surface; "I shall not know how to get over the habit of looking for you."

He got up and walked about the room amid the four little heaps of little clothes. "I don't want you to get over that habit," he would say; but he never told her that he meant to be her guardian during the voyage, and to go with her to the unknown world.

They had speculated anxiously the time when Mr. Percival's answer would come, and had talked it all over a hundred times, and decided that there would just be time to catch the ship at Liverpool after it arrived. Mr. Fitzmaurice set out from his house to the cottage, walking across the park, on the forenoon of the day on which he knew the letter must have come. He walked slowly, and his face was very grave. Though he intended to go with her, he was yet well aware of the seriousness of the step. And he knew that it might not be possible for him to remain near her to shield off trouble from her in the new circumstances when she resumed her place by her father's side. That father, in all probability, would not tolerate his presence; and Elinor herself, it was almost certain, having no return to make him, would be uneasy and embarrassed if he expatriated himself for her sake. And he had duties at home which must call him even from her side. It was, therefore, with a heart full of despondency that he set out to receive the last definite orders, to speed her parting, to help her to take the step which would separate her from him for ever. These were not pleasant anticipations, even though the moment of farewell might not be yet.

He walked along with his head bowed down and his heart heavy, and so did not perceive till she was close upon him the subject of his thoughts, Elinor herself, hurrying along, as much abstracted and pre-occupied as he, with a face of deadly pallor and eyes that were widely opened with wonder and trouble, but scarcely seemed to see. He cried, "Elinor!" with wild surprise, suddenly stopping short, and she, too, stopped and looked at him, coming to herself, as it were, with a sort of shudder.

"What is the matter?" he said. has happened—your father————? ”

Something

She gave him a woeful smile. "My father is quite well," she said. "I have got his letter. It is very strange-oh, very strange." Then the smile became a low laugh, which terrified him. "Marrying seems all that people are thinking of," she said.

"My dear child! don't laugh, when I can see you are in great trouble. Elinor, lean upon me; you are trembling; tell me what it is."

He drew her towards him, and in her misery she wept on his shoulder. "It is that there is no home for us anywhere-that we have nowhere to go-nowhere to go," she said; "my fatherBut here her voice was choked, and she could say no more.

He made her sit down upon the trunk of a fallen tree. They were in the midst of the park, in the soft glory of a summer morning, all green and fresh, all smiling and silent, not a creature When Elinor had overcome the paroxysm

near.

of feeling, her pale face reddened with shame, and she drew away from his support. "Oh," she said, "forgive me, it seemed too much to bear. But nothing is too much to bear when one must bear it and there is no escape."

Terrible philosophy for one so young to learn! and the faint flicker of a smile with which she looked up at him was almost too much for him en his side. She took the letter from her pocket and gave it to him to read, watching his countenance while he did so. This was what Mr. Percival said

DEAR ELINOR,-Your letter surprised me very much, and annoyed me not a little; what does it all mean, and what have you been thinking about? Your uncle and Bromley and every one must have been behaving like fools to let you act as you say you have done; and I that thought you were safely established in life, and in a position to be a real help and protection to your brothers and sisters! I must say that such a discovery is very hard upon me. As for coming out here, as you propose, I don't see how that can be done. No doubt when I wrote to you last I suggested that one of your sisters might come to keep my house; but that has become unnecessary since, for, for once in my life, a piece of real good fortune has come in my way. A lady of great personal attractions, and with a little property-which is extremely convenient in present circumstances-has done me the honour to accept my hand. We shall be married before this reaches you. At such a moment the arrival of a whole family, such as you propose to bring upon me, would be very much out of place, and I must decline to receive you at once and peremptorily. Since it is evident that you owe the burden upon you solely to your own hot-headedness, I do not see that it is necessary for me to step in and relieve you from the consequences of your folly. Remain where you are, since you have a home, and be thankful. I will send you a little money for the boys' schooling when I find I can spare it. Love to the children. Your affectionate father, J. P.

