It was Tuesday, the 22nd of December, and late in the day. Not a pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low; the air was keen and raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was sitting alone in the firelight, when two little feet came running round the corner of the house; the glass door opened, and Ellen rushed in.

"I have come! I have come!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear Alice! I'm so glad!"

So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.

"But how late, my child! how late you are."

"Oh, I thought I never was going to get done," said Ellen, pulling off her things in a great hurry, and throwing them on the sofa; "but I am here at last. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Why, what has been the matter?" said Alice, folding up what Ellen laid down.

"Oh, a great deal of matter; I couldn't think what Nancy meant last night; I know very well now. I shan't want to see any more apples all winter. What do you think I have been about all to-day, dear Miss Alice?"

"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling, "if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good Spitzenberg yourself."

"That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune said awhile ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy potatoes."

"But about the apples?" said Alice.

"Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the first thing I knew Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down on the floor, and then she gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together, and as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I tried very hard to get through before, but I could not, and I am so tired! I thought I never should get to the bottom of that big basket."

"Never mind, love; come to the fire; we'll try and forget all disagreeable things while we are together."

"I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat down in Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't care for it at all now."

But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour Miss Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept her for awhile quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat so till the clock struck half-past five; then Alice proposed they should go into the kitchen and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great cordiality. She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her husband that Ellen was "an uncommon well-behaved child." She said she would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few minutes.

"But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body out by, waiting to speak to you. I was just coming in to tell you; will you please to see her now?"

"Certainly, let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?"

"No, Miss Alice; there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her."

The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed, untidy; no wonder Margery's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into her spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her, the hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow lay white, not yet melted away.

"Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice pleasantly.

"If ye plase, ma'am, it's the master I'm wanting," said the woman, dropping a curtsey.

"My father? Margery, will you tell him?"

Margery departed.

"Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?"

"It is, ma'am; a bitter storm."

"Have you come far?"

"It's a good bit, my lady, it's more nor a mile beyant Carra, just right forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback; in Jemmy Morrison's woods, where Pat M'Farren's clearing is; it's there I live, my lady."

"That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow," said Alice kindly; "sit down and come nearer the fire. Margery will give you something to refresh you."

"I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night; and when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's little the cold or the storm can do to put out the heart's fire."

"Life and death? who is sick?" said Alice.

"It's my own child, ma'am; my own boy; all the child I have; and I'll have none by the morning light."

"Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?"

"Myself doesn't know."

The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances.

"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly. Margery—oh, that's right; a cup of tea will do her good. What do you want with my father?"

"The Lord bless ye! I'll tell you, my lady."

She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that Margery offered her.

"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left it; it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm thinking the bitter winters o' this cowld country has chilled the life out o' him, and trouble's cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone. "I seed him grow waker an' waker, an' his daar face grew thinner an' thinner, and the red all left it; only two burning spots was on it some days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I couldn't do nothing at all to help him, but he just growd waker an' waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him; but he's an 'asy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was like a heavenly angel itself already, an' always was, but then more nor ever. Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely, let Father Shannon say what he will."

She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and pitying.

"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the tears that came quickly again; "an' I seed he was going fast from me, an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is it thin?' says I. 'About the jantleman that praaches at Carra,' says he; 'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praast at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draaming, or out o' his head, or crazy wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,' says I, 'what is it you want?' says I; 'an' sure if it's anything in heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,' says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms to my neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver, an' kissed me, he did; an', says he, 'Mother daar,' says he, 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good jantleman that praaches at Carra till I spake to him.' 'Is it the praast you want, John, my boy?' says I; 'sure he's in it,' says I; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had come home wid him half-an-hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's not him at all that I maan; it's the jantleman that spakes in the little white church at Carra; he's not a praast at all,' says he. 'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him thin the night, Kitty Dolan,' says my husband; 'are ye mad?' says he; 'sure it's not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic, he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praast in yer own house.' 'I'm maaning none,' says I; 'nor more he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born angel to Michael Dolan anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the kiss of his lips on my face wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an' he a-dying? by the blessing an' I will, if twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praast, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy? for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."

"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was speaking. "Wait but one moment."

In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.

"It storms very hard," she said, "and he has not had his tea! But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get back again! it will be so deep by that time."

