to take a short walk and go to the town to see some of the people there. Now let us make an inroad on papa in his study, and leave Claude to finish that sum alone."

Arm in arm the two girls went into the library, surprising the professor as he sat absorbed in thought.

Gabrielle's silvery voice broke the silence. "Dr. Warner," she said, "will you let me take Prissy's place for a while to-day? Vous voyez the fairies have been at work all night covering the trees with silver, and it is so lovely out of doors, and I wish Prissy to see it ere it vanishes; so I have come to read to you—not on mathematical subjects, please. But I am ready for anything else you like; only say I may remain."

Dr. Warner smiled. "Surely, if you will," he said. "I know Priscilla does not go out enough, especially since I have had this bad cold, and she has not had me to take charge of out of doors.—So, my daughter, la belle Francaise shall read to me, and we'll leave the mathematical papers till night."

Prissy pressed a kiss on her father's brow, saying cheerfully, "As you like it, papa; only don't let Gabrielle usurp my place!"

"No fears of that," said her friend. "But, Prissy, suppose you take little Ruth with you, and leave her to play for an hour in our cottage with Jeanie. And you can tell ma chère mère that I am here, and she need not expect me back for a long while."

"Very well," said Prissy, "I'll do so. Ruth will be charmed to go. And see you take good care of papa."

And so saying, Prissy Warner, giving her friend a bright smile, ran off to get herself and Ruth ready for a walk in the bright winter sunshine.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

"Christmas gifts for thee,
Grand and free!
Christmas gifts from the King of love,
Brought from his royal home above;
Brought to thee in the far-off land,
Brought to thee by his own dear hand."

THE Christmas holidays had just commenced, when Archie Warner, followed by Claude and little Ruth, ran into the parlour of the Grove, where they found Priscilla seated at work.

"Hurrah for six weeks' holidays!" said Archie, throwing a bundle of books on the table. "And Austin will be here on Christmas eve, and we must give him a famous welcome, Prissy. And we want to get up a tree this year. You know we used to have one always when mother was alive; and we could have a jolly one this year. The M'Ivors could come, and—"

"O Archie," interrupted his sister, "don't speak of it. Think on our poor father; and then how could I possibly spare the time to prepare it? I am sorry, but really I don't think it could be managed."

A shade crossed the boy's face.

And even little Ruth said, "O Prissy, tan't we have a tree? 'Twould be so nice."

But Archie muttered—

"Oh, well, it does not matter, only all the other fellows are having one; and as to our father, I'm sure I wouldn't for worlds have anything he would not like, or you either, Prissy. I did not think about the trouble, but just hearing all the others talking about the fun they were going to have in the holidays put it into my head."

"All the other fellows are having one." The words rung in Prissy's ears. It was true enough; she knew they would.

And Archie and even Claude would be contrasting the bright holiday-making of their companions with the dulness of their home. No; that must not be, cost what it might. The boys must have a bright Christmas day.

So seeing the effort that Archie was making to throw off his disappointment, she said, "Well, I will tell you what, boys—I'll try and manage it for you, if you will promise to do all you can to help me; that is, if our father will agree to it, for I will have no secret from him. Oh, poor father! If only his sight could be restored. And, you know, the London oculist has held out some faint hope that an operation may prove effectual, or at least partially so."

The young faces round her brightened as Prissy spoke, though Archie had the grace to say, "Oh! But it would be a shame, Prissy, after all, to put more work on you; still, if my father says we may, we would try and save you trouble, and I know the M'Ivors would help. Jules is so clever at making things, and Miss M'Ivor and André also. Oh, it will be famous if we can have it, and give Austin a surprise. You are a dear, good old Prissy!"

"Come along then, all of you, and we will go to the study and see what our father thinks about it. Only remember you are to ask him yourselves."

Archie and Claude shrunk back at those words.

But Ruth ran off to her father, and jumping on his knee, which was her favourite seat, she said, "Father, O father, we wants to have a Christmas tree all covered with lights and pretty things, 'cause Austin's 'turning home; and Prissy says we may, if you'll only let us."

"A Christmas tree, my little Ruth?" said her father, stroking her silken curls as he spoke. "Ah me! 'Tis long since there was one in this house. How old are you, my little maid?"

"Why, father, I'm six years old. But what has that to do with a tree? I'm big enough to see one, surely. Do say we may have one. Archie wants it, and Claude too."

"Yes, father," chimed in both boys; "we would like it, if you are willing."

The professor paused for a moment, then replied, "Certainly you may; only on one condition, boys: you must promise not to let all the trouble fall on your sister, for she has more than enough on her shoulders already. It is a marvel to me the amount of work she gets through, mental and otherwise. She puts many a man to shame, though she is 'only a girl.'"

