Mrs. Anderson would sometimes add a remark or two of her own by no means complimentary to the shoes worn by the children, or the dress in which the mother appeared at church.

These and many similar remarks which continually suggested themselves to Mrs. Anderson, were, however, made in an under tone, and still more frequently were made only in her own mind, her real opinion of the habits of the Dunlop family being confined to the secret chambers of her own heart. She was a good wife, and knew better than to be often uttering such opinions in her husband's hearing, the family being related on his side. He might say what he liked about his own people, and he did speak sometimes in relation to the children rather strongly. "Perfect wild animals," he called them; "as untrained as polar bears. As to that second boy, Harry Dunlop, he was insufferable. George, the oldest, might perhaps be made something of, and Archy, the young one, would be a nice enough little fellow if Harry would let him alone. They would all be brought to their senses at school, however; and Cousin Tom, the father," he said, "had never done a wiser thing than to bring his children to school in England. It would cost him a pretty sum to be sure, but such money would be well laid out, and might bring back to them its full worth at some future day."

Mrs. Dunlop, it must be confessed, had not much skill in the management of children. She had never been managed herself, and had married when little better than a child.

"The lads were too many for her," the kind-hearted husband often said; but he said this not unfrequently while laughing at some of her vain attempts to keep them in order; for, to tell the truth, he did not care very much about the matter of order himself. They had plenty of room in their Canadian home, and plenty to do, so that the wild energy of the boys was turned to good account upon the farm, as well as in many an act of thoughtful kindness within the house.

Situated as the Dunlop family had been on their arrival in England, first in an hotel,

and then in what seemed to them close pentup lodgings, it must be confessed that the boys had conducted themselves in a manner by no means satisfactory to those who shared the same habitation. So frequent, indeed, had been the complaints made against them, first by the occupants of the hotel, and then of the lodgings, that Mr. Dunlop at last hurried off with his family to Brighton. Here, however, the state of affairs was worse instead of better, because the wild freaks of the boys were more conspicuous. In fact, they were continually being complained of, and on one alarming occasion the police had actually interfered. The poor mother then became so distressed, that a plan was at length adopted for getting them into better training in some more remote situation; and the little fishing town already described, having risen of late into some notoriety, Mr. Dunlop had communicated with his relatives, the Andersons, and both families had agreed to make the experiment of a few weeks' residence in this quiet spot, preparatory, on the part of the Dunlops, to placing their boys at school.

With all this turbulence of spirit, however, so remarkable in the young Canadians, there was nothing seriously or intentionally wrong about them. Perhaps in no family could there have been found a more sincere reverence for what to them was invested with importance in a religious point of view. Of the boys, in their wildest moods, it could never be said that they were guilty of profane, untruthful, or even unkind expressions. Their ideas of duty were based upon those immutable laws which their parents had impressed upon their minds from God's own Word; and their deviations from these laws, when they did occur, were chiefly under circumstances to which they did not understand them to apply. It must be confessed that they were sadly at fault here. Their own surroundings at home were so different from those of English society, especially in city life, that they were really ignorant on many points how they ought to conduct themselves; and their law of liberty at home had been so wide, that they were unacquainted with the exact limits of social pro

priety as applied to this new kind of intercourse with people and things. Hence it was often from absolute ignorance, certainly not from moral insensibility or perverseness, that the boys were guilty of getting into scrapes, as they called it; though, perhaps, it was more than all from the exuberance of their own wild spirits, which did not allow them time to think, nor patience to inquire exactly what they ought to do, or to leave undone.

It may easily be understood that to a woman like Mrs. Anderson, a little disposed to be precise and prim, these boys were a great nuisance; and scarcely less so to her husband. Yet at the same time, had she wanted a little service doing for her, or even a very great one, so that it was within the range of their ability to do it, the Dunlop boys would have flown with alacrity to serve her, even at the cost of considerable sacrifice to themselves.

"There is something noble about the lads," Mr. Anderson was heard to observe one day, after about a week's acquaintance; "only that second boy, Harry, is still intolerable; and how he is ever to come to any good, is more than I can imagine."

Mrs. Anderson was at the time too much engaged to make any distinct reply to these remarks. The opportunity for making them was not the most auspicious. She was carefully applying a soft napkin to some dark wet patches upon a new tablecloth, which evidently caused her much anxiety; but she did murmur audibly, so soon as she felt herself sufficiently at liberty, "I don't see that Harry is worse, or indeed can be worse, than his brothers; they are all as bad as they can be. Do you see what they have done? Upset this glass full of flowers; and now the water has taken the gloss off the tablecloth, and we shall have to pay for it, and all owing to their riotous and insufferable ways."

The boys were quite aware of what they had done; but not attaching the slightest importance to the scattering of a small quantity of water upon any tablecloth which they had ever seen in Canada, they had just gathered up the flowers, stuck them

again into the glass, some of them stalks uppermost, and were off again in a moment, entirely unconscious of the disturbance of temper which they had left behind.

