got him. He was here on Tuesday, only half the day though; but he hasn't been near to-day."

"Did he look ill?" said little Faith.

"Aye," said Jenkins, “very down-hearted, he did I don't know what was wrong with him. I said to my mate there, when we went home at night, says I, 'There must be something amiss with Robinson.' But he never said nothing about it to none of us."

"What can it be?" said little Faith.

"I don't know, my lass, I'm sure,” said the basket man, as he turned away to show off his wares to some country people who were passing the stall; "maybe yon man yonder will know," and he pointed to the cap stall proprietor, who was standing idly behind his stall, with his hands in his pockets.

Faith went to him, but he could give her no information whatever. She asked at one of two of the other stalls, but with the same result. No one could throw the least light on the reason of her father's absence. There was nothing to be done but to go back, and tell Mrs. Fraser.

So with a heavy heart Faith turned back. How slowly she walked homewards, so differently from the way in which she had come down from the market place. She even turned round once or twice, and looked at the empty place again, as if it could not possibly be anything but a dream that her father's stall had vanished from the place where it had stood so long.

When Faith got to the house, Ellen let her in, and was beginning to ask her in a cheerful voice if her father knew her, when she noticed how sad and downcast the child looked.

"Where is Mrs. Fraser?” said little Faith, as she began to cry again.

"She's here, in the dining-room," said Ellen, kindly. "Come in and speak to her."

She opened the door, and Faith went in, and holding out the florin she sobbed out, "Please, ma'am, he's gone; he isn't there! I can't find him nowheres! None of the stall-keepers has seen him to-day. Oh, dear, whatever shall I do?"

Mrs. Fraser made Faith sit down beside her, and talked it over with her for a long time, and at last it was decided, that after dinner Faith should go to her old home to see what was the matter there.

Faith did not eat much dinner that day; she was very anxious, and very troubled. She did not forget before she started to go into the little bedroom, which she shared with Ellen, and, kneeling down, take her trouble to the Lord in prayer, and ask her Heavenly Friend to go with her. For she could not help dreading meeting Mrs. Gubbins again, and she did not know in what trouble or sorrow she might find her father. And as she went down the well-known streets, and got nearer and nearer to Belfry Row, she kept asking again and again for help for whatever was before her.

At last little Faith reached the house, and quietly opened the door. And then she stood still, and felt almost afraid to go farther.

What would Mrs. Gubbins say when she went in? All Faith's dread of the old woman returned upon her.

She crept cautiously and quietly up the rickety stairs. The house was very noisy as usual, the two landings were full of screaming, quarrelling children, and bad and angry words were heard on all sides. Faith had never noticed how wretched the house looked before. When she had lived there she was so accustomed to the noise and the dirt and the misery, that she had hardly seen it.

But now, when she had come from Mrs. Fraser's beautiful house, where everything was so clean and comfortable, Faith wondered how she could ever have been happy in Belfry Row. It looked so very forlorn and wretched, she thought.

The people on the two landings took no notice of her as she passed by. John Robinson's family had kept very much to themselves, and did not know any of the other people in the house. There was no one now living on the same floor with them, and those below seemed as far away as if they lived in

another house, for they never saw them except when passed by their rooms, as they went down to the street dan and they did not even know their names. The people of house were constantly changing, nearly every week fresh (en came, and so, even if they had wished to get to know them, would have been very difficult. So Faith passed by, and one stopped her or noticed her.

At last she reached the top landing, and there before be was the well-known door. She waited for a minute or tw wondering what she should do, and then she knocked.

No one came to open the door, and Faith could not hear sound inside the room.

Surely the children could not be asleep yet; it was only fo o'clock. The church clock in the street struck as she stood

the door.

Faith knocked again, and waited again, but she got a answer. "They must be all out," she thought, "I expect the d is locked; I shall have to come again." She wondered wha they could have gone; they had never all been out tog since Mother Mary died.

Faith thought she would try the door before she went awayp perhaps Mrs. Gubbins had been looking out of the wind and would not let her in, and was making the children st very quiet that she might not hear them.