There was a cloud on the fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed away, and quiet and calm as ever she sat down at the little tea-table with Ellen. From her face all shadows seemed to have flown for ever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery's good bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright in reply. Ellen was well pleased for her part that the third seat was empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometimes as a gust of wind swept by, and once or twice went to the window.

After tea Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire; while Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some purse silk in a mysterious fashion that no eye could be quick enough to follow, and with such skill and steadiness that the work grew fast under her hand.

"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.

"Did you? What about?"

"It was pleasant too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk—"but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on board the boat—you know?—I told you about him?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where, and he didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; and I thought I didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know me, but then I thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see me; and he asked me if I had been pious since he saw me."

Ellen stopped to laugh.

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very pleased."

"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."

"I didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my dream."

"Had what? Kept close to the truth?"

"No, no;—been what he said."

"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.

"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen thoughtfully.

"How so, my dear?"

"I don't know, Miss Alice—because I never am good, I suppose."

"But what has been the matter to-day?"

"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and then when I found I must do all those baskets of apples first I was very ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was, and said something that made me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner, and when I found I couldn't I said I wouldn't come to dinner, but she made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything, and then when I got back to the apples again I sewed so hard that I ran the needle into my finger ever so far—see there! what a mark it left!—and Aunt Fortune said it served me right and she was glad of it, and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved so hard I wouldn't?"

"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours are—it is strange they should be so evil."

"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 'actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she only wouldn't say that just as she does! it does worry me so."

"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat looking sorrowfully up at her; "you must try not to give her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good."

"That is just what mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her arms round Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love, gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection.

"Oh, what do you think!" she said suddenly, her face changing again—"I got my letter last night!"

"Your letter!"

"Yes, the letter the old man brought—don't you know? And it was written on the ship, and there was only a little bit from mamma, and a little bit from papa, but so good! Papa says she is a great deal better, and he has no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite well again. Isn't that good?"

"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."

"It was on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there—and don't care either, so long as I have got it. What are you making?"

"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection.

"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"

"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."

"Oh, that's beautiful!" said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect; "and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"

"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."

"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New Year."

"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year presents!" said Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. "I wish I could make something for somebody. Oh, I wonder if I couldn't make something for Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to very much!"

Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.

"What could you make for him?"

"I don't know—that's the thing. He keeps his money in his pocket—and besides, I don't know how to make purses."

"There are other things besides purses. How would a watch-guard do? Does he wear a watch?"

"I don't know whether he does or not. He doesn't every day, I am sure; but I don't know about Sundays."

"Then we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a nightcap."

"A nightcap? You're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think a nightcap would be pretty for a Christmas present, do you?"

"Well, what shall we do, Ellen?" said Alice, laughing. "I made a pocket pin-cushion for papa once when I was a little girl; but I fancy Mr. Van Brunt would not know exactly what use to make of such a convenience. I don't think you could fail to please him though, with anything you should hit upon."

"I have got a dollar," said Ellen, "to buy stuff with; it came in my letter last night. If I only knew what!"

Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, while Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible article of Mr. Van Brunt's dress.

"I have some nice pieces of fine linen," said Alice; "suppose I cut out a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and then Margery will starch and iron it for you, all ready to give to him. How will that do? Can you stitch well enough?"

"Oh yes, I guess I can," said Ellen. "Oh, thank you, dear Alice! you are the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do you think?"

"I am sure he will very much."

"Then that will do nicely," said Ellen, much relieved. "And now, what do you think about Nancy's Bible?"

"Nothing could be better, only that I am afraid Nancy would either sell it for something else, or let it go to destruction very quickly. I never heard of her spending five minutes over a book, and the Bible, I am afraid, last of all."

"But I think," said Ellen slowly, "I think she would not spoil it or sell it either if I gave it to her."

And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last night.

"That's the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for a long time," said Alice. "We will get her the Bible by all means, my dear—a nice one—and I hope you will be able to persuade her to read it."

She rose as she spoke and went to the glass door. Ellen followed her, and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She opened the door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their faces, and they were glad to shut it again.

"It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy and cold. Papa will be late getting home."

"I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice."