He read it, and folded it up carefully in its former folds, before he looked up. She watched him with quivering lips, with a wistful longing for sympathy, for compassion, for understanding, such as he alone seemed able to give. Was even he failing now?

"You see," she said, speaking with difficulty, "that all is over, Cousin Maurice. No going away, no new life. You must just bear with me and the children; we must live on-we can't help it-dependent. Oh, I did not think it was to be always so! I thought at least I might do something I thought I might be--"

Her voice was choked. She made an appealing gesture to him, and hid her face in her hands.

"Elinor," he said, "you must not expect sympathy from me to-day. I have not crossed you, have I? I have tried to help you to do what you thought your duty. I meant to have

gone with you, though you were not to know. But now that it is all over you can't expect me to be sorry. I meant to throw over all my duties, my dear, that you might do yours."

She uncovered her face with a tremulous cry, and looked at him. He proceeded, without looking at her, gravely telling his tale.

"I should have gone with you," he went on, "not for your sake, but for mine. It is not your fault, my dear, but things have fallen so, and I have come to that pass that I cannot live without you, Elinor."

His voice was perfectly calm and serious, without any passion in it. He was telling her the simple facts without any comment. He

"Let us now go even unto I DESIRE, in this paper, to tell my readers something about Bethlehem, and the places of interest we passed in going to it from Jerusalem. I trust we may be taught some lessons "by the way," and by once more considering some of the sacred associations which have gathered round the cradle of our Redeemer.

It was at one time very doubtful whether we should be able to undertake this most interesting journey. It was the last day of our too short stay at Jerusalem, and the evening before, about sundown, when on the Mount of Olives, we had been caught in a thunderstorm. It rained, as it only can rain in the East, all night, and the morning dawned amidst a perfect hurricane of wind and rain. However, about ten o'clock the clouds cleared away to some extent, and in the waggonette in which we came from Joppa we set out, with many sacred thoughts, for the place where our infant Redeemer was laid. We start from the little hotel, kept by a German, outside the walls, and quite close to the Joppa gate, the chief entrance to Jerusalem, through which are

Bethlehem."-St. Luke, ii. 15.

always issuing troops of riders on camels and donkeys, and about which groups of muleteers and idlers throng.

It was somewhat striking that in going to visit the birthplace of Him who came to consecrate infancy and childhood to the world, our road should first of all run through the upper part of the valley of Hinnom, of dark and blood-stained memories, in the lower part of which children in old days were sacrificed to the idol Moloch, a valley which in later days became so great an object of detestation to the Jews, that in the New Testament it is called Gehenna. In curious contrast with the ancient surroundings, on the slope of the hill opposite the lower pool, stand a modern windmill and rows of smart cottagesthe gift of Sir Moses Montefiore, the Peabody of Jerusalem (to whom, though somewhat late, we desire to send our centenary congratulations), for the benefit of his oppressed Hebrew brethren. On our left is the Hill of Evil Counsel, where, according to tradition, Judas is supposed to have hanged himself. It is so called because Caiaphas

had a country house there, where he consulted with the Jews about the death of Jesus.

We passed from the valley of Hinnom into the plain of Rephaim, where David defeated the Philistines, being commanded by the Lord to go out against them, when he heard the sound of a going in the tops of the mulberry trees, as we read in 2 Samuel, v. 22-25. It is the boundary line between Judah and Benjamin. On the rising ground here there is a well, called the Well of the Magi, or wise men, tradition asserting that here, after leaving the presence of Herod, the wise men, at a loss in what direction to go, and being weary with their journey, rested, and, stooping to draw water, saw the star therein reflected. Under its guidance they found their way to where the young child lay. This is one of many legends about the Star. Another tradition tells us that in the furthest East there lived a people who had a book which bore the name of Seth. In this was written the appearance of the Star of the Messiah, and the offering of gifts to Him. This book was handed down from generation to generation. Twelve men were chosen to watch for the Star, and when one died another was chosen in his place. They went each year, after the wheat harvest, to the top of a mountain called the Mount of Victory. It had a cave in it, and was pleasant, by reason of its water and trees. At last the Star appeared. In it was the form of a little child, and over him the sign of the Cross. The Star itself spoke to them, and told them to go into Judea. For the two years which they journeyed, the Star moved before them, and they wanted neither food nor drink. At last it sank into this well, where it may yet be seen, but only by pure maidens. It is only a legend; but it tells of great truths-the kind of heart we must possess if we wish to reach the Holy Land of our imagination-that of the Child, and the kind of life we must lead-that of which the Cross is the symbol. May we not also hold it as indicating that, as we journey on in this life and with this heart, we shall lack nothing that is needful for us.

