good gifts that bestrewed her path, for which she had never been thankful; of the great, yearning love she was keeping at arm's lengthand why, forsooth? Surely only for a shadow that came between. 66 'Why are you left?" George Sowerby had asked, addressing his congregation that evening, and alluding to the terrible catastrophe, now somewhile passed, at the Brixton Colliery, "Is it that you may live on in dull thankless ignorance of God's goodness? Of His good gifts? Will you remain ungrateful? He has spared your lives, will you not let Him save your souls? Oh, my friends, let us turn to our Father while His face is turned on us in mercy, while it is yet day. In seeking the vain shadow of this life do not lose the everlasting glory which, if you will, may be yours." These words had fallen on Nancy's closed ears, and startled her into attention. "Pray, dear ones, pray always, and God will help you, for He never turns aside from His people that pray." The breakers, roaring, shrieked these words aloud, or, so it seemed to Nancy. It was the admonition with which George Sowerby had concluded his sermon. Lifting the beautiful oval face, hallowed by the searching scrutiny of Truth, as it washed her soul in purifying fire, she clasped two small, brown hands, and prayed: "God, help me to do thy will! " Was He, to whom she cried, softening the trial for her? "His ways are not as our ways, nor are His thoughts our thoughts." Nancy Lighe gazed down upon the unquiet sea. Lost to herself, wrapt in a holy calm, her spirit held sweet converse with the angels then, I think. Walking quickly towards her is Silas Hewson. A perspiration breaks out on his brow as he recognises the jagged extremity of cliff on which her maiden meditations have induced her to tarry. She stands there statue-like-utterly unconscious of her affianced husband's near vicinity-staring, with wide open eyes, ahead of her. "What is it she sees?" he gasps hoarsely; and his limbs begin to tremble, and his heart is paralysed by vague fears. "It-it cannot be -his-his ghost?" And at the moment his diseased brain drew a phantom, to delude his sight, by the girl's sile. But, with an oath, he conquered the illusion; and paused in the hope of recovering himself ere Nancy should see him. "What a fool I'm growing," he muttered, "a maundering old fool. But 'tis a ghostly light this; and, how she's staring. Nothing earthly was ever seen by eyes like that. Whew! they give me the blue devils." The spot on which Nancy had paused happened to be exactly where someone else had stood one warm, summer evening, that was never to be forgotten-by the girl, who is mutely praying at this moment; by the youth, who has gone as he came, none knowing whither; nor by the man who halts, with beaded forehead and white scared face, swearing a blustering oath to keep his spirits up. "What unlucky chance brought the lad here to make me feel as I feel now? To steal the love of my lass, to take the light from her eyes, the life from her light steps?" “Nay, nay, Silas Hewson," came the accusatory response of the voice which would not be hushed-the voice of conscience, "Thou art the thief. Harry Tredellic brought her life, and joy, and love." She turns, Nancy's self abnegation is over. sees Silas, and comes towards him, as she has never come since he wrung from her that reluctant promise, i.e., the promise to be his wife. He takes the two extended hands and waits for her to speak. "Silas!" her clear voice cries, and the sea gulls whirling aloft drop nearer to earth to catch those low, sweet tones, Silas, I have never been thankful to God, or to you, for all you have done for me, for the love you have showered on me. You said that day when I gave you my hand, and told you I had nothing more to give-that if I would let it the heart would follow. I-I want to tell you, Silas, that if it will, God helping me, I will not keep it back." O, I cannot tell you the rapture that overwhelmed the heart of the man who grasped the trembling, fevered hands of Nancy Lighe. He fell on the dusty, stony road at her feet, and kissed the tapering fingers-he raised his black eyes to her face, and spoke with ecstatic fervour. "Nancy, Nancy, my love! my life! oh, that I might die now, for I have seen the Promised Land. Aye, let me die ere it disappears from sight." It was a passionate prayer that went forth from his soul; then, suddenly, just as it left his burning lips the brightness of the sky was overcast, a cloud