"Ah! everybody is useful but myself."

"You make your home bright. You see your papa cannot do without you for more than a few days. But come, I had no idea the evening was so far advanced."

CHAPTER IV.

THE PILGRIM HILL AND THE ABBEY RUINS.

A FEW more days yet remained ere the first of June, when Helena was to return to Beechwood, and when I was to accompany her for several days only. The first of June falling that year on Friday, we were to take one of the afternoon boats, and reach Beechwood in time for dinner; and on the Monday morning, soon after breakfast, I was to come back to Abbeylands without fail.

I was growing very weary and listless, yet forcing myself at times to work with redoubled zeal. Indeed, it was only with pen in hand, and fairly engrossed with my subject, that I could feel at all brisk and energetic. My work seemed a refuge from myself, and I fled to it, and buried myself in it, in order to stifle the busy thoughts that would crowd up in rapid, unbidden succession. And, strange to say, I never wrote better; my ideas were never clearer, or more numerous; my illustrations were never more apt, nor my words readier, nor my arguments more logical. I had the pen of a ready writer!

But the hard work, and the constant strain on a mind ill at ease; the continuous struggle to hide that which was really the centre of my every thought and action, and the constant repression of feeling, told by degrees on a constitution naturally strong and sound, but by no means adamantine. I was always languid, always tired, always careladen-save when under the stimulant of writing; and everyone began to chide me for working so hard, and to predict that I should wear myself out, and sink, through my own over-exertion, into an early grave. "An early grave!" I could not help it. I was weak-very weak then; body had acted on mind, and mind had re-acted on body, till both were feeble and disorganised. I could not help feeling a throb of joy as I felt that it might indeed be so-that the long dreary life I had nerved myself to contemplate might never be my lot-that my work was almost done-that I was soon to lay down the weapons of my warfare, and sleep that quiet sleep that knows no waking till the resurrection morning!

Ah! blind are we in all our hopesand desires-blind, and weak, and sinful, and our Father has patience, for we are His children and His beloved ones!

The sun shines, and the birds sing, and the flowers shed their fragrance around us, as we walk hand-in-hand with dear companions in Eden; and we fold our wings, given us or flight to higher spheres, and

say "No, no! not yet! We cannot leave our paradise; let us linger here by these streams, and in the shadow of these blossomed trees-for it is good, it is pleasant to be here!" And the darkness comes, and the tempest; and the flowers are dead, and the birds flown; and the streams those failing streams of earth-are dry; and then we cry impatiently, "Why linger here? This is not our rest. Why travel tear-blinded in the desert, when before us, on the fair horizon, are the golden hills of heaven ?" But it is our weariness, our own impatience, that makes us long for our departure. The world's sunshine is gone, and the grey hours press heavily over the aching brow and the burdened heart; and therefore would we spread swift wings, and fly away to realms of peace and joy! Ah! but God will not have it so. The discipline is to do greater things than the days of pleasure ever could do; the chastening is to purify and to elevate; the darkness is to perfect that which never would have been perfected had the bright hours shone merrily on to the end. God's ways are not our ways. sees all and knows all, and He orders that which is, and has been, and shall be, for the best the very best. He gave the joy; He gives the sorrow: Blessed be His holy name! Before the triumph must be the trial; before the rest, the toil-first the cross, then the crown!—first the rod, then the palm! The dear Lord honours all: blessed be the name of the Lord!

He

One afternoon, sitting listlessly in my study, my papers thrown about me, and my pen falling from my nerveless hand, I began to consider that this could not continue. Byron says truly-" All suffering doth destroy or is destroyed." Was I to wait apathetically, and see what the result would be?-was I to resign myself to my fate, and still bear patiently that which was more than I could endure, and live? The weather was very hot: the last days of May had brought with them that glare of sunshine and that sultry warmth which sometimes pay us a transient visit in the very early summer; and I have no doubt the lassitude which I experienced came partly from that cause, as well as from mental depression. My study seemed stifling-my own room seemed airless; and even the light breeze borne from off the swelling river failed to cool the close and burning atmosphere that appeared to pervade all nature.

