such stress upon the words which implied a possibility of the wanderer's return, that her uncle turned and looked into the little serious face of his niece, and there he saw for the first time an expression which indicated a kind of far-reaching thought, beyond what is usually found in the happy heedless countenance of childhood.

Margaret indeed was already past the age of absolute childhood. She had attained the dignity of a little maiden of twelve years' experience; but she had never, up to this time, distinguished herself by saying or doing anything very remarkable, either at home or at school. Nobody thought much about her beyond the few kind relatives who regarded her with compassionate interest as an orphan child. Amongst these, her Uncle and Aunt Anderson were the practical caretakers. They had, in fact, adopted the child into their family, and having no children of their own, were prepared in all respects to supply, to the best of their ability, the loss of her own parents.

When first left motherless, Margaret was too young to understand her loss; but on the death of her father, a few years later, she was for some time inconsolable. She and her father had in a manner grown together, as a widower and his one child sometimes do; and being a man of amiable as well as truly Christian spirit, the father had imparted many of his own opinions, and even principles, to his little daughter, almost unconsciously to himself, and at the time entirely so to her.

Could the mind of the child have been examined, and rightly understood, at this period of her life, it would have been found to be the subject of strong and indelible impressions in relation to things as yet dimly, if at all, comprehended. The impressions The impressions themselves were true and deep, but their real meaning and their just application remained to be explained by the after-circumstances of life. They were like the alphabet of a language which can only be truly read in the book of experience. Thus it was that the child would sometimes appear old beyond her years; while at other times her thoughts appeared to be confused, incomprehensible

even to herself, and consequently such as admitted of no definite expression to

others.

When labouring under these fits of bewilderment, Mrs. Anderson was apt to grow impatient with her niece, thinking her both silly and stupid, and, what is very provoking to practical people, absent, wandering, and dreamy. Certain subjects, too, would sometimes take entire possession of little Margaret's mind for days and weeks together; and as these were often such as her aunt did not consider worth thinking about at all, many vain endeavours were made to call her mentally into the business occupations of the moment, and to drive away altogether those absorbing matters upon which she would still ponder in secret, after she had found them annoying and vexatious to her aunt. Such proved to be the case with the old woman watching and waiting for her son, and waving her signal to every passing ship, however distant it might be.

"My dear," Mrs. Anderson was obliged. to say at last, "don't tease me any more about that poor crazy woman. I am tired of her very name. Everybody knows she is only a stupid, silly old creature. Her son will never come now. How should he? He was shipwrecked and drowned long ago."

And then little Margaret would again ask, though in a low quiet way, "Does anybody know, so as to be quite sure, that he really was drowned?" Indeed, she would not give the matter up; and in spite of all that her aunt and people generally said about the poor woman and her crazy notions, a kind of mysterious reverence for her grew in the mind of the child, who, on some occasions of dispute, even showed symptoms of leaning to the idea that old Peggy was the wise woman, and her accusers foolish.

Altogether life was becoming, about this time, a great mystery to little Margaret. She found it impossible to reconcile people's sayings and doings with those rules which her father had impressed upon her mind as the right rules to live by. About faith he had said a great deal to her, and had endeavoured to make her understand not only

painfully solicitous neither to trouble nor offend any one, scarcely even venturing so far as to be of a different opinion from those to whom they looked as the highest authorities in matters social, political, and religious. "Excellent people" they were called. Let us call them at present simply good and kind, a distinction which they richly deserved, because they had adopted their little orphan niece, and were really caring for her as if she had been their own child.

"The place is not far off; I will see her some day," said the child to herself; and in the meantime she formed many plans for carrying out her purpose, none of which she communicated either to her uncle or aunt. Very naturally, she did not wish them to go with her. She wanted to see the woman by herself, and for herself. There was, besides, this feeling operating with her, which comes from living with kind people whose ideas and modes of reasoning and feeling all run in a very different channel from our own, that we learn in time to be quiet, and to dwell in silence upon our favourite thoughts, rather than bring them forward to be constantly found fault with, or treated with contempt. I say kind people, because if they are not kind and good, we care less about carrying on a battle of opinions with them; but with the kind and good, such battles are always painful; and Margaret, though naturally persistent in whatever notions she took up, owed too much to her worthy relatives, not to be a little careful how she annoyed or vexed them.

Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were extremely kind and good people in their way; and it was a very common and very generally approved way-just that way which a large proportion of our friends and neighbours would speak of as the best way. At all events, it looked outwardly to be a very safe way. They were highly respectable people, did nothing new or eccentric, took care of their own, subscribed largely to public charities, and even in private would assist others when quite sure that it was right and safe to assist

It may readily be supposed, from the strict and rather narrow line of respectability which these worthy people marked out for themselves, that they were guilty of no extravagance either in word or act. They had perhaps a little tendency to look rather sharply after receiving their money's worth for their money; and they wondered exceedingly at others, and sometimes blamed them, if they did not do the same. It must in justice be said of them, however, that their household and personal arrangements were conducted on an extremely comfortable, if not a liberal scale. Their residence, when at home, was the very neatest and most complete of suburban villas, situated within a mile of a genteel county town in the south of England. Here it was generally remarked of them that they had the best of everything; and in having always the best, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson considered that they had their money's worth for their money.

As already said, these worthy people were not backward in relieving cases of distress, where they had reason to feel sure that their kindness was well deserved, and that their charity would be well spent. But then they must be very sure on these points; and the necessity of making themselves so, involved them in so many curious investigations respecting people's character, conduct, and modes of living, so far as to ascertain what they did with their money when they got it, and what they had done on former occasions when receiving help from others, that the result was far from satisfactory to their own minds, or beneficial to their own habits of thought and feeling. As is too frequently

the case in pursuing such minute and personal investigations, these good people, being often vexed and disappointed, became in time more and more disposed to put their hands into their pockets without drawing anything out.

This also was a mystery to Margaret, and it perplexed her beyond measure. Her father had been a country curate, with a very limited income; and yet she had a strong conviction that he did more good with his small means than her uncle and aunt with their abundance. She had another strong conviction in her mind. It was that if her father had possessed mines of wealth, he would have been always helping others with it, always making somebody happy, doing more and more good. It had been Margaret's glory at all times, and occasionally her boast among her young friends at the boarding-school to which she had been sent by her uncle, that her father had helped many poor people out of his small means. But now, in her present home, when she spoke of these things, her worthy relatives. would sigh as if they pitied some weakness in her father; or, if she pushed the matter too far, they would give utterance to words that were very hard for her to bear. So, on this point, as well as on many others, Margaret grew silent, and kept her feelings to herself; but on this point she was especially perplexed.

It was now the summer holiday time with Margaret. Her uncle and aunt had come, as was their habit every year, to spend month or two beside the sea; and this time they had chosen a place that was new and strange to them all. It was further north, wilder in scenery, and much more retired than any to which they had been accustomed. The manners of the people were more rough and free, and their characters perhaps a shade or two more strongly marked. Hence the peculiarities of old Peggy Rushton, her openly avowed confidence that her son would return, and her habit of hoisting her white apron for a signal, were regarded as nothing to wonder at by her neighbours, who being chiefly a population of fishermen, with their wives and families, were not strangers to the

adventures of seafaring life, and could most of them tell of themselves or their relatives stories quite as extraordinary, and many of them more disastrous, than those of the mother and her long-expected sailor son. If at any time they singled out this woman to speak of her as remarkable, they did so with less of contempt for her harmless delusion, than of respect for her great faith. To them there was a touch of sacredness in this enduring faith; for Peggy was a God-fearing, prayerful woman, and her life had been not only unselfishly devoted to those whom she loved, but innocent of offence to all. Hence the worst they ever said of her, when they saw her white signal waving from the cliff, was, "Poor thing! she'll never see him again; but it pleases her, and keeps her heart up to think he'll come back, and I wouldn't like to be the one to undeceive her."

On first arriving at this place, the rough manners and outspoken words of the people rather startled Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, but they soon learned to understand that no offence was intended by such plainness; and by degrees they came to believe and trust in these homely people more than in those to whose comparatively polished manners they had been accustomed on the southern coast. That which reconciled them more to this place, however, was the near neighbourhood of an old friend and distant relative of Mr. Anderson's, who had come with his wife and family, like themselves, for the sake of quiet.

This friend, Mr. Dunlop, had been for many years a resident in Canada. There he had married a wife much younger than himself; and finally settling there upon an extensive farm, was now a prosperous man with a large family of what Mr. and Mrs. Anderson thought must be very ill-managed and turbulent children, judging by the specimen of three boys whom they had brought with them. Indeed, they were supposed by this sedate and orderly couple to be living in their Canadian home in a somewhat wild and scrambling way, with very little idea of comfort; but they might be worthy people for all that; to which charitable allowance