"But aunt Caxton, I have done Mr. Carlisle grievous wrong. Oh, I feel that."

"Yes. What then?"

"Am I not bound to make him all the amends in my power?" "Short of doing further wrong. Keep right and wrong always clear, Eleanor. They never mean the same thing."

"Aunty, what you must think of me."

"I think of you just now as saved from shipwreck. Many a girl has drifted on in the course you were going, without courage to get out of the current, until she has destroyed herself; and perhaps somebody else."

"I do not think I had much courage, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor, blushing.

"What had you, then?"

"It was mainly my horror of marrying that man, after I found I did not love him. And yet, aunt Caxton, I do like him; and I am very, very, very sorry. It has almost seemed to me sometimes that

I ought to marry him and give him what I can; and yet, if I were ready, I would rather die.

"Is your doubt settled?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Eleanor sadly.

“My dear, you have done wrong, I judge, somewhat ignorantly, but mischief can never be mended by mischief. To marry one man, preferring another, is the height of disloyalty to both him and yourself; unless you can lay the whole truth before him; and then, as I think, in most cases it would be the height of folly."

"I will write to Mr. Carlisle to-morrow."

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And then, Eleanor, what was the other question you came here to settle?"

"It is quite a different question, aunty, and yet it was all twisted up with the other."

"You can tell it me; it will hardly involve greater confidence," said Mrs. Caxton, bending over and kissing Eleanor's brow which rested upon her knee. "Eleanor, I am very thankful you came to Plassy."

The girl rose up and kneeling beside her hid her face in Mrs. Caxton's bosom. "Aunt Caxton, I am so glad! I have wanted just this help so long, and this refuge. Put your arms both round me, and hold me tight."

Mrs. Caxton said nothing for a little while. She waited for Eleanor to take her own time and speak. Very still the two were.

There were some straining sobs that came from the one and went to the heart of the other; heavy and hard; but with no sound till they were quieted.

"Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor at last, "the other question was that one of a refuge."

"A heavenly one?"

"Yes. I had heard of a 'helmet of salvation,' I wanted it; but I do not know how to get it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Not very clearly.

But I have seen it, Aunt Caxton; I know it

makes people safe and happy. I want it for myself."

"Safe from what?"

"From all that I feared when I was dangerously ill last summer."

"What did you fear, Eleanor?"

"All the future, aunt Caxton. I was not ready, I knew, to go out of this world. I am no better now."

They had not changed their relative positions. Eleanor's face still lay on her aunt's bosom; Mrs. Caxton's arms still enfolded her.

"Bless the Lord, there is such a helmet," she said, "but we cannot manufacture it, Eleanor, nor even buy it. If you have it at all, you must take it as a free gift."

"How do you mean?"

"If you are willing to be a soldier of Christ, He will give you His

"Aunt Caxton, I do not understand,"

"It is only to take the promises of God, my dear, if you will take them obediently. Jesus has declared that 'whosoever believeth on him, hath everlasting life.'"

"But I cannot exactly understand what believing in Him means. I am very stupid." Eleanor raised her head and looked now in her aunt's face.

"Do you understand His work for us?"

"I do not know, ma'am."

"My dear, it is the work of love that was not willing to let us be miserable. While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. He gave Himself a ransom for all. He suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God."

"Yes, I believe I understand that," said Eleanor wearily.

"The only question is, whether we will let Him bring us. The question is, whether we are willing to accept this substitution of the

innocent One for our guilty selves, and be IIis obedient children. If we are, if we rely on Him and His blood only, and are willing to give up ourselves to Him, then the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin. No matter though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit."

"But I do not walk so," said Eleanor.

"Do you want to walk so?"

'Oh, yes, ma'am, yes!" said Eleanor clasping her hands. "I desire it above all possible things. I want to be such an one.

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'If you truly desire it, my dear, it is certain that you may have what you want; for the Lord's will is not different. He died for this very thing, that He might be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus. There is an open door before you; all things are ready; you have only to plead the promises and enter in.

Himself says, Come."

The Lord

"Aunt Caxton, I understand, I think; but I do not feel; not any. thing but fear and desire."

