all her dreams had vanished, and she started back with a blank look of disappointment at the sight of her aunt. Quickly recovering herself, however, she kissed her warmly and exclaimed,

'Dear Aunt Miriam, how good of you to come to me! But I was never so much surprised as at finding you such a traveller. Has anything happened? How is grandfather?'

6

Quite well, thank you, dear; and he sends you his love. But I am feeling cold and tired, my child; let me come in and sit down by the fire, and then I will answer all your questions.'

The little scheme to gain time succeeded, for Amy at once reproached herself for her thoughtlessness, and giving the baby, who was duly admired, to Jane, she led the way into the sitting-room, and made up a fire, which soon threw out a cheerful blaze.

'Now, Aunt Miriam dear, let me take off this great shawl, and sit down here in the easy-chair, and tell me what can have brought you so far away from dear old Summerbourne Mavis.

'But do you know,' she continued, earnestly, there has been no letter from David since he left; and when I heard you at the door, I thought he had come back. . . If you only knew how miserable I am, for I see now it was all my fault! He must have been so angry with me not to have written; do you think he will ever forgive me?" What is there to forgive, my darling?' asked Miriam Thorpe, tenderly, as she softly stroked the bright hair of her niece, who was kneeling by her side.

Poor thing! she seemed to shrink more and more from the painful task before her. It was plain that no breath of evil tidings had yet reached the home, whose happiness,-nay, whose very existence, hung upon so slight a thread.

With many tears and much self-reproach, the young wife told the story of her neglect and unkindness, while Aunt Miriam listened to it with a loving pity too deep for words, as she thought how trivial all this would seem when the terrible truth was known. And yet at the same time she could not help feeling how unutterably sad it would be if those two young creatures, who had parted in anger, should never meet again in this world.

All was told, and she had given what comfort she could when again the eager questions were repeated.

'Now tell me, dear, why you came? Was it that you could not bear to think that I should be alone at Christmas time? How did you persuade grandfather to spare you?'

Then Miriam Thorpe felt that the dreaded moment had come. 'Don't you see the newspapers, Amy?' she asked, in a low voice. No; David always has them at his office, and tells me any news if he thinks it will interest me. But what do you mean?' she.added, starting up in sudden terror. 'Why do you ask? Has anything happened to hin Tell me, is he killed?' and she clasped her hands in wild, piteous entreaty.

No, no, dear child,' was the hurried answer. 'Do try to be calm; we must hope for the best. There has been an accident on the Northern Counties line near Radley, and David seems to have been in the train...

She could add no more, for, after all her anxious preparation, the

blow had fallen with sudden and deadly force,-Amy had fainted in her arms. She laid her gently on the couch, half thankful for the merciful unconsciousness which would at least spare her some minutes of agony, though she shuddered to think of the waking to life.

Yet something must be done at once, and she went to fetch Jane, whose voice she could hear in the kitchen singing to the little child.

It was with quite a thrill of pain that she saw that the Christmas hamper had arrived, and recognised, spread out on the table, all the good things which she had prepared with so much loving care to make a joyful feast in the little home.

The memory of that Past, so full of hope and peace, seemed to make the sorrowful Present more hard to bear.

It was only yesterday morning that she had sent off the hamper, yet it already seemed to her as if years had passed away since then.

When the little maid understood what had happened, she was so overcome with sympathy that she became perfectly useless, for she

could do nothing but cry. However, Miriam Thorpe soon found all that she required, and hastened back to poor Amy, who was long before she came to herself, and meantime the patient nurse by her side at once hoped for and dreaded the moment of returning consciousness. The waking to life and memory would be so terrible to her darling, who had always been like her own child since the day when she was intrusted to her care a helpless infant, and whom she loved with all a mother's tenderness.

How gladly would she have borne any suffering herself, if this blow might have been spared to Amy!

Poor thing! still so young and yet called to so much suffering. What a brief happiness had been hers, so soon to be swallowed up in darkness and despair! Yet was there not still room for hope? Might

not David recover?

She scarcely dared to dwell upon so blessed a possibility, but she remembered the telegram she had sent that morning to the Hospital at Radley, and her heart throbbed quickly at the thought that an answer might arrive at any moment.

The maid must be warned not to let her mistress see it, and she was rising for the purpose when a faint sigh caught her ear. She bent over the couch and Amy opened her eyes.

6

Where am I? What has happened? Has David come home?' she asked, in a confused manner; and then, as the flood of memory gradually came over her, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

Aunt Miriam watched her in silence, fondly hoping that the overwrought spirit might find some relief in tears. But it was only a passing mood, in a few minutes she started up with a piteous cry,— I must go to him! I will go at once!'

Then, as she saw the look of dismay which her words called forth, she added imploringly: 'Aunt Miriam, tell me all. You say he was in the accident. Is he still alive? Is there any hope?'

'Yes, indeed, my darling; I trust so,' was the trembling reply. Then, for pity's sake, don't stop me! I ought to have been with him before,' she cried. 'Will you look out the trains?'

6

She tried to stand, but her strength failed and she sank back. During that brief moment Miriam Thorpe was earnestly considering what she would do. On the one hand, she remembered the announcement that David Pryor was amongst those who were seriously injured,' and in her secret soul she feared the worst. How terrible it would be for poor Amy to take that long journey to the north, for which she was so totally unfit, only to find herself too late! Then, too, she knew nothing about nursing, and would be useless by a sick-bed; or so, at least, the older woman thought. On the other hand, what right had she at such a moment to keep the wife back from joining her husband?

