round of drudgery, in a life of humdrum monotony, the soft brown eyes that I pity," said Fergus Elstone. Ah, if they could do something great and noble, like men can, to rouse themselves out of their sorrow, it would be well with them," said Donald. Then my sister Ruth spoke, and at the sound of her sweet voice, so full of tender earnestness, every one looked round. 'Donald," she said-and there was a soft light shining in her brown eyes as she spoke-"God's praise of a woman's work is, 'She hath done what she could."" She said no more; those few words were enough for us all. The lads' faces grew serious, the girls looked thoughtful, and my mind went back to bygone days. "Ah, Ruth, my sister." It was not much wonder that when the party had broken up, I should still sit by the fire, thinking over the life-story of Ruth. Elstone Hearth is the name of our home. It was a strange name to give it, but there was a story attached to it which made it dear to us. An old ancestor of my father's, after wandering for the best part of his life in foreign countries, returned at length to his native land, and spent some of his accumulated fortune in purchasing this estate. He built upon it a roomy, comfortable house, and laid out the grounds very tastefully. He never married; but when his house was finished, | he sought out all his poorer relations. All the orphans of the family-all the lozely old maidsall those who were in want, and unable from illness or any other cause to work for themselves, were invited to share his home for as long as they liked; and he called it Elstone Hearth. Such was the time-honoured legend which belonged to our house. I was born there. I have never left it, and I look forward to a peaceful old age within these walls. There were six of us. Ruth was the eldest daughter; I was the eldest son. Next came Willie; then Fergus, our sailor-boy, whose grave is beneath the palm-trees on a foreign shore; then Edith, the beauty of our family; and, lastly, little Mary (Mayflower, as we called her), who lies beside our mother in the churchyard hard by. I have often wondered why I, the poor deformed, helpless boy, was allowed to be the eldest son; but God knows best. My seat has always been by the hearth. I have seen the others coming and going. I have lived my life in theirs, for I have had few hopes or interests of my own. I have known some sorrow-but enough of myself; it was of Ruth I was thinking on that evening, as I pondered over her words "God's praise of a woman's work is, She hath done what she could."" It was hardly beautiful, that young face of long ago, which I called up again; and yet there was something akin to beauty in it. Those who criticised it said that it was too short for its breadth, that the cheeks were too rosy, the mouth too wide, though and golden brown hair were undeniably lovely. But to me it was all beautiful then, as it is now, though the rosy colour is nearly gone, the shining hair streaked with grey, the round, plump face is thin and wrinkled. Ruth has been everything to me. My young brothers, in their exuberant health and bounding spirits, could not understand the sickly, pale-faced, lame boy, who was so little able to join in their sports; my little sisters pitied me, but had no sympathy to give; my father was kind, but he looked upon me with disappointment, and made Fergus his idol. My mother-ah! my gentle mother, I dare not trust myself to speak of you. Ruth is like you, and I can give her no higher praise. Brother, sister, friend, has Ruth been to me. ever pleasure I have found in life, I have owed to her. She has borne more than the half of my burden for me, and has made the rest seem lighter to me than I ever imagined it could be. us. What It was when Ruth was about eighteen that Willie first brought his friend, Malcolm Laurie, here to see Malcolm was several years older than our Willie; but he had been very kind to him, and we had heard so much of him from our young brother, that we were glad to welcome him. I remember so well the first day we saw him. I had been wheeled in my chair on to the lawn, and was enjoying the sight of the flood of June sunshine in which the house, the trees, and the faroff hills were bathed. Ruth was by my side, reading me a new poem, in her soft, sweet voice. Willie and Mr. Laurie had arrived about half an hour before, and my brother was introducing his friend to my parents. When this ceremony was over, my mother proposed that they should come in search of us, which they accordingly did, and took us quite by surprise, in our sheltered little nook. Ruth went on reading for several minutes, unconscious of their presence, her voice growing more and more earnest, and her whole face full of the poem. I, too, was wholly intent upon it, or rather, upon studying my sister's face, as she read it. Suddenly I heard a smothered laugh, and, looking round, I saw Willie's merry face peeping from amongst the branches of the hawthorn-tree under which we sat. And there was another face beside his, a bright, handsome, clever face, full of thou~ht and intellect; and this was Malcolm Laurie's. "I told you we should find them at poetry, or something of that sort," said saucy Will, as he kissed Ruth; and then he added, "You see I've brought him-this is Malcolm Laurie; Laurie, these are Ruth and Archie." "I know that, without an introduction," said our brother's friend, bowing courteously to Ruth, and shaking hands with me. I think I see Ruth now, as she stood then, with her head bent down, and her eyes shaded by the 1 THE LIGHT OF ELSTONE HEARTH. brim of a straw hat of mine, which she had put on when she came out. Her dress was of muslin-blue and white like a summer sky, and in her hand she still held the poetry, with her finger marking the place where she had left off. It was thus that Malcolm Laurie first saw her. He joined our little party, and by-and-by he took the book from