ready, too;" and she pointed to a little inner apartment, in which Margaret could just see, through a partly opened door, some curtains of white dimity, enclosing a bedstead which had been kept ready-and, alas! vacant-for fifteen years.

"He was a nice little fellow," said she, and the mother dwelt fondly on the word "little." "He was a nice little fellow when he went away; but, deary me! he'll be full-grown man by this time; and I often think whether that bedstead will do for him. I have my doubts-serious doubts as to the length. His father stood full six feet in his stockings, and I'm not short, you

see.

But maybe there'll be time after he lands. There's often a deal to do about landing, and that. But you see one wouldn't like not to be ready, so I do what I can."

And thus the poor woman rambled on, as she had lately fallen into the habit of doing, talking to herself, or rather thinking aloud, as people are apt to do who live alone, especially those people whe dwell continually upon one idea, and always follow out one train of thought. So little, indeed, after once going off in this strain, did she appear to regard the presence of her visitor, that Margaret felt no inclination to offer any interruption by remarks of her own. She had been secretly impelled by a desire to see this woman, and, if possible, to become acquainted with her in her true character. She had nothing to ask, or to tell, herself. She only wanted to see and hear, and in fact to understand the nature of a life which seemed so strange, so full of interest to one who was just beginning earnestly to inquire about the ways of God towards the children of men. All that Margaret desired in the present instance, therefore, was to keep the poor woman talking and telling about herself, and about those impressions which held her mind in a state of fixed and unwavering belief, notwithstanding her many disappoint

ments.

Was this the kind of faith, Margaret secretly asked and wondered, which her father had so often endeavoured to explain to her? If so, it must have its reward. But, again, that faith, she rather suspected, had

some sure foundation to rest upon. What foundation had this poor woman's faith? All probability, nay, even all evidence was against it. But so was the evidence in the case of removing mountains, she thought, for who had ever seen a mountain so removed? Only there was the Saviour's own assurance here. Had this poor woman ever had any direct assurance? Margaret wondered.

Under the teaching of her father, in whose infallibility Margaret devoutly believed, she had learned much even at this early stage of her experience; and that which she had learned from him she was always ready to communicate to others, perhaps with a little more confidence than appeared quite becoming in a child. She was only confident, however, thus far-that in coming from her father, she felt sure it must be not only wise and good, but perfectly incontrovertible. Hence the child appeared at times, and especially to those who did not understand her, a little pertinacious and argumentative, if not even worse; though all the while, in regard to her own opinions, or rather opinions emanating from herself, she was modest in the extreme-modest as all earnestly inquiring people are, and at this period of her life Margaret was simply an inquirer.

She was indeed an inquirer on this occasion, and a deeply interested one, into the grounds of that faith by which the solitary woman had been so long supported. But on further examination of the subject, Margaret was a little disappointed. That earnest and untiring belief on the part of the mother which she had felt disposed to regard with reverence, did not appear, on a closer inspection, to be exactly what she had imagined it to be; and her moral sense was perhaps a little shocked to find in it something more like a blind and obstinate assurance that a certain event would, and must come to pass, because it had been so earnestly desired, and importunately prayed for.

Peggy Rushton was not a stranger to prayer, nor to certain religious influences and observances, though to what extent her heart and life had been brought under such influences, it might have been difficult to

determine. There was certainly but little evidence in her accustomed mode of speech of that spirit which is easily entreated, and which vaunteth not itself. In the great occupation and purpose of her life, she was rather resolute and confident that she should be rewarded, and ought to be rewarded, for her long watching and belief; and she spoke on the present occasion with so much of this in her tone and manner, that Margaret ventured at length to say, "Papa used to tell me we were not always to expect that we should have all that we prayed for. I remember I once prayed for what was impossible, and he told me that was wrong."

"And who was your papa, as you call him?" asked Peggy rather sharply.

"He was a clergyman, the curate of Cliftonbury; and oh, such a good man!" replied the child.

"Well," observed the woman rather contemptuously, "that may be all true enough, and I'm glad to hear that he was a good man; but his sayings are no rule to me, for all that."

"Not his own sayings, perhaps," replied Margaret; "but he knew the Bible so well; and all that he taught came directly out of that Book."