Prissy laughed; the once dreaded sobriquet had lost its terrors. "Well, father," she said, "if you agree, I second the boys, for I like the thought of having a tree as much as they do, for, you see, in one sense I am still 'only a girl.'"

A loud shout of "Thanks, father, thanks," rung round the room, till Prissy dismissed them all, saying, "Now do run down to the M'Ivors and enlist them to help in the Christmas tree."

"That will be capital," said Archie. "And may we take Ruth also?"

"Yes, you may, if you won't let her get into mischief. And, Archie, please just look in on Joe Smith for a moment, and tell him that, if possible, I will come down to-morrow and help him with his studies. Poor Joe! Isn't it a pity we can't have him at our Christmas tree? He is so much stronger now, if he could only be got here, he would enjoy it. Now off with you all. I don't wish to see any of you for a couple of hours at least."

"All right," said Archie laughing; "but—" and he lingered for a moment behind the others as he said, "remember that during holiday time, I'm to read to father every day. He is not to learn to depend on his daughter for everything, though she is a jolly good daughter and sister also." And so saying, he endorsed his opinion by a loud-sounding slap on his sister's shoulder, then ran off, slamming the door after him in true boy-like fashion, which made his father exclaim—

"Gently, Archie, gently!" Then turning to Prissy, he said, "I fear, my daughter, this Christmas tree plan will throw a great deal of extra trouble on you. If so, just tell me, and I will put a stop to it at once."

"Oh no, father; I would not have it stopped on any account. At first I was selfish enough not to wish to have it at all; but now that I see how set the boys and little Ruth are on having it, I am thankful I yielded. I would like Archie and Claude to have a bright home Christmas. Archie is a fine boy, father, and a steady one."

"Yes," said Dr. Warner, "he is;" and he sighed as his thoughts wandered to the son whom in face and figure Archie so strongly resembled. "Dr. Sparling, too, speaks highly of him. He says his talent lies more for languages than for mathematics; he also says his general conduct is so good that he sets an example to the whole school. He has to thank you, Priscilla, for the home influence he has had. You are a comfort to us all, my daughter."

A flush of pleasure mantled Prissy's face. A word of commendation from her father was very sweet to her.

But she said smilingly, "Ah! then, father, you confess that a woman may be a comfort in her home and yet study even mathematics?"

She spoke in a jesting tone, and expected a reply in a like strain. She was surprised, therefore, when her father laid his hand on her head, and said solemnly, "I do confess it, my child, when a woman has the grace of God in her heart to enable her to keep her different duties in their right place, and to prevent her being conceited and puffed up by her mental attainments, or careless as regards household matters. And now, my daughter, if you can spare me an hour or two to act as my amanuensis, I will be well pleased."

"Certainly, father," was the ready reply, and in a few minutes father and daughter were busy at work.

Whilst they were so engaged, Archie, Claude, and Ruth had made their way to the cottage where the M'Ivors lived. Entering the bright little parlour, Archie soon made their errand known.

"A Christmas tree!" said Gabrielle, jumping up from her work. "A Christmas tree! That will be good. Yes, of course, Archie, tell Prissy we will all be charmed to help her. And you also, maman," she said, turning to her mother—"you are so clever with your fingers, you will assist?—Oh, it is delightful. And all the little ones are to come, did you say?"

"Yes; and if Mr. and Mrs. M'Ivor would come also, my father and Prissy said they would be delighted to see them; and, of course, André as well."

Gabrielle clapped her hands with glee. "Oh, that is better and better! You will go? Do say you will, chère maman!"

Mrs. M'Ivor smiled at her daughter's eagerness, but assented to the proposal, unless the evening proved very cold. "For," she said, turning to Archie, "your Christmas is très-froid, très-froid sometimes."

"Ah!" he replied. "But this year, madam, it is going to be fine; every one says we are going to have a bright Christmas."

Then turning to Gabrielle and the boys, an animated discussion arose on decorations and suitable presents. Coloured paper was produced at once, and ere long, Gabrielle's clever French fingers had cut out some really tasteful ornaments for the tree. The time slipped away only too quickly, and on their way home, Archie found he had just a minute or two to spend with Joe Smith, who hailed with pleasure the announcement of a visit from Miss Warner.

"You see, Mr. Archibald," he said, "she is such a kind, patient teacher; and if ever I become a scholar, and of any use in the world, it will all, under God, be owing to her and Mr. Austin. Ay, and more than that I owe to them, for it was they who told me of the love of Jesus, and led me into the kingdom of God. Please tell Miss Warner I will be delighted to see her to-morrow."

And Archie, promising to do so, set off homewards, holding little Ruth by the hand. There was a sober, thoughtful look on his face, for Joe's words had set him thinking.