Faith's heart beat very fast at the thought. Should she it the latch and go in? What would Mrs. Gubbins do? Word she knock her down as soon as she went in, and then turn be out? Not if her father was there, Faith felt sure of that. k she did not think her father could be there, unless he was way ill, or he would have opened the door.

No, they must all be out; she would just try the door and then go away.

So Faith put her hand on the latch, and was almost starts. at the sound it made going down.

The door was open, and Faith went in.

SCRIPTURE ENIGMA.

NO. XIII.

1. What woman once, of virtuous fame, When dead heard Peter call her name?

2. Where is God's throne? At Salem? No: Read Stephen's words and you shall know. 3. Good John! What sort of men were he And Peter once perceived to be?

4. What does Christ call him who relieves
The man that fell among the thieves?
5. "Great is our goddess!" Tell her name,
While all th' Ephesians shout her fame.
6. What solemn words did Jesus cry,
When lifted on the Cross to die?

7. What idol-star-as Stephen said—
Did Israel worship in God's stead?
"Give us a king!" So Israel cried,
Nor was their wayward wish denied;
To Gilgal soon their gifts they bring,
And Samuel said, “Behold your king!"
Then he God's ancient mercies told,
And bade them these great signs behold:-
"Is it not harvest? Stand and view
What I will ask, and God will do."
The prophet prayed, th' Almighty heard,
And sent these signs at Samuel's word;
And Israel trembled when they saw-
So let us learn to stand in awe.

W. L

She came down to breakfast undecided still, and feeling depressed and irritable. Mrs. Bertram wore her coldest manner. The meal was a silent affair, till Mrs. Bertram remarked, "You seem to have very few ideas this morning."

"Mamma, I want to tell you of something that happened last night," said Muriel, and Mrs. Bertram listened with annoyed looks to a rather faltering sketch of the short interview with Montgomery. "Mr. Maxwell thought you ought to know,

mamma."

"I have nothing to do with Mr. Maxwell, nor have you either. Pray to remember that I prefer not to hear his name mentioned."

In her complete uncertainty what line of action to adopt, Muriel made an allusion to the sick woman who had asked for her. That was put down with a decided hand. Mrs. Bertram did not wish to hear anything about sick women. The subject was an unpleasant one. If Muriel chose to go to disagreeable scenes, she might keep them to herself.

A consultation with John seemed the only resource. Muriel had almost made up her mind to it. For two hours after breakfast, however, Mrs. Bertram kept her closely employed indoors. At the end of that time, Connie appeared, troubled and even tearful.

John had had a very bad night, "one of the worst he ever had," Connie said; Dr. Peters had been in, and had said that if John were not off at once, he would not be able to go at all. Too long delay had taken place already. "He thinks papa much worse than a month ago," half-sobbed Constance, "and he wants him to be off in three days. Papa is so weak this morning that he can hardly stand. Mr. Maxwell is so good. He would arrange everything. All the boys are to go to his house directly, and he will settle on the right school for Willie and Johnnie; and Artie and Frankie are to live with him, and he will find a second curate, and do all that has to be done. Mr. Forbes can manage for a Sunday or two without help. And papa and mamma and I are to go straight off to Cannes, and try how it does,-and perhaps we shall go to Egypt from there. Papa doesn't like the Australian plan. He dreads it so much that Dr. Peters says we had better give it up for the present. And we couldn't start for Australia possibly in such a hurry, though of course we have been getting ready a long time to leave home. And Mr. Maxwell has gone off to London by the early train, because he wants to be at his home the day after to-morrow to take the boys in. And papa and mamma wish to see Muriel."

Connie twined her arm round Muriel's waist, and looked up at her lovingly. "I can't bear to leave you, Murie, or to say good-bye to the boys. If it were not for all that, I should like going. And, oh! don't you hope it will do dear papa good?”