"And I've my Bible, too," said Peggy, pointing to the well-worn volume on a shelf beside her fireplace. "I could tell you chapter and verse as well as most o' them clergy." It was scarcely necessary to tell her of her one-sided way of reading her Bible-how she selected and appropriated those passages which confirmed her one established conviction, and how she neglected much, if not all, that would have corrected her blind belief that she had a right to be rewarded.

Margaret, always strong in what her father had taught her, took courage, and went on: "Papa used to say that when we prayed for a thing, and it did not come as we wished, we were not to think God did not accept our prayers-that He hears our words, and sees our thoughts, and knows all our situation, and what will harm us, and what will do us good; and sometimes does not give us what we pray for because it would hurt us in

some way; but gives us perhaps something else very different-something that we don't wish for at all, but which is far better for us really. He used to say that a father likes to be told and asked about things by his children; and that if I told him I was thirsty, and asked very earnestly for a glass of wine, he should most likely give me a glass of water as much better for me; but he should give it to me because I asked him all the same. And so does our heavenly Father give us His good gifts, though they are often very different from what we should like to have."

"Was it your father," asked Peggy, "that you said was a clergyman ?"

"Yes," replied Margaret, a little surprised, and the more so that she observed a very peculiar expression on the woman's face.

"Humph!" said Peggy; "I should have thought it had been yourself."

Peggy Rushton never liked to be dictated to; and on the present occasion it must be confessed that this was not the only symptom she betrayed of considerable impatience while Margaret was delivering her little sermona kind of discourse which Peggy regarded as at once beneath the range of her capacity, and remote from the sphere of her experience. Like most enthusiasts, she looked upon her own individual case as peculiar, and not to be reached by any of the common and familiar modes of reasoning-especially not to be reached by the reasoning and dictation of a child; and thus the impression produced was far from being such as the little preacher had intended. Peggy was highly offended; for was she not a woman set apart, with a different lot from other women, and altogether removed from them in the dealings of a mysterious Providence towards herself? Why, then, was she to be talked to by any onemore than all by a child-as if she did not know her portion as it was dealt out to her, and her own part in it? Peggy was highly offended.

Margaret felt this, and was beginning to offer some apology for having spoken on serious subjects at such length to one so many years older than herself, when suddenly her ear was caught by a distant sound,

to which she listened with startled attention. It was almost instantly repeated, and when Margaret rushed out from the door of the cottage, there came up more distinctly from below shout after shout, like some one calling to another who might be in imminent danger.

Both the woman and her visitor ran to the high mound from whence Peggy was accustomed to stretch her watchful gaze across the expanse of ocean. Close to the edge of this mound they could see, by looking down, the entire sweep of the shore as it bounded one of those many little bays which varied the line of coast, with high promontories and rocky points between them. Here the shouts rose louder, and now they could distinctly see the figure of a little boy winding leisurely along, close to the edge of the surf where the rising tide was creeping up amongst some projecting rocks which the boy had already reached. But the sounds which rose so distinctly up through the clear still air, were unheard by the boy, because of the rush of the waves, and the hiss of the foam as it ran up around his feet.

It was little Archy, the youngest of the three brothers, who had wandered on in search of carnelians, or other curious stones or shells; and who, bending his head thoughtfully to discover what the tide had left, took no notice of another tide now sweeping rapidly on, and threatening to lock him into the farther bay, which he was about to enter by climbing over the heap of rocks which stretched far out into the sea, but which, at their farthest point, were now rapidly disappearing in the midst of gathering flood and foam.

George Dunlop, the eldest of the brothers, could just be seen from the high cliff, but he was almost too distant to hear the shouts; yet even he seemed to have some apprehension of danger, for he was hastening along a path which led round by the top of the cliff, but which, owing to the intervening of a deep valley, was a much more lengthy way of reaching the extremity of the bay than he had probably apprehended. It was from Harry's voice that the shouts of

warning came. He was on the beach, and could distinctly see the perilous situation of his little brother. He was hurrying at his utmost speed, but the sands were soft and heavy, and he was too far distant to have any chance of reaching the rocky barrier which Archy had already begun to climb, before his figure must disappear on the other side, and what might be therewhat depth of water, or what height of cliff-it was impossible for him to know.

Peggy Rushton, however, knew she knew the nature of the coast, the steep and hollow curve of the cliff within the farther bay, and how difficult-almost impossible-the rocks were to climb on that side. For a moment she forgot her own troubles in the fearful apprehensions which that spectacle awakened. Whatever hope Margaret might have entertained before died out of her when she looked into the woman's face-that face so worn with the long dull agony of disappointment, yet so capable still of the sharper agony of terror for the life of a child that was not her own-the precious life of the son of some mother who had never watched and waited as she had done.