Did he, he asked himself, love the Lord Jesus, as Austin, Prissy, and Joe Smith did? And like them, was he helping on Christ's kingdom? It was not necessary in order to do so to become a minister or missionary; for Prissy had often spoken to him on that subject, and her life had proved to him that it is in little things as well as in great that God can be glorified.

And as Archie Warner walked home on that bright December day, he began to wish to be a Christian—at all events, some times, perhaps when school duties and pleasures did not so fully occupy him. And so he turned his thoughts to the pleasures of the hour, and forgot that it is written:

"Seek ye first the kingdom of God."

CHAPTER XV.

NEWS FROM A FAR COUNTRY.

"Well hath she learned to sympathize with every hope and fear;
Well hath she learned the sorrowing heart to brighten and to cheer."

CHRISTMAS had come at last! A good old-fashioned one it proved. Snow had fallen heavily for some days before, and now it lay inches deep on hill and dale. A sharp frost had set in, and the crystal-like icicles hung from the eaves of the house and branches of the leafless trees. Beautifully they glistened under the light of the moonbeams as they touched them with their silver light, and glistened on the white canopy of snow that lay thickly on the garden and grounds surrounding the Grove.

Austin and Prissy Warner stood for a few minutes alone at a window gazing at the fair scene.

"How lovely it is to-night!" said Prissy. "And the children are so happy at the prospect of the Christmas tree. But oh, Austin, if our father could only see it; and if Lewis were with us, or if we knew where he was."

Her head drooped as she spoke, and the tears that filled her eyes dimmed the beauties of the outside world.

Her brother put his arm lovingly round her, and said in answer to her last words, "God knows, dear Prissy, and his arm is round our erring brother wherever he is; and, sister, somehow I can't despair of Lewis. I know how far wrong he was led by evil companions; but Lewis had many noble traits of character. His affection for his home was deep, his love to our father intense, and he cherished the memory of our mother fondly."

"But, Austin," interrupted Prissy, "if that were all so, how came he to do what he knew would well-nigh break his father's heart, and would have grieved so deeply our mother? How can you reconcile these things?"

"It is difficult, no doubt, to do so," replied Austin. "Lewis, by nature, was easily led; and then, Prissy, he had not learned to lean in his weakness on an Almighty strong arm, and so became a prey to sharpers. But may we not believe that it was deep shame for the disgrace he had brought on himself, and dread of seeing his father's grief at it, that made him fly from home?"

"It may be so," replied Prissy. "There were other causes which helped to drive him into evil companionship."

"Ah, well," said Austin, "if it were so, Prissy, you have nobly, as far as possible, made up for your past neglect in that respect: 'The Lord hath restored to you the years that the cankerworm hath eaten.' But we must not linger here, pleasant as it is. Let us go first to our father and see if he is willing to come to the drawing-room."

As together they entered the study, and the light of the lamp fell on his sister's face and figure, Austin was struck with her beauty as he had never been before. Her rich brown hair was brushed slightly back, displaying her finely-formed brow. Her deep, thoughtful gray eyes were turned lovingly towards her father; and her brother observed the womanly dignity of her whole bearing, which the discipline of the last few months had greatly enhanced and developed. Her dress, of some soft crimson stuff, fell in graceful folds round her, contrasting with the whiteness of her neck and arms, and adding beauty to the whole of her appearance. No wonder her brother thought her fair to look on.

Dr. Warner willingly agreed to go to the drawing-room, saying, "What although I cannot see the beauties of the tree, I can at least—thank God!—hear the voices of my children and friends. Then I have my borrowed eyes always beside me, you know," and as he spoke he laid his hand on Prissy's arm. "Yes, my boy," he said turning to Austin, "one of the greatest of my many mercies is the possession of such a loving daughter as Priscilla. She has indeed shown me what noble, true work can be done by 'only a girl.'"

"I knew her real worth long ago, father," said Austin, "and was sure the day would come when you also would appreciate it. But who comes here?" he added, as the study-door was opened, and the vicar entered, followed by a young man who came forward with an outstretched hand.

Prissy went forward to meet him, and with a start of glad surprise recognized her old friend Harry Lascelles.

The name escaped her lips, and instantly Dr. Warner was on his feet. "Harry Lascelles! Is he here? Welcome, a thousand times welcome, though I can no longer see thee face to face."

In a moment Harry was beside his old friend. "I am grieved, so grieved, Dr. Warner, to hear of the trial that has fallen on you. I only heard of it to-night; for a long time had elapsed since I had had news from home, and I had begun to get anxious about you all.—It is pleasant to see you again, Miss Prissy," he continued; "I can hardly believe my eyes when I look at you. You were only a girl when I left home, and now you are a woman."