Muriel put on bonnet and jacket at once to go with Connie, Mrs. Bertram making no objection, since Maxwell was absent. She found the Vicarage in something of a turmoil; Rose packing and putting away, with no time for more than a word. John lay on the drawing-room sofa, exhausted and voiceless. "I have been trying to write a letter or two, but I can't manage it," he whispered. "Thank you for coming."

"Can I write any for you? ?"

"Could you? That packet ought to be answered."

Muriel looked through it, and wrote repli rapidly, exercising her own discretion. She ha an hour's hard work, during which John moved. At the end of her task, she said, " I read my answers to Rose?"

"No-to me. Rose is busy. I daresay they all right."

Hardly a sentence was found to need alteration "You are a good business-woman," he said.

"I am pretty well up in Bushby affairs. there are some happy guesses in those letters. H you been asleep, John?"

"No; resting-and studying you."
"I am not worth being studied.”
"Do you really think so?"

She arranged his writing-case, with a half smila "It won't do to press that question too far. M is not genuine humility, John."

"Well-if you thought it so I should be af that you were farther off from humility than are," said John. "Mind you write to us o Murie. We shall keep you informed."

"And you must take care of yourself; you mus get on."

66

If it is to be--I shall."

"The boys are going to Mr. Maxwell's, Conn says," Muriel spoke with downcast eyes.

Yes; he would not let us speak of any othe arrangement. I never knew Maxwell so determine He settled everything with Rose, for I could do n more than protest mutely."

"They will be in good hands," she said in wistful way, unlike herself.

"The best. Here, Murie

John raised himself on one elbow, and took a go look into her face. She turned half away. "Talking is bad for you."

"I am better now-I have had a good rest. down here."

Muriel obeyed, and submitted to be criticised She could not quite stand it, however. A s came first, and tears followed. Muriel's hand we up to her eyes.

"Eh? Qu'est-ce que c'est ?" asked John. "I don't know. All these changes-and worris and not knowing how to act"You would like life to be smooth, would you not? But life is not smooth, Murie; God does not make it so for us."

"I do not expect smoothness. One must have trials," she said.

66

Yes, one must. And you are willing to have trials-only not those particular trials which yo have. O Muriel! Muriel!-Like the rest of the world. How resigned we all are to what we have not to bear."

"Not you, John."

"I! As if I don't know what it is. Do you think the tempter did not come whispering in my heat last night, that almost any trouble in the wor would be less sad to me than this illness, with all that it entails."

"What do you do at such times?"

"What you must do. Cast thy burden upa the Lord and He shall sustain thee." He will carry and sustain thee, if you will let Him. Why don't

it

you?"

She moved her head slightly.

"There was a time, years ago,

talked and thought a good deal about rejoicing always in the Lord, even in dark days. Do you ever think of it now ?" he asked.

"Yes. Not just lately, John-not so much," she said. I seem to have been forgetting."

66

"You told me once you had learnt to sing when your cage was darkened. Take care you don't make more darkening a necessity. Cheeriness honours Christ, Muriel; don't forget that. It is a trying time for you, I know, and it may go on being so. But don't get into a habit of depression on any account. Fight against it, and look on the bright side of things. Changes are not always for the worse; they are quite as often for the better. How would you like to have Arthur here as curate?" "Arthur! I should be glad."

"Mr. Maxwell seemed to think it not impossible. He fancies that some change is brewing, and Arthur may be glad to come. Mr. Forbes and Arthur could keep the parish going. However, you will see. Don't set your heart on it." John had talked too much, and coughing came on. Muriel did what she could for him, and then went to help Rose, whose bright though tired face, seen in the light of the past conversation, was a rebuke In to her. She was startled to find, on looking back, how much of a repining spirit she had allowed of late. "It must be put down," she said resolutely to herself, as she went to and fro, and some silent prayer followed. Later, when she was going home, John said quietly, "Ah, I am glad to see that face," and at luncheon Mrs. Bertram remarked,

I suppose John is better."

"Better! O no— -I wish he were."

"I thought you did not seem particularly distressed."