obscured the moon, and deafening, furious thunder shook both heaven and earth. Vivid flashes of forked lightning rent the blackness that had so swiftly shrouded Dian's silvery ray; seagulls circled in the air with wild, appalling scream, and the ocean grew angry and loud, as if complaining that its limits were cramped, its bounds unbearably narrow, and to be broken by the dash of its waters against the envious earth. The huge foaming billows may work their mighty crested heads until they near the sky; the rushing torrent may lash its swelling sides against the shore, which girdles its proud depths; but He who created this grandly terrible waste of liquid sapphire will make it its own appointed limits keep; aye, surely seething main and solid headland shall pass away before one jot or tittle of the law of Him, who cried, "Peace be still!" The man who, like a Lybian slave, crouched at his mistress's feet, trembled, as the awful conflict of the elements of nature thus shook the quaking earth. It was to him as if each roar of the tumultuous sea demanded vengeance, in the name of the unfortunate lad it had borne away on its bosom. Each crash of peeling thunder cried, "Thou coward." Each flash of fork-like fire disclosed the mark of Cain. While conscience, whose voice was most terrible of all, denounced him thus: "Will you trick this girl into trusting you? Give her up! or boldly tell her what has happened-remember murder will out, it cries until it is heard." "Silas!" It was Nancy who called to him now, but he did not respond. "Silas, Silas! do you not hear me? Get up and let us go home, it is beginning to rain. How white you are! How you tremble!" Nancy gazed at him aghast; he was never frightened a man, and alarmed at lightning! she was only a girl, yet she was not afraid. But she did mind getting wet, and the great drops were already falling, so she moved on towards her home. A woman, singing in a low key, kneels in a corner, before a box of clothes apparently sometime disused, singing gentle, lulling words, while unfolding and refolding various concomitants of a man's wardrobe. A light summer pair of trousers, made of what might be termed a pepper and salt mixture, attract her attention as she nears the bottom; she breathes quickly at sight of them, recognising a black stripe down the seam. She puts her hand to her side, as though to still her beating heart; while her mind recalls the day when Harry Tredellic had expressed it as his opinion that "the garment was cadish." "They were new then," reflected the woman, "and yet Silas had never worn them sinceodd that! He did not know what poor Harry's opinion of them was; and if he had that would not have induced him to discard the trousers-rather the reverse!" Then a crowd of recollections flooded her mind as she sank down, and, "tailor-wise," sat on her feet. A moment elapses, she shakes herself, and cries in a stage whisper, scoldingly :— "Baby's mother must not have such thoughts!" Then she rises, goes to the cradle, replaces the tumbled coverlet the little feet have kicked aside, kisses the infant, and with a sigh returns to her interrupted occupation. She pulls out the above-mentioned articles of apparel with the few other garments that remain, and tries to overlook them-tries to sing again, but she has lost the tune and cannot recover it. A quarter of an hour passed-the woman has found what she sought and is replacing the coats, waistcoats, etcetera, that are not required Silas, staggering to his feet, followed.-methodically turning their pockets insidePresently she turned to him and spoke, a dash out-men are so careless. of her old contempt in the query :— "You are not afraid, are you?" Then, as Silas uttered the scarcely audible negative which she knew to be a lie, she thought: "If I try all my life I can never respect a coward. Oh, God! why will the contrast always force itself so clearly upon me?" And the brave, fearless, front of the love it was her duty to forget, grew before her eyes. CHAPTER VI. "Now, look ye, where she lies, That beauteous flower-that innocent sweet rose." JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. A YEAR and a day have passed. In a fine, well-lighted, airy room at Brixton House, is a cradle--and in this cradle a baby, with softly-downy cheeks, and little, red, doubled-up fists, is wrapt in balmy sleep. These said pockets disgorge much that is valuable. For instance, a piece of cord; an old letter; a thimble, hers; a rusty