several of his windows blocked up, lest people outside should detect his wickedness, and shutters were made that could be slipped up in a moment to hide his guilty treasures. The full light of heaven never shone in that house, and outside it looked very like a person who was always blinking and shutting his eyes for fear his neighbours should read his wretched secrets.

Another tenant was a hypocrite, and the front of his house was clean in the extreme, but all round the sides, and at the hack, wherever he thought people might not see, ill weeds grew; and inside, cobwebs hung from the walls. Another thought his lord had left his handiwork incomplete, and hung all sorts of paltry ornaments about the outer walls, but his house only looked the worse for his pains, and the vanity and folly of the man were apparent to all the passers-by.

"Meanwhile, the tenant who lived in the ill-built house, had changed his mind somewhat about his abode. One day, looking cut disconsolately, he thought how low and dark the dwelling was. Just at that moment something tapped against the window-pane, and he saw a tall, ugly weed, whose broad leaves were blowing in the wind, and hiding the free light of heaven with its ungainly form.

"As the tenant noticed it, he thought, 'I might well not see out, with all that unsightly weed shading the light!' So he Lade a brave resolve, and setting to work at once, he cut the tall weed down, and more than that, he dug away at the roots till he had wholly destroyed it. But that was only the beginning of his endeavours. Round all the windows noxious plants Lad crept and twined, till in a little while the light of heaven would have been shut out entirely. But the tenant, though he had been at first so dejected, was naturally brave, and seeing Low much light entered through the destruction of one weed, Le set to work heartily to remove all ill-looking or unsightly things from around his house. But the work was worse than te had expected. 'Ill weeds grow apace,' and they had taken deep root and grown used to the soil, so as fast as he cleared them away one day, they appeared creeping up again the next, And then, as the light came in, it showed him so much more dust and signs of neglect, that the poor man saw nothing but thorough reform could avail. And he forgot that when he had done his best, his home was but a poor, defective building after all, for he grew so happy in his work that he lost sight of the disadvantages under which he laboured, and instead of dwelling upon his miseries, he began to find many new and unexpected blessings and mercies connected with his lot, and discovered charms which formerly he had never suspected. If his house had a solitary position, it had a very beautiful one.

"At one end towards the east, was a spacious window, which commanded a (wide view for miles over a lovely valley, where between green fields and pleasant meadows flowed a winding, sparkling river, and just beyond it all stretched the gleaming sa, where white sails glimmered and shone against the far horizon. And of a morning when the sun rose, the view was grandly magnificent-to see the clouds grow a rosy colour with the coming glory, and the waters beneath flashing back their brightness till they gleamed and shone like a glowing sca of fire, and as the sun mounted higher, to watch the green pastures and fragrant hedgerows all sparkling beneath his rays-oh, it was worth living in such a poorly-built house, to have an outlook so glorious and grand!

"And at the other end of the house, was a window towards the west, of corresponding size, and from thence he could see the sun set behind a range of distant hills, whose summits used to flush with rosy light, as his setting beams rested on them. The tenant in his own mind named the rooms-the eastern one he called Hope, for after the darkest night that room was sure to catch some of the morning's early radiance; and the western room he called Peace, for the scene from that window was full of tranquillity and rest.

"All along to the south also, the house had its front; and at the back, where there was not so much light and warmth, there was at a little distance a forest of tall trees, which sheltered

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it from bleak winds. So, although the house seemed somewhat removed from other habitations, yet it was peculiarly placed, and carefully sheltered. And by degrees it became so attractive, so unconsciously the gracious spirit of its inmate beautified it altogether, that people, when they passed it, so far from being repelled by its appearance, were charmed and attracted by it.

"Little children, especially, loved the spot, and liked to linger in its gardens bright with lovely flowers, for in the place of the rank weeds, rare and beautiful plants had been carefully cultivated. The tenant himself had long ceased to sigh after the grand houses that had once been so much his envy; in fulfilling faithfully the duties appointed him, he found happiness and content.

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'One evening two travellers were passing by, and he heard them talking, and one said to the other:

"Of all those model houses, this poor, strangely-built house is to me the most attractive.'

"Yes,' said the other; 'the lord of the houses has heard of its progress, and the news of it pleased him, and made him glad exceedingly.'

