"Wednesday I preach, have leaders'-meeting, and give out work for the week to come.

"Thursdays, preaching at one of the neighbouring towns, and sort of young class-meeting.

Friday I have said what I do.

Saturday has a prayer-meeting.

"So much for the regular work. Then there are the sick to look after, and my own private studies; and there is not a minute to spare. A few that cannot be spared are claimed by the mosquitos, which hold their high court and revel here at Ono; of all places on the earth that I know, their headquarters. When I was here before with brother Lefferts and others, two of them could not sit still to read something that wanted to be read; they walked the loor, one holding the candle, the other the paper; both fighting nosquitos with both hands. I am of a less excitable temperament, for I contrive to live a little more quietly.

"Shall I tell you some of these native testimonies of Christians wio a little while ago worshipped idols? At our love-feast lately sone thirty or forty spoke. They did my heart good. So may ther yours. These people said but few words, full of feeling; my report cannot at all give the effect. I wish it could.

"One old chief who could hardly speak for feeling, said, These are few things to me in these days' (he meant the love-feasts); 'I dil not know them formerly. My soul is humbled. I rejoice greatly in the Lord. I rejoice greatly for sending His servants.

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ATongan teacher: 'I desire that God may rule over me' (ie. direct ne), 'I desire not to govern myself. I know that I am a child of God: I know that God is my Father. My friends wrote for me to go to Tonga; but I wondered at it. I wish to obey the Father of my soul.'

"A local preacher: 'I know that God is near, and helps me sometimes in my work. I love all men. I do not fear death; one thing I fear, the Lord.'

"Leva Soko, a female class-leader, a very holy woman, said— this is but a part of what she said 'My child died, but I loved God the more. My body has been much afflicted, but I love Him the more. I know that death would only unite me to God.'

"A teacher, a native of Ono, who had gone to a much less pleasant place to preach the gospel, and was home on a visit, spoke exceedingly well. I did not leave Ono that I might have more food. I desired to go that I might preach Christ. I was struck with stones twice while in my own house; but I could bear it. When the canoes came, they pillaged my garden; but my min.l was not pained at it: I bore it only.'

"A local preacher: 'I am a very bad man; there is no good thing in me; but I know the love of God. There are not two great things in my mind; there is one only, the love of God for the sake of Christ. I know that I am a child of God. I wish to repent and believe every day till I die.'

"These are but a specimen, my dear friend.

The other day in

our teachers'-meeting we were reading the nineteenth chapter of John. An old teacher read the eighteenth verse in his turn, the words, Where they crucified him, and two others with him, on either side one, and Jesus in the midst.' He could hardly get through it, and then burst into tears and wept aloud. This man was a cannibal once. And now his life speaks for the truth of his

tears.

"Good-night.

The mosquitos are not favourable to epistle writing. I am well. Remember me, as I remember you.

"R. R."

"Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor after reading this letter for the second or third time, "have we a supply of mosquito-netting among my boxes? I could get the better of the mosquitos, think.

"How would you like to help bind books?" said Mrs. Caxton. "Or translate? Mr. Rhys seems to be about that business, by what he says in the other letter.

"He would not want help in that," said Eleanor, musing and flushing. "Aunt Caxton, is it foolish in me to wish I could hear once more from Mr. Rhys before I go?"

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Only a little foolish, my love; and very natural.” "Then why is it foolish ?"

"Because reason would tell you that it is simply impossible your letters could receive an answer by this time. They have perhaps but barely got to Mr. Rhys this minute. And reason would tell you further that there is no ground for supposing he is in any different mind from that expressed when he wrote to you."

"But, you know, since then he does not say one word about it, nor about me," said Eleanor, flushing pretty deep.

"There is reason for that, too. He would not allow himself to indulge hope; and therefore he would not act as if he had any. That sight of you at Brighton threw him off a good deal, I judge.

"He told you he saw me?"

"He wrote to me about it."
"Did he tell you he saw me?"

Yes.'

"What more?"

"He said he thought there was little chance I would have any use for his letters; he saw the world was closing its nets around you fast: how far they were already successful he could not know; but he was glad he had seen what forbade him in time to indulge vain anticipations."

"Oh, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor, "Oh, aunt Caxton, what a strange world this is, for the way peoples' lives cross each other, and the work that is done without people's knowing it. If you knew

what that meeting cost me

"My dear child, I can well believe it."

"And it aroused Mr. Carlisle's suspicions instantly, I knew. If

I made any mistake, if I erred at all in my behaviour with regard to him, it was then and in consequence of that. If I had faltered a bit then, looked grave or hung back from what was going on, I should have exposed myself to most cruel interpretation. I could not risk it. I threw myself right into whatever presented itself— went into the whirl, welcomed everybody and everything; only, I hoped, with so general and impartial a welcome as should prove I preferred none exclusively."

Eleanor stopped and the tears came into her eyes.

"My child; if I had known what danger you were in, I should have spent even more time than I did in praying for you.

"I suppose I was in danger," said Eleanor thoughtfully. "It was a difficult winter. Then, do you think, Mr. Rhys gave me up?"

"No," said Mrs. Caxton, smiling. "You remember he wrote to you after that, from Fiji; but I suppose he tried to make himself give you up as far as hope went."