Leaving the well we came to a Greek convent, Mar Elyas, so called because it was built by a certain Bishop Elias. The Greek monks will, however, assure the visitor that it is the very place where the prophet Elijah rested under the juniper tree, when he fled from Jezebel, and requested "for his very life that he might die, for he was no better than his fathers." From this height there is a fine view. Bethlehem is visible in front in the south-east, Jerusalem is behind on the north, and beyond it the conspicuous hill of Neby Samuel and the blue mountain range to the east of Jordan. To the east of the road on which we are driving, you just see where the Dead Sea lies. Quite near us is what is shown as the field of pease, so called, says tradition, because

Christ here asked a man what he was sowing. The man replied "Stones;" and the field thereupon bore pease of stones, some of which are still to be found on the spot. I mention this to show the ridiculous kind of legend that has grown up in regard to many of the actions of Christ.

But if there is no truth in such stories as these, it is almost certain that tradition is right in identifying the next place we come to with a spot which one can hardly look at and remain unaffected, the tomb of Rachel, and where she died, journeying from Bethel to " Ephrath, which is Bethlehem." "And there was but a little way to come to Ephrath," says the narrative, and, in truth, it is but a mile, and it would be in sight. Here the child that cost her her life was born, as we read in the 35th chapter of Genesis. "And it came to pass that as her soul was in departing (for she died), that she called his name Benoni, son of my sorrow: but his father called him Benjamin, son of my right hand. And Rachel died, and was buried on the way to Ephrath, which is Bethlehem. And Jacob set a pillar on her grave: this is the pillar of Rachel's grave until this day." "Here," says Canon Tristram, "at least we have not our dreams and musings disturbed by the intrusion of the topographical sceptic. For once we have an undisputed site. Israelite, Christian, Moslem, have but one tradition respecting it, and all agree in recognising the spot" where Rachel died and was buried. What now marks it is a modern " Wely," or roadside chapel, a small square whitewashed piece of masonry, surmounted by a central dome. It is by no means an imposing building, but it needed no costly mausoleum to keep in memory the grave of Rachel, beautiful, beloved, untimely taken away. It did not need this to set us thinking of the old story of devoted love, which was the one silver chord that ran through much that was base in Jacob's life of how, when he begins to woe this maiden, fourteen long years seemed to him but a few days, for the love he bore to her. And when he was an old and weary man, long years after her death, we find him recalling her fair image. The face of his one and only love gleamed in among the shadows of his death-bed, and he repeats, as he sighs for the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is still, the story of his love. "As for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan in the way, when yet there was but a little way to come into Ephrath: and I buried her there in the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem." It is a touching story of devotion, which gleams out fresh and fair to this day. Little wonder that Rachel was long remembered, and that, in the time of Ruth, her name still clung to the nuptial benedictions of the villagers of Bethlehem, when they said, "The Lord make the woman that is come into thy house like Rachel;" that after the

allotment of the country to the several tribes, the territory of the Benjamites was extended by a long strip, far into the south, to include the sepulchre of their beloved ancestress; and that in later years, when the infants of Bethlehem were slaughtered by Herod, it seemed to the Evangelist as though the voice of Rachel was heard weeping for her children from her neighbouring grave. And little wonder that the Jews, who, as a rule, never accept a Christian or Moslem tradition, still pay visits of sympathy to this Saracenic mausoleum which marks her last resting-place.

