two things, which he could do best when no third person was present. "Only a short time," he added, smiling rather sadly, I thought; "I cannot afford to lose more of you than is absolutely necessary this last evening.

I promised to do so immediately after dinner, and to return in a short time. Then I went to my own room, and leaned my head on my pillow, feeling stunned, bewildered, crushed. Only for a few moments; my father would wonder at my long stay.

I dressed hastily, but dinner was already served when I entered the dining-room. The change of weather had told upon my father; he looked pale, haggard, weary. I would have spared him the account of our adventure, but his pointed questions as to where I had been so long and so late, obliged me to give him a full account of it. That, and the tidings of Conrad's departure, completely unnerved him; and his evident depression and suffering added to the dull weight already pressing heavily on my heart.

After dinner was removed, I left the room, and spent half an hour pacing the long, dimlylighted corridor up-stairs. I could not rest-could not think. Slowly the time I had appointed myself dragged on. I begrudged every moment taken from the few left me of my friend's society.

When I returned to the room, there was a relieved look on my dear father's worn face, and his voice was stronger and more cheery, as he chided me for my long absence on Conrad's last evening. The latter had found some "word in season' for him too, I saw. Did the rest of the time pass slowly or swiftly? I scarcely know. Conrad exerted himself to dispel the gloom we all felt. Never had he talked more pleasantly-his smile was bright, and his voice cheery; and no further allusion was made to this being the last of our pleasant evenings. Even I smiled and talked too; but a dull aching consciousness that it was such, lay deep below the surface sparkles. And it was not only I that felt it, I knew.

It had come to an end at last; the last words had been spoken, the last clasp of the hand given, and I was alone in my room again. Then the floodgates were opened, and my long pent-up tears burst forth. I had parted calmly with my friend at the same time as my father-at the door of his

He

chamber, to which Conrad had assisted him. had mounted the stairs with greater difficulty than I had ever witnessed. He never descended them again!

I had listened quietly, and answered soothingly, to his querulous regrets and complaints. I had even spoken cheerfully of hopes I did not, could not feel, of his meeting again the young soldier whom he had, he said, loved at once for his friend's sake-at last for his own.

But when I was alone all this was at an end. I did not question my right to feel thus keenlybitterly-the parting from one who was nothing to me in kindred or in claim. I only knew he was everything my heart craved. In my strangely lonely childhood and girlhood, I had never had a friend of my own age-never even a companion. I had longed for both. Was it strange then, when I met one who realized my highest ideal, that my heart went out to him unhesitatingly, unquestioningly, unreservedly-that it should rest confidingly and wholly upon him? I think not. I did not dream of analyzing my feelings, nor even of concealing them, save to cheer my father, not even from Conrad himself.

I wept till I was completely exhausted, kneeling by my bedside, and mixing tears and prayers together. Then I slept-a restless, broken sleep -till the sound of horses' feet trampling in the stable-yard roused me to fresh consciousness of loneliness and grief.

I threw a wrapper round me, drew back the curtain, and looked out. It was a dark, thick morning; the day was not even breaking. I could discern nothing but the occasional gleam of a lantern. I could hear Conrad's quick, clear tones ringing out orders, as one by one his men filed out of the gate. Then I perceived, by the sudden flare of a light turned in that direction, that the road was full of soldiers, the rest of the troop. I could see an officer with a paper in his hand, calling over the names; but it was not Conrad's voice. That I should hear no more for— how long? Perhaps never more on earth. The word of command was given, and the band moved off. I sat listening-listening-till the last echo of trampling hoofs died away. Then I crept back to bed-not to weep again: my tears had all been shed the previous night.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CLOUDY AND DARK DAY.

But turn not in despondence, poor weary heart, away,

But meekly journey onwards through the dark and cloudy day;
E'en now the bow of promise is above thee shining bright,
And soon a joyful morning shall dissipate the night.

Thy God hath not forgot thee-and when he sees it best, Will lead thee into sunshine, will give thee hours of rest; And all thy pain and sorrow, when the pilgrimage is o'er, Shall end in heavenly blessedness and joys for evermore." From "Hymns from the Land of Luther."

I ROSE next morning with a dull pain in head and heart. My father had passed a restless night, and was feeble and ill. A dead oppressive silence, as of death, reigned in the house. To me, at least. Barbe rejoiced at our return to our old life. My father was too languid and depressed to make any comment, whatever he may have felt.

Without, all was cheerless as within. The sky was leaden gray; thick mists rose from the valley -a drizzling rain fell steadily-the previous evening's gale had stripped the trees of most of their remaining foliage-the ground was strewn with sodden leaves-the battered flowers were weighed down beneath them, and the few left on the branches hung dank and motionless. For my father's sake, I struggled hard against the overwhelming depression I felt, but with little success. He rose late, and even then was unfit for any exertion.

