Once again we will pass over seven years—their lights and shades, their joys and their sorrows—and join on their path over the fresh green-sward, bright with dew-drops that glitter in the sunshine, a party on their way to an ivy-mantled church. We recognize at a glance the tall, manly form of Effingham, though there are now deeper lines on his features, and broader streaks of silver in his hair. Perhaps we may also trace in his countenance an expression of thought more subdued and earnest,—the expression of one who has known much of the trials of life, but who has had the strength to rise above them,—an expression brightening into cheerfulness whenever his gaze is bent on the gentle partner who rests on his arm.

The face of Clemence can never lose its charm, for it wears the beauty of holiness,—that beauty which time has no power to wither, and eternity itself can but perfect. Grace is at her mother’s side, a bright and blooming girl, whose type may be found in the fragrant blush-rose which she has culled in passing from the spray.

But whose is the drooping form, clad in widow’s attire, which Mr. Effingham supports with the gentle tenderness of compassion? It is a bruised reed, a withered blossom,—one over which the harrow has passed—one which the rude foot has trodden down. Louisa, broken-spirited and weary of the world, has come to seek rest in her father’s home, as a wandering bird, pierced by the shaft of the fowler, with quivering wing and ruffled down flies back to the shelter of its nest.

“Mother!” exclaimed Grace, “you once told me that you had but one great earthly wish unfulfilled, and that was to see our dear Vincent in the pulpit, preaching the gospel of peace. That last wish will be gratified to-day, mother; are you now quite happy?”

“As happy, I believe, as a mortal can be on this side heaven,” replied Clemence; and the beaming sunshine in her blue eyes, as she raised them for a moment towards the calm sky, expressed more even than her words.

“That Vincent should ever have devoted himself to the ministry, giving his whole heart to its duties, is mainly owing, I believe,” said Mr. Effingham, “to the influence of your mother.”

“Oh! Vincent always says,” exclaimed Grace, “that he was the most wayward and wilful of boys, and that any good that he may ever do in this world is owing to her prayers and example.”

Effingham bent down his head, so that his voice should reach the ear of his wife alone,—“Vincent’s father has yet more cause,” he murmured, “to bless those prayers and that example.”

Clemence entered the church with a heart so full of gratitude, peace, and love, that there seemed left in it no room for a worldly care or an earthly regret. Through infirmity, weakness, and sorrow, she had humbly endeavoured to follow her Lord, and He had led her from darkness to light,—He had turned even her trials into blessings. Had she resigned wealth in obedience to His will? He had made poverty itself the channel by which the riches of His grace had been freely poured into her bosom. In poverty her husband’s affection had deepened,—that affection which, for the sake of conscience, she had hazarded to weaken or to lose; in poverty her son, removed from evil influence, had learned lessons of self-denial, faith, and love, which would make him her joy and crown through the ages of a blissful eternity; in poverty her own character had been strengthened,—she had learned more fully, more submissively to trust the love of her heavenly Father: and now her cup overflowed with blessings,—blessings which she need not fear freely to enjoy; for it was the smile of her Lord that had changed the waters of bitterness to the wine of gladness; it was from His hand that she had received her treasures—and those treasures were not her idols.