how the poor widow sent for him to the remote fishing village where she had been trying to obtain a scanty subsistence for herself and child, and where she was dying of a broken heart; how she had placed her son under his care, and how he had watched over the few last weeks of her life, and when she died had buried her, and buried all hopes of husband and father in her lone grave by the bleak sea, adding softly, "But naething could disturb ye there, puir Ailie-neither wind nor waves-for your broken heart was at rest at last." Then, turning to Davie, he said, "Your mother wasna true to me, laddie, but I hae tried to be true to you. However, mony a time she mourned o'er her treatment o' me, and said I was to meet her in heaven, which she hoped to win for the sake o' Him who had died to save sinners, even the chief."

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
By that lily-white hand o' thine,
And by a' the stars in the heavens,
That thou wad aye be mine!

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,

And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a' that's fair around us,

That thou shalt aye be mine."

-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

R. and Miss Ramsay, now grown old and

M

grey, were amongst the first to welcome

Davie back to his home. And oh, how glad were they to receive the Bible of their brother, and hear the accounts of his reformed life. "I knew," said Miss Ramsay, while the tears trickled down her cheeks; "I knew the son of so many prayers could not be lost. God is good, if we would only trust Him more. His word never yet

failed." But no one rejoiced more cordially over the sailor's return than did the smith, now nearly bedridden; and often would he go over tales of Davie's youth and his boyish pranks, and the love of his

dead wife for him--the wife he felt he would soon meet again, and whose gentle kindness he had missed. so sorely as he trod alone through the rough ways of the world. Neither must Mysie be forgotten. She had early prophesied of his greatness; and though his manly ambition had been checked by years of captivity, she and every one felt that David Gordon was a great and noble man, in the true sense of the word. The gold had been cast into the furnace until the dross was taken from it; and though he had given up hopes of rising in his profession and gaining a name on the records of fame, yet he had a work to do in a humbler sphere, and all knew and felt he would do it well. The property to which he would succeed at the death of his relative was an important one, and he would have enough of employment on his hands to superintend the miners and workmen.

A few weeks after his return Davie took his place beside Effie and Mysie, as they watched by the dying bed of Uncle John. It was sad and solemn, but they knew he must leave them-it was man's appointed lot-that he had been given long life, and now he was going to the grave like a shock of corn fully ripe. They had been watching all night, thinking every hour would be his last; and when the early dawn of the morning paled out of the midnight, and the stars melted away as the

first streak appeared in the eastern sky, they were still watching. Tender, womanly touches put all things straight, and quiet hands were ready to supply every want. Uncle John lay with a calm contentedness in his face, looking on the two so dear to him tending him so carefully—the two fond hearts, parted so long, meeting at last in the chamber of the dying.

And the feeling of the two, how pleasant! They could do little else but converse in subdued tones; but the joy was great to be near one another-to be enabled together to give one so dear to both aid and comfort, and Effie almost chid the selfishness of joy which crept into her heart. Davie, too, would sit and watch her in silence, which in itself was sweet repose, his eyes following all her movements with an eagerness which could not be satisfied.

The warm August day broadened and deepened while they watched. It was the Sabbath, and a Sabbath peace lay upon the land. There was a hush and quiet in the house, for the King of Terrors was coming, though robbed of his dart.

The church bells rang through the still air, up and down the valley they sent their sweet chimes calling the six days' weary pilgrims to a rest on the seventh. The people went dropping past, the walkers bathing their naked dusty feet in

the clear burn before they donned their stockings and shoes, to be more decent for the house of God.

By and by the worshippers returning told that the services were over, and the afternoon passed— but still the old man lingered. Then came on night; a night that was to know no morrow to the sufferer. Slowly, flickering, brightening a little at last with a parting ray-and then as the shadows deepened, there came a whisper from the parting lips—and as they bent to listen, they heard, "Ailie, Ailie, I'm coming. Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." And so with the light of parting day the light of human life departed also, and there was a great calm.

That there might be no delay in the marriage of Davie and Effie had been Uncle John's dying request, and therefore, shortly after the funeral, the wedding day was fixed.

The day dawned with its crisp breeze bearing on it a taste of the salt sea full of bracing health and sunshine as well. Again, as it had been on that day years before, when Davie and Effie had been betrothed, corn-fields lay under the low green hills, bending their golden load under the busy reapers' hands, and orchard and forest were in full foliage. The two felt in harmony with nature on this the morning of the day that was to unite their hands and hearts for ever.