shared by everyone at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora could not bear to look at little children.

Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics the next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmentionable hour of the night; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather doubtful whether Mary had made the most of her opportunities of observation.

CHAPTER XXV.

Behold, with pearls they glittering stand,
Thy peaceful gates to all expand,
By grace and strength divinely shed,
Each mortal, thither may be led;
Who, kindled by Christ's love will dare
All earthly sufferings now to bear.

By many a salutary stroke,

By many a weary blow, that broke,

Or polished, with a workman's skill,

The stones that form that glorious pile;
They all are fitly framed to lie

In their appointed place on high.'

ANCIENT HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CHURCKL

THE thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an autumn day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drinking up the mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly bedewed.

The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, and the sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last bright yellow leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage from the Grange, drew up at Dr. May's door.

Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk; Mrs. Arnott and Mary had gone on to assist Richard in his final arrangements, but even before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of Margaret; and she had waited with her father to keep all bustle from her room, and to commit her into the charge of Flora and of nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling to go. There was that strange oppressed feeling on her as if the attainment of her wishes were joy too great to be real-as if she would fain hold off from it at the climax, and linger with the sister who had shared all with her, and to whom that Church was even more than to herself. She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, sometimes forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been only an excuse for looking at Margaret's countenance, and drinking in her sympathy from her face; but she was to go in George s carriage, and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient of Ethel's delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no longer, gave her final kiss, and whispered, 'In spirit with us!

then ran down and was seized on by George, who had already packed in the children and Miss Bracy, and was whirled away.

'Flora dear,' said Margaret, 'do you dislike having the window opened?'

Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister's scruples, that she liked the air. You always spoilt me,' said Margaret, fondly. Come and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you here,' she added, as Flora complied; and she took her hand and fondled it. It is like the old times to have you here taking care

of me.'

Very unlike them in some ways,' said Flora.

'It has been a great renewal of still older times,' said Margaret, 'to have aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, it is so like having mamma here,' and she looked in her sister's face as she spoke.

Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, and being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew not, but, suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret's frame; she raised her hand and lifted her head, with an eager 'Hark! '

Flora could hear nothing.

'The bells his bells!' said Margaret, all one radiant look of listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted in the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those thin white cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted finger and parted lips seemed marking every note of the cadence.

It ceased. Alan! Alan!' said she. 'It is enough! I am ready!'

The somewhat alarmed look on Flora's face recalled her, and, smiling, she held out her hand for the Consecration books, saying, 'Let us follow the service. It will be best for us both.'

Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she had come more than half through the first Lesson. Her voice grew husky and she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. Margaret begged her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on reading, though almost whispering, till she came to, "If they return to Thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the land of their captivity, whither they have carried them captives, and pray toward their land, which Thou gavest unto their fathers, and toward the City which Thou hast chosen, and toward the House which I have built for Thy Name; then hear Thou from the Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place-"

Flora could go no further; she strove, but one of her tearless sobs cut her short. She turned her face aside, and as Margaret began to say something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utterance, Margaret! Margaret! pray for me! for it is a hard captivity,

and my heart is

be forgiven me

very, very sore. Oh! pray for me, that it may all and that I may see my child again!'

up.

'My Flora; my own poor, dear Flora! do I not pray? Oh! look Think how He loves you. look up, If I love you so much, how much more does not He? Come near me, Flora. Be patient, and I know peace will come!'

The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, the next instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and resuming her quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the soothing effect of Margaret's words and tone, she allowed herself to be drawn close to her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while Margaret's hands were folded over her, and words of blessing and rayer were whispered with a fervency that made them broken.

Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly able to believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession enter the Aisle, and heard the Psalm that called on those doors to lift up their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost bewildered feeling-could it indeed be true, as she followed the earlier part of the service, which set apart that building as a Temple for ever separate from all common uses. She had imagined the scene so often that she could almost have supposed the present, one of her many imaginations; but, by-and-by, the strangeness passed off and she was able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, and to feel the deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of her feeble efforts. Margaret was in her mind the whole time, woven, as it were, into every supplication and every note of praise; and when there came the intercession for those in sickness and suffering, flowing into the commemoration of those departed in faith and fear, Ethel's spirit sank for a moment at the conviction, that soon Margaret, like him, whom all must bear in mind on that day, might be included in that thanksgiving; yeù, as the service proceeded, leaving more and more of earth behind, and the voices joined with Angel and Archangel, Ethel could lose the present grief, and only retain the certainty that, come what might, there was joy and union amid those who sung that Hymn of praise. Never had Ethel been so happy-not in the sense of the finished work-no, she had lost all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever she had been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart that the cry of Glory came from her with such an exulting gladness, as might surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our Everlasting Life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to prepare strength for what may be in store.

The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her even while the sounds of movement began, and the congregation were emerging. As she came out, greetings, sentences of admiration of the Church, and of enquiry for her absent sisters, were crowded upon her, as people moved towards the school, where a

luncheon was provided for them to pass away the interval until eve ning service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites were, meantime to have a dinner in the former school-room, at the Elwood's house and Ethel was anxious to see that all was right there, so, while the rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her arm to Cherry, whose limping walk shewed her to be very tired.

'Oh! Miss Ethel!' said Cherry, 'if Miss May could only have been here!'

More might have been said, but they perceived that they were being overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the vestry. Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood's wicket gate, but she was arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented to the Bishop, and the Bishop shaking hands with her, and saying that he had much wished to be introduced to her.

Of course, that was because she was her father's daughter, and by way of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the cottage, whereupon the Bishop wished to go in and see the old people; and, entering, they found the very comfortable-looking party just sitting down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a new black coat, on acount of his Clerkship, presiding, at one end, and Mr. Elwood at the other, and Dame Hall finding conversation for the whole assembly, while Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the little Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke Wilmots were ready to act as waiters with infinite delight. Not a whit daunted by the Bishop, who was much entertained by her merry manner, old Granny told him' she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee, when the Squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn't none of it fit to eat; and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure, who would have thought what would come of Sam's bringing in the young gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad!'

The Bishop said Grace, and left Granny to the goose, while he gave Ethel his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable proceeding if she had not recollected that Richard might be consid ered as host, and that she was his eldest sister forthcoming.

No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than sho saw her father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the air of both which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, saying, 'Ethel, I must carry you away; and, in explanation to the Bishop, 'my poor girl at home is not so well.'

All was enquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at home, and would have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held

her fast, asking what good she would do by hurrying in, breathless and exhausted, so as to add to Flora's fright and distress, the anxiety which was most upon their minds, since she had never before witnessed one of the seizures, that were only too ordinary matters in the eyes of the home party. No one but Dr. May and Ethel should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the gig making its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner with which the Bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes, was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her, in her home scene of trial.

Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the Consecration festivities should end here; at least so thought Mr. Wilmot, who, though very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have been present at the luncheon. She had not thought of self hitherto, the Church was the gift of Alan and Margaret, the work of preparing the people belonged to all alike, and she did not guess that, in the sight of others, she was not the nobody that she believed herself. Her share in the work at Cocksmoor was pretty well known, and Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion to pass without speeches, such as must either have been very painful, or very hurtful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however, permitted a more free utterance of the general feeling; and things were said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman was obliged to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he ought, and so beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to echo the fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that speechifying could be abolished by act of parliament.

Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something te be proud of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while George Rivers expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be a crack speaker in the House, and he hoped she would say everything to hinder his going out, for it was a regular shame to waste him on the niggers.

Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. Arnott had not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at home; but, as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learnt the truth from Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from walking home at once to see whether she could be useful. Mary was easily persuaded to remain, for she was accustomed to Margaret's having these attacks, and had always been kept out of her room the while, so she had little uneasiness to prevent her from being very happy, in receiving in her own simple, good-humoured way, all the attentions that lapsed upon her in the place of her elder sisters.

'Cocksmoor really has a Church!' was note enough of joy for her, and no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect happiness. Moreover, when after evening service, the November