ye sall walk in silk attire;' only, instead of niver thinking o' Donald mair, she was niver to name him na mair. Sae they were married, an' she were ca'ed 'my leddy;' but oh! she looked waeful and nae like a bride when I met her at Carlisle and took you fra' her arms accordin' to paction made atween us. She grat sore, and ye grat, as if ye kenned what was to betide, an' I grat, it seemed so hard to pairt mither an' babe. But he lookit glum as t' thunder-clud, an' glowered at us baith, and bade me begone and do my dooty, an' I suld niver want. An' that's how I came to be reckoned your grandad, Hugh."

"And you took me to Eaglesmere?"

"Yes, we had lived there mony a year then, though we came out o' Wensleydale, where we kenned and served your ain true grandfather and grandmither, the parents o' Miss Nellie, afore she were born; for she was t' only bairn they iver had, and t' Lord sent her to them after many childless years, an' when they were nane sae young as ance they were."

"And why did we come south?"

"Canna ye guess, laddie? T' mither's heart yearned sair for her bairn; she had ither bairns, but nane like that firstborn, the captain's boy. She said she wad dee an' she na' saw you face to face, and then she framed a scheme. The Marquis didn't care much for her by that time, an' she was scarcely iver at hame at Dovercourt; so she thocht to get us here, as auld servants o' her father's, to live i' this varra Gate House. An' I hearkened till I likit the project, an' it seemed gude for us to be weel cared for i' our auld age, and gude for t' wean Phoebe; an', as ye ken, we cam' here, and ye may guess why the name of Vassall was droppit."

"I guessed that as soon as I knew the truth; but, oh, Martin, was it well? Will it all be for good?"

"For gude? Yes, for t' Lord orders a', an' He'll mak' it for gude some way or t' other; but it mebbe not for good, as ye count weal. I think thrubble, aiblins sair thrubble, wull came oot o' it, t' Lord kens! I' first place, Miss Nellie-Mrs. Vassall, I mean-suld niver have consentit to seech an unnatural paction; but an' she had consentit, and dune that which could niver be undune, she owt to have been patient, and tholed the heavy burden. She hasna' braked her aith-her solemn aith-in words, but she has in varra deed, and some day t' Marquis 'll ken how t' land lies, an' there 'll be sair thrubble an' upset. Ye maun be varra carefu' Hugh; for yer mither's sake ye maunna' be rash nor het-headed. Only I'm feared things hev ganged sae far a'ready that some mischief 'll came oot o' it. It's nae wise nor prudent, yer being in Paris wi' my leddy. Ye are a yang man noo, and naebody kenning ye to be her ain bairn, folk will talk."

People believe me to be some relation; my being with the Marchioness seems to be regarded as quite a matter of course. I need not tell you, grandfather, that I shall be very careful. I am what people call well off,' and my prospects I suppose are good; but, oh! I do wish I were depending on my own exertions. I envy the young fellows who have to make their way in the

world. There is no shame in this strange inheritance of mine, but there is something about it which I do not and can never like. Oh, I wish, I wish--'

Nae, nae, dinna wish owt, laddie; lave it to t' Lord. If there's wrang ony way, 'twas nane o' yer makin'. It's an uncanny path ye hev to traid, there's no deneeing that; but trust it' Lord; trust Him for t' meikles as weel as for t' muckles! In a' thy ways acknowledge Him, laddie, an' He'll direect thy ways. An' noo I've said my say, an' I'll think na' mair abune t' things o' earth, but abune t' joys o't' kingdom where I'm gangingganging fast! T' rector cam to see me this mornin'; and says he, 'Martin, my freend, yer ganging t' way o' a' flesh.' Says I, 'I'm ganging till my rest.' Says he, 'Hev ye med yer peace wi' God, my freend?' And says I, 'Do ye think, sir, that I'd put that off a' these years? I've bin at peace wi' Him t' maist o' my life.' 'But hev ye repented o' yer sins?' says he; he; remember your sins.' And I answered, Nae! I'll na' remember them, for He has forgotten them. T' bluid o' Jesus Christ His Son ha' blotted them oot-blotted them a' clean oot, sae there's nane to see, and nane to mind. But I ca' to mind t' luving kindness o' t' Lord, and a' His gudeness till me in t' hoose o' my pilgrimage.' Says Measter Canning, Ha ye nae doots, Wray?' And blessed be t' Lord, I could reply, Doots? why for suld I doot t' Lord-doot my ain Father, doot His luve? I ha'na dooted Him these mony years, and sall I doot Him noo, when I'm stanin' on t' verra lintel o' heaven? He's bin wi' me these threescore years an' eight! He ha' guidit my feet and strengthened my hauns, an' He'll be wi' me i't' deid-thraws that are nigh at haun. Yes, He is faithfu' an' sure-faithfu' an' sure!'"