"I am not much worried, love. I have often known papa out late before, but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, we'll try to make a good use of the time while we are waiting. Suppose you read to me while I work."

She took down a volume of Cowper and found his account of the three pet hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller pieces of poetry. Then followed a long talk about hares and other animals; about Cowper and his friends and his way of life. Time passed swiftly away; it was getting late.

"How weary papa will be," said Alice, "he has had nothing to eat since dinner. I'll tell you what we'll do, Ellen," she exclaimed, as she threw her work down, "we'll make some chocolate for him—that'll be the very thing. Ellen, dear, run into the kitchen and ask Margery to bring me the little chocolate pot, and a pitcher of night's milk."

Margery brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice had cut up the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen watched it with great interest till it was melted and the boiling water stirred in, and the whole was simmering quietly on the coals.

"Is it done now?"

"No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be put in, and when that is boiled the eggs, and then it will be done."

With Margery and the chocolate pot the cat had walked in. Ellen immediately tried to improve his acquaintance; that was not so easy. The Captain chose the corner of the rug farthest from her, in spite of all her calling and coaxing, paying her no more attention than if he had not heard her. Ellen crossed over to him and began most tenderly and respectfully to stroke his head and back, touching his soft hair with great care. Parry presently lifted up his head uneasily, as much as to say, "I wonder how long this is going to last," and finding there was every prospect of its lasting some time, he fairly got up and walked to the other end of the rug. Ellen followed him and tried again, with exactly the same effect.

"Well, cat, you aren't very kind," said she, at length; "Alice, he won't let me have anything to do with him."

"I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable; he is a cat of very bad taste, that is all I can say."

"But I never saw such a cat! he won't let me touch him ever so softly; he lifts up his head and looks as cross!—and then walks off."

"He don't know you yet, and truth is, Parry has no fancy for extending the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty!" said Alice, fondly stroking his head, "why don't you behave better?"

Parry lifted his head, and opened and shut his eyes, with an expression of great satisfaction very different from that he had bestowed on Ellen. Ellen gave him up for the present as a hopeless case, and turned her attention to the chocolate, which had now received the milk, and must be watched lest it should run over, which Alice said it would very easily do when once it began to boil again. Meanwhile Ellen wanted to know what chocolate was made of, where it came from, where it was made best, burning her little face in the fire all the time lest the pot should boil over while she was not looking. At last the chocolate began to gather a rich froth, and Ellen called out:

"Oh, Alice, look here quick; here's the shape of the spoon on the top of the chocolate! do look at it."

An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly raised on the smooth frothy surface. As they were both bending forward to watch it, Alice waiting to take the pot off the moment it began to boil, Ellen heard a slight click of the lock of the door, and turning her head was a little startled to see a stranger there, standing still at the far end of the room. She touched Alice's arm without looking round. But Alice started to her feet with a slight scream, and in another minute had thrown her arms round the stranger and was locked in his. Ellen knew what it meant now very well. She turned away as if she had nothing to do with what was going on there, and lifted the pot of chocolate off the fire with infinite difficulty; but it was going to boil over, and she would have broken her back rather than not do it. And then she stood with her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire, as if she was determined not to see them till she couldn't help it. But what she was thinking of, Ellen could not have told, then or afterward. It was but a few minutes, though it seemed to her a great many, before they drew near the fire. Curiosity began to be strong, and she looked round to see if the new-comer was like Alice. No, not a bit—how different!—darker hair and eyes—not a bit like her; handsome enough, too, to be her brother. And Alice did not look like herself; her usually calm, sweet face was quivering and sparkling now, lit up as Ellen had never seen it, oh, how bright! Poor Ellen herself had never looked duller in her life; and when Alice said gaily, "This is my brother, Ellen," her confusion of thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into a flood of tears; she sprang and hid her face in Alice's arms.

Ellen's were not the only eyes that were full just then, but of course she didn't know that.

"Come, Ellen," whispered Alice presently, "look up! what kind of a welcome is this? come! we have no business with tears just now—won't you run into the kitchen for me, love," she added more low, "and ask Margery to bring some bread and butter, and anything else she has that is fit for a traveller?"

Glad of an escape, Ellen darted away that her wet face might not be seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when she returned.