"For all that appears, I may be here long enough yet to have letters before I go. We have heard of no opportunity that is likely to present itself soon. Aunt Caxton, if my feeling is foolish, why is

it natural?"

"Not at all; but feeling takes little counsel of reason in some I am afraid you will find that out again before you get to Mr. Rhys; after that, I do not think you will.”

cases.

The conversation made Eleanor rather more anxious than she had been before to hear of a ship; but October and November passed, and the prospect of her voyage was as misty as ever.

Again and again, all summer, both she and Mrs. Caxton had written begging that Mrs. Powle would make a visit to Plassy, and bring or send Julia. In vain. Mrs. Powle would not come. ~ Julia. could not.

IN

CHAPTER XXXI.

IN MEETINGS.

A wild dedication of yourselves

To anpath'd waters, undream'd shores; most certain,
To miseries enough.

Na neat plain drawing-room in a plain part of London, sat Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor. Eleanor, however, soon left her seat and took post at the window; and silence reigned in the room unbroken for some length of time except by the soft rustle of Mrs. Caxton's work. Her fingers were rarely idle. Nor were Eleanor's hands often empty; but to-day she stood still as a statue before the window while now and then a tear softly rolled down and dropped on her folded hands. There were no signs of the tears, however, when the girl turned round with the short announcement,

"She's here."

Mrs. Caxton looked up a little bit anxiously at her adopted child; but Eleanor's face was only still and pale. The next moment the door opened, and for all the world as in old times the fair face and fair curls of Mrs. Powle appeared. Just the same; unless just now she appeared a trifle frightened. The good lady felt so. Two fanatics. She hardly knew how to encounter them. And then, her own action, though she could not certainly have called it fanatical, had been peculiar, and might be judged divers ways. Moreover, Mrs. Powle was Eleanor's mother.

There was one in the company who remembered that; with the still close embrace which Eleanor threw around her, and the still hiding of the girl's face on her mother's bosom. Mrs. Powle returned the embrace heartily enough; but when Eleanor's motionless clasp had lasted as long as she knew how to do anything with it and longer than she felt to be graceful, Mrs. Powle whispered,

Won't you introduce me to your aunt, my dear, if this is she."

Eleanor released her mother, but sobbed hopelessly for a few minutes; then she raised her head and threw off her tears; and there was to one of the two ladies an exquisite grace in the way she performed the required office of making them known to each other. The gentleness of a chastened heart, the strength of a loving one, the dignity of an humble one, made her face and manner so lovely that Mrs. Caxton involuntarily wished Mr. Rhys could have seen it. "But he will have chance enough," she thought, somewhat incongruously, as she met and returned her sister-in-law's greetings. Mrs. Powle made them with ceremonious respect, not make believe, and with a certain eagerness which welcomed a diversion from Eleanor's somewhat troublesome agitation. Eleanor's agitation troubled no

one any more, however; she sat down calm and quiet; and Mrs. Pow!e had leisure, glancing at her from time to time, to get into smooth sailing intercouse with Mrs. Caxton. She took off her bonnet, and talked about indifferent things, and sipped chocolate; for it was just luncheon-time. Ever and anon her eyes came back to Eleanor; evidently as to something which troubled her and which puzzled her; and Mrs. Caxton saw which had also the effect of irritation too. Very likely, Mrs. Caxton thought. Conscience on one hand not satisfied, and ambition on the other hand disappointed, and Eleanor the point of meeting for both uneasy feelings to concentrate their forces. It would come out in words soon, Mrs. Caxton knew. But how lovely Eleanor seemed to her. There was not even a cloud upon her brow now; fair as it was pure and strong. "And so you are going?" Mrs. Powle began at last, in a somewhat constrained voice. Eleanor smiled.

“And when are you going?"

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'My letter said." Next Tuesday the ship sails.

"And pray, Eleanor, you are not going alone?"

"No, mamma. A gentleman and his wife are going the whole voyage with me.

"Who are they?"

"A Mr. Amos and his wife."

"What are they then? missionaries?"

"Yes, ma'am."

‘Going to that same place?”

"Yes, ma'am-very nicely for me.

"Pray how long do you expect the voyage will take you?"

"I am not certain; it is made, or can be made, in four or five months; but then we may have to stop awhile at Sydney.' "Sydney? what Sydney? Where is that?"

"Australia, mamma," said Eleanor, smiling. "New South Wales. Don't you know?"

“Australia! Are you going there? To Botany Bay?"

"No, mamma; not to Botany Bay. And I only take Australia by the way. I go further."

"Further than Botany Bay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, certainly," said Mrs. Powle, with an accent of restrained despair, "the present age is enterprising beyond what was ever known in my young days. What do you think, sister Caxton, of a young lady taking a voyage five months long after her husband, instead of her husband taking it for her? He ought to be a grateful man, I think."

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Certainly; but not too grateful," Mrs. Caxton answered composedly, "for in this case necessity alters the rule."

"I do not understand such necessities," said Mrs. Powle; "at least, if a thing cannot be done properly, I should say it was better not to do it at all. However, I suppose it is too late to speak now. I would not have my daughter hold herself so lightly as to confer such an honour on any man; but I gave her to you to dispose of, so