Ruth, and went on with the poem, reading it more beautifully than I had ever heard any one read before. I remember now Ruth's face of pleasure, as she sat watching him, and listening to him. That was how he came amongst us-this handsome, clever Malcolm, who was to have such a strange influence over the lives of some of us. It was only the first of many pleasant hours under the hawthorn-tree. By degrees a change came over our Ruth—a wondrous thoughtful manner, a deeper tenderness for me, a brighter blush and a soft shyness whenever Willie's friend spoke to her, for the glamour of woman's life had fallen upon her, and she had learnt to love. Autumn came. The white blossoms of our hawthorn-tree had long faded, the berries were nearly red, the woods were golden and crimson, the hills were purple with heather, and Malcolm Laurie was a constant visitor at Elstone Hearth. One day, Ruth came to me as I sat on the gardenseat on the lawn, watching the sun sinking in the western sky over the long range of dark hills, and the sunlight glow itself was not so bright as the glow on her cheeks, as she spoke. "Archie! I wanted to tell you myself." "Tell me what?" I asked, while an undefined feeling of fear filled my heart. She knelt down beside me, and hid her face, while she said, "That Malcolm loves me, and has-has asked me to be his wife." The bright sunlight over the far-off hills grew misty, for it was seen through tear-dimmed eyes. It was selfish, it was thoughtless, it was anything you like to call it, but I could not keep back that sob, which came from me, nor the hurried words, "Ruth-Ruth! he must not, he shall not, take you from me." Her bright face was clouded for an instant, as she looked up tenderly at me. "Archie! oh, don'tdon't! I am so happy." I was silent then. Ruth loved this man-loved him better than her parents, her home, or me; and he must have her. The flickering shadows of the hawthorn leaves played upon her face, and the sunset glow was on it. She looked pretty then; but I had often seen the evening light shining upon her before. Now there was something more in her face: a soft, wistful gladness in her eyes, a smile of content upon her lips-all the new life and light of glory, which the love of a good man pours into a woman's heart. 331 I could not understand it then as I do now. I only knew that she was to be taken away from us; and that, for the sake of a stranger whom she had known but for a few months, she was glad to go. I felt almost resentful, and if it had been any one but Ruth I should have become angry. "We cannot spare you. I cannot give you up," I muttered. "It will not be for a long time yet," said Ruth, in a low voice, trembling with her newly-found happiness. "He must get a practice first;" for Malcolm Laurie was a young doctor. "Perhaps it will never be," I said, hurriedly, trying to shake off the burden of an unpleasant thought. I was angry with myself the next moment, for Ruth's head drooped, and, clasping her hands together, I heard her whisper, "Then God help me!" I felt shy and uncomfortable, not knowing what to do or say next, and there was silence between us until somebody said close by "The sun has set; Ruth, you have had a cold; you must not be out without something warm round you." It was Malcolm Laurie who spoke, and there was, as I thought, an assumption of authority in his manner which grated upon me; but Ruth looked as if she liked it. Malcolm went back to the house, and while he was away she whispered to me"Archie, dear, please don't let him think that my own favourite brother doesn't like him Please, say something." "I wish I wish he had never come here," I said, choking down another sob as I spoke. He returned just then with his own plaid, and put it about Ruth's shoulders, saying tenderly as he did So, 'Mine, to take care of now." 66 She answered him with such a smile as I had never seen on her face until then. And after that he spoke to me. "Archie, man, I am quite sure you will grudge her to me; but I want you to feel that you have gained a brother, and not lost a sister," and he held out his hand. I put mine into it, and, looking away as I spoke, said, "She's the best thing I've got." 66 But you have a father, mother, and other sisters and brothers besides," he said, feelingly; "and I've got nothing. I was very lonely, Archie, until I came here, and now the whole world seems full of sunshine." Ruth slipped her hand into his as he spoke, and then I knew in my own mind it was useless to fight against it any longer. I had lost my sister. This was the first hard trial of my life; but they came quickly after that, one after another, like strong, high waves which seemed to roll over me, dashing me down or lifting me on their crests, and tossing me about hither and thither at their will, until they washed me up, at length, shattered to return no more? Have you felt the chill which and bruised, on the strand. We had been an unbroken family circle until then, and only those who have felt the blanks which are left as one by one the loved ones arise and go away, can know all the happiness which is gathered together in those words; but during that autumn God stretched out his hand through the darkness and took our May-flower. Then news came that our brave, bright Fergus had died at sea. That crushed my father, and changed him from a healthy man in the prime of life, to a shattered, nervous invalid, requiring constant care. My mother bore up in Godgiven strength for some time; but her health, which never was good, broke down at last. She lingered for a year or two, fading gradually; then God took I do not dwell on these changes; they are sacred to those who felt them. Those who have experienced them will know the darkness which fell upon us then; and those who have not, could not understand my words, so I will be silent. Only one thing will I tell before she went, my mother called Ruth, and charged