brow" failing as I life lies behind me,

pressing his hand to his am failing; now that this the question rises if the parting testimony of those two votaries of a faith I have rejected and scorned, was indeed the delusion I deemed itif there may not really be another life before me; --and reason cannot answer it. Ah! Léonie, I have leant on a broken staff, and now I have no support in the dark valley—the valley to me indeed," he whispered as to himself, "of darkness and the shadow of death."

I could not answer. I had no words of hope or help. And my heart died away within me as he spoke. Never before, in any way, had he alluded to his approaching death; not even to the wasting of his mental and bodily powers, so surely betokening it. I knew the bitter truth too well. But this seemed to strike it home to my heart with terrible clearness of realization. It could make no real difference-it could not bring the dreaded time actually nearer-but I think the embodiment in words of some secret long-concealed hope or fear always comes as a shock. I sat there pale and silent, while my father lay lost in troubled thought. As the hours wore on, he grew feverish and restless, and tossed uneasily on his pillow. I tried in vain every remedy I could think of. It was rather the mind than the body that needed ministering to. I offered to read to him, thinking he might fall asleep as I did so. At first, he refused, saying he was too restless to listen, but afterwards asked me to fetch one of the books of a favourite author from the library, and read a few passages which were haunting his memory, while he could not accurately recall them, bidding me first listen if all was still.

I knew the soldiers had long before gone to their sleeping apartments, but paused a few moments at the chamber door to satisfy him. All was still, and taking a candle in my hand, I quickly descended the stairs. Occupied with my mournful thoughts, I had reached the library door before I perceived it to be partly open and lighted up. I stopped short, glancing fearfully through it, but saw to my relief it was tenanted solely by Captain von Edelstein.

He was seated at a table full in view; a book lay open before him, but he was not reading then.

His hands were clasped upon it, and as the light of the study-lamp fell full upon his upturned countenance, it looked to me like that of some saint or martyr I had seen in old paintings. Such a depth and intensity of devotion, such earnest passion of feeling, such an expression of holy love and peace! I thought it reflected a beam of the same light that had illumined my dying mother's. One moment I gazed, not more-it seemed profanation even to do that— but surprise and wonder, and a rush of undefined and tumultuous feelings, held me motionless that brief space. Then I turned and glided swiftly and noiselessly away.

Captain von Edelstein is in the library," I said, as my father looked inquiringly at my empty hands. "I will listen for his going up to his room- -he must pass this door, so I shall hear him; then I can get the book."

I had not long to wait. A light, firm step came up the stairs in a few minutes-passed the door and died away down the corridor. Then I heard the closing of his bedroom door, and taking up my candle, went once more to the library.

The lamp had been extinguished, and by the dim light I carried I found it difficult to select the volume I required from the dark rows of books in similar bindings. At length I succeeded in doing so. It was a large, heavy book, and in drawing it down from the high shelf it overpowered me, and fell with considerable noise. As I raised it in my arms and turned towards the door, I found myself face to face with Captain von Edelstein. He had returned for something he had left in the hall, and had been attracted to the library by the noise of the falling book.

The book had nearly had a second fall, as I started with surprise at the unexpected encounter. I had been too much engrossed by my occupation to notice his approaching footsteps.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle Léonie; is anything the matter-anything wrong?" he exclaimed, glancing anxiously at my agitated face. “Your father?"

"No; thanks," I replied. "My father could not sleep, and I came for a book from which he wishes me to read some passages to him. I let it fall in reaching it down."

"It is too heavy for you, let me take it ;" and

"Oh!" I said, "it is not always so; but my father is restless and uneasy to-night, and I could not leave him."

"I fear I and my soldiers are to blame for this, then," he replied; "your father seems very ill, mademoiselle. You have much to bear. It grieves me to the heart to add to your burden."

The look and tone of deep, heartfelt sympathy, the gentle, respectful tenderness of manner with which these words were spoken, was the one drop too much in the already overflowing cup. I sank into a chair, and the tears that had been gathering in my heart through those long quarter-hours that had sounded to my fancy like knells of departing hope and happiness, as they were rung out by the little clock on my father's mantelpiece, burst forth. Very much annoyed, and ashamed of myself and them, I struggled violently but vainly to restrain them. I had been wrought up to too high a pitch of endurance, and now nature would have her way. Captain von Edelstein gently took the candle from my hand, placed it on the table, and stood by in silence.

After a few minutes I raised my head, and tried to excuse the weakness which had caused me to make such an inopportune display of feeling before a stranger, too-but my quivering lips refused their office.