I looked at the old man, and his face was beautiful; the light which is not of this world shone over his fading eyes and his ashen, withered features. Full well I knew it was the reflection of the light streaming over the river from the other side. "It is not terrible to die ?" I asked, almost involuntarily.

"Teerible! Nae, bairnie, i'ts reight pleasant! It's sae guid to lee here an' think my wark is dune; it's like Saturday neet, an' t' blessid Sabbath-day at haun, an' t' morn sae near its glint!' "You are not afraid?"

"Afeard? Why for suld I be afeard to gang till my Father?

Afeard o' my God? Nae! nae, laddie! I'm not afeard o' Him, for I ha' walked by faith wi' Him these mony years. Oh, t' luvingkindness o't' Lord! Hear till me noo, my son, when I say-an' if iver I leed, I couldna' lee here, wi' t' death-damps on my broo; when I say, that not ane o' His promises ha' iver failed me! He hev bin iver tender, varra tender. He ha' laid on me mony a cross for my guid, but he ha' aye comforted me i' t' day o' triboolation; an' I'll praise Him wi' my latest breath, an'' when my voice is lost in death!'-ah! I mind how often I've given oot that grand auld Psalm i't' kirk, an' noo t' time's come- -I'll praise Him better than iver! I ha' dune wi' this world, noo I ha' spaken to ye my laddie on yer ain consarns; I ha' dune wi' Time, but there's a hantle o' things to know in eternity. Ay! t' mornin's glintin-t' Sabbath mornt' morn that niver wears to even. There's nae setting sun yander, for a' t' licht cams fra' t' brichtness o' Christ's ain face. Peace! Peace! Grant us Thy peace! Thou hast granted it, O Lord, t' peace that passeth a' unnerstannin', t' peace that cams till us, thro' Jesus Christ our Lord. Faithfu' an' sure! faithfu' an' sure! Aye faithfu', aye sure!"

All the rest of the evening he said little, but every now and then he murmured, "Faithfu' and sure-all His promises are sure! And so on through the long winter night, while Margery and Mrs. Miller, and one of the maids from the Castle, kept watch beside him. The wind rose soon after midnight, but ever and anon through the howl of the blast and the moan of the sea came the low sweet whisper, "Faithfu' an' sure! faithfu' and sure! " and once, "He shall gie His people peace-peace!"

In the morning he was much weaker, and evidently near death. It had been arranged that he should receive once more the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, and while it was yet quite early the rector came. Margery thought he was too far gone, and Mrs. Miller said it was a pity to disturb him, for he was going off like a baby. But he heard the slight dispute, and knew what it was all about. His faculties were as clear as ever; and he said faintly but steadily, "I mganging whar's there nae Sacraments, whar' I sall see His face; but I wad like to eat o't' bread an' drink o' t' cup ance mair, in communion wi' them I luve sae weel-ance mair, in token that a' my hope an' a' my trust is i' Him, t' Freend o' sinners!" And he signed to the rector to proceed.

The simple altar was soon spread, and we all knelt down around the bed-Margery, Mrs. Miller, Rebecca, and I. It was my first communion. I had deferred it from time to time, and my Paris life had put it still further from me. But now I came, fearing nothing, and filled with the peace that seemed as the atmosphere we breathed. Surely it was the very gate of Heaven; it was to him who made

