bitterly and uncontrolled; but the selfish relief was foregone for the sake of another, that it might be in her power by and by to minister to a heart yet sorer and weaker than hers. The tears that fell so quietly and so fast upon the foot of Hugh's grave were all the deeper drawn and richer fraught. Awhile she stood there; and then passed round to a group a little way off, that had as dear and strong claims upon her love and memory. These were not fresh, not very; oblivion had not come there yet; only Time's softening hand. Was it softening? For Fleda's head was bent down further here, and tears rained faster. It was hard to leave these! The cherished names that from early years had lived in her child's heart; from this their last earthly abiding-place she was to part company. Her mother's and her father's graves were there, side by side; and never had Fleda's heart so clung to the old grey stones, never had the faded lettering seemed so dear, of the dear names and of the words of faith and hope that were their dying or living testimony. And next to them was her grandfather's resting-place; and with that sunshiny green mound came a throng of strangely tender and sweet associations, more even than with the other two. His gentle, venerable, dignified figure rose before her, and her heart yearned towards it. In imagination Fleda pressed again to her breast the withered hand that had led her childhood so kindly; and overcome here for a little she kneeled down upon the sod and bent her head till the long grass almost touched it, in an agony of human sorrow. Could she leave them? And for ever in this world? And be content to see no more these dear memorials till others like them should be raised for herself, far away? But then stole in consolations, not human, nor of man's devising, -the words that were written upon her mother's tombstone,

"Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him." It was like the march of angel's feet over the turf. And her mother had been a meek child of faith, and her father and grandfather, though strong men, had bowed like little children to the same rule. Fleda's head bent lower yet, and she wept, even aloud, but it was one half in pure thankfulness and a joy that the world knows nothing of. Doubtless they and she were one; doubtless though the grass now covered their graves, the heavenly bond in which they were held would bring them together again in light, to a new and more beautiful life that should know no severing. Asleep in Jesus; and even as He had risen so should they,-they and others that she loved,—all whom she loved best. She could leave their graves; and with an unspeakable look of thanks to Him who had brought life and immortality to light, she did; but not till she had there once again remembered her mother's prayer, and her aunt Miriam's words, and prayed that rather anything might happen to her than that prosperity and the world's favour should draw her from the simplicity and humility of a life above the world. Rather than not meet them in joy at the last,-oh, let her want what she most wished for in this world. If

riches have their poisonous snares, Fleda carried away from this place a strong antidote. With a spirit strangely simple, pure, and calm, she went back to her aunt.

Poor Mrs. Rossitur was not quieted, but at Fleda's touch and voice, gentle and loving as the spirit of love and gentleness could make them, she tried to rouse herself; lifted up her weary head and clasped her arms about her niece. The manner of it went to Fleda's heart, for there was it both a looking to her for support and a clinging to her as another dear thing she was about lose. Fleda could not speak for the heartache.

"It is harder to leave this place than all the rest," Mrs. Rossitur murmured, after some little time had passed on.

"He is not here," said Fleda's soothing voice. again."No, I know it," she said.

"We shall see him again. Think of that."Rossitur very sadly.

It set her aunt to crying

"You will," said Mrs.

"And so will you, dear aunt Lucy,-dear aunt Lucy-you promised him?"-"Yes," sobbed Mrs. Rossitur, "I promised him, but I am such a poor creature

"So poor that Jesus cannot save you? or will not? No, dear aunt Lucy, you do not think that; only trust Him-you do trust Him now, do you not?"

A fresh gush of tears came with the answer, but it was in the affirmative; and after a few minutes Mrs. Rossitur grew more quiet. "I wish something were done to this," she said, looking at the fresh earth beside her; “if we could have planted something——

"I have thought of it a thousand times," said Fleda sighing; "I would have done it long ago if I could have got here; but it doesn't matter, aunt Lucy. I wish I could have done it."

"When you have been the dearest and best mother to me! Now that is not right, aunt Lucy-look up and kiss me.

The pleading sweet tone of voice was not to be resisted. Mrs. Rossitur looked up and kissed her earnestly enough, but with unabated self-reproach. "I don't deserve to kiss you, for I have let you try yourself beyond your strength. How you look! Oh how you look!

"Never mind how I look," said Fleda bringing her face so close that her aunt could not see it. "You helped me all you could, aunt Lucy-don't talk so--and I shall look well enough by and by. I am not so very tired."

"You always were so!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur clasping her in her arms again; "and now I am going to lose you too, my dear Fleda! that gives me more pleasure than anything else in the world!"

But it was a pleasure well cried over.

"We shall all meet again, I hope-I will hope," said Mrs. Rossitur meekly when Fleda had risen from her arms. — -"Dear aunty! but before that—in England-you will come to see me-uncle Rolf will bring you."

Even then Fleda could not say even that without the blood mounting to her face. Mrs. Rossitur shook her head and sighed; but smiled a little too, as if that delightful chink of possibility let some light in.

"I shouldn't like to see Mr. Carleton now," she said, "for I could not look him in the face; and I am afraid he wouldn't want to look in mine, he would be so angry with me."

The sun was sinking low on that fair May afternoon and they had two miles to walk to get home. Slowly and lingeringly they moved away. The talk with her aunt had shaken Fleda's calmness and she could have cried now with all her heart; but she constrained herself. They stopped a moment at the fence to look the last before turning their backs upon the place. They lingered, and still Mrs. Rossitur did not move, and Fleda could not take away her eyes. It was that prettiest time of nature which while it shows indeed the shady side of everything, makes it the occasion of a fair contrast. The grave-stones cast long shadows over the ground, foretokens of night where another night was resting already; the longest stretched away from the head of Hugh's grave. But the rays of the setting sun softly touching the grass and the face of the white tomb-stone seemed to say, "Thy brother shall rise again." Light upon the grave! The promise kissing the record of death! It was impossible to look in calmness. Fleda bowed her head upon the paling and cried with a straitened heart, for grief and gratitude together.