"This is the mere statement of truth, my dear. It is like the altar with the wood laid in readiness, and the sacrifice-all cold; and till fire falls down from heaven, no incense will arise from earth. But if any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”

"I am a poor creature, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor, hiding her face again. And again Mrs. Caxton's arm came tenderly round her. And again Eleanor's tears flowed, this time in a flood.

"Certainly you are a poor creature, Eleanor. I am glad you are finding it out. But will you flee to the stronghold, you poor little prisoner of hope?"

"I think I am rather the prisoner of fear, aunty."

"Hope is a better gaoler, my dear."

"But that is the very thing that I want."

"The Lord give it you."

They sat a good while in stillness after that, each thinking her own thoughts; or perhaps those of the elder lady took the form of prayers. At last Eleanor raised her head and kissed her aunt's lips earnestly. "How good of you to let me come to Plassy," she said.

"I shall keep you here now. You will not wish to be at home again for some time."

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No, ma'am. No indeed I shall not."

"What are you going to do about Mr. Carlislę?”

"The plain truth, aunt Caxton. I mean, the truth of the fact, of It is very hard," said Eleanor sorrowfully.

course.

"It is doubtless hard; but it is the least of all the choice of evils you have left yourself. Write to-night, and here, if you will. If you can without being disturbed by me."

'The sight of you will only help me, aunt Caxton. But I did not know the harm I was doing when I entered into all this."

"I believe it. Go and write your letter."

Eleanor brought her paper-case and sat down at the table.

Mrs.

Caxton ordered other lights and was mutely busy at her own table. Not a word was spoken for a good while. It was with a strange mixture of pain and bursting gladness that Eleanor wrote the letter which she hoped would set her free. But the gladness was enough to make her sure it ought to be written; and the pain enough to make it a bitter piece of work. The letter was finished, folded, sealed; and with a sigh Eleanor closed her paper-case.

What sort of a clergyman have you at home?" Mrs. Caxton asked. She had not spoken till then.

"He is a kind old man—he is a good man," Eleanor said, picking for words; "I like him. He is not a very interesting preacher." "Did you ever hold any talk with him on your thoughts of hope and fear?"

"I could not, ma'am. I have tried; but I could not bring him to the point. He referred me to confirmation and to doing my duty; he did not help me."

"It is not a happy circumstance, that his public teaching should raise questions which his private teaching cannot answer."

"Oh it did not," said Eleanor. "Dr. Cairnes never raised a question in anybody's mind, I am sure; never in mine."

"The light that sprung up in your mind then, came you not know whence?"

"It

"Yes, ma'am, I do," said Eleanor, with a little difficulty. came from the words and teaching of a living example. But in me it seems to be only darkness.

The

Mrs. Caxton said no more, and Eleanor added no more. servants came in to family prayer; and then they took their candles and bade each other an affectionate good night. And Eleanor slept that night without dreaming.

H

CHAPTER XVII.

AT GLANOG.

For something that abode endued
With temple-like repose, an air
Of life's kind purposes pursued

With order'd freedom sweet and fair.
A tent pitched in a world not right

It seemed, whose inmates, every one,
On tranquil faces, bore the light
Of duties beautifully done.

OW did the days pass after that? In restless anxiety with Eleanor; in miserable uncertainty, and remorse, and sorrow. She counted the hours till her despatch could be in Mr. Carlisle's hands; then she figured to herself the pain it would cause him; then she doubted fearfully what the immediate effect would be. It might be to bring him down to Plassy with the utmost speed of posthorses, and again Eleanor reckoned the stages and estimated the speed at which Mr. Carlisle's postilions could be made to travel, and the time when it would be possible for this storm to burst upon Plassy. That day Eleanor begged the pony and went out. She wandered for hours among unnumbered, and almost unheeded beauties of mountain and vale; came home at a late hour, and crept in by a back entrance. No stranger had come, the storm had not burst yet; and Mrs. Caxton was moved to pity all the suppertime and hours of the evening at the state of fear and constraint in which Eleanor evidently dwelt.

"My dear, did you like this man?" she said, when they were bidding each other good-night.

"Mr. Carlisle? Yes, very well, if only he had not wanted me to marry him."

"But you fear him, Eleanor."

Because, aunt Caxton, he always had a way of making me do just what he wished."