his last communion, while I for the first time drew near with faith, and took that holy sacrament to my comfort. Ah! the light that came upon the dying face, while we all repeated after the minister, "Therefore, with angels and archangels, and with all the company of heaven, we laud and magnify Thy glorious name." "The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life," said Mr. Canning, solemnly; and the dying communicant said faintly, "Ay! ay! in remembrance." The cold lips touched the cup, and then a look of weariness, but of exceeding peace, stole over the quiet face. The end was very near. We were all repeating the Gloria in Excelsis, when I saw the change come. We were just closing that grand hymn of praise, "For Thou only art holy; Thou only art the Lord; Thou only, O Christ, with the Holy Ghost, are most high in the glory of God the Father!" A sudden life streamed over the ashen gray face, the dark eyes opened wide, as if they saw, as doubtless they did, beyond the veil; there was something radiant, triumphant, suffusing every feature, as slowly, and even strongly, with the old clerkly intonation, Martin said, "Amen!" Then followed the blessing of peace; but as the benediction ended, the glow faded, the eyes calmly closed, only a serene smile lingered on the old man's countenance, and we said the last "Amen" alone. For Martin was with his bairns in the kingdom.

CHAPTER XXV.-"GUDE NEET."

From the moment we closed old Martin's eyes, Margery had changed. I thought she would have lifted up her voice and wept, as had always been her fashion within my experience whenever she was sorely discomfited. She stood by the bedside, her eyes dry and tearless, and her hands tightly clasped, gazing fixedly but serenely on the face of the newly dead. Then, looking upwards, she said very quietly, as if she were speaking to some one present, "Lord, ca' me hame; if it be Thy holy wull noo, ca' me hame. Thy wull be dune." And then she walked slowly away, saying, "I'm weary, sair weary; I'll lee doon, I think."

She went to Phoebe's room, and Rebecca undressed her. She had not had her clothes off since Saturday night, so no wonder the dear old woman was weary." When I went to her an hour afterwards, she was sound asleep, her breathing was soft and regular, and she seemed to be enjoying her repose. Phoebe, too, cried herself to sleep, and lay with her pretty baby-face, all swollen and tear-stained, among the sofa-cushions in the parlour below. Mrs. Miller went back to the castle, leaving the maid Sarah, and promising to return if all were well at home and spend the night with Margery. "For

I am sure my dear lady would wish it," she said to me, as she was putting on her large, old-fashioned purple satin bonnet; "my lady has told me many a time that she liked all kindness and respect to be paid to Mr. and Mrs. Wray. There have been some people jealous at strangers being brought in and treated so well; but there, Mr. Travis, there are some people jealous of their own flesh and blood. My lady never injured nor neglected anybody to serve the Wrays, and surely she has a right to do what she likes with her own; and it is only proper that faithful service should be rewarded. Of course you'll give all directions about the funeral, Mr. Travis. I'm glad you came down for many reasons."

"So am I, Mrs. Miller, for I have seen how a Christian can die. Never before did I feel the full force of the words, 'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.'"

"Indeed, you may say so, Mr. Travis. May we all go as peacefully and joyfully when we are called home. You will look after little Phoebe. I did think of taking her back with me; but it seemed scarcely right that she should leave her grandmother. She's a poor thing when trouble comes is Phoebe Milner. I doubt her fine boarding-school has done her no great good."

"It has not improved her, Mrs. Miller; but you see, she is quite a child, and she will soon be all alone in the world."

"She has not a relation in the world but yourself, I suppose?" "I am not her relation, not in the remotest degree; but we were brought up together, as you know, Mrs. Miller, and I shall always look upon her as a sister if she will let me."

"There's not a bit of harm in the girl, only she gives herself airs, and plays at being a lady. I don't like them ladies' schools-a lot of girls herded together, doing each other a deal of harm, and getting very little good. Phoebe never talked about this and that being genteel' till she went to boarding-school, and now she must be called Miss Milner, forsooth!" And the good woman walked away as if out of all patience. I was not so much inclined to blame the boarding-school, for I knew there had always been the germs of vanity and affectation in the girl's character, and the whole course of her training, even Margery's rigid policy includedhad tended to foster and develope them. She had vexed me very much, and the more I saw of her the less I liked the style she had adopted, but I was very sorry for her now, and I wondered to whose care she would be consigned when both her grandparents were gone. for that Margery would soon follow her husband I was nearly positive.

Prepared, however, as I was for this last great change, it came startlingly soon. It was getting dark, and when I came in from my favourite walk in the park-the walk I had taken betimes on