All these thoughts passed through her mind at the moment when Amy tried to rise from the couch and almost fell into her arms.

6

We will go as soon as you are able to travel, dear,' was the soothing reply; but you see how weak you are. If you fell ill on the journey and had to be nursed yourself

'Don't think of me, Aunt Miriam; I am quite well now,' she interrupted, impatiently. Oh, it is cruel to delay!'

Napoleon I. on Christ's Divinity.

At this moment the door-bell rang sharply, and Miriam Thorpe felt her heart stand still, for she knew this must be the message of life or death; then with a great effort she hurried out of the room, just in time to meet the servant who held a telegram in her hand.

I

(To be continued.)

NAPOLEON I. ON CHRIST'S DIVINITY.

F the first Napoleon was not a theologian, he was at least a man whom vast experience had taught what kind of forces can really produce a lasting effect upon mankind, and under what conditions they may be expected to do so. A time came when the good providence of God had chained down that great but ambitious spirit to the rock of St. Helena; and the conqueror of civilised Europe had leisure to gather up the results of his unparalleled life, and to ascertain, with an accuracy not often attainable by monarchs or conquerors, his own true place in history. When conversing, as was his habit, about the great men of the ancient world, and comparing himself with them, he turned, it is said, to Count Montholon with the inquiry, 'Can you tell me who Jesus Christ was?' The question was declined, and Napoleon proceeded, ← Well, then, I will tell you. Alexander, Cæsar, Charlemagne, and I, have founded great empires; but upon what did these creations of our genius depend? Upon force. Jesus alone founded His empire upon love, and to this very day millions would die for Him. I think I understand something of human nature; and I tell you, all these were men, and I am a man: none else is like Him: Jesus Christ was more than man. I have inspired multitudes with such an enthusiastic devotion that they would have died for me; . . . but to do this it was necessary that I should be visibly present, with the electric influence of my looks, of my words, of my voice. When I saw men and spoke to them, I lighted up the flame of self-devotion in their hearts. Christ alone has succeeded in so raising the mind of man towards the Unseen, that it becomes insensible to the barriers of time and space. Across a chasm of eighteen hundred years, Jesus Christ makes a demand which is beyond all others difficult to satisfy. He asks for that which a philosopher may often seek in vain at the hands of his friends, or a father of his children, or a bride of her spouse, or a man of his brother. He asks for the human heart; He will have it entirely to Himself. He demands it unconditionally; and forthwith His demand is granted. Wonderful! In defiance of time and space, the soul of man, with all its powers and faculties, becomes an annexation to the empire of Christ. All who sincerely believe in Him, experience that remarkable supernatural love towards Him. This phenomenon is unaccountable; it is altogether beyond the scope of man's creative powers. Time, the great destroyer, is powerless to extinguish this sacred flame; time. can neither exhaust its strength nor put a limit to its range. This is it which strikes me most; I have often thought of it. This it is which proves to me quite convincingly the Divinity of Jesus Christ.' -Canon Liddon's Bampton Lectures.

AM not going to tell a tale of freshening April showers,

Nor of a dance on village green and maypoles wreathed with flowers, Nor yet to sing to you a song of roses and June bowers.

"Tis a very simple story, as when you read you'll see,

About three little children who are very dear to me,

And the ages of these little boys are just one, two, and three.

Sweet little Number One was born upon an April day,

And Number Two first saw the light in the bright month of May,
While Number Three in sunny June within the cradle lay.

And Number One is fair and slight, with eyes of loveliest blue,
And features small and delicate, and hair of golden hue,
And the tender tint upon his cheek like rosebuds touched with dew.
And Number Two he peeps at you with his large eyes so brown,
Through the long black curling lashes, as he lifts them up and down,
And on his merry, rosy face, I've never seen a frown.

And as for Number Three, if he must be described at all,
I'll tell you what he is most like, and that's a soft round ball,
With large dark eyes like Number Two, only not quite so tall.

I will not say what they are called—their name begins with D,
But when the number was but two, or, as at present, three,
The youngest of these little ones was always called 'Babee.'

And would you know where they do dwell, in country or in town,

Or by the stormy ocean, or by the breezy down,

Or in sheltered nook by mountain's side, with its bracken gold and brown?
No, the house which holds this trio stands in an open plain,
With here and there a tall church spire and many a shady lane,
And hedges hung with clematis and woodbine's circling chain.
Now can you guess how pass the days with these dear little boys,
Who, like all other such small things, have their troubles and their joys?
(Though as yet their griefs have only been a fall, or broken toys.)
Why, in nursery and corridor they jump, and laugh, and shout,
Or between the garden and the hall keep running in and out,
While mother, nurse, and father too, go following them about.

And Number One begins to talk as soon as it is light,
While Number Two is never still from morning until night,
And Number Three, that sweet Babee, is like a sunbeam bright.

Then play on, little brothers, in your happy childhood's home,
Nor dream of the long years to come when further you must roam,
Or sail perhaps to distant lands across the blue sea's foam.

And though you cannot pass through life without some April showers,
Nor tread on paths strewn always with June roses and May flowers,
When this changeful life is over may you rest in heavenly bowers.

ALICIA DONNE.