rich and fertile soil within, until not one nerve was left unlacerated, not one atom unground-no awful messenger had beckoned her to arise and tread a flinty road towards the mount of tribulation, and put into her hand the knife wherewith to slay what had been no less in truth than flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone, while a divine voice spoke not to stay the blow, nor gracious hand was seen to point out a meaner offering, when with strong crying and tears the required sacrifice was offered up. No. The green and stately plant which, like Jonah's gourd, had sprung up so tall and fair in a single night-the glorious tree near which she had humbly sat, content if a passing breeze only wafted to her the rich perfume of its blossom or some fleeting freshness of its shade-had perished also as the prophet's shelter-one blast had withered it stem, branch, and twig, from the topmost coronal of leaves to the lowest filament of the root; but, unlike the rebellious man of God, Alice lifted up no voice to mourn for it, but said in her childlike faith that it was well done, and blessed the fatherly loving-kindness which chastened her.

Inconsistent as it may appear, she did not wish to forget Lord Dundee, for in the total transmutation which her honest self-scrutiny revealed she knew that the former love had passed from her soul like dross from silver in the refiner's crucible, and that there was no danger to her perfect peace in the remembrance of all that had fed the devouring passion which once reigned over her. Her heart was now like some desecrated fane, in which, enthusiastic devotee, she had

knelt by day and night-incessantly bringing thither the best firstfruits of her thoughts, the most precious tribute of her hopes, her prayers, and her desires—seeking there the sole fulfilment of her most ardent aspirations. With one gust of its mighty breath, an earthquake had hurled down temple and graven image at once, well nigh burying the votaress under the ruins of the altar before which she had bowed herself with all-trusting adoration. From such a shock Alice had just arisen. Her idol was not broken; calm and grand as ever it lay at her feet, with its sad face and haughty eyes—but she knew it now for a thing of clay, a creature of like mould with herself; on the altar whence it had been thrown no power could replace it — at that broken shrine Alice could never worship more.

Could Claverhouse have stood before her in all his pride of beauty and genius, of chivalrous grace and manly devotion—could he have laid all this and an unfettered heart in her keeping, wooing her for the partner of his destiny, the sole sharer of his wedded love, Alice would not have turned back on the path which was leading her from the broken cisterns of that feverish happiness for which she had thirsted to the living streams which, once tasted, satisfy the soul for ever. She had entered the very Valley of the Shadow, her feet had dipped in the waters of the dark river which all must cross; and when an angel-hand gently led her back to the home which her sweet presence was to gladden for a few days yet, Alice had beheld too nearly the borders of the promised good land for all other sights and sounds not to bear strange un

reality in her sight. As the widow's son, recalled from the dead at the prayer of Elijah, might have gazed on the scenes he revisited, marvelling much that, with all their charms, he should ever have wept to leave them, so Alice in her hours of languor and quiet meditation looked back upon the ineffaceable pastforward to the dim future-with eyes touched by a divine light, and from which the scales had fallen, as from the blind man's of old, beneath the healing touch of Him with whom is no darkness at all.

And this light was growing very near and radiant, as the chill twilight which had once saddened her path melted into the brightness of approaching day. The rugged road was smooth beneath her tread, the thorns which had pierced her tender feet were blossoming into celestial roses, the pilgrim's staff was in her hand, the pilgrim's guide a lamp to her steps; and thus, now resting awhile by the road-side, now imperceptibly but steadily advancing, she went her silent way to the Land where all things are forgotten.

No, not all things-surely not all, dear Alice! Not such sweet patience in welldoing as thine-not the faith which could say, even while the tortured flesh revolted, "Though He slay me yet will I trust Him"--not the unswerving duty which so bravely counted all things loss for conscience' sake-not the spotless purity to which a breath of evil was worse than any grief-no, not even the love which, erring as it had been, must assuredly, when sanctified by penitence and prayer, have found favour in the eyes of Him who holds Love blessed!

IN the little chamber whose two inhabitants had now no other care than the gradual progress of a decline which, still painless, grew more marked as the weeks wore on, the noisy stir of the outer world, whirling on in its restless course of strife and tumult, found but few and faint echoes; and even such as made their way to Janet's ears were prudently softened and selected before they were allowed to pass into those of Alice. The varied and contradictory details of Lord Dundee's flight from Edinburgh, as well as the dangerous aspect of affairs in general, had come to her knowledge long before it was possible for Alice to hear or comprehend them; and it had not been Janet's least anxiety that the breaking out of fresh disturbances might have a pernicious, or even fatal, effect upon the recovery of her adopted child. By the time however that the young girl's senses and memory returned, the imminence of that danger had decreased for the present, and Janet hoped that, before the tremendous storm which seemed

rising in the Highlands of Perthshire could burst over the yet peaceful country, the arrival of Lady Glencarrig would free her from all responsibility, by removing Alice, and, as she expected, herself also, beyond the remotest limit of its effects.

But the girl's disease made such rapid strides during the latter part of the month of July as to render it quite evident that any expectation of the sort would be fallacious. She continued, as ever, perfectly contented and cheerful; she had found not merely tranquillity, but happiness; and Janet, although admitting that at any instant she might be called upon to part from her, found in the uncertainty itself a means of hoping on. Gathering herself together, if we may so speak, she strove to look no further than the immediate present, centering and absorbing herself in the sensations and occupations of each separate hour, as if no other were to succeed it—almost preventing fear by refusing to take cognisance of the future which was to embody it-fostering this moral numbness as a safeguard against the acute suffering which must accompany a waking from it. She was precisely in the situation of a man who, while believing himself on safe ground, has, by one false step, rolled down a steep declivity, and, lying bruised yet conscious at the bottom, remembers how he had shuddered on its brink, and, astonished to find himself alive, dares not alter the position of a limb lest the motion should reveal the extent of injuries yet unfelt. Little by little, drop by drop, an infinitesimal quantity of bitterness had been daily added to her cup, as minute a portion of