George, you would do me the greatest service, and I should be able to go with you all the sooner."

Already Ella was preaching the lesson which she had herself so recently learned. The boy, accustomed to take an active part in the management of the younger children, assisted very materially in getting them all disposed of for the night; and while he did so, his own grief seemed to be soothed by the effort. Next to their father, the children held in the greatest respect their eldest brother; and Reginald had a kind gentle way when he chose to indulge them with it, of settling their little affairs, in which he was always referred to as the final judge, whose wisdom and justice they were both willing and proud to acknowledge.

Never had the boy felt more kindly towards that little flock than on the present occasion; and Ella was surprised to see with what gentleness he could deal with the younger ones, at the same time that he exercised a kind of authority over all. It seemed as if the boy might have been for some time preparing for the grave duties which belong to the eldest son of a widowed mother. And true it was that his young heart had already been made to feel something of the heavy responsibilities about to devolve upon him. Beyond his years, he had been confided in by his father; he knew, perhaps, better than any one, the sad secret of those limited circumstances which must soon involve the whole family in difficulties, and privations, to which they had been but little accustomed.

Ella thought, as she gazed on the fine countenance of the boy, that there were traces of premature anxiety already darkening his young brow. He had been remarkable in childhood for his proud spirit. He seemed humble enough now; but the orginal nature was not quenched. As he walked away from the cottage with Ella, after their brief duties had been hastily performed, he placed his arm within her's, bent down his head, and remained silent.

The mute pressure of that young arm upon her own, affected Ella more than words. It was the same bold haughty boy who

so often scorned, or affected to scorn, even the indications of weakness, or tenderness.

common

"I will be a sister to

him," thought Ella, and she laid her soft hand on his, and by that gentle pressure assured him that her feelings and her sympathies had gone with him down into those depths which permit not the stranger's intermeddling, but which open at once to the silent influence of a congenial nature.

There was little need for words in the communication of this sympathy between two hearts that beat so kindly, and apprehended so quickly what was felt. The very silence of nature was in unison with the sad, but yet subdued emotions which filled their souls. It would have been difficult indeed to find language for these. The autumn wind, with its low whispers amongst the almost leafless trees, seemed to supply all, and more, than words could have expressed; and the moon, sailing softly through the heavens, looked down with a sister's smile upon sorrows which every human heart has a secret feeling that the moon can understand-better, perhaps, than the most intimate and confidential friend.

CHAPTER LXXI.

THE moon shone clearly through the trees of the old avenue, as Ella and her companion walked hastily along-the more clearly, that now many of the boughs were nearly stripped of their leaves, which lay scattered, crisp and rustling, all about the venerable stems, and even in the middle walk; so that, in that silent hour, the tread of hastening feet was more audible than under ordinary circumstances. It was a solemn evening, and their purpose was one which increased the solemnity of the scene to them: their thoughts were all in unison with things solemn and sad.

Ella felt as if it would be almost a profanation of the scene, and the circumstances altogether, to recur to her own causes of grief and humiliation; for what was her sorrow, after all, but disappointed vanity and vexation of spirit? What was it but the opening of her eyes to her own folly-the clear revelation of her own disgrace and shame? Perhaps it may be excused to Ella if she did sometimes rejoice over the idea that few persons could suspect how far that folly had carried her alongthat fewer still had been made acquainted with the amount of feeling which she had thrown into an empty scale-empty of everything but the bitterest mortification-empty of everything but the medicine which was to bring about her restoration. to health and peace. Oh! blessed medicine!-still blessed, even when it comes in the most unpalatable, as well as the most unlooked-for form-in the form which, last of all others in the whole range of possibility, we ourselves should have chosen. How else should the eyes that were blinded by selflove have been opened? They would not open of themselves:

it was necessary for them to be torn open; and now they were only just beginning to see. The patient was dwelling, as it were, in a darkened chamber; she could not yet well bear the light. Therefore her mind was turned away from endeavouring to see; her thoughts were forcibly occupied with other things; she must be satisfied, for a while, to hear instead of seeing. And there is enough to hear; for a chastened spirit is departing from the world of its affections, to go and sit upon the banks of that river whose streams are the fountain and life-spring of all affection.

When Ella entered, with silent tread, the chamber of the dying sufferer, she thought she could recognise the low sounds of prayer, and she hesitated even to move; for whatever those words might be, they were poured out upon beloved forms that knelt around the bed, or bowed their heads upon the very pillow where the pallid countenance was laid. Personally, Ella felt to have no portion here but as a spectator; and yet there was a fascination in that room which kept her within the atmosphere of all that is most important in human experience— of love, and life, and death.

But even if Ella would have stolen away, she was deterred from doing so, by a whisper from Mr. Cawthorne, who took her hand, and said softly-" He has asked for you: do not leave the room."

A thrill ran through Ella's frame at the intelligence that she had been asked for by those dying lips. Such is the importance attached to a few last words. We go on through a long life, perhaps disregarding the language both of love and wisdom; but when death speaks to us!-Ah! then we listen. When shall we learn to believe that life is even more important than death, just in proportion as it is more our own. When will preachers and pious friends behold this subject in its true light, and so endeavour more earnestly to set before the young the great duty and the great happiness of living aright, rather than the terror and the awfulness of dying-rather even than the great benefit to themselves of leaving this world with the

triumphant and glorious expectation of entering into one of endless enjoyment and endless rest? When will the wise and the philanthropic labourer for the good of society understand and believe, that while from the earliest stage of childhood we are taught to put all our lowest and most selfish feelings into our openly-professed religion, we must of necessity grow up to fill the already overflowing ranks of crippled, helpless, miserable Christians, with neither strength nor courage to fight honourably the great battle of life, nor devotedness to submit to its martyrdom, in that stillness and patience which constitute the surest evidence of a regenerate and sanctified spirit.

That those pale, quivering lips, now solemnly engaged in breathing their last blessing, should have asked for her, sounded solemn, but not unpleasing, to Ella's mind; and as first one and then another knelt down beside the bed to kiss and clasp the outstretched hand, she also drew nearer and nearer, and at last sunk down as the rest had done, so that the long, thin, quivering fingers might touch her head.

There was more clearness of perception on the part of the dying man than Ella had supposed, from his fixed eye and ghastly and emaciated look. Still, she felt as if the hand of death was upon her, and she shrank beneath it to her inmost soul. But there was warmth in the touch, even yet, and it was, besides, so gentle-so inconceivably gentle and tender.

"Beautiful head!" the lips faltered out, as those thin fingers trembled amongst the shining ringlets. "Beautiful head!" the dying man repeated, "when wilt thou forget thy own loveliness in the beauty, the sublimity-above all, in the ineffable love of the divine nature? Ella, there is but one thing wanting. The Spirit and the Bride say, come. Come, for all things are ready. That one thing is, a true and a total surrender of the natural heart. Think not of making it; but make it-calculate no consequences-but do it; and leave all to Him who knows our secret conflicts, even better than we know them ourselves. Meditate frequently