The weary morning wore away-the hours I had spent with my friend. Now I had no Conrad and no Bible! Through all my pain, I had not lost the consciousness of the presence and synpathy of Jesus. But I was very young in the faith, very weak, very ignorant. No wonder my spirit sunk within me in my loneliness.

At last I could bear the oppressive stillness of my father's room no longer. He lay back dozing in his chair; so I slipped out unperceived, and sought to ease the unrest of my heart by pacing up and down the corridor-reviewing every scene of the past week. Then Conrad's teachings returned to my mind, and showed me how wrong this repining was. "Oh!" I moaned, "had I but a Bible, God would speak to me through it; there is ever strength, and comfort, and help to be found in its pages, and in them alone. Yesterday I seemed to have all I could ever need; now I have nothing-nothing!"

Again I resumed my aimless wanderingdown-stairs this time. I went from room to room, entering the library last. On the table stood an extinguished lamp, an ink-stand, and a small packet folded in paper. A chair had been pushed on one side, as if a person had been sitting writing, and had displaced it in rising. I went up to the table; my own name was written on the packet in a clear bold hand. Eagerly I opened it, and saw-Conrad's Bible! A slip of paper lay upon it, on which was written :—

666

"He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me.' Keep this till I redeem it.-CONRAD."

My head sunk down upon the book, and my tears fell like summer rain. "O Conrad! my friend, my friend," I murmured, "you have made this sacrifice for me!" At first, regret for his loss, rather than gladness for my gain, filled me to overflowing; for I knew well what a sacrifice it must have been-his beloved mother's gifthis adored; Master's Word. But then I read again the words he had left me, and understood. For his Master's sake, not mine, he had parted with his mother's gift. That comforted me. For that Master would richly bless even the cup of cold water given in his name and for his sake.

My heart swelled with grateful praise and joy. I had a guide; I was no longer alone. The Good Shepherd had not left his feeble sheep without pasture. This token of his care reassured my fainting spirit, and I was at rest; sorrowful, indeed, but rejoicing.

And when I opened the book, I found further traces of my friend's tender thoughtfulness for me: folded between its pages were several closelywritten sheets, each on a different subject-each one that would supply my need-each containing no word but what was copied from the Word of Truth. They had been written the previous night. I knew this by the peculiar shade of the ink, which did not become black for many hours after its use.

Yes; the hours that should have been given to rest, before commencing a toilsome march, had been devoted to me. The thought was very precious, though watered by many tears. And I felt sure He for whose sake all was done would not let the doer be the loser. Had he not said even

I went back to my father's room with a spring of gladness in my heart that failed not through the sorrowful days that followed. Very sorrowful ones they were. My father's feebleness increased; the damp, gloomy weather continued, oppressing him painfully; and three days after Conrad's departure he lay unconscious, and at the very gates of death. For some days he remained thus; then very slowly the feeble spark of life revived, and consciousness returned; but his speech was indistinct and difficult, and his weakness so great that for hours he lay motionless, only opening his eyes when roused to take nourish

ment.

Words cannot tell the treasure Conrad's Bible was to me in those days! How should I have lived through them without the light, the peace, the hope God had sent me through it and him!

And even for my father I hoped! I had told him of my friend's noble unselfishness, and he had been deeply touched by it. He knew from his own words what his Bible was to him; and one evening, the last before his sudden seizure, as I sat reading it—I did so in his room then; indeed, I only left him at night, when Barbe insisted on taking my place-I looked up at hearing him sigh deeply, and met his eyes fixed upon me with a strangely sad and wistful look.

A sudden impulse seized me. I threw myself on his neck, and whispered: "O papa, papa! if you would but hear of Jesus!"

He kissed me fondly, and stroked my hair, as he answered-ah! so mournfully-"Ah! Léonie, my child, it is too late now- -too late, too late. I have denied him all my life. I cannot offer him its dregs; and I could not believe, if I would."

"

'Papa! dearest papa! you do believe! You know the Bible is true. I know you do. Now, if not before! And it is not too late. Now is God's time. And you have a 'now' yet! Oh! dear papa, do let me at least read to you of Jesus! When you listen to his words—his words of love and mercy—when you hear of his grace, and pity, and tenderness, and power-oh! you will be lieve. He will give you faith."