And had he spoken out his thoughts, he would have added, "A rarely beautiful one also." But Harry was no adept at compliments, so he contented himself by letting his eyes say the words his lips refused to utter.

"Then as to Austin, he has entirely grown out of my knowledge. Dr. Warner," he said, turning suddenly towards him, "what tall, fine-looking young men your sons have become! Why, Lewis is—"

But ere he could say another word, the father had sprung to his feet, exclaiming—

"Lewis, did you say? What of him? Tell me, Harry, oh, tell me, is he still alive? My erring but much loved boy!"

Dr. Lascelles gently put the old man back in his chair, then seating himself beside him, he said, "Yes, Dr. Warner, your son Lewis is alive. I have seen him, and bear a letter from him imploring your forgiveness. And I can testify that, in the highest sense, 'he that was dead is alive again, he that was lost is found' by the good Shepherd, and is now, as he says himself, 'seeking first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.'"

"God be praised," said the father. "Where is he now?"

Ere the question could be answered, Priscilla and Austin had eagerly repeated it, saying, "Oh, tell us all. How, when, and where have you seen him? And oh," added Prissy, "has he forgiven me?"

"Forgiven you?" repeated Harry. "I did not know he had anything to forgive you. But here is his own letter; it will, no doubt, tell you all you wish to know. But ere you read it, I must tell you what I know—"

"About a year ago our ship touched at Sydney, and the captain told us he would be detained there on business several weeks. On hearing that, I resolved I would regularly attend at the hospitals there, and so keep up my medical knowledge of general cases, which I had very limited opportunity of doing on board ship. Passing through the wards one day, my attention was arrested by the face of a young lad which I seemed to know, and yet was unable to tell to whom it belonged. I approached the bed, and asked him some medical questions, when it was plain that the lad knew me also, but did not wish me to recognize him; for as he spoke, a deep flush suffused his face, and he turned his back to me, muttering something about the light. But the moment I heard his voice, I knew it was Lewis Warner that lay there."

"My boy! My loved boy!" exclaimed Dr. Warner.

Whilst both Prissy and Austin cried out in dismay, "Lewis lying ill in a hospital alone in a foreign land!"

"He is all right now," continued Harry. "But let me finish my story. I had heard from my father all about poor Lewis, and I at once addressed him by name, saying kindly, 'I am grieved to see you here, and looking so ill also. Do your friends know of your illness, and that you are here?'"

"The answer was given in a hard, hoarse way: 'My friends! I have none. I am called William Smith; don't you see my name there?' and he pointed to a letter lying on the table beside him."

"I took his hand and said firmly, 'Lewis, there is no use in trying to deceive me. I know you; and the moment you saw me, you recognized your old friend Harry Lascelles. By the memory of your mother now in glory, whom we both loved so clearly, speak to me frankly, Lewis, and tell me all—why you left your home, and how you come to be here.'"

"For one moment he made an effort to repulse me; then, poor follow, he broke down, and sobbed like a child, crying every now and then, 'O father! Father! If only he would forgive me!'"

"Poor boy, poor suffering boy!" said Dr. Warner. "And you told him, surely, Harry, you told him I had forgiven him long ago?"

"I did, doctor; and more than that. I told him how his heavenly Father, against whom he had sinned so grievously, was wanting to forgive him also, for Christ's sake. I left him much softened; and the eager way in which he sought news of you all, showed how his heart clung to his home and to the dear ones there. He had owed much to a kindhearted man of the name of Barton, whom I afterwards saw, and who told me that Lewis had been the means of saving him from ruin, by preventing him from entering a gambling-room in Sydney a couple of years before. He and Lewis had become acquainted with each other shortly before then; and Barton, having a little money in his pocket, was just going to try his luck at cards, and invited Lewis to join him, when the lad, who called himself William Smith, laid his hand on his arm and implored him not to enter the gambling-saloon, telling him it might prove his ruin if he did so."

"'The slip of a lad looked earnest about it,' said Barton (in telling me the story), 'so much so that I hesitated ere entering; and whilst I was so doing, I seemed to hear the voice of my dead mother saying to me, as she did the day before her death, "Enter not into the path of sinners." So, turning to the lad beside me, I said, "Well, my lad, I believe God sent you to me with a warning from him, and by his help, I'll never cross the threshold of one of these saloons again."'"

"'Will and I,' he continued, 'became regular chums, and went to the Kiandra gold diggings, where I picked up a few nuggets large enough to enable me, when Will grew ill there, to bring him back here and get him into the hospital, where—thank God!—you found him, sir.'"

CHAPTER XVI.

"AS A LITTLE CHILD."

"The sun was low in the changing west,
The shadows were heavy from hill and tree,
As the watchman opened the gate of rest—
'I am willing with all my heart,' said he."