I thought I would go out and take a solitary walk. Though the heat was scarcely declining, grey clouds were piling themselves up from the sea, and the intense dazzle of sunlight which had glowed over earth, and air, and water from earliest morning, was fading rapidly. Yes! I would go out and have a quiet stroll, and commune with my now heart. Perhaps, under the calm cope of heaven some gleam of peace, might soothe my wearied spirit! In the hall I encountered Helena, coming in from the garden, hat in hand. I have said that I would tell all the truth about myself; therefore let me here confess

that as I gazed upon her, as she stood before me in her pretty airy muslin dress and flowers in her bosom, I hated her radiant beauty and quiet tranquil demeanour.

"Going out, Evelyn?" she said, a little surprised. "Oh! let me walk with you.

"I have a headache, thank you," I replied, somewhat ungraciously. "I would rather be quite alone. I want the air, but I do not want to talk." She looked at me wistfully: and there was something like reproach in her sweet, innocent eyes; for my tone expressed more than my words. I felt that I was wrong, foolish, wicked. I was ashamed, but I went on. I could not at that moment stop to kiss her, as I knew she desired. Another minute and I was out on the road, bending my steps towards the only hill in the neighbourhood-which, however, was not a genuine hill, but only a slight elevation, rising a couple of hundred feet or so above the level of the flat shore-lands, and overlooking our river, and at several miles distance another and a smaller stream, or rather the valley through which it pursued its course to the sea. Far away to the sea was a dark range of real indubitable hills, and beyond them something dimly looming out on the remotest horizon-not clouds, and scarcely mountains; but rather the spectral shades of mountains, that upreared their solemn brows in those regions, but seldom revealed themselves, even as now, in faint shadowy guise, to us who dwelt in the neighbourhood of busy, commercial, thriving Easthambury. I stood still to gaze. Yes! they were mountains-not my own mountains, as I called those of the beauteous "north countrie"-but the mountains of Wales. And gazing, my heart was stirred within me; a wild longing for the mountain solitudes I loved sprang up-I knew not whence. I felt a strange yearning for the peace and quiet of Kirby-Edendale, and perfect gasping for the fresh breezes on the wild fell-side; and I fancied for the moment that if I could inhale once more the sweet mountain air, and gaze upon the calm majesty of those awful heights, and hear the roar of the waterfall, and the rush of the arrowy river, and the evening chimes from the old grey battlemented tower, I should be at peace. Vain and foolish dream! What could nature's calm do for me who bore the elements of disquiet n her own breast?

This evening had fallen very still and grey-almost as grey as that memorable afternoon when I had walked with John Vere on the Abbeylands pier, and heard my sentence from his lips;-and yet my heart said-better sentence of death from his lips than tenderest words of love from others. Grey once more was the leaden but restless rivergrey the heavy air-grey the distant hills! Those phantoms of mountains had shone out but for the moment, and had disappeared again, as though they had never been ;-grey the ruins of the mouldering abbey at my feet; and grey my whole life, stretching before me in one long,

LABOUR AND WAIT;

called to endure on earth? Nothing!-less than nothing to those enraptured saints, seated high in the glory everlasting.

"There is a secret in the ways of God

With His own children, which none others know,
That sweetens all He does. And if such peace
While under His afflicting hand we find,
What will it be to see Him as He is,
When past the reach of all that now disturbs
The tranquil soul's repose? To contemplate
In retrospect unclouded all the means

By which His wisdom has prepared His saints
For the vast weight of glory which remains!"

Oh! surely one need not mourn so bitterly over any earthly loss, if only there be the certain promise of the brightness to come! And once more I said reverently and humbly, "I will be strong!"

I rose up, and went forth from that quiet, ancient, and longdeserted "God's Acre," feeling that within its solemn precincts I had fought one more victory. I still held fast my faith in God, and my hope for the battle with the tempter, and gained one more future. I could still go steadily, though sadly, on my way, knowing that all my steps were ordered by the Lord; and that all should work to my good, if not in this world yet in that other and better where what we know not now shall be revealed, and that which is dim and obscure shall be made clear to the vision from which has passed away all the mists and weakness of mortality.

