the last few weeks; but I expect I shall have to go through them in detail to the younger ones at home. They are perfectly ravenous for stories of all kinds and lengths, and the more wonderful they are the better they are pleased. But," she added more gravely, "of all the time I have spent in London, I think that this evening will stand out first and foremost in my recollection. I never enjoyed a service more; and such a preacher too! The very texts he chose seemed to gain new force as he read them." And again Ethel's thoughts flew to the words:

"Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in Me."

"And now, little children, abide in Him; that, when He shall appear, we may have confidence, and not be ashamed before Him at His coming."

"And then," continued Ethel, "it was grand to hear the dear old hymn, Abide with Me,' sung by such a multitude of voices. And there was one verse I had never heard before; it is not in any of our hymn-books at home, and I could not help learning it whilst the others were singing." Which one was that ?" asked Mrs. Hamilton.

Ethel softly repeated the words:

"Not a brief glance. I beg, a passing word,

But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord:.
Familiar, condescending, patient, free,

Come not to sojourn, but abide with me."

"Oh, aunt," she said, "to think that that may be true of us all through our lives! One feels inclined sometimes to envy those twelve disciples, especially John as he laid his head on the bosom of Jesus. But then it is true, is it not, that the same privilege may be ours, only in a spiritual sense, without the bodily presence? There is the promise, 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world;" and He must be as much with us here as He was just now in the crowded building. If He appeared to 'above five

hundred brethren at once,' He walked with the two disciples on the way to Emmaus; and now it is not an occasional visit but a continual presence. There is no fear of His vanishing out of our sight. It makes one so happy to think of it!"

Ethel spoke naturally. She came from a Christian home in which the name of God was loved and honoured beyond all other. From a child she had been surrounded with healthful Christian influences, and never yet had she learned to be "ashamed of Jesus." And though she would have been the first to resent the familiar use of the Name that is above all others, yet in quiet conversations and among congenial companions, she would allow her feelings to come to the surface and would express them without a shade of hesitation.

Her present visit to her aunt, Mrs. Hamilton, was the last she meant to pay her London relations before returning to her country home. Already her busy fingers were wanted there, and though the parents refrained from saying anything in their letters that would shorten the well-earned pleasure of their eldest child, her brothers and sisters felt no such scruple. Even Baby May, her tiny hand guided by Nurse's fingers, had written to say that if "naughty Ellie didn't soon come home, she wouldn't love her never again." Ethel only smiled as she read it, for she too felt the loss of her dear ones. Not all the kindness shown to her, first in one home and then in another, could compensate for their absence. Did she enjoy the pictures at the Academy— then how her father would have liked to see them too! was she walking through the Zoological Gardens with her younger cousins-then would that Harry and Alice had been at her side, what a merry time they would have had!

Or

But of all her relatives, Ethel loved Mrs. Hamilton the most. In so many ways she could catch the likeness to her mother; there were the same gestures, the same voice, the same play of expression, and, so she imagined, the same high Christian character. Only that evening she had seen

the tear-filled eyes as together they listened to the words of the servant of God, and it was without a doubt of her sympathy that she had spoken as above. It may be she was even then yearning for one of the "mother's talks" she was accustomed to at home, and that sorely she had missed of late. She little knew how every word she said stung her aunt afresh.

"Do you always feel as happy in the sense of His presence?" Mrs. Hamilton asked her.

"Not when I do wrong," was the answer, given in a lower voice. "You know what a hasty temper I have if anything puts me out, and then, if I give way to it, all the happiness seems gone for a time."

"But you always get it back again ?" asked her aunt.

Ethel thought of the last time she had allowed her passionate disposition to gain the mastery; it was a very sorrowful period in her recollection. She answered slowly : "I can't help coming back to Christ and confessing the fault. I could not live apart from Him with a sense of coldness and of 'something between,'-no more than I could from mother. But I don't know that I think much about the happiness as a distinct thing in itself. He is our happiness, is He not? But why do you ask me that?"