"As the tenant heard these words, his heart throbbed with sudden, intense delight. That his lord and master knew and approved of him, and was exceedingly glad, these thoughts filled him with unspeakable joy. But greater bliss was in store for him. Soon afterwards the lord of those houses returned, to pass judgment, and give his promised rewards. There was no escaping his unerring scrutiny. The man who was a thief and had darkened his windows, saw his shutters suddenly torn down, his house laid open to the light, and all his sin and wickedness exposed to everyone. The hypocrite too found his deceit could no longer avail. He had got the front of his house so scrupulously clean that he hoped the outside view would suffice, and that his judge would give a cursory glance and pass him by. But no smart frontages could deceive his lord. He saw at a glance the true case, and he caused all the weeds and rubbish, that had been fostered where people were not likely to see them, to be brought to the front, and the windows and doors were thrown open, and the neglected rooms, full of foul insects, and dust, and dirt, were fully exposed to view, to the utter surprise of many, who had thought that because the front of the house was so fair to look upon, the man himself must be a good and orderly tenant. And the Iman who had ornamented his house with useless tinsel and trivial array, saw all his senseless adornments taken away, and everywhere the walls looked decayed and shabby where the foolish ornaments had been placed.

"So each tenant was judged fairly, and wherever any one was found to have done his duty, he was well and suitably rewarded. But the prize of all was given to the occupant of the low, oddly-built house, for when the lord of the houses came there, and saw all open for inspection, and how his tenant had improved and beautified, he smiled so sweetly, and uttered such a gracious, Well done,' that the poor man fell at his feet for joy and gratitude, and all the lord's retinue softly echoed their master's praise. And the lord took that tenant with him to his own country, where he promised to give him a perfect house, a glorious palace, such as he could never have dreamed of or imagined."

6

Mrs. Grantley paused, her story was at an end. The children' commenced their criticism. "Was that hardly a story, auntie?" said John, who was grave and thoughtful beyond his years.

"I think," said Dora, "it was one of mother's stories which has a double meaning; she tells us such sometimes."

At that moment, Frank began pulling at Dora's sleeve, and pointing through the window. Dora leaned towards him, and he whispered in her ear.

"Mother," she said, "Frank says it has quite left off raining; may we get our hats and go and meet uncle coming from church?"

Mrs. Grantley gave her consent. The children made a speedy exit, and she and Millicent were left together alone.

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Miss Ricketts, was the good pastor who visited
Rupert's mother on her death-bed?"
The old lady was, of course, unable to hazard a
supposition.

"Do try and guess," said Christine, with just a slight twinkle in her laughing eyes: "the good clergyman was none other than your prince of all pastors, Mr. Gray."

This piece of information certainly did produce a remarkable impression upon Miss Ricketts. In that unselfish life of active benevolence which she was leading, she had been naturally brought in contact with many of the excellent of the earth, amongst whom the earnest minister Mr. Gray held in her estimation a very high position.

Thus it was that on his very first visit to No. 18, Tabor Crescent, Rupert met with a far more cordial reception from the old lady than her ideas of prudence had at first prompted. Indeed, there now arose the opposite danger of our hero being spoiled by his hostess, and when on a fitting occasion, some little time after, Christine confided to her friend a certain promise which she had somehow or other been prevailed upon to make to the young gentleman, Miss Ricketts manifested no intention whatever of endeavouring to induce her to break that promise.

The scene of our story now changes to the picturesque and busy seaport town of Eastport on the northern coast of England. It was here that Rupert had decided, perhaps with some lingering affection for that great element by the borders of which he had spent the earliest scenes of his life, to commence his ministry.

It was a lovely Sabbath morning upon which the young minister climbed for the first time the somewhat rugged path leading to the old church, which stood on a frowning cliff above the town. There had been some stormy weather, and several wrecks had been cast up upon the rock-bound shore during the past week, but on this beautiful morning, which followed the boisterous winds of the preceding days, many of the townspeople, and not a few weatherbeaten mariners and their wives, found their way up to the old church above the town, to hear, as they said, "the new parson."

Rupert, who had chosen a different text for his opening sermon, had been induced to alter his purpose during the stormy weather of the past week, and he spoke to his congregation this morning from those striking words, taken from the Apocalypse, in which the prisoner of Patmos states that in his vision of the new creation "there was no more sea."

