We will now direct attention to our much esteemed friend, Phillip Lawson, who has much to be grateful for. He hourly thanks his Maker for the great mercies received at His hands.

"Let them fall into other hands than mine. It would do no good. Poor wretches, I envy them not their ill-gotten gains. There is a day of reckoning, and may God cleanse their guilty souls." Such were the lawyer's remarks as he sat alone in his office with a heavy load off his mind.

He had just returned from witnessing Marguerite Verne's departure, and he felt calm and content.

Mr. Verne had accompanied the young man to his door and left with many kind invitations for "Sunnybank."

How comforting was his kind, cheery voice and his parting: "Now don't fail to drop in often, for I shall be very lonely, indeed."

Mr. Verne is a thorough gentleman and true friend, thought Phillip, as he turned over the last half-hour's conversation. "How thoughtful to explain Marguerite's failure to see me last evening." Then a slight frown settled upon the broad brow, showing that some disagreeable subject had in turn claimed the young lawyer's thoughts.

"Perhaps she may be better than I give her credit for. Are there any of us perfect?" Then musing for a few minutes he arose, the poet's words recurring to his mind—

"The best of what we do, and are,
Just God, forgive."

On opening the daily mail the color rose upon Phillip Lawson's cheek, and his fingers became tremulous as he seized a letter showing the unsteady chirography of Hubert Tracy.

"I will never open it," he thought, and instantly the missive lay a mass of shreds in the waste basket. "'Out of evil good may come.' Hubert Tracy has taught me to be more grateful to the God who has done so much for me."

"Keep your temper, old boy," murmured the young man afresh as his eyes ran over the next letter—one dated from Winnipeg.

"To the flames I consign thee", said he, lighting a match and holding the provoking article over it until it was consumed.

"Halloo! I smell brimstone here. Suppose you're practising so it won't be so hard on you when the time comes?" cried a genial, hearty voice from the open door.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Montgomery," said the occupant, offering a seat to his visitor.

"How are all my friends at 'Gladswood'?"

"Have hardly time to tell you, for I'm in a hurry. I promised to meet several of the sports at Breeze's Corner. We are going out to Moosepath: but this will explain everything, and more too," cried Mr. Montgomery, producing a neat-looking note, and passing it to the young lawyer, making a hasty exit to meet said horsemen friends from Sussex and the city.

"I shall go to-morrow and stay over Sunday, at any rate," said Mr.
Lawson to himself when he had gleaned the contents Of Jennie
Montgomery's note.

It was just what was necessary to the lawyer's existence. A day or two at "Gladswood" was panacea for almost any ill that flesh was heir to.

The self-reliant matron, with her healthful, stimulating advice, and the bright, merry-hearted girl with her vigorous and true resolve, were indeed incentives of good, and none could fully realize the fact more than the young lawyer. He always went away from "Gladswood" with a high and lofty purpose and firm resolve to tread the path of duty.

And this occasion proved no exception.

Jennie Montgomery's happy face would put to shame the most inveterate grumbler. Her buoyant spirits were infectious. Her ringing, merry laugh was cheering to the highest degree.

The sprightly maiden in her neat muslin frock and broad hat trimmed with freshly-plucked marguerites was a fit model of the fair daughters of Kings County, and it was no wonder that many of the villagers predicted that "the young gentleman from the city must surely be payin' attention to Miss Montgomery."

Three days at "Gladswood"! What a world of thought it conveys— three days to revel among the beautiful glades and linger among the bewitching groves of graceful elm and tasselled pine! to hear the lowing of herds and the music of the winged songsters blended in one exquisite harmony.

Yes, devotees of the world, who build upon the style of your neighbor's dress or equipage and trifle away God's precious moments in silly show and vain trumpery, go to the retreats at "Gladswood," follow Phillip Lawson in his daily rounds, and if you will not, like him, feel your heart expand and seek aspirations of a higher mould— a something which gives comfort each breath you draw, each word you utter and each thought you frame!—then, we will make bold to say, your heart is irrevocably sealed beyond recall.