"John," said Alice, "this is my little sister that I wrote to you about—Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well as mine, you know."

"Stop! stop!" said her brother. "Miss Ellen, this sister of mine is giving us away to each other at a great rate—I should like to know first what you say to it. Are you willing to take a strange brother upon her recommendation?"

Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker's face, but meeting the grave though somewhat comical look of two very keen eyes, she looked down again, and merely answered "yes."

"Then if I am to be your brother you must give me a brother's right, you know," said he, drawing her gently to him, and kissing her gravely on the lips.

Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John Humphreys and Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentlemen of the apple-paring; for though she coloured a good deal, she made no objection and showed no displeasure. Alice and she now busied themselves with getting the cups and saucers out of the cupboard, and setting the table; but all that evening, through whatever was doing, Ellen's eyes sought the stranger as if by fascination. She watched him whenever she could without being noticed. At first she was in doubt what to think of him; she was quite sure from that one look into his eyes that he was a person to be feared; there was no doubt of that, as to the rest she didn't know.

"And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the evening?" said John Humphreys, one time that Alice was gone into the kitchen on some kind errand for him.

"Talking, sir," said Ellen doubtfully.

"Talking! this whole evening? Alice must have improved. What have you been talking about?"

"Hares and dogs, and about Mr. Cowper, and some other things——"

"Private affairs, eh?" said he, with again the look Ellen had seen before.

"Yes, sir," said Ellen, nodding and laughing.

"And how came you upon Mr. Cowper?"

"Sir?"

"How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper?"

"I was reading about his hares, and about John Gilpin; and then Alice told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends."

"Well, I don't know after all that you have had a pleasanter evening than I have had," said her questioner, "though I have been riding hard with the cold wind in my face, and the driving snow doing all it could to discomfort me. I have had this very bright fireside before me all the way."

He fell into a fit of grave musing, which lasted till Alice came in. Then suddenly fell a fumbling in his pocket.

"Here's a note for you," said he, throwing it into her lap.

"A note!—Sophia Marshman!—where did you get it?"

"From her own hand. Passing there to-day, I thought I must stop a moment to speak to them, and had no notion of doing more; but Mrs. Marshman was very kind, and Miss Sophia in despair, so the end of it was I dismounted and went in to await the preparing of that billet, while my poor nag was led off to the stables and a fresh horse supplied me. I fancy that tells you on what conditions."

"Charming!" said Alice, "to spend Christmas—I am very glad; I should like to very much—with you, dear. If I can only get papa—but I think he will; it will do him a great deal of good. To-morrow, she says, we must come; but I doubt the weather will not let us; we shall see."

"I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the sleighing will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old sleigh is in being yet, I suppose?"

"Oh yes! in good order. Ellen, what are you looking so grave about? you are going too."

"I!" said Ellen, a great spot of crimson coming in each cheek.

"To be sure; do you think I am going to leave you behind."

"But——"

"But what?"

"There won't be room."

"Room in the sleigh? Then we'll put John on Prince Charlie, and let him ride there postillion-fashion."

"But—Mr. Humphreys?"

"He always goes on horseback; he will ride Sharp or old John."

In great delight Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss; and then they all gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or rather to see John take his, which his sister would not let him wait for any longer. The storm had ceased, and through the broken clouds the moon and stars were looking out, so they were no more uneasy for Mr. Humphreys, and expected him every moment. Still the supper was begun and ended without him, and they had drawn round the fire again before his welcome step was at last heard.

There was new joy then; new embracing, and questioning and answering; the little circle opened to let him in; and Alice brought the corner of the table to his side, and poured him out a cup of hot chocolate. But after drinking half of it, and neglecting the eatables beside him, he sat with one hand in the other, his arm leaning on his knee, with a kind of softened gravity upon his countenance.

"Is your chocolate right, papa?" said Alice at length.

"Very good, my daughter!"

He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude and look. Gradually they ceased their conversation, and waited with respectful affection and some curiosity for him to speak; something of more than common interest seemed to be in his thoughts. He sat looking earnestly in the fire, sometimes with almost a smile on his face, and gently striking one hand in the palm of the other. And sitting so, without moving or stirring his eyes, he said at last, as though the words had been forced from him, "Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift!"