The fact was, they had run into the house in search of Margaret, but not finding her in the parlour where the unfortunate flowerglass was standing, they rushed about hither and thither, very much in the style of terriers hunting a rat, until at last they found her sitting quietly, with a book in her hand, on a seat near the edge of a high part of the cliff, which commanded an expansive sea view, as well as a view of old Peggy's cottage, on a point of land which stretched out on the opposite side of the bay to where the little town was situated.

"We want you to take a long rambling walk with us," said all the boys at once; each giving to the proposal his own enticing epithet; for Margaret had already become a great favourite with the family. Perhaps the more so with the boys, because they had a little sister at home to whom they were always tender and kind, lifting her over the difficult places in their rambles, and guiding her steps with the gentlest care; for besides her childish helplessness, was she not a little woman? And the very. idea of a woman needing assistance, made them tender and thoughtful at all times. Thus, when Margaret hesitated about going with them, they assured her again and again that she would be perfectly safe under their care; that she could not come to any harm while they were with her; that their parents trusted their own little sister with them for whole days together, and she was much younger and weaker than Margaret-so why should she be afraid?

"Afraid!" said Margaret, a little touched in her dignity, "I am not at all afraid." But she still hesitated, and even blushed, as she added, "I don't quite know that my uncle and aunt would like me to go. I must ask them first."

"You can't do that," exclaimed the boys, "for they have all gone out-your people and ours. The carriage was standing at our door, and we saw Mr. and Mrs. Anderson crossing the street. They are gone for a

long drive, and won't be back again until four o'clock. We shall have plenty of time for a nice ramble; so come with us-do."

This last little word was spoken in a manner so earnest and imploring, and the bright faces of the boys at the same time looked so encouraging, that Margaret made up her mind to go, and she at once proposed that they should take the path along the cliff towards Peggy's cottage.

This was not exactly the excursion which the boys had planned for themselves, but they complied without a moment's hesitation, and the little party set off, the boys carrying out their promise of protection to such an extent, that Margaret laughingly told them she had never been so kindly cared for in all her life. "At least," she added, and then her voice grew low and sad, "since I lost my own papa."

The boys on hearing her say this, struck perhaps by her tone and manner, almost as much as by her words, became also grave and quiet for a little while, for it seemed very shocking to them to have no good kind father; and when they recollected hearing that the little girl beside them had no mother either, they became still more tender to her, especially Harry, who had the reputation of being the wildest of the three. But on this occasion he came nearer, and took hold of the little girl's hand, and did not speak again for a good while; not, indeed, until the flight of some seagulls from the high cliff over which they were walking, startled them all out of the reverie into which they seemed to have fallen, and made them run to the edge of the cliff, hoping that by looking over they might see the seagulls' nests, for it was partly with this object that the boys had come out, only their excursion had been planned for a more distant and rocky portion of the shore.

It was a glorious view to the boys as they gazed around them from that projecting height; and glorious too was the wild screaming and the circling flight of the birds, disturbed by the sudden appearance of the little party, and by their loud shouts and gesticulations, which nothing but Margaret's earnest entreaties and the distress written on

her countenance, could restrain. Her quick eye had detected what the violent gestures of the boys had prevented them from seeing, and she remembered at the same time what her father had told her about the habits of these birds.

"Don't you see," she exclaimed, while endeavouring to hold back the boys, "that they have little ones? Don't you see those tiny specks upon the edge of the rocks ?"

"What of them?" asked Harry, more impressed by her manner than by any concern about the birds.

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Those," replied Margaret, "are baby seagulls I believe, just hatched. Papa used to tell me about them, that the old birds, so soon as they believe that their children can float upon the water safely-I say believe, because you see they cannot really know; they can only have faith,-as soon as they believe, then, that their little ones can swim, they push them off gently from the edge of the shelving rocks where their nests are made, so that they fall directly down upon the deep water; and here it is very deep. Oh, see! there is one just gone! perhaps frightened off before it was ready. Oh, no! there it is again, sitting on the waves beside its mother, looking quite proud and happy. And see how kind she is, keeping close beside it, to encourage it. I wonder what they will do all through the dark night, or if a storm should come, for you see it is impossible that it should fly up again."

"I think," said Harry, looking very thoughtfully down upon the water, "that God will take care of it. If He has taught the mother to do as you say for her children, He will keep them safe through the night, I feel sure."

"But I wonder how," said Margaret; still looking anxious and disturbed.

"I don't think we ought to wonder and perplex ourselves about it," said Harry, "at least we ought not to doubt, nor to make ourselves unhappy. God has ways of His own; and they are so much better than our ways, that I think we ought to have faith, at any rate so far as to trust the little seagulls to Him."

While saying this, the boy's face looked

so serious, and his voice was so grave and so different from what it had been before, that Margaret turned and looked at him. inquiringly. Her own earnest expression, when she did so, made him smile; but he did not return again to his usual boisterous, noisy way of conducting himself. He spoke rather in undertones, and seemed to be regarding the curious birds with a kind of reverence, because, as he said, "God had taught them such wonderful things."