HARRY LASCELLES paused a moment ere resuming the tale he had been telling, for his listeners were overcome with emotion.

Dr. Warner was the first to speak. "Thank God," he said, "my boy had learned a lesson on the evil Of gambling; and I am thankful he was instrumental in saving a fellow-creature from that terrible sin."

"I always felt sure," interrupted Austin, "that Lewis was led astray and made the dupe of a set of sharpers who came here on purpose to catch some of the older schoolboys. I always knew Lewis's heart was right."

"Lewis's letter," continued Harry, "will give you full particulars as to what he is now doing; but I want to add that, ere the six weeks of my stay in Sydney had come to an end, Lewis had recovered strength; and he had come as a poor, weak sinner to Jesus, and received forgiveness through his shed blood. He is very distrustful of himself, but has obtained, by the teaching of the Holy Ghost, full confidence in the power of his Saviour to hold him up in the paths of righteousness. Truly it is in the spirit of a little child that he has entered into the kingdom of God.—But now, Austin, you had better read aloud your brother's letter to your father and sister; and meanwhile my grandfather and I will go into the drawing-room, where I hear the sound of little voices, and will await you there. I suppose I'll find my god-daughter among the party." And so saying, he and the vicar left the room.

Then Austin, drawing near his father, read aloud his brother's letter. We will not give details. Suffice it to say it was a manly, earnest letter, making full confession of all that had taken place ere he left home, and imploring forgiveness for the past. He wrote much of the kindness of Harry Lascelles, who, he said, had been the means, not only of restoring his bodily health, but also of leading him to the Saviour. He had also obtained for him the situation of assistant mathematical master in the University of Sydney, where in his spare hours he was to attend two or three classes in order to finish his education.

He longed much, he wrote, to return home, that he might once more see his father and his loved ones; but Harry had counselled him to remain where he was, believing that was his present duty, and he had thought it best to follow his advice. He thanked Austin much for all the brotherly love he had ever shown to him, and for the words of warning he had again and again spoken to him. There was also a kind message to Prissy; and his warm love to all, not forgetting the M'Ivors, who had been true friends to him.

There were tears of joy not a few shed during the reading of the letter; and together the three knelt at the throne of grace and returned thanks to God for the loved one who had been dead and was alive again, lost and was found.

"And now," said the father, "lead me to the drawing-room, that we may share the children's mirth. I cannot see their faces, nor the lights of the Christmas tree, but a bright light has to-night been shed on my heart by the Prince of Peace himself, which lightens and indeed dispels all darkness."

As they entered, the children ran to meet them, and led them in triumph to the tree in the centre of the room. It was indeed a lovely one, ablaze with lights and glittering ornaments, its branches covered as if with hoar frost, and laden with blight-coloured fruits and tastefully-arranged presents.

Little Ruth, in a pale blue dress, was seated on Harry's shoulder—the very queen of the company.

Never, surely, had a Christmas tree seemed more beautiful, never did Christmas carols sound more sweetly than they did that night, for there was true Christmas joy in the hearts of the singers and listeners.

"Ah, it has been so charming," was the declaration of Gabrielle M'Ivor; whilst Austin Warner, and more than he, said in their hearts that it was to Gabrielle's deft fingers and artistic taste that the tree owed much of its beauty; and that her silvery laugh and loving words had contributed much to the pleasure of the evening.

When the last hymn was sung—

"Hark, the herald angels sing,
'Glory to the new-born King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!'"

And the last good-nights exchanged, Priscilla lingered for a moment in the drawing-room, holding Ruth by the hand, whilst Claude and Archie stood beside her. Harry Lascelles came forward to say good-night, kissing his little god-daughter as he did so; then said in a voice heard only by Priscilla, "Thank God, dear Sissy, that you have a work to do that angels might envy, and that you are doing it."

She smiled sadly and said, "But, Harry, it has not been always so."

"I know it," he replied. "I spoke of the present. Thank God, he has told us what he has done with all our past repented of sins and failures—cast them behind his back."

And once more saying good-night, he departed, and Priscilla retired to rest.

CHAPTER XVII.

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.

"There are souls that seem to dwell
Above this earth, so rich a spell
Floats round their steps, where'er they move,
From hopes fulfilled and mutual love."

FIVE years have passed since the Christmas eve we have written about in our last chapters. Once more summer sunshine was flooding the world, lighting up the dark pines near the Grove and playing among the many-coloured flowers in the garden there. It lighted up, as well, the gloomy cottages in the hamlet near, where Prissy Warner had for long carried on her blessed work of helping many of its dwellers into the kingdom.