Muriel could not offer any explanation, for it would not have been understood. She had made up her mind on one point, to say nothing to John about the James Bertrams, before his departure. During the three intervening days she did not again go near the lodgings. It was an anxious question with herself, whether she was right to stay away, or whether she ought at all risks to have visited the sick woman. Somehow she decided against the latter step, constant occupation at the Vicarage, and extreme disinclination of mind, having each something to do with the matter.

Three days did not seem long to wait. But Muriel unexpectedly caught cold, and on the morning after John's departure she woke up hoarse. Mrs. Bertram would not hear of her leaving the house.

"I wanted particularly to see one or two people," Muriel said after breakfast. "If I wrap up warmly a quick walk will not hurt me."

Walk out in this keen wind, with your throat in that condition. You are insane, Muriel. I could not consent to such a thing for a moment."

"But colds are never very bad."

my

แ "This will be, if you don't take care." Muriel had no choice but to submit. She was aware of a certain need to take reasonable precautions, since her constitution had not escaped a touch of the family delicacy, but it was irksome to have to take precautions this particular day. Though by no means looking forward with pleasure to again meeting the James Bertrams, she felt that a visit ought to be paid. It was needful to test the truth of what had been asserted, and needful to decide on

323

her own line of conduct. Moreover, a whole day indoors, just after parting with John and Rose, was not provocative of cheerfulness.

The second post brought Mrs. Bertram two letters, one from her son.

"Arthur is coming to Bushby," she exclaimed. "Oh that is good news," said Muriel.

"Not for two months. He can't get away sooner. Mr. Boynton will let him off one month. This seems to fit in with some expected changes. Arthur asks if he may sleep at home. Of course. What else should he do? This is from Miss Wentworth."

"It has the look of an invitation," said Muriel. "Yes. A curious kind of invitation. The Manor is to be used for a Sunday-school teachers' tea, and Miss Wentworth asks us to be present and give help."

Sunday-school teachers' teas were so completely out of Mrs. Bertram's province, that Muriel said securely with a little laugh, "Easily declined." "I do not see why we should not go." 66 Mamma, you would not like it."

66

"That is as may be. I like the Wentworths themselves. They cannot ask us to dinner till we have asked them, but there is evidently a wish to see more of us."

"I would rather go anywhere than to the Manor."

"One may give way too much to sentiment," said Mrs. Bertram. "It will be trying of course, the first time. But that has to be borne. We owe a duty to society."

Muriel did not see the force of the closing sentence as applied to the subject in hand. She found it difficult to refrain from a look of something like

vexation.

"I shall certainly write and accept. I am surprised at your not taking up the proposal more cordially, Muriel-you who make so much of good works, and all that sort of thing. There is no reason whatever why we should not go. Next Tuesday; just a week distant. You will have to nurse your cold in preparation."

She

Muriel was disposed to laugh at the idea of nursing her cold for a week, but it proved to be a truer word than she had expected. The chill had been disregarded at first, and proved somewhat severe. was voiceless for two days following, and pain and oppression of the chest came next. To keep Muriel in bed was beyond even Mrs. Bertram's power, but Muriel herself could not deny that to venture out of doors would be the height of imprudence. Agitation of mind acting on the nervous system might have had to do with the matter, for she was really unwell, feverish, languid, and scarcely able to employ herself. Muriel began to wonder whether she would be able to venture out even so soon as the tea-party evening, and whether Mrs. Bertram would go alone in that

case.

However, decisive amendment set in before then, and by Monday she was almost herself again. Mrs. Bertram kept her indoors resolutely,-plainly determined that no fresh chill should stand in the way of the Manor plan.

The thought of the James Bertrams was a real anxiety of mind to Muriel. She could not go; she could not send. If she wrote, she must address to "Mrs. Bertram," and without further proof of the truth of the tale, Muriel could not make up her mind

to seem to sanction it. The same difficulty stood in the way of a messenger. The servant who had accompanied her could have found the room again with ease, but to send her without telling her for whom she had to ask was not possible. Muriel came to the conclusion that she could only wait. Sometimes she half expected Pauline to appear, but Pauline did not. Sometimes she regretted that she had not at once gone fully into the question, before leaving Mrs. James Bertram; but regrets now were profitless. At the time she had not felt calm enough to do so.