nail; a handful of coal-dust. She smiles as the little collection of curiosities grow into a heap-not thinking anything more than it would be unwise for "baby's mother" to think. Her hand, without noticing the garment particularly, slips, in time, into the pocket of the grey trousers, the sight of which had stopped her song. No cord, or nail, letter or thimble was secreted here; but, a band of ribbon-oxford blue in hue. "Aah!" she gasped. Choked as though the hand of the garroter span her dainty throat-her eyes startedand all the blood fled from cheek and lipwhile her trembling fingers lifted the folds where the band was fastened. "NANCY" Was worked beneath-a letter in each fold. She had traced them. That pair of little brown hands had traced each stitch with loving, trembling pleasure, as she had sat by an artist who was catching the tints which Phoebus cast on earth and ocean ere he set. "Air!" she moans, "Air!" I am suf-focated !" Totteringly she gained her feet and endeavoured to reach the window-but the legs, usually sturdy as a goat's, give way beneath her. In the twinkling of an eye her arms are thrown above her head, and the woman has fallen fainting on the nursery floor. A minute afterwards the door is gently opened, and a man enters, on tip-toe-fearing to disturb the little monarch of the house, that tyrant-Baby. The man is Silas Hewson; this house is his home; this woman, lying helpless on the floor, is his wife; this baby sleeping in the cradle is his child; all these good gifts are his to-day. What will be his to-morrow? "Where is she, I wonder?" he asks, below his breath, "is the big baby hiding behind its own little baby's cradle?" Playful words, playfully accentuated-ah, when, when shall Silas Hewson speak playfully again? He had tasted domestic peace, the joys of a home graced by a pure, sweet woman. The charm that lay in the fact that the love of his life was his-made his by every holy tie ordained of God-bound doubly his by the tiny creature in the cradle yonder; these pleasures were no bubble blisses, but happy realities. Could all this perish in a day? As he stands there it is trembling in the balance. Will Fate, with wanton hand, dash from the lips the nectar that has hardly moistened them? Surely the net, whose cumbrous meshes have been wrought by the hand of intricate circumstance, is held aloft above the helpless head of Silas Hewson. "Never let me see your face again!" Oh! cruel, stinging words; bitter as wormwood and gall did they taste to the palate of the man who had to swallow them. Aye, the nauseousness of their savour permeated every fibre of his being, transfixing, strangling, stabbing, all but killing him-this they did not. He would have welcomed Death-but to those who stretch forth yearning arms, and court his cold embrace, the Destroyer never comes. 'Twas hard that Nancy's tongue should pierce him thus, it seemed to her husband. He had lived but to give her pleasure-had hung on her slightest words and held them law. Had she only wept, with lowered headupbraiding him and casting scornful taunts— he could have borne it. But this-this livid face, on which indignation sat in mournful majesty-those pale, wan lips-those stony, cold, sad eyes, that knew no tears. "Could that crushed, ruined, broken thing, lying there in a heap on the floor, be his wife, Nancy, the bright, fair woman, who had borne him his bonnie boy?" Silas questioned mentally, knowing that he queried as a fool. But it was surely no wonder the change turned his brain; for she, Nancy, had been happy since the birth of their child. The baby engrossed all her time, her husband was good to her, and the past was ceasing to be ever-present. Alas! it was too true. That dejected creature, huddled up together only a few steps from him, was too surely his wife. Only a a few steps from him, yet, oh! how far away. Immeasurable space severed them not the outward, tangible forms of man and woman, husband and wife, but soul from soul. As fatal a chasm yawned between their spirits as that which divided Dives from Lazarus-no bridge could span it; no mason fill in the breach. A long, quivering sigh, and life, with all its pains and penalties, its petty deceits, and harsh An instant of mental and physical stagnation evils, comes back to Nancy Hewson, ci devant-then through Silas Hewson's veins the warm Nancy Lighe. Her hair, which has escaped from the comb, floats in loose disorder over her shoulders-long, rippling, dark-brown hair