Then he spoke, very quietly and soothingly. "Mademoiselle, I can understand it all. Do not grieve that you have shown me your sorrow. I read it before. Forgive me if I intrude my sympathy, but I read it but to feel with you. I cannot help you-nay, it is my grief to know I am the most unwilling means of adding to your trial. But there is One who can. Does mademoiselle know that One? The Father of the fatherless-even God in his holy habitation?'"

I shook my head, but my tears ceased. "Then seek him, mademoiselle, take your sorrow to him. He is the Helper of the helpless -a very present help in trouble.' He never sought in vain. You will find him. To him I commend you!"

is

He ceased speaking, but his words—not his words, indeed, but his Master's-came like balm to my weary, sorrowful spirit; the load of despairing helplessness was lifted from my heart.

"Let me take these up for you now," he said, taking up the candle and book from the table on which he had placed them, and preceding me up the stairs, saying as he gave them into my hands at my father's door, "Good-night once more, Mademoiselle Léonie. I trust you will soon be able to seek the rest you look so much in need of. The Lord Jesus says, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

Slowly, earnestly, tenderly he repeated these words. I could only answer by a look-I dared not trust my voice-tears were too near, and I might not shed them there. I found my father more composed; he had not heard the sounds below, so I did not allude to what had passed I brought the lamp to his side, and he pointed out the chapters he wished me to read. But before I had turned many pages I saw he had dropped asleep, and having placed everything he might require at hand, I left him, for he had not for some weeks past needed night-watching.

Once in my own room, I sat down to think over that day's strange and startling incidents. Still more over the words of hope and comfort Captain von Edelstein had spoken to me that night.. A great pang shot through my heart as I realized that he too saw death's shadow on my father's brow else why had he spoken of God as the "Father of the fatherless"? But in the depths of my sinking spirit, a ray of hope glimmered faintly. Very faintly; thick clouds lowered everywhere, above-around-within. All was yet dark. But God had heard my cry. Yes; he must have done so! In my sore need and distress that evening, he had sent me help. Would he not be a Helper still? The calm words of unshaken confidence, "He is never sought in vain-you will find him," cheered my trembling soul like a cordial. And those parting words—the words that he said were spoken by the Lord Jesus Christ himself. Ah! were they not just for me? Weary and heavy laden I was indeed. I cast myself on my knees beside my little bed, and He who reads "the heart's unspoken

language" heard and answered. Feeble, broken prayers-cries for help and mercy and light-a rain of tears and tempest of sobs! I knew not what to ask, or how. "Lord, I come to theehelp me teach me-give me light!" were all the words I could utter. But I rose calmed and comforted, and lay down to sleep with a more restful spirit than I had had for long anxious weeks.

CHAPTER X.

THE OLD, OLD STORY. "It is the old, old story

Of unseen things above,Of Jesus and his glory,

Of Jesus and his love.

But oh! that old, old story; More wonderful it seems Than all the golden fancies Of all my golden dreams!"

American Hymn.

THE glorious sunshine to which I opened my eyes next morning, was the precursor of a week of golden autumn weather. Looking back upon that week, I feel how emblematic it was of that phase of my life! Earthly hopes-earthly joys -fading, indeed, but only more beautiful in their departing brightness-the sun of earthly happiness shining with a passing radiance—soon, oh, so soon! to be veiled in thick clouds of wintry gloom. Ah! how pleasant were those days-an oasis in the wilderness of life!

"When I took my father his early cup of chocolate, I found him greatly revived. He had slept well, and appeared brighter and stronger. There had been wonderfully little to betoken the great increase that our quiet family had received the previous day. Very early, before daybreak, the distant tramp of heavy footsteps had resounded through the house-but now all was quiet as usual. It was the hour I generally gave to my favourite work-gardening; and the morning sunshine lay temptingly on the beds still brilliant with late blossoming flowers. I looked out longingly. All was quiet. From the staircase window I could see almost to the bottom of the last terrace. I thought I might A look through a back window decided Through it I saw the soldiers busy with their horses and accoutrements in the stable yard. I was soon among my flowers, my mind full of

venture.

me.

the new thoughts and hopes kindled by Conrad von Edelstein's words.

While I was thus engaged, I saw him come out of the house and walk down the garden path. He did not see me; I was concealed behind a mass of shrubs. As I looked after him I saw him take a book from his pocket, turn over the pages, and begin to read, as he paced slowly along. My first impulse was to turn and go back to the house, my second to remain where I was. He might not see me; but if he did, why should I shrink from meeting him? Did I not feel sure that he had the treasure I so earnestly desired for myself? And did not his manner last night prove he was anxious that I should find the light in which he so evidently dwelt ? So I stayed.