A number of women with babies in their arms, and little ones just beginning to walk playing beside them, stood at the doors, enjoying the warmth of the lovely summer day. They were in earnest conversation; and from the remarks that fell now from one, now from another, it was evident that some event of importance to them was to take place that day.

"I be glad Mr. Austin and his bride are getting such a shiny day to come back. And to think that they start so soon again to foreign lands! But it's a grand missionary Mr. Austin'll make, that he will. He's a real Christian, so homely and kind."

"And his bride!" said a woman coming forward. "Have ye no word for her, the pretty young creature? I do say Miss Gabrielle that was is a sweet leddy, and a good; and only to think of her agoing to these heathen places, where she'll meet wi' all kinds of danger. Oh, she's a pretty one!"

"Oh yes," chimed in other voices, "that she be; and may she prove a good wife."

"But it'll be a sad day," said another voice, "for our leddy, Miss Warner, when her brother leaves, though she says she be's well pleased he is agoing to spend his life in tellin' the heathen 'bout Jesus. But she'll miss him sorely. The Lord bless her for all she's done for us and ours."

"Oh, she is a leddy, that she be," said many of them.

"It's a puzzle," said one, "how she has been let stay Miss Warner so long, though some do say there's summat between her and young Mr. Lascelles."

"Maybe, maybe there is, but we're in no hurry to have her taken from us, even by him. And how would the old gentleman and the young uns do without her? Though Miss Ruth is growing up a likely girl. But there, the carriage will be passing, and we'll lose the sight of the young couple as they pass to the Grove."

"But ye know," put in one or two voices, "we'll see them at the meetin' to-morrow night to bid them farewell and God-speed."

Yes, many besides the women whose conversation we have related wondered that Prissy was Miss Warner still. But so it was; and a happy, useful, Christ-like life she spent, nobly fulfilling her woman's mission as a helper and comforter. Her father clung to her with increasing tenderness, and turned to her as a help in his favourite pursuits. She still acted as amanuensis, though by God's blessing on the skill of a famous oculist, the sight of one of his eyes had been restored. And Claude and Ruth looked to her for help and sympathy in everything.

Father and daughter stood together a moment ere starting for the station, where they were going to welcome back Austin and his pretty bride Gabrielle from their marriage trip. They were coming to spend ten days at the Grove ere starting as missionaries to China.

"Prissy," said Dr. Warner, "it is a joyful thing now to me to think God has put it into Austin's heart to consecrate all his talents to his cause, and go as his ambassador to tell the good news of Christ crucified and risen again to the heathen. God grant he may be greatly used in gathering in souls to the kingdom of God."

"I am sure he will be so used," said Prissy with emotion. "Austin's desire since he was a boy has been to help on the kingdom of God; and he began to do so early, both in his own home and amongst his schoolfellows, and in later years he did so at college. So long ere he was ordained of men to preach the gospel, he had done so, wherever he had been, by life and word, and already many call him blessed."

"Yes, my daughter, I have long felt it is a mockery for any one to pray the words, 'Thy kingdom come,' and yet do nothing to help it on just where they live. Lewis and Archie have learned that lesson also, don't you think?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Prissy, "I am sure they have. Lewis writes that Austin taught him that lesson long ago, though it was our dear mother who first spoke to him about it. And Archie—O father, I am glad about him. His letters are so earnest and good, and he takes such just views of life and its responsibilities. I am sure he will make a noble Christian architect."

Ere Dr. Warner could reply, the door opened, and Ruth, a sweet-looking girl, entered, bearing a basket filled with violets in her hand.

"Prissy," she said, "I am taking these to give to Gabrielle as she steps out of the train, she does so love flowers, la petite Francaise! Though, I daresay, little Jean will be beforehand with me. Still there are no violets so sweet, I am sure, as ours are."

Prissy smiled, but said, "So be it, Ruth. But now let us be off; violets and all, in case the travellers arrive ere we do. I believe Claude is at the station already."

Father and daughters set off together, walking across the common, now richly carpeted with summer flowers.

"Ruth," said her father, playfully, "it would be more in keeping with your name if instead of violets, you bore a sheaf of corn in your hand."

"Not yet, father," she said, a quiet grave look crossing her face as she spoke. "But one day I do hope to carry a large sheaf and lay it down at the Master's feet, like the 'little soul-gatherer' of whom I read lately. That is my ambition, father, that the 'woman's work' I desire to do."

Prissy glanced at her with tears of joy in her eyes. Never before had Ruth so openly spoken of her life's aim.

In answer, her father laid his hand on Ruth's shoulder, saying, "The Lord give thee the desire of thy heart, my child."

With almost child-like glee, Ruth handed her basket of violets to Gabrielle as she stepped with her husband from the train to the spot where her own father, mother, and little Jean stood with Dr. Warner, Prissy, and Claude, ready to bid them welcome.