it is, fine as spun silk. Her eyes, their clear germander light grown in pellucidness, open widely and gaze around-wild, terrified-until they fall on Silas. Then, her hand, still clasping that fatal band of blue ribbon, covers them, and she shudderingly half-orders, half-beseeches him to depart. "Go! go, while I can let you go in peaceyou have spoiled my life, Silas Hewson!" Her voice seemed to be snapped here by its own agony, but the instant after she concluded: blood recommenced its course; and, while a groan of anguish, that welled up from his breaking heart, escaped him, he strode towards his wife, and stooped to raise her. "Do not touch me!" she said, shrinking away from him. There was a pause; in it the beating of his heart only sounded, hers seemed to stand still. Silas was looking down on her. Her awful, accusatory eyes met his-he could not bear it; and, as her husband turned away, Nancy spoke again. "All, all I feel towards you bids me drive you hence. I have no memory, no thought that makes you dear. The sight of you, your very presence here, fills my soul with horror, for I now recognise you for the wolf you are! Oh, you played sheep too well, but the game is over now. I have seen your hand, and know that I have been your victim, betrayed, deceived." The woman paused, and rose up from the floor. Her passion appeared to pass into her hands; with these she clasped her aching head in frenzy, as though the pains that racked it were too great for flesh to bear. She felt as if a thread within her brain had snapt; and there was such pathos as might wring a tear from stone in the cry:— "And I must hate the father of our child his and mine, oh, God!" And he, Silas, her husband, stood bowed down and silent, ageing in those seconds as though years of toil and trouble had been his -as though as time advanced he had brought trouble on his wing-trouble unaccompanied by pity. These are moments which are burnt into the heart, these leave scars. Aye, well may it be said, let those jest at such war trophies, who never experienced such wounds. Speak! How could Silas Hewson speak In the light of this morning's revelation, was it not clear that his own end had by himself been defeated? The terrible deed which, ever after its committal, had weighed down his soul and drawn the curse of Cain across his brow, was rendered futile. "Nancy could never love him now," his heart told him. Had he held his hand, been patient, tender, and true, he might have reached his goal in God's good time. But this man would not wait for God and justice. No, he must needs take his own road to love and victory. A life, without hesitation, he sacrificed -life, which the Creator alone can give, he dared to take.. What a poor, miserable, puny pigmy, Silas felt himself to be, as, shiveringly, he remembered he had dared to cause the death of his brother, because that brother chanced to obstruct the path he wished to traverse. "Was it any wonder that his presumption should be punished?" Conscience demanded sternly. Surely he had grasped the golden apple? and, lo in his palm lay ashes. As though reading the thoughts that stalked, like accusing ghosts, through Silas Hewson's mind, Nancy asked: "Is there no justice on earth, no judge in heaven, that one man may push another from his path and step into his shoes?" "Nancy ! " Had a corpse been placed in a coffin and, ere the lid closed, it had sat up and spoken, its voice would have sounded as did the voice of Silas Hewson now-'twas as the voice of the dead. "Dead, 'twere well he were dead," he groaned aloud; and, going to the mantel-piece, placed his arm thereon, and for an instant his head sank on his coat sleeve. Dead-aye, better dead a thousand times, than hear those tolling bells. For the bells were tolling, oh so drearily-for love, for home, for happiness. Aye, were he but dead, only dead, and going to an honoured tomb, the bell that tolled, as the gaping grave yawned ready to receive its tenant, had been as a wedding march compared to this dread presage of life and- -loneliness. Life without love, without honour-without hope for aught now or -ever-for time or for eternity. "Nancy," he said, raising his head but speaking with an effort, "I do not wish to palliate my offence, but it was not as you think. I" "Did not do it! Oh, Silas, Silas; Husband, say that"—and she fell on her knees before him, and prayed that he would deny the crime which stood between them. "Wait, let me explain? I-" "No, Sir! I require no explanation-you did-or you did not, cause the death of Harry Tredellic-you did—or you did not rend this blue band from the dead lad's hat. Nancy was on her feet again and speaking in a calm, stony voice-distinct but devoid of all feeling." "I did No word, no sound. One look which bereft Silas Hewson of reason for the moment, and Nancy, his wife, had passed out of his life for ever. (To be continued.) THE worst days of darkness through which I have ever passed have been greatly alleviated by throwing myself with all my energy into some work relating to others.