On Tuesday Mrs. Bertram remarked, “You had better take a little turn with me this morning. It is a lovely day; and you may as well get used to the air."

"Could I not go into Bushby? I really have no cough worth mentioning now.'

Among the poor? That can wait till to-morrow. I am not going to have you do yourself up before the evening. Your cold has pulled you down."

66

"I am a great deal more done up' with want of air and exercise," said Muriel, suppressing a yawn. "I feel as if this week's imprisonment had taken away all my ideas."

"I beg you will find some before this evening. On no account favour us with one of your silent moods. You can talk well, if you choose."

66

I'll try not," was all Muriel could say.

"I'm better to-day, Pauline," Mrs. James Bertram said that same morning.

"Mother, you look better a great deal," said Pauline.

"Yes, and I feel so. But it won't last. I must make the most of the well fit while it is on me." "Perhaps if you took very very great care, it would last," said Pauline anxiously. "Don't you think so, mother? It might. The doctor said yesterday we weren't to give up hope; and if you kept perfectly still, and didn't get excited"

66

That's all very fine. How much money do you suppose we've got left?"

Pauline hung her head, and was silent.

"And what are we going to do when that's gone?" Still no answer.

"You see, child; you see it won't do. Things can't go on so. Here's ten days we have waited,

and not a word from Miss Bertram. She don't mean to have anything more to do with us; that's plain."

"I don't think it is. Oh, mother, we don't know. You said yesterday to the doctor that Miss Bertram hadn't been again; and he said he believed she wasn't well. You know he said so; and if she is ill, how can she come?"

"Will you go, Pauline?"

Pauline shook her head.

James Bertram. "I'm not going on like this an longer."

"What should I have to do if I went?" Pauline.

"Ask for Mrs. Bertram-Mrs., not Miss. Id trust that Miss Bertram. She wants to put us Mind you ask for Mrs. Bertram,' and send in yo name as Miss Bertram. And if she refuses, you jus tell the servant out and out that you're her nie and that you won't go without you've seen her." Pauline wrung her little brown hands together "I can't do it," she said. "I can't do it. Mothe I can't. It is no use to ask me. Oh, I wish, 1 U wish we had never come to Bushby."

"If we hadn't I would come now." Mrs. Bertram lay and considered; her thin sallon lips pressed together.

"Couldn't we just wait a little longer?" plead Miss Bertram meant to come again. think she will come. I am sure she is kind. mother, don't you think if we tried to pray to Go He would take care of us?"

Mrs. Bertram looked curiously at Pauline. "Wha do you mean, child?"

66

I wish we really did pray," said Pauline in low voice.

"Folks have to act for themselves, pray or a pray," said Mrs. Bertram. "That's what I've for in life. There's trouble enough either way."

"But did you ever try the praying, mother?" It was a keen little shaft, unknown to the sender and Mrs. Bertram felt it so.

"Other people have if I haven't. It doesn't matter. I've got something else to think about now. G me my packet of papers."

Pauline obeyed, with feelings of disquiet. She did not know what might be coming. Her mother had certainly seemed to rally wonderfully the l two days, yet she suffered acutely still, and wa worn to skin and bone. Pauline stood silent, bracing herself for resistance.

"That's all that's needed," said Mrs. Bertram folding a few letters and papers together. "Here tie up these, and put them back safely. If you g you'll have to take something with you to prove your words. Miss Bertram wanted proof, and sh shall have it too."

"I'm not going, mother." The tone was resolute, and Pauline stood very straight. “I'm not going and you are not going either. If you try, I'll call the landlady, and send for the doctor."

"I didn't say I was going," responded Mrs. Ber tram carelessly, forgetting what had slipped from her a few moments before. "That's your way, is it?-to say you won't do what your poor dying mother begs of you."

"Mother-oh, I can't, mother," said Pauline, half

Why, don't I see it? Isn't it plain? Here am I breaking my heart to get things put straight for