As they drove to the Grove, the bells pealed out. And when Austin and his bride were ensconced in his father's house, he stood up and prayed the Lord's Prayer.

As he uttered the petition so precious to the hearts of more than one of the assembled group:

"Thy kingdom come—"

It seemed caught up and echoed again and again over "hill and dale" by the silvery bells.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME AT LAST.

"Go labour on while it is day;
    The world's dark night is hastening on.
Speed, speed thy work; cast sloth away:
    It is not thus that souls are won."

"Men die in darkness at your side,
    Without a hope to cheer the tomb:
Take up the torch and ware it wide,
    The torch that lights times thickest gloom."

THE evening of the farewell missionary meeting had come round. A soft, sweet summer evening it was. The sun was still shining, causing the slight haze that hung over village and hills to assume a golden hue; but a slight breeze had risen, and was playing very gently amongst the "leafy tide of greenery" which surrounded the little suburban church in which the meeting was to be held. People were already coming from all directions, some from the town of Hereford, others from little hamlets or pleasant farmsteads away in the opposite direction. In little groups they came, fathers, mothers, and children, or friendly neighbours, walking in twos and twos.

At the appointed hour, the little church was filled, and many a whispered blessing arose as the young missionary and his wife, accompanied by the M'Ivors and Dr. Warner, Prissy, Ruth, Archie, and Claude, entered.

Several of the neighbouring clergy were present to bid God-speed to the young couple ere they left their native land. At last, Austin stood up to say a few parting words.

"I thank God," he said, "that he has given to me the desire of my heart, in permitting me to go forth as a labourer in the dark places of the earth, many of which are white already to harvest. My heart is sad to-night as I think of bidding farewell to so many loved ones. But I go not alone. My loved wife goes with me, anxious to help on the great work of winning souls; and above all, the Saviour whom we love will himself go with us. And whilst he goes with us, he will also remain to bless and keep those we leave behind. Friends, pray for us, that the Word of the Lord may have free course and be glorified in heathen countries, even as it is in our own beloved land; and seek that ere long all the kingdoms of this world may become the kingdoms of our Lord and of his Christ. And may he in mercy grant that all of us may one day be amongst those who shall stand before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with the palms of victory in their hands."

"Amen!" responded many voices.

And when the farewell words commending the young couple to the keeping of God were pronounced, tears fell from many eyes, and even strangers were strongly moved. Amongst those was a handsome young man who had entered the church after the service had begun, and had listened with rapt attention to the young missionary; but the moment he ceased to speak, his eyes turned eagerly to the pew where Professor Warner and his family sat, and rested with a look of deep emotion on the figures there.

When the service was concluded the stranger stood back to let the people shake hands with Austin and his bride.

But as the young missionary was saying a kindly word to one of his cottage friends, his eye rested on the face of the tall, bearded stranger, and he started as if an electric shock had passed through him. That face, that figure, changed though they were, recalled so vividly the companion of his boyhood, his loved brother Lewis. Could it be he? Unheeding the crowd around him, he pressed forward to where the stranger stood as if spell-bound, and in another second, their hands were clasped in a loving grasp, and the long-parted brothers were once more side by side.

"Thank God you are here, Lewis; but how comes it about? And our father, does he know? How glad he will be! See, he and Prissy have gone to the porch to await me."

"But, Austin (dear old fellow, how good it is to see you again!), I could not meet my father amongst strangers. Go you to the many friends who are waiting for you, and I will cross the common to the Grove and await you there."

And afraid to trust himself to say another word, he passed out unobserved, and took the road to his father's house.

Dr. Warner, Austin, Gabrielle, and Prissy had assembled once more in the pleasant drawing-room in the Grove, the father's eye lingering lovingly on the face of the son from whom he was so soon to part, probably for life, and his thoughts turned to his other dearly-loved son in Australia, who had now amply redeemed the errors of his youth, and had now for five years held a situation of trust in the University of Sydney. His thoughts found vent in words.

"Austin," he said, "I would that you and Lewis had met ere you left for China. Harry Lascelles writes he thinks we may expect your brother home ere very long, as he has now a chance of obtaining some good opening here.—But in the meantime, Priscilla, have we not been long of hearing from him? God grant there is nothing amiss."

Just then the door opened, and a stranger gentleman entered.

In a moment, Prissy sprung to her feet and moved, not toward the stranger, but to her father's side, as if to support him, whilst the word "Lewis" rose to her lips.

Instantly the stranger was beside her, and had thrown himself into his father's arms, saying, "Father, let me hear thy voice saying, 'I forgive thee.'"

But no words were required. The father broke down, and with tears of joy could only sob out the words, "My son, my first-born, much loved son, welcome, welcome home."