"If it was not for my old limbs," said the woman, "I would run and fetch James Halliday. If any man could help, it would be James."

"Where is he?" asked Margaret eagerly. The woman turned, and regarded her for awhile with a scrutinizing gaze. "You're a strong bairn," she said, as if talking to herself; "maybe you're better at running than you are at preaching."

"I can run very fast," said Margaret, anxious not to lose a moment.

"Then off with you," said the woman, "over that turnip field, and down in the hollow there you'll see two cottages standing. The last is James Halliday's, and if he's at home-which is more than can be looked for at this time of day-but if he is at home, tell him all about it. Don't stop for fine words. He's a plain man is James, but a rough 'un; just tell him to take the strongest rope he can lay his hands on. But he'll know what to do, sure enough." "And if he is not at home?" asked the

child, with suspended breath; for she was already on tiptoe to be gone.

"Why, then the Lord help that little lad!" said Peggy, "for there's nobody else." "Not in the other cottage?"

"No; she's only a poor old body like me, that lives there."

Before Peggy had uttered these last words, Margaret was gone.

แ

"Shot like a dart," said the woman, watching from her post of observation. "I doubt she goes too fast at first. She'll never hold that pace, only its downhill soon. She does run, does the little lass. Oh! but yon gate's fastened. Whew! she's over it, and away like a wild mountain lamb. She does run like a good 'un. I shouldn't be surprised if there's more in that bairn than I gave her credit for when she sat preaching there -preaching to me like an old parson, altogether out of her place. But she's found it now. Yes; let the young folks run, and the old ones tell 'em where to go; that's the way it should be. I wonder where she's got to now? Why, yonder, I declare! No; it can't be-yes, it is-why, bless the child! If her heart was as true as her step is swift and sure she would make a brave woman yet, though she does preach to people that are older and wiser than herself."

By the time Peggy had finished her soliloquy, Margaret had disappeared beyond the brow of the hill, and was rapidly pursuing her way down into the valley towards the cottage of James Halliday, a well-known character in that neighbourhood, who was held in high repute for daring exploits both by sea and land. The idea of finding a man of his occupations in his quiet home in the middle of a bright summer's day, was almost beyond the range of hope. But youth—such youth as Margaret's-makes little account of probability, and she flew onward, the more rapidly that her course now lay directly downwards into a little valley or dell opening out into the bay, towards which, when Archy was last seen, his steps were tending. It was evident to all who saw him that the real nature of his situation had never struck the boy up to the time when he turned the point which formed the outer extremity

of this bay. What he thought or felt then, no one could conjecture, for he was, during a part of his progress, hidden from the view of his friends on both sides of the ridge or promontory. To those who had time to think, it seemed that he must then have opened his eyes on a frightful spectacle: for already the tide was swelling up within the bay far along the beach, and climbing, as it seemed, the rocky barrier, for there the waves dashed highest, as if vexed with the interruption which they were determined to overcome. Instead of turning back, however, as he might at that instant have done with safety, the boy clambered on amongst the crags, now seen for a moment, and then lost behind some projecting mass of rock, apparently unconscious whether the tide was advancing or going back.

On reaching the cottage of James Halliday, Margaret learned, to her great joy, that the fisherman was not far from the spot, was not gone out on one of his frequent voyages, but was quietly mending his nets beside some boats on the shore. He was consequently soon found, and his services engaged on behalf of the helpless boy. But while. everybody put faith in James Halliday as the one efficient resource in any crisis of imminent danger, he himself appeared on the present occasion to be labouring under serious apprehension as to whether he could save the boy or not.

"A little boy, you say?" he asked inquiringly of Margaret.

"Quite a little boy," she replied, thinking that the very pitifulness of the case would strengthen her appeal-"such a nice little fellow, so kind and good, and we love him.

so much."

"That's not it," said the fisherman, with a gesture of impatience. "No matter whether he's nice or not. If he was a prince, the son of Queen Victoria herself, that would not save him if he had not strength enough to hold by this rope, and was not man enough to grasp it like a man: I tell you there's no power on earth could save him in that case. It is not me, you see my little girl, it's him that has to be looked to for holding on."