The preacher pictured to his hearers the Apostle of Love in his rock-bound prison, sometimes ascending some overhanging promontory and gazing across the surging billows towards his old home in Galilee, summoning up, as he did so, all the old memories of his early days, spent with the dear companions of his Lord. The exile saw that in the new creation there would be no more separation, no more storms, no more change, and this, perhaps, was something of what was meant when it was said that there would be no more sea. Rupert felt that his auditors were listening to him, when he reminded many of them of the experiences of their own storm-tossed lives, and directed them to that haven of rest which the Saviour had prepared for them.

Not many days had elapsed before Miss Ricketts, accompanied by Christine, had found her way to Eastport, and had taken up her residence for some little time in that place. The dear old lady was anxious to see for herself how Rupert was prospering, and also to invade his lodgings, in order to ascertain whether the young clergyman, who, she felt quite certain, would be constantly going without meals and all other similar comforts, was being properly

taken care of.

Rupert was out visiting when Miss Ricketts arrived, accompanied by Christine, on her visit of investigation. The old lady, however, was gratified to find that the quarters were, at any rate, neat and clean. She was received with many a curtsey by Rupert's landlady, who seemed anxious that Miss Ricketts and the young lady should be as soon as possible acquainted with her own personal history, the numerous occurrences of which had eventuated in her being left" a poor lone woman."

"But he's a dear good young gentleman," added the disconsolate widow, in some fear lest the visitors should think she did not take a lively interest in him. "My husband's brother, who's been on the sea these forty years, says he never heard such a sermon in his life, and he says his mates all think the same, and surely, ma'am, they ought to know. But, dear me, my lady," she added with a slight return to her own personal interests, "it's well the dear young gentleman was speaking of the better country when he told them that there would be no more sea; for how would a poor lone woman like me, miss," she continued, turning to Christine, "be ever able to let her lodg ings in this world, if there was no more sea?"

Rupert found the two ladies awaiting him on his return, and a happy hour followed, in which mutual congratulations were exchanged, and in which bright plans of usefulness were made for the future. Christine, who had hitherto said but little on the subject, now seemed full of earnest preparations for their united labours, for were they not to be of one heart and mind, in all the objects of their future life?

The three had been chatting on in this pleasant manner for some time, when Rupert's landlady appeared once more at the door, to say that a messenger had come from the neighbouring hospital to desire the presence of Mr. Long at the dying bed of one of the patients. He was about to bid a hurried farewell to Miss Ricketts and Christine, when the latter rose and putting her arm in that of the young man's, said, "Rupert, I have often visited the London hospitals with Miss Ricketts, but, to-day, let me pay my first visit to a sick-bed by your side.”

The nurse was waiting for the minister at the door of the sick ward when Rupert and Christine arrived. The dying man, she said, had met with a terrible accident in some travelling show which had visited the town a couple of weeks before. She had often read the Bible to him at his request, and had sometimes heard him engage in prayer. She thought he seemed penitent and prepared to die, although she feared he had not been a "goodliving" man. The doctor had said he might go at any moment, and so she had taken the responsibility of sending for the minister.

"The old mistake," said Rupert to Christine, “of thinking of the clergyman as a person to be sent for when anybody else would be of no use. Somebody

to read to the dying patient when in anything but a condition of being read to at all."

The bed, according to the custom of hospitals, had the solemn sign of being screened off from the rest. Men may suffer together, but they must die alone. The largest army must pass at single file through the valley of the shadow of death. This hospital bed would soon be vacant.

Rupert and Christine walked softly across the polished floor, and a few heads were raised from their pillows with a languid curiosity to see the strangers pass behind the well-known screen.

The light was shining upon the patient's face, and showed at once to the minister that his work must be short and his words few. Yet a more vivid impression even than this was that which followed, when, in another instant, as the visitor stooped down to speak to the dying man he recognised in that livid countenance the well-remembered features of Signor Viralla.

Checking his natural excitement, Rupert took in his own the trembling hand and prepared to offer words of consolation. How is it that at such moments we grasp one another's hands? Words are not enough? Is it man bidding farewell to brother man? Or is it that sympathy which the common lot at last met with seems to draw forth from each?