Cousin Jennie was shrewd and witty. She knew how to act that she might afford the least embarrassment to her guest.

For hours her guest was allowed to roam at his own desire, and felt not the pressure of conventional restriction.

Mr. Lawson was gallant in the true sense of the word, but he was no empty-headed fop, paying that amount of overdue attention to the fair, which, at times, becomes a bore and a pest.

It had been arranged that a small pic-nic party should relieve the quiet of the third day, and a jolly pic-nic it was. There was mirth enough to last for a month. Jennie's companions had mustered en masse. Groups of merry, rollicking youths and bright-eyed maidens lent a charm to the scene, and reminded one of the revels held in classic groves, when each sylvan deity, at a blast of her silver horn, made the wood resound with the voices of her myriads of subjects.

As the sayings and doings of all pic-nics are much in common it would be wasting time to describe the one at "Gladswood."

"All went merry as a marriage bell."

The sun was sinking in the west in all its glory—a blaze of living gold. The purple tops of the distant hills were enchanting and stood as huge sentinels of the scene below.

"Come here, Mr. Lawson," cried Jennie Montgomery, in breathless suspense. "Is not that grand? This is a sight I have been wishing for. Just look."

Mr. Lawson was truly a lover of nature, and his profound admiration excited her.

"I never stand here without thinking of Marguerite," exclaimed the girl, vehemently; "she would sit upon that bowlder and gaze around until I would think that she had lost her senses. I believe if any being has a soul for the beautiful it is cousin Marguerite."

The young man looked down from his proud eminence and encountered the fixed gaze of his companion. That look gave anxiety. A painful silence was the only reply, and both gazed upon the panorama before them for fully five minutes before the girl spoke.

"I can never forgive my cousin Evelyn for forcing Madge away. We all knew it was against her wishes that she went."

How comforting those words to Phillip Lawson's ear.

"Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, coming close to his side, "I am not going to hide my feelings any longer. You are a very dear friend and must have my confidence."

The young man's looks were proof of the girl's words. His face reflected thought sublime as Aeschylus, beautiful as Sophocles, and pathetic as Euripides!

"Thank you, Jennie," was the reply, and the eyes had a far-off look that went to the girl's heart.

"You are going to-morrow, Mr. Lawson, and I may not have another such opportunity."

It was then that the beauty of the maiden's nature shone resplendently, showering scintillations of pure native goodness that forever sparkled as sunshine and cheered the rugged path of Phillip Lawson's life!

A crimson flush momentarily suffused Jennie Montgomery's face, then she became pale and agitated.

"Mr. Lawson!" she exclaimed, "I love my cousin dearly, and I grieve for her more than I can tell you."

The young man's face blanched under the effect of the girl's tones, but he made no reply.

"Forgive me if I weary you, but I seem to feel in you a friend—one in whom I find sympathy."

"Trust me fully, Jennie, I will try to be all that you think me."

Phillip Lawson's earnest tones went straight to the girl's heart, and tremulously she continued:

"Mr. Lawson, you have not been a frequent visitor at my Uncle Verne's without seeing much to condemn in my worldly aunt. I know it is wrong to judge, but I cannot help it. I cannot help judging the motive of Aunt Verne—indeed I cannot."

The listener had fixed his eyes upon the huge trunk of a venerable oak tree covered with a luxuriant growth of velvety moss.

"I really cannot feel kindly towards cousin Evelyn, for she has ruled with an iron rod, and she is so wily that Auntie thinks her every action something perfect. Now, Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, with greater earnestness, "Mrs. Arnold is determined that Marguerite shall marry that unprincipled Mr. Tracy, and the thought makes me sick. I loathe him—he is almost as contemptible as Mr. Montague Arnold."

Mr. Lawson knew not what to say. A struggle was going on within. Would he reveal the plot to the truthful girl and ask her assistance—or would he let the secret die with himself and perhaps see the lovely Marguerite become a victim to the merciless trio?

