her sake, because she was his mother-for these words had fallen on Ellen's ear-but to go direct to that dear Son Himself, and ask Him to grant her prayer for his own sake, because He had a human heart, and had had a human mother, and knew all the tender feelings that exist between the mother and the son-knew them as only He could know, who had Himself made man in heart and body, and, having made, alone could save and heal. It seemed such a cruel mistake to put any one between one's own self and Christ.

Ellen was sorry-truly sorry for the poor deluded woman, who was yet so earnest and devout. Such worshippers as Mademoiselle did not excite her compassion, although, as her mother explained to her afterwards, they might well have done so; for, as she saw, there was no reality in that senseless counting of beads and muttering of prayers, but in the Irishwoman's wild cries for pity, in the tears that were falling down her brown cheeks, and the clasp of her strong hands, there was that which excites the deepest sympathy-there was heart. And to see such sorrow, and know, as Ellen knew, that there was one looking on who was both willing and able to grant her prayers, if only He Himself were asked to do so, filled the child's soul with deepest concern. Her only comfort was in knowing that He did see, and that He did hear; and in lifting up her heart to Him, begging Him to teach this poor woman that there was no need of saint or virgin to intercede for her with the Son of God, who was Himself the Intercessor, the one Mediator

between God and man, into whose heart alone we need pour all our griefs, from whose hand alone we can receive good and perfect gifts.

Ellen's mind was thoroughly engrossed with this new subject of interest, when a touch on her shoulder made her start. It was Miss Audley, who, with a laugh which Ellen thought as irreverent to the place she was in as it must be painful to the poor weeping woman close to them, inquired in a voice that was not even meant to be a whisper whether she were asleep, or wished to be left behind; and Ellen, rising to follow her, perceived that Mademoiselle had already left the church.

"I was nearly asleep myself when Mademoiselle roused me," remarked the young lady, in the same audible voice, as they went down the aisle together; "and I don't wonder you were too. What a wretched pretence for a church, so different from the churches abroad; even in little villages one sees finer buildings than this. But then all the people there are Catholics, and I suppose there are scarcely any in this part of the world. Mamma said the Pagets were the only Catholic family in the neighbourhood, and this chapel belongs to them. I believe it was built by some of the family in former days; the present people don't seem to care much about keeping it in very good order." And she cast a parting glance of contempt at the walls, which were certainly somewhat shabby, and anything but adorned by the various pictures and images attached to them.

On their return to the carriage, an inquiry from

Mademoiselle elicited the fact that this was the first time Ellen Stancombe had ever entered a Romish place of worship, and this called for many expressions of regret on the part of Mademoiselle that the first specimen of worship in her religion should be so poor an one, and gave rise to a long conversation between the governess and her pupil concerning the various churches and chapels they had attended on the Continent. So far as Ellen could see, they appeared to value or undervalue these wholly and solely according to the adornment or want of adornment for which they were distinguished, and the proficiency or deficiency in the performance of the music.

The conversation lasted till they reached the Park, and was resumed by Miss Audley whilst dressing for dinner, during which operation, almost as lengthened an one as that of preparing for her drive, she gave Anstey an account of the visit to Lady Paget and her daughters, describing minutely their fashionable and elegant costume, and concluding with an account of their visit to the Catholic chapel, and its shabby appearance. Appealing to Ellen if it were not a miserable place, Ellen replied, "Yes, she had thought it very neglected;" and took courage to add that she did not think it was a "Catholic chapel." And on Miss Audley's being inclined to dispute this fact, she was able to render a reason for the opinion she held, which Miss Audley was quite unable to disprove, whether she could understand it or not; and thus the conversation concerning the chapel dropped.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SECOND COMMANDMENT.

O more was said on the subject until Ellen returned home in the evening, and found

herself, to her delight, alone with her mother, in her own quiet little bed-room. There her tongue, which had seemed tied all day in a most uncomfortable manner, was loosened at once, as she gave her mamma a lengthened description of all she had done, thought, and felt during the day.

The lovely baby-boy came first in her description, and Ellen repeated to her mother what his sister had said about his being an idol to Mrs. Audley, and her own fears lest such should really be the case, and he should, in consequence, be taken from her, as Miss Audley had so cruelly predicted.

"Mrs. Audley does seem so fond of him, mamma," she said; "and I'm sure I don't wonder, for he's the sweetest little creature you ever saw. You can't think how lovely he has grown since that day you took me with you to the Park. He smiles, and crows, and knows his mamma quite well, and she seems just to doat on him. One can't wonder at people making idols of babies. I'm afraid I

should if we had such a darling little creature as that here."

"Which, perhaps, is one reason why we have not," said Mrs. Stancombe, smiling. "I think, Ellen, I know where you get your love of babies."

"From you, mamma," said Ellen; and remarking the expression of her mother's face, she added, "and you lost so many before I was born."

"Not lost, Ellen," replied her mother; "that is a word I never like to hear when one is speaking of the treasures God has taken from us. They are not lost. Perhaps they might have been, had they been left in our keeping, and that it was to prevent their being so that God took them into his own. Have you never heard the saying, 'What God keeps, is well kept?' We shall have them back again by and by. Perhaps," she added, "they were idols to me. I am afraid they were."

"But I have not been an idol to you, mamma," said Ellen.

Mrs. Stancombe smiled.

"I don't think you have, Ellen; but who knows but that you might have been if God had not taken first one child from me, and then another, until He had taught me that the very purest of his gifts were not to be allowed to come between Him and me; and then, when this lesson was taught, He was good enough to give me another child, in order that it might be a means of drawing me nearer to Him in love and thankfulness. You remember our lesson last night, Ellen, how we learned that God