Mrs. Rossitur had not moved when Fleda looked up again. The sun was yet lower; the sunbeams, more slant, touched not only that bright white stone--they passed on beyond, and carried the promise to those other grey ones a little further off; that she had left--yes, for the last time; and Fleda's thoughts went forward swiftly to the time of the promise-" Then shall be brought to pass the saying which is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." And then as she looked, the sunbeams might have been a choir of angels in light singing, ever so softly, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men.

With a full heart Fleda clasped her aunt's arm, and they went gently down the lane without saying one word to each other, till they had left the graveyard far behind them and were in the high road again.

Fleda internally thanked Mr. Carleton for what he had said to her on a former occasion, for the thought of his words had given her courage, or strength, to go beyond her usual reserve in speaking to her aunt; and she thought her words had done good.

CHAPTER LIII.

Use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.Merchant of Venice.

N the way home Mrs. Rossitur and Fleda went a trifle out of their road

aunt Miriam in the morning, and bade her a conditional farewell; for as after Mrs. Rossitur's sailing she would be with Mrs. Carleton, she judged it little likely that she should see Queechy again. They had time for but a minute at Mrs. Douglass's. Mrs. Rossitur had shaken hands and was leaving the house when Mrs. Douglass pulled Fleda back.

"Be you going to the West Indies too, Fleda ?”—“No, Mrs. Douglass." "Then why don't you stay here?"-"I want to be with my aunt while I can," said Fleda.

"And then do you calculate to stop in New York ?"—" For a while," said Fleda colouring.

"O go 'long !" said Mrs. Douglass, "I know all about it. Now do you s'pose you're agoing to be any happier among all those great folks than you would be if you stayed among little folks?" she added tartly; while Catherine looked with a kind of incredulous admiration at the future lady of Carleton.—“I don't suppose that greatness has anything to do with happiness, Mrs. Douglass," said Fleda gently.

So gently, and so calmly sweet the face was that said it, that Mrs. Douglass's mood was overcome. "Well you ain't agoing to forget Queechy?" she said, shaking Fleda's hand with a hearty grasp.—“Never ;

never!"

"I'll tell you what I think," said Mrs. Douglass, the tears in her eyes answering those in Fleda's, "It 'll be a happy house that gets you into it, wherever 'tis! I only wish it wa'n't out o' Queechy." Fleda thought on the whole as she walked home that she did not wish any such thing. Queechy seemed dismantled, and she thought she would rather go to a new place now that she had taken such a leave of everything here.

Two things remained however to be taken leave of; the house and Barby. Happily Fleda had little time for the former. It was a busy evening, and the morning would be more busy; she contrived that all the family should go to rest before her, meaning then to have one quiet look at the old rooms by herself; a leave-taking that no other eyes should interfere with. She sat down before the kitchen fire-place, but she had hardly realised that she was alone when one of the many doors opened and Barby's tall figure walked in. "Here you be," she half whispered. "I knowed there wouldn't be a minute's peace to-morrow; so I thought I'd bid you good-bye to-night."

Fleda gave her a smile and a hand, but did not speak. Barby drew up

a chair beside her, and they sat silent for some time, while quiet tears from the eyes of each said a great many things.

"Well, I hope you'll be as happy as you deserve to be,"- -were Barby's first words, in a voice very altered from its accustomed firm and spirited accent." Make some better wish for me than that, dear Barby."

“I wouldn't want any better for myself," said Barby determinately. “I would for you," said Fleda.

She thought of Mr. Carleton's words again, and went on in spite of herself—“It is a mistake, Barby. The best of us do not deserve anything good; and if we have the sight of a friend's face, or the very sweet air we breathe, it is because Christ has bought it for us. Don't let us forget that, and forget him.”—“I do, always," said Barby crying,—“ forget everything. Fleda, I wish you'd pray for me when you are far away, for I ain't as good as you be."

"Dear Barby," said Fleda, touching her shoulder affectionately, “I haven't waited to be far away to do that.

Barby sobbed for a few minutes with the strength of a strong nature that rarely gave way in that manner; and then dashed her tears right and left, not at all as if she were ashamed of them, but with a resolution not to be

overcome.

"There won't be nothing good left in Queechy, when you're gone, you and Mis' Plumfield, without I go and look at the place where Hugh lies--"

"Dear Barby," said Fleda with softening eyes, "won't you be something good yourself?"-Barby put up her hand to shield her face. Fleda was silent for she saw that strong feeling was at work." I wish't I could," Barby broke forth at last, "if it was only for your sake."

“Dear Barby,” said Fleda, “you can can do this for me, you can go to church and hear what Mr. Olmney says. I should go away happier if I thought you would, and if I thought you would follow what he says; for dear Barby there is a time coming when you will wish you were a Christian more than you do now; and not for my sake." "I believe there is, Fleda."

"Then will you? won't you give me so much pleasure?"—"I'd do a'most anything to do you a pleasure.' "Then do it, Barby."-" Well, I'll go," said Barby. "But now just think of that, Fleda, how you might have stayed in Queechy all your days and done what you liked with everybody. I'm glad you ain't, though; I guess you'll be better off." Fleda was silent upon that.

"I'd like amazingly to see how you'd be fixed," said Barby after a trifle of ruminating. "If 'twa'n't for my old mother I'd be 'most a mind to pull up sticks and go after you."—"I wish you could, Barby; only I am afraid you would not like it so well there as here."