-Jas. A. Garfield. WEALTH.-How many take a wrong view of life, and waste their energies and destroy their nervous system in endeavouring to accumulate wealth, without thinking of the present happiness they are throwing away! It is not wealth or high station which make a man happymany of the most wretched beings on earth have both-but it is a radiant, sunny spirit which knows how to bear little trials and He spoke-oh, what a voice! How hollow enjoy little comforts, and thus extract happiness and strange it had grown. from every incident in life. LAMBTON BRIDGE. A REVERIE BY THE RIVER. Soft clouds sailed silent o'er the sky, I read, I wrote, I made a note I spun a rhyme : he cast meantime I dozed and dreamt upon the turf, Would let me do, while fisher threw Now Boffin and the Bower advanced Their claims upon my eye; And now through Lambton Bridge I glanced The angler stood, as you've oft seen Where wooded banks are gay and green, From page to page I wandered on, He threw and threw his line: I read and watched, he nothing catched, Did not incline to bite, though I And hoped some salmon by the fly Who knows? Perhaps the Lambton Worm, Might long and lank be brought to bank, From morn to noon we read and fished, The fishes slily winked at me As I winked o'er my book, And wagged their tails, and said "You'll see Now of my book I take a look- We hooked no fish. The turbid flood, Refused us in the shady wood Of trout a single taste. But what of that? Its waters ran With music in their flow; The sun brought life and joy to man; And waved, the leafy bough. The songsters charmed us with their notes, What thought we of the empty creel, Thanks, Dickens, for thy printed page; Thanks that the store was not still more, JAMES CLEPHAN. S VENICE. BY M. W. WHITFIELD, M.A. PART I. CANNON STREET TO VENICE. EVEN minutes to eight on a fine morning about Easter time. "Ticket, sir," says the inspector, and we pass the barriers to the platform of Cannon Street Station. On our left are two or three vans labelled "Royal Mail." Beyond these are several handsome and comfortable carriages, in one of which we dispose ourselves and our little baggage; for, having previously undertaken Continental journeys, we know by experience the troubles attending luggage which cannot be carried in the hand, and placed over our heads or under the seat. Three minutes to eight! "Tickets, please!" And we are duly overhauled and locked in. Eight o'clock! Whistle number one from the guard, whistle number two from the engine, and we are outside the station crossing the Thames. Taking a last look at grey old London Bridge and muddy Thames, we devote ourselves to the morning papers, and pay but little heed to the bright villas of Chislehurst, or the hop gardens of Kent, or, indeed to aught else, till the slackened speed announces our arrival at the sea coast near Dover, where we have the pleasure of looking over a calm sea laving the white cliffs of the native land we are about to leave behind. The train carries us down to the steamer lying alongside Dover Pier, so that we have no long walk before embarking, but merely step on board and amuse ourselves till the packet starts, by tracing the outlines of the ancient Castle on the cliffs, and watching the dexterity with which the porters shoot the miscellaneous luggage from the pier to the deck. A few minutes more and we are steaming at a good rate across the Channel. The sea is smooth and the wind scarce perceptible. Yet many of our fellow passengers, having made up their minds to suffer, engage expensive cabins, dose themselves with nostrums warranted to cure sea-sickness, and soon work themselves into a fairly miserable condition. Not sympathizing much with these victims of their own fears, we betake ourselves to the bridge of the steamer, and watch the white cliffs receding and finally lost in the distant haze. We then try to peer across the |