The young man's trembling voice aroused the patient, and he tried to raise himself for a moment now to take on his part a gaze into his interlocutor's face. But with a thrill of excitement his head dropped back upon his pillow. The patient had recognised his visitor. "Rupert Long," gasped the dying man. "I knew who you were when you joined that circus at Dieppe. It was Mary's picture that you had with you, and I knew you were Mary's son. I had been away a long time, but it all came back to me in a moment. Mary was my wife, and you are my son!"

Rupert felt the hand of Christine tremble as he held it fast in his, while with the other he still grasped that of his dying father.

"Oh Rupert," continued the patient," how I wished as I looked once more upon Mary's face that I had lived a different life. I was bad and wicked, and I knew it must have broken Mary's heart, but I was not as bad, Rupert, as they made me out. I never was a murderer. It was Pompon, the gendarme, who shot the coastguard. It was not I who did it. I fled away because I knew I was suspected, and that he might turn traitor, and so I left Mary and her babe. I left them, because I saw nothing but ruin. I thought I would hide myself for ever. But God is just. Misery made me daring. I tempted Providence. You know how I used to ride. I have ridden my last round. Is it nothing but a gulf that I see before me? Ah, there is no leaping such a gulf as that! Mercy and hope-Mary used to speak of such things-but no, mercy and hope are not for those who have ridden their last ride. Yet, Rupert, there was a dying thief I remember. What was it-didn't Jesus say he was to be with Him? How was that, Rupert?"

"Father," answered Rupert, with a great effort suppressing his violent emotion, "it was so; Jesus did forgive the dying thief, and He can and will forgive you. The reason was, that He had paid the dying thief's debt-his debt of sin; He has paid.

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your debt, father, to the uttermost farthing. You can rest upon Him now your trembling sin-stained soul. Listen, father," said the young man, as he drew forth the old familiar Bible and turned to the old familiar place-"listen, father, to what gave my mother peace on her dying bed. Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

"Rest, rest," murmured the dying man, "I will give you rest.'" Was it a fancy, or was it a reality, that gleam which seemed for a moment to illumine that livid face-only for a moment, for in the next that face was fixed and cold in death? Was it fancy or reality-why not the latter? "The entrance of Thy word giveth life." Peace and victory, what gifts for a dying rebel to receive! And yet these are the gifts which the Conqueror of Death can give even by a dying bed! That smile of hope, never, never could it be forgotten by Rupert and Christine in their future journey of life.

CHAPTER XII.-CONCLUSION.

How beautiful the parks and gardens looked as the laburnums began again to drip with their showers of gold! Rupert and Christine thought there never had been such a spring. It was in London that they were married, and of course at Mr. Gray's church. Whose hands but those of that good and faithful minister could be employed to join together this man and this woman in holy wedlock?

The ceremony was of the most private and unostentatious description. An old bachelor brother of Miss Ricketts, of a somewhat misanthropic reputation, surprised everybody by immediately consenting, when requested to do so, to give away the bride. A white waistcoat of the most festive description and a wedding favour of the largest dimensions, manifested further sympathy and interest on his part. The only other witness to the marriage was Christine's dear old friend, Miss Ricketts.

A tender leave-taking took place between the bride and that old lady a little later on in the day, when Mr. and Mrs. Rupert Long started from No. 18, Tabor Crescent, for their wedding-tour-a leave-taking in which tears, however, were quite out of place, considering that Miss Ricketts had signified her intention of purchasing a house at Eastport and of spending the greater part of every year in that place.

The bride and bridegroom crossed over that afternoon, via Newhaven to Dieppe, where they spent a few calm and happy days, revisiting familiar scenes.

Before they continued their journey, they purchased two exquisite wreaths of immortelles, one of which they left on a certain grave in the cemetery above the town, and the other on a little cross by the roadside, a few miles distant from the place.

This journey, however, did not end here. The city of Lyons was their ultimate destination, where they spent several weeks under the hospitable roof of the Abbé Burelle, who, the reader will be interested to hear, had ceased to be curé of Martin Eglise.

Indeed he had ceased to be a member of the Roman Communion at all, and had been called to take the pastorate of an interesting body of "Old Catholics," with whom an open Bible and primitive purity of faith were the desired objects.

In the company of that learned, genial, and now