her not to leave her invalid father and me until Edith should be twenty-one, and old enough to take care of us; and Ruth promised. Five years more of weary waiting for Malcolm and for her; but it was her duty, and in that word there was nothing harsh or stern to our Ruth—it meant work to be done lovingly and gratefully for God, and thus it has been through all her life. her. Have you ever known what it is, when a large party of happy people are gathered round the blazing fire in bright and social converse, to see the door opened, and one another beckoned out of the room comes over those who are left, the restraint, the silence, the dulness; how even the fire, which burnt brightly before, seems to get low, and the merry blaze to die down? Thus it was with us in those days. Willie was away at college studying for the ministry. Malcolm Laurie was in Edinburgh walking the hospitals, seldom getting time to come to us, but writing continually to Ruth. Only my father, Ruth, Edith, and myself were left, and we were very lonely; but Ruth was the light of Elstone Hearth then as she has ever been. Never from word or sign did we guess how hard that time was to her. All the responsibility of the household, all the nursing of her father and of me, all the education of Edith, fell upon her young shoulders; and, added to this, there was the anxiety about her future life, the longing for Malcolm, whom she loved more devotedly than ever during this weary time of separation. And yet it was all borne with patience, ay, with cheerfulness, and to my mind that implies a great deal more. True patience-the highest kind, I mean-is that which is bright under trouble, looking for the sunny side of everything, and reflecting every ray that is granted to it. I did not then know, as I have learnt since, that our Ruth's cheerfulness was that of a heart that laid its troubles reverently at the feet of the God of all comfort as they came, and in his strength was taught to "rejoice evermore." It was only once that I knew her courageous spirit gave way, for a crisis came in her brave young life. (To be continued.) HE duty and the advantages of economy in the employment of our possessions form a subject worthy of consideration. Frugality is Godlike, Christ-like, blessed, and hence is worthy of being cultivated by every reader. We say frugality; not selfishness, covetousness, avarice, parsimony. The latter needs as much to be shunned, as the former deserves to be sought. Doubtless, the step between the virtue of economy, and the vice of covetousness is very short-the division very slight-but there is a bound set by God himself, and it is within our power, as it becomes a pleasure, to keep the right side of it. There is nothing beautiful or lovable about selfishness and penuriousness; there is much that is winsome and praiseworthy about a prudent thrift. thing gathers up the fragments that remain, so that nothing is lost. We often meet again that which we rejected, but know it not because of the altered aspect under which it appears. Thus the luxuriant summer foliage will in autumn be nipped by the cold wind and fade and fall. Leaf after leaf, disfigured by decay, will become the playthings of the wind, and be trampled under foot of man; but no leaf is lost. Each will help to enrich the soil, and afford nourishment to future produce of the ground. So "The little drift of common dust, By the March winds disturbed and tost, It yet may bear some sturdy stem, In looking at the operations of Nature, we are And as it is with animate and inanimate nature struck with the frugality displayed by the Almighty around us, so it is with the human mind. The Artificer. Isaiah tells us that when this beautiful various sights, and sounds, and silent influences world was formed, the Eternal Creator measured to which we are exposed, are ever making impresthe very dust of the earth, and the waters of the sions upon us which will appear in our future sea; as though he would suggest that there is not character. The mind gathers up all the fragments. one grain of dust too many or one drop of water Memory, that scribe of the soul, allows nothing to too little. The measure is exact. And calculating slip from her keen vision, but records the whole thus to a nicety in the formation of this globe, for good or evil. Coleridge has told of a servantGod as carefully preserves all he has created. girl who, having casually heard her master repeat By the researches of science and the inventions of Greek and Hebrew sentences, years after, in the art men have been transforming, intermingling, delirium of a fever, repeated the whole of those and disjoining objects; but there is no increase-sentences with the greatest correctness. From no diminution. In quantity all things continue that fact Coleridge infers, it is "more possible for as they were. Whatever changes take place, there heaven and earth to pass away, than that a single is no absolute loss. Nature is ever active. Matter act, a single thought, should be loosened or lost may change its locality, features, and services, but from that living chain of causes, with all the links is never hopelessly abandoned. There are revolu- of which the free will, our only absolute self, is tions, transitions, and alterations constantly pass- co-existent and co-present. And this," he adds, ing on, but there is no annihilation. No atom eludes "is, perchance, that dread book of judgment in the grasp of Nature. Matter is indestructible. the mysterious hieroglyphics of which every idle Many things, the practical use of which we are word is recorded." Thus, whether we look withunable to discern, and which indeed we are dis-out us or within ourselves, Nature teaches that posed to cast aside as useless, or positively the great Creator and proprietor of all is eminently offensive, are frugally guarded by Nature. Some- frugal-that from the first he has given command |