She turned her clear, unclouded face towards Mrs. Hamilton, and was surprised to see the troubled expression on her countenance.

"I will tell you in a minute," she said; "but just one more question first I want to ask. Supposing you had wandered very, very far away from Him, and for some time as well, what would you do then ?"

Ethel pondered. "Would He not still want me to come back, even if I had disobeyed Him ever so? I am sure that mother could not cast me off, whatever I might do; the very idea seems impossible. And His love is greater than hers-it passeth knowledge. And He is the Good Shepherd who goes after the straying sheep, 'until He find it.' But oh! it would be dreadful to do something wrong

wilfully and deliberately. I can scarcely imagine it of a real, true Christian. But even supposing that I did, as you say, it would not mend matters, only make them worse, to refuse to ask forgiveness; though I think I should feel fearfully mean even whilst I did. When I was a child I could not bear telling mother when I had been disobedient. If she had stormed and raged I could have borne it, but her grieved, sorrowful look was more than I could stand. I used to feel subdued for days afterwards."

Mrs. Hamilton's tears were falling fast; to reply was impossible just then. Ethel linked her arm within her own in sign of sympathy, but she little knew how bitter was the fount from which those tears were flowing.

At last her aunt began to speak, but in a low, pained voice. "I don't know, dear, why I should burden you with my sad story; but perhaps it will serve as a warning, if as nothing else. I was once just such as you are now-a happy Christian girl. Ah! Ethel, I know all about your joy. The other day I came across a letter from an early friend, in which she quotes from one of mine. The words ran something like this: Amid all the many pleasures of my home, I know of no time so bright and so truly full of happiness as the half-hour I spend alone with God each morning.' I can only use such words in the past tense now."

Again she paused. "Do not tell me about it, if it will grieve you," said Ethel. This was something so different from anything she had expected.

"I think it will be a relief," returned Mrs. Hamilton. "I was a Sunday-school teacher then; several of the girls were in my class for years, and as they grew older they became communicants, and together we would partake of the Lord's Supper. I used to have many pleasant talks with them; sometimes they would come and see me during the week, and we would pray together. Well, time went by; you know how your mother, older than myself by several years, married quite early in life. Soon after that

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our parents died, and I went to live with her. It was when I was about five-and-twenty-four years older than you are now that I came to stay for a time in London, and then I first met with your uncle. Ethel, you know all that he is-handsome, intelligent, refined. I was fascinated at once, and I soon learnt that he loved me tenderly and truly. But he made no profession of religion; he never deceived me for a moment, and it was not long before I found that he looked upon my love for Christ as a harmless infatuation, a sort of weakness peculiar to women, and to be treated with gentle respect. And on my part, I thought that by constant association with myself he would, in the end, become a Christian. I was trusting entirely to my influence over his affections. And you know how it ended; you were my youngest bridesmaid then. Your mother warned me, but I paid no heed. Even when, with tears in her eyes, she pleaded what might be the result, I only answered coldly, and begged her not to say a word. perhaps she has told you of this?"

But

"No, not a word," answered Ethel; "she has often told us long tales of her girlhood and yours; but when she mentions you it is only to tell us of your goodness and of the love you always gained."

Mrs. Hamilton sighed. "May you never have to grieve over the 'might have beens' of life," she said. "Well, after that it was the old story. My husband made no objection when I went to church on Sunday, but he never accompanied me, and I felt very lonely. I missed the warm friendships of our northern home. I walked in and out of the building every Sunday a complete stranger, and there was no one to say an encouraging word. One lady did ask me to attend the monthly Dorcas meetings; I might have met with other Christians there, but I felt compelled to decline, the time of meeting would have interfered with our home arrangements. Other friends I had in plenty, and perhaps among them there were some who loved the name of Christ, but if so, I did not know them. In those days