After this the walk was much more quiet for awhile, and by the time the little party had reached the spot where old Peggy lived, Margaret had begun to feel a little tired with constant climbing over hill and hollow. It was therefore proposed by the boys, and readily agreed to on her part, that she should remain and rest at the cottage while they pursued their walk.

Margaret would not allow her companions to leave her, however, without endeavouring to bind them by one promise. She knew the danger of these cliffs, perhaps, better than they did; at any rate she had listened with more apprehension while an old fisherman, with whom they had become acquainted, had described to the little party, as he took them one day in his boat below the rocks, the dangers to which men and boys sometimes exposed themselves in clambering after the seagulls' eggs. Margaret remembored well some sad accidents occurring to such adventurers, which the fisherman had told them of that day; and now, when the birds were startled from the rocks, she read something in the looks exchanged by her young companions, which awoke her apprehensions as to their prudence and caution; indeed, as to the actual exploits which they might be contemplating.

"You must make me one promise," she said, holding fast by Harry's hand.

"You won't," said Margaret, "clamber either up or down the cliff at all, so as to get to the seagulls' nests?"

"I promise you we won't," said Harry; and Margaret, looking into his face, believed him, and let him go.

Margaret was now at liberty to turn her attention to her own situation, and the ardour of her long-contemplated enterprise became a little damped on a nearer view of its completion. The way to the cottage of the solitary woman led up some steep rocky steps, which she ascended, wondering as she went what she should actually find, and considering still more what she should say. She had set out with no definite purpose as regarded her own part in the interview, and it was now some relief to feel that she could really say she was tired, and would like to rest until her companions should return. Still her case was not a very strong one, and altogether the place looked so strange and uninviting that, little as she had previously been disposed to listen to what was said about the woman having lost her reason, she could not entirely get rid of some apprehension that possibly she might find in this lonely spot some wild, demented creature, who would be enraged at the sight of a stranger venturing so near her home.

Such thoughts were very natural under Margaret's circumstances. She wondered now that they had never come before, and she almost wished they had. She had warned the boys, and here she was rushing into danger herself. But still her purpose did not fail her. Margaret was no coward;

"You have taken care of me so far," she added; "now I must take care of you."

The boys exchanged meaning looks with one another, but still remained silent. What could she do? She tried again.

"Just think," she said, "I have come out

was set.

At last the extreme height was reached, and here stood the low-roofed cottage, scarcely distinguishable in the distance from the rough ground by which it was surrounded. One small plot of earth afforded

soil for a scanty garden, and it was beyond this, immediately overlooking the sea, that a kind of mound had been raised, with a few rails at the edge by way of protection, against which the old woman supported herself when waving her signal.

Peggy was at her faithful duty now, when Margaret entered noiselessly the little plot of garden in front of the cottage; and, seeing this, the child advanced with a kind of awe, treading softly, in the hope of not disturbing what to her wore something like the aspect of a religious solemnity. need not, however, have been so scrupulous about the sound of her footsteps, for when engaged in hoisting her signal, Peggy was not easily disturbed.

She

The woman herself, though a strange, was not a frightful object. She was a worn, anxious looking creature, somewhat tall and gaunt, but with nothing repulsive in her appearance—rather the contrary, Margaret thought, for the very earnestness and force of her longing desire after her lost child, brought many Scriptural images and expressions to the mind of the child, illustrative of the depth and strength of a mother's love; and these brought also the remembrance of her father's voice and manner when he taught her, in his loving way, those Scripture lessons which filled up so large a portion of her intelligence.

Extremely anxious not to be the cause of any disturbance to the poor woman, Margaret seated herself upon a stone or mass of rock jutting out against the path which led to the cottage door; and here she also watched,

long and silently. But it was the woman who occupied her thoughts, and formed the central object in her picture-the woman who heeded neither sight nor sound which bore no relation to the object towards which her eyes were strained.

A strange contrast in regard to the experience of human life was presented by these two figures. The girl with her bright, healthy face, its colour heightened by the morning's exercise, had thrown off her straw hat, which she held loosely by the strings, letting her abundant hair fall loosely round her neck and shoulders-not beautiful, perhaps, in the usual acceptation of that word; she had still such a freshness and glow about her, and looked above all things so earnest and so true, that she was eminently beautiful in one sense, and her appearance had the effect of beauty upon all who loved her. Life was still untried with the child, to whom it was beginning to look wonderful, and at times mysterious. But the woman had reached the utmost limit of what life, in one sense, is capable of enduring, and she still held on unshaken. Simple and homely in her general appearance, her attitude on this occasion gave her something of the dignity of a prophetess of old. Her figure in its present attitude was remarkably upright, her gaze far-reaching, clear, and full of purpose, while the scattering of her grey hair in the wind gave additional wildness to her eager and expectant face.

Margaret sat very still. She was saying to herself, "Surely he will come at last!"