As we neared Bethlehem the scenery became very pastoral and beautiful, and many picturesque Bible figures, with their touching histories, rise up before us. We remembered that it was the country of Ruth and of David. We "cannot look upon that group of women in their white robes standing over there on a terrace just under the town," engaged in earnest conversation, without thinking of the group that once surrounded Naomi, the sorrow-stricken widow, returning to her native town, and hearing the people say, as they looked at her pale, haggard face, "Is this Naomi?" And she said unto them, as many a poor man and woman has had to say since that day, "Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I went out full, and the Lord hath brought me home again empty." Nor can we look upon the corn waving white unto the harvest without seeing the fair form of Ruth gleaning in the field after the reapers-Ruth, who became the ancestress of our Saviour, to whose birthplace we are journeying. "But, see," says a writer,* "over there, coming down the steep pathway on one side of the town, is a shepherd leading forth his sheep. He goeth before them, and the sheep follow him. He is leading them out to green pastures; they know him, and follow him whithersoever he leadeth: the foremost of them are not more than a foot behind the shepherd's heels." The little lambs rest their faces and noses against his staff. Here, then, before our eyes, is the picture Jesus saw when He spake the parable of the Good Shepherd. "It was upon one of these hills that David, the youth, ruddy and withal of a beautiful countenance, kept his father's sheep. It was in these glens and valleys that he rang out those glorious songs which have echoed through the world and been the keynotes to new melodies in every believer's heart. It was here that the rocks and the hills, the sunshine and the shadow, the poetry and the music of the little world around him, became God's instruments to create that mighty world within him whose treasures have enriched all ages." From these terraces he would consider the heavens the work of God's fingers, the moon and the stars (how

* Hodder.

beautiful they are at midnight in the East!) which he had ordained, and say, "What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? or the son of man, that Thou visitest him?" and as he felt God's glory flood his soul-as he felt some link here in his heart to the Great Creator of all this beauty, he would add, "Thou hast made him only a little lower than the angels; Thou hast crowned him with glory and honour." "Truly, Bethlehem is still the city of David, and every hill and valley and field recalls some incident of his life. Now we see him coming from that wild glen, bearing the trophies of his battles with the lion and the bear; or we see him hurrying with eager and wondering countenance, to meet the prophet who had sent for him from the field, and who anointed him in the midst of his brethren. Again, we watch him coming down from that steep hill with the asses laden by his father, on his way to Saul, and we note the tender care with which he holds the harp-that friend of his solitude and minister of his joy-that instrument which shall be in his hand as powerful over the giant Saul as the sling and the stone (his boyhood's toys) shall be over the giant Goliath." Again, as we stand by the "Well of David," quite near the town, we see him hard pressed in battle, Bethlehem in the hands of the Philistines, and he in the cave of Adullam; and he was thirsty, and before his eyes bubbled and sparkled the well that he remembered by the gate, and David longed and said, "Oh, that one would give me drink of the water of the well of Bethlehem, which is by the gate;" and how, hearing that, three mighty men broke through the ranks of the Philistines, and brought it to him, and how, as he thought of the precious life that had been risked to obtain it, he would not drink it, but poured it on the ground, saying, "Be it far from me, ( Lord, that I should do this. Is not this the blood of the men that went in jeopardy of their lives?"

But beyond the figure of the great king there rises, as we approach Bethlehem, the House of Bread, yet other figures-that of a weary and way worn woman and her husband, thankful to be so near the town, though there was no room for them in the inn; a band of shepherds keeping watch in the fields by night, stirred out of their routine by strange sights and strange sounds, light from heaven, music from angels, the glory of the Lord round about, the sweet words in their ears, "Fear not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord;" and high up above them in the heavens, the Gloria in Excelsis, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and goodwill toward men." Then the form of the Christ child wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid in a manger; the babe Jesus-like the little one some of you may have at home-and