He looked at me with the same sad, wistful

"Yes, my darling, read what you will. It has come to this," he added, with a bitter smile: "my life is spent, my mental powers gone; my past is disappointment and delusion—one long grasping at a shadow; my present, failure and weariness, melting of heart and spirit; my future, a blank. So, now I see all this, I may have to learn that, in grasping at the shadow, I have lost the substance; in leaning on reason, I have trusted to a broken staff; in rejecting faith, I have cast aside the strongest support in life-the only stay in death. And it is too late to seek it now!"

“No, never, never-never too late for Jesus," I exclaimed, a rush of happy tears springing to my eyes. "O papa, dearest, how I have prayed for this! When the morning breaks cold and gray over the mountain, we know the sun is coming. And light is coming to you, my father, though as yet there is but enough to show you your darkness!"

Then I opened the Bible, and read to him the words of him who spake as never man spake. And he who spake those words on earth speaks them yet from heaven, by the "still small voice" of his Spirit, that reaches the deepest depths of our hearts. Little as I knew of his Word, he guided me to the very texts I needed, but knew not where to seek. My father listened with eager interest; but when at last I closed the book, fearing to exhaust his little strength, he made no remark. Only, when I left him for the night, he clasped me very close, and said, in a tone of deepest feeling,—

"God bless and keep you, my own Léonie, my child, my blessing. If the light ever dawns upon me, it will be through you."

The next morning, as he was crossing his room after dressing, he was stricken down. But, knowing the infinite depth of love and fulness of grace there is in Jesus, I did not despair. Nay more, my sorrowful spirit was strong in hope' and trust. And by degrees, though still unable to speak more than a few broken words, he was able again to listen to me as I read the words of life at intervals, and spoke to him of Jesus. How far he understood-how much he received-I could not judge. But the wan features lighted up

rapidly. While yet little more than half-way down the avenue, I recognized Conrad von Edelstein! He was apparently alone.

Hastily slipping his Bible into my pocket, I ran down-stairs, opened the hall door, and stood with outstretched hands upon the steps as he dis

We heard little of the great struggle that was going on. Vague, extravagant rumours reached us from time to time of victories won and wonders achieved by the new armies formed on the banks of the Loire, and in the north. Others, again, of crushing defeat and fresh miseries.

Of Conrad, of course, I heard nothing. My flesh crept and my heart sickened as I heard the servants exultingly speak of the accounts given of the bands of francs-tireurs gathering throughout the invaded districts, whose aim it was to fire from the ambush of woods and hedges upon the German officers. One, they told me, was forming in Drécy. But I did not forget Conrad's words of holy trust. It was sweet to think, wherever he was, his spirit would be blending with mine in prayer often and often.

Late one afternoon, I was sitting in the deep seat of my father's window, which looked, like that of the ante-chamber, down the poplar avenue. He was sleeping quietly. I was not reading, though I had Conrad's Bible in my hands; my thoughts were roving restlessly from one thing to another, till at last they settled upon him. Where was he? Should we ever meet again? If he lived, I felt sure of that; but might he not be already gone where my father would soon follow him? A deep sense of the loneliness of my position grew upon me, when suddenly my ear was caught by the sound of a horse's gallop ringing out on the stony road. What subtle intuition made my heart leap to my mouth, as I leaned eagerly forward to catch the earliest view of the

bridle over his arm, led him up to where I stood. I had no time to question the propriety of my conduct. Conrad sprang up the steps, and for a moment held both my hands in a clasp that told more of gladness than the strongest words, and gazed into my face with a look before which my eyes went down! But I was the first to speak, though my voice trembled as I said: "O Captain von Edelstein! this is indeed an unexpected pleasure! My father will"-"be so glad," I was going to say; but for the moment I had forgotten all in the joy of meeting my friend again. I broke off-"O Conrad! he is ill-he is dying!"

"My poor child," said the deep sympathizing voice I had so longed to hear again, “is it indeed so?"

"Alas! yes; but let me call Blaise or Pierre to take your horse.'

"No, Léonie, I cannot. I have not a moment to stay. But tell me of your father."

I did so in a few hurried, agitated words. "But," I concluded, "O Captain von Edelstein, your sacrifice has not been in vain; he has owned God's Word; he listens daily to it. I think—I hope he is looking to Jesus." Then, freeing my hands, which he had held all the time we had been speaking, I took the Bible from my pocket, and placed it in his hands. "I cannot thank you," I said. "Oh! how could you do it?"

"It was nothing," he said earnestly, "nothing! But I have come to redeem it now, dear Léonie. I have brought you the same jewel in a rougher setting. It was the only one I could procure.” He unrolled his cloak from the saddle-bow, and took out a plainly-bound French Bible, which he placed in my hands.

"How has it been with you?" he continued, tenderly. "You look pale and worn. Have you felt ALONE?"

"No; not since I found your Bible. Oh! I think I could scarcely have lived through these