As he added no more, Alice said gently, "What have you seen to-night, papa?"

He roused himself and pushed the empty cup towards her.

"A little more, my daughter; I have seen the fairest sight, almost, a man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed spirit go home to its rest. Oh, that 'unspeakable gift!'"

He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his chocolate; but having drunk it he pushed the table from him, and drew up his chair.

"You had a long way to go, papa," observed Alice again.

"Yes, a long way there; I don't know what it was coming home; I never thought of it. How independent the spirit can be of externals! I scarcely felt the storm to-night."

"Nor I," said his son.

"I had a long way to go," said Mr. Humphreys; "that poor woman—that Mrs. Dolan—she lives in the woods behind the Cat's Back, a mile beyond Carra-carra, or more, it seemed a long mile to-night; and a more miserable place I never saw yet. A little rickety shanty, the storm was hardly kept out of it, and no appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere or in anything. There were several men gathered round the fire, and in a corner, on a miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye met mine the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but couldn't at first make out where. Do you remember, Alice, a little ragged boy, with a remarkably bright, pleasant face, who has planted himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time past in the south aisle of the church, and stood there all service time?"

Alice said No.

"I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most fixed and steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him on his way out of church, to speak to him, but always failed. I asked him to-night, when I first went in, if he knew me. 'I do, sir,' he said. I asked him where he had seen me. He said, 'In the church beyant.' 'So,' said I, 'you are the little boy I have seen there so regularly; what did you come there for?'

"'To hear yer honour spake the good words.'

"'What good words?' said I; 'about what?'

"He said, 'About Him that was slain, and washed us from our sins in His own blood.'

"'And do you think He has washed away yours?' I said.

"He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was somewhat difficult for him to speak; and to tell the truth so it was for me, for I was taken by surprise; but the people in the hut had gathered round, and I wished to hear him say more, for their sake as well as my own. I asked him why he thought his sins were washed away. He gave me for answer part of the verse, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me,' but did not finish it. 'Do you think you are very sick, John?' I asked.

"'I am, sir,' he said. 'I'll not be long here.'

"'And where do you think you are going, then?' said I.

"He lifted one little thin bony arm from under his coverlid, and through all the dirt and pallor of his face the smile of heaven I am sure was on it, as he looked and pointed upward and answered, 'Jesus!'

"I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished to see me for. I don't know whether he heard me or not; he lay with his eyes half closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted whether he would speak again, and indeed, for myself, I had heard and seen enough to satisfy me entirely; for the sake of the group around the bed I could have desired something further. They kept perfect stillness; awed, I think, by a profession of faith such as they had never heard before. They and I stood watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than ten or fifteen, he opened his eyes, and with sudden life and strength rose up half way in bed, exclaiming, 'Thanks be to God for His unspeakable gift!'—and then fell back—just dead."

The old gentleman's voice was husky as he finished, for Alice and Ellen were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered his face with his hands.

"I have felt," said the old gentleman presently, "as if I could have shouted out his words—his dying words—all the way as I came home. My little girl," said he, drawing Ellen to him, "do you know the meaning of those sweet things of which little John Dolan's mind was so full?"

Ellen did not speak.

"Do you know what it is to be a sinner? and what it is to be a forgiven child of God?"

"I believe I do, sir," Ellen said.

He kissed her forehead and blessed her; and then said, "Let us pray."

It was late; the servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. Oh, what a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for that "unspeakable gift;" that they, every one there, had been made to know and rejoice in it; for the poor little boy, rich in faith, who had just gone home in the same rejoicing; for their own loved one who was there already; and for the hope of joining them soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the "new song" for ever and ever.

There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, Mr. Humphreys, after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good-night, gave one to Ellen too, which he had never done before, and then going to his son and laying both hands on his shoulders, kissed his cheek also; then silently took his candle and went.

They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round the fire as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Alice's ended by fixing on her brother, for laying her hand and her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, "And so you have been well all this time, John?"

He turned his face towards her without speaking, but Ellen as well as his sister saw the look of love with which he answered her question, rather of endearment than inquiry; and from that minute Ellen's mind was made up as to the doubt which had troubled her. She went to bed quite satisfied that her new brother was a decided acquisition.