And Prissy and Austin repeated the words, "Welcome, welcome home."

When all the group knelt that night at the family altar, and Austin's voice rose in prayer, Lewis joined heartily in the Amen uttered by all as the young missionary prayed that those then kneeling in the presence of God would anew give themselves to Him, to spend their lives wherever they lived in seeking to draw souls out of Satan's kingdom, and lead them into that of the King of kings.

And when his words had ceased, Dr. Warner took up the strain, and gave thanks for the safe return of the one who "was lost, and was found again."

When Prissy and her brother sat together alone ere retiring to rest, they had much to say to each other. Prissy began to allude to her shortcomings in her home life.

But her brother interrupted her by saying, "Nay, Prissy, we will speak no more of the sins of our youth, but rather, by God's grace, like the apostle, forgetting the things that are behind, let us press forward to those that are before. What a noble fellow Austin has become!" he said. "And how bright and pleasant Gabrielle looks! And our Ruth too, Prissy, what a charm there is in her face; and as to Archie and Claude, I can scarcely believe they are the little fellows I left. And our father—ah! How he has aged, but how kind he is! Prissy, no one can ever know how I longed for a sight of him and all of you during the long weary weeks I lay in the hospital at Sydney. Ah! That was indeed a miserable time, till Harry Lascelles came and led my thoughts to our Father in heaven; and then I was led as a little child to come to Jesus, and to enter through him, even on earth, the kingdom of heaven."

No wonder, after all the events of that day, that Priscilla Warner lay down to rest with a song of praise in her heart for all the undeserved mercies received from the loving hand of their Father in heaven.

CHAPTER XIX.

OLD FRIENDS.

   "Jesus, still lead on,
    Till our rest be won;
Heavenly Leader, still direct us,
Still support, console, protect us,
    Till we safely stand
    In our Fatherland."

SOME years have passed since Austin Warner and his fair bride set off for China, and since Lewis had returned from Sydney. And ere we part we will take a glance at our old friends.

Priscilla Warner has changed her name, and for some time has been Priscilla Lascelles, and can no longer, she smilingly declares, be called "only a girl," for she is a matronly-looking person, and the mother of two little boys. Dr. Lascelles has left the navy, and is now a hard-working, well-employed medical man in Manchester. He and his wife are well known and beloved in the houses of the poor. Priscilla's talents are by no means hidden in a napkin, and more than one young man of limited means has reason to bless the doctor's kind wife, who willingly devotes a spare hour to helping them in their mathematical studies, and by her thoughtful actions and loving words seeks to turn them from darkness and lead them into the kingdom of God.

There is no fear, her brother Lewis says, that her boys will ever have to complain of the dulness of the evenings in their home, for father and mother alike do all they can to brighten the after-dinner hours for the young ones. The blessing of God, that "maketh rich and bringeth no sorrow with it," rests on that happy home, and Harry often tells his wife that now, as in olden days, God has intrusted to her a work which angels might envy.

At the Grove there is a small home-party now—only the professor and his bonnie Ruth, as he calls her, who has ably filled her sister's place since her departure. Ruth's ambition of being a soul-gatherer is being quietly but surely fulfilled. God is using her hand to gather in one by one precious souls to his garner. She has not Priscilla's wonderful talents, but she is well read and well informed, able to enjoy the conversation of her father and friends on any subject, and take part in it intelligently. But she finds her greatest pleasure in the service of the King of kings, in whose home harvest-field she loves to labour. Hers is no idle hand. Jean M'Ivor and she go hand in hand in helping on every good work.

Then Lewis, now a professor in a college in the north of England, and a married man, comes often to the Grove to see his old father.

And Archie, who resides in London, and is getting on well, also goes from time to time to see the inmates of the Grove.

And when the hot summer days come round, and the common is carpeted with bright flowers, Priscilla and her sturdy boys are packed off by the doctor from the close city to drink in the fresh breezes that blow around the Grove, and by their presence to cheer the hearts of the professor and his little Ruth.

The letters from China are full of hope. God is blessing the labours of Austin and Gabrielle there, and more than one soul has through their instrumentality been called out of the darkness of heathenism into light, and learned from their hearts to take up and echo the petition taught them by their divine Master:

"Thy kingdom come."

"We have much to encourage us," writes Austin, "but we need more workers. Let no one forget that even yet 'millions of souls in China are dying without a God.' And, dear ones, pray that the Lord of the harvest would send forth labourers into this harvest-field."

As Priscilla read aloud this letter to her father, she laid her hand on the head of her noble boys as they stood beside her, and prayed that one day they might be led to say, in answer to the Lord's appeal, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for me?" "Here am I; send me."

And so they also might, either at home or abroad, share in the great privilege of helping on "the kingdom of God."

THE END.

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