A cool breeze played now among the leafy branches; the old grey walls looked greyer in the fading light of eve; and quivering pulses of lightning gleamed now and then from the bosom of the dark cloud that overshadowed the castle rock and the lighthouse at the entrance of the harbour. Presently there came a deep voice, sounding out above the moaning waves and the hum of busy life, and the sweet music of church bells, borne over the waters from the Easthambury shores, and I turned my face homewards.

They were gathering round the tea-table when I entered, and they were all glad to see me, for it was evident that a storm was impending. John Vere was there, and Helena by his side. My naughty, jealous feelings were quite gone now, and I bent over her and kissed her lovely face, that showed so pure and serene in the faint light of the storm-clouded evening, and from my heart I blessed her, and wished for her all good, all joy, and all peace then and for evermore.

While we sat at tea I communicated my resolve to go to KirbyEdendale. The Miss Capels were not astonished, for they knew I had some idea of making a change at Midsummer; but John and Helena uttered an exclamation of regret and surprise. dear, I cannot spare you!" cried Helena, almost in tears. "Ah! Evy John spoke no word-not even in answer to Helena's urgent

request that he would aid her in persuading me to remain. I
answered, quietly, "Helena, dear, I am not well; my health is failing
me very much, and I cannot afford to become a regular invalid. I want
a change, and the Wilberforces want me. Besides, they are old friends,
and I owe them some of my time and attention. A few months at
Kirby-Edendale will set me up, I trust. I have quite decided to go."
"Ah! if you say that," quoth Helena, "I know it is of no use in
the world to persuade you to stay: not even John would be able to
nake you change your mind."

"John would not wish to make me change my mind," I said, as gaily as I could.

And for several minutes John made no rejoinder. Then he said, in a low voice, that was scarcely like his own, "No, I would not urge you to remain here; the mountain air would do you good. I hope-I believe-you want rest and change. We must be content to do without you."

"And when will you go ?" asked Miss Joanna.

"On the twenty-third of June-little more than three weeks hence," I replied.

And so it was all settled; and I began to nerve myself for the new trial through which I must pass before I could reach the peaceful shades of quiet, beautiful Kirby-Edendale.

(To be continued.)

"I believe that there is, not only in books, but in the world, such a thing as Love-unselfish, faithful, true! I believe that such a love-a right love teaches people to think of the right first and of themselves afterwards; and, therefore, if necessary, they could bear to part for any number of years, or even for ever. Look, you-there are two kinds of love: one, eager only to get its desire, careless of all risks and costs, in defiance almost of Heaven and earth; the other, which in its most desperate longing, has strength to say, if it be right and for cur good, if it be according to the will of God. This only, I think, is the true and consecrated love which, therefore, is able to be faithful to death."-A Life tor a Life. "In the day we make blood; in the night that blood is converted into solid matter. In the day we garner up the building materials; in the night we repair the building. The hour of rising, therefore, ought to be the time at which our physical strength is at the greatest; and with perfeetly healthy persons this is the case. The languor which sickly persons feel in the morning, arises from the process of

repair not having been fully accomplished;
the building has been not repaired, and,
therefore, its strength has not been re-
stored."-Edward Johnson, M.D.

Virtues, when they stand alone, become
vices. When we have learnt to keep our
faults under, the next work is to keep our
virtues even. If persons try to keep their
virtues evenly balanced, they have large
minds; but if they allow one to weigh down
the rest, then they have narrow minds."
Miss Sewell.

"You can hardly be too strict with regard to yourself, nor too liberal with regard to others."-Rev. E. Bickersteth.

"Good men are now digging the grave of bigotry; I hope it will soon be buried and its ghost never walk."-- Rev. J. A. James.

"In science, as well as in war, the word impossible can occasionally, by cool and extraordinary exertions, be divested of its first syllable."-Life of G Stephenson, by Samuel Smiles.

"The extremes of error, when it has reached the height of extravagance often accelerates the return to truth."-Schleg·l.