The girl knew not what was passing in her companion's, mind, and the latter felt sadly puzzled. He durst not meet the gaze of the thoughtful brown eyes, but found words to reply:

"You put me in a strange place, Jennie; but I know it is from a sense of right that you speak."

"Mr. Lawson, I appeal to your manhood to help me. I want to save
Marguerite, and you alone can do it."

The girl's manner was vehement. Tears glistened in her eyes, and the pathetic nature of the appeal visibly affected Phillip Lawson.

He stood for a moment as if in a study. Had the girl in any way found out the plot? Could it be possible? What did she mean that he alone could save her?

"Mr. Lawson, I can be a friend when charity demands one; trust me; perhaps I am too bold—but it is my regard for both that forces me. Mr. Lawson, you love Marguerite Verne. It is in your power to make her happy, and oh!" cried the girl, seizing the hard, strong hand, "Mr. Lawson, promise me that you will do it."

The young lawyer held the girl's hand tenderly, yea, as that of a dear sister, then raised it to his lips—

"God bless you, Jennie," cried he, fervently, "I only wish it was in my power to do so; but Marguerite Verne is as far above me as the heavens above the earth."

"Believe me, Mr. Lawson, you are the only one towards whom my cousin gives a thought."

"She treats me always as a friend, and at times more as a brother," said the young man abstractedly.

"Phillip Lawson, keep this secret as you value your soul," cried Jennie, clutching the lawyer by the wrist in an excited manner, and lowering her voice to a whisper—

"Marguerite loves you as she will never love another. It is sacrilege to watch every movement and steal the secret from every breath she drew, but love prompted me and I did it, and I feel that I am not doing wrong in revealing it."

"God grant it, my true-hearted girl—yet I dare not trust myself to think of it. I love Marguerite Verne as no other man living can, yet she may never know it. She may one day be wedded to another, and live a life as far from mine as it is possible for circumstances to make it. Yet her image will always be sacred to my memory, and no other woman will ever hold a place in my heart. The sprig of cedar which one day fell unobserved from her corsage, I shall treasure up as a priceless relic. Yes, truly, I live for thee, my peerless Marguerite."

"If Cousin Marguerite could only hear those words," thought Jennie. "Why have the winged winds no mercy? why do they not hurl down the great sounding board which separates these two beings and transmit those valued sounds to the ear, where they shall fall as music from the spheres!"

"Jennie, as a friend, I ask you to solemnly promise that what has passed between us shall never be unearthed again—let it be buried deep in the grave of lost hopes."

"I shall make no such promise, Phillip Lawson; but I promise that I will never place you in an unworthy position. I will never utter one sentence that will compromise your dignity as a gentleman. Will you trust me?"

"I will trust you in anything, my noble girl," said Phillip in tones of deep reverence.

"You know that my Uncle Verne's interest in you is real—he is your friend," said Jennie, trying hard to brighten the path of her friend's existence.

"Thank God for it," said the lawyer. "Indeed I have much to be grateful for. Jennie, some day I may tell you more: at present my lips are sealed."

"Your sense of honor is too high for the nineteenth century, Mr.
Lawson; yet I would not have you otherwise."

The girl was mechanically picking to pieces the white petals of bright-eyed marguerites and strewing the ground beside her.

"You ruthless vandal! look at your work, Miss Montgomery," exclaimed a bright romping miss of fifteen, bursting upon them without regard to ceremony and pointing to the ground where lay the scattered petals.

"But it is romantic, you know; one always reads of some beautiful maiden picking roses to pieces to hide the state of her feelings."

"Thank you, Miss Laura, for your well-timed allusion, for Miss Montgomery and I have been romancing indeed," said Mr. Lawson, bowing to the young miss with an air of deferential homage.

"It will all come right yet," said Jennie, pressing her friend's hand with the tenderness of a sister.

The young man smiled sadly, murmuring: "'It will all come out right.' How those words seem to mock me—'it will all come out right.'"