For some time it appeared as though he was too much occupied with his book even to look up, and I began to feel restless and disappointed. But after a few long, slow turns up and down the path, he laid it on the parapet of the low stone wall, and looked over it upon the fair scene around, glittering in the dewy freshness of the early morning. Then he turned towards the house and garden, and his gaze fell on me. He came forward at once, with outstretched hand and frank, pleasant smile.

"You are early, mademoiselle, after your late watching last night; I trust you are rested. I see this bright morning has brought the roses into bloom again," he said, looking at the cheeks which grew still more like the flowers in question under the smiling admiration of his frank blue eyes. "I am glad of it. They had given place to lilies last night. But your father, mademoiselle,I trust he too is rested and refreshed?"

"Yes, thank you; he has slept well, and seems better this morning. But he is sadly weak."

"Yes," he answered, "I see it;" and then paused.

But those simple words, spoken in a tone which evidenced such grave, concerned comprehension of what they implied to me, were almost too much-they very nearly opened the flood-gates again. The better to conceal and conquer my agitation, I turned to my work. I had been trying to tie up the branch of a Cape

honeysuckle that had broken loose from the arch to which it had been trained. It was large and strong, and resisted my efforts to bend it to its place. Captain von Edelstein at once volunteered his assistance, and before I at all knew how it he had twisted it into its place, and mounted on some rockwork at the side, while I handed him up list, hammer, and nails to secure it. It took some time to do so; meanwhile he talked so pleasantly and naturally that my tears and shyness were alike forgotten.

was,

"Turning gardener makes me feel at home again,” he said, with a smile that was not all gladness. And that introduced the subject of his home. He spoke of his mother in terms of such deep reverential affection, that I ceased to wonder such a mother should have such a son. But first

he talked of his home-the old house in Munich; and of the little country-seat, half villa, half farm, with its orchards and large rambling garden, where the merry summers of his boyhood were spent, and to which the family still loved to resort for many months in the year, and where he and his sister rambled and gardened together. Once he stopped, and half-apologized for troubling me with trifles that could interest me so little, though they were so much to him. But on my begging him to continue, and assuring him of my deep interest, he admitted that it was very sweet to have some one to speak to of home, after so many long weeks of thinking of it only.

Then he told me of his only and much-loved sister Thekla, and I seemed to see her, with her laughing dark eyes and bright piquant face-not beautiful, yet winning in its arch sweetness; but now, he said sadly, it must bear an expression it was hard to think of it wearing,-anxiety and trouble, and the sickness of hope deferred-not for his sake only, but for her betrothed, Karl Erhardt, who had been missing since one of the first skirmishes before Paris. It was supposed he had been taken prisoner-his body had not been found among the slain-but no tidings of him had been received for long weary weeks; and Thekla's letters, which had at first been, like herself, bright and hopeful, were growing sad and desponding. She was unused to sorrow, her life had been all brightness till that terrible war broke out; and the absence of the brother she loved, he

feared too fondly, in the midst of danger and suffering, made her trial doubly hard.

"But she has her mother to comfort her," I said. His face lighted up as he assented, and then he spoke of that mother. Almost unconsciously, as we talked, I had complied with his request to leave the narrow paths between the flowerbeds for the broader garden walks. There was an inexpressible charm in his manner, an indescribable something that irresistibly drew out perfect trust and confidence. I never can tell how it was, but presently I found myself speaking of my own dead mother; and then-led on step by step by his quick sympathy and ready comprehension, by gentle encouragement of eye and voice-of myself, of my own heart-struggles. I told him all my fears for my father-for myself —my yearnings after the light I knew not how to seek. I concluded by saying,-"Captain von Edelstein, I think you have that light; can you tell me how I can find it-where I can seek it?" I know I looked up to him with all my soul in

my eyes.

Very soft and beautiful was the light in his as he met them, and answered in the same deep quiet tone that had sent such a thrill of hope through me the night before,-" Yes, mademoiselle; thank God, I can. The light you need is Christ-you must seek it in him, through him, by him. In him, for he is "the light of the world;" through him, for he is the only channel of blessing between us and God-the "one Mediator between God and men;" by him, for it is by him alone you can even be conscious of your darkness-much less desire the light: you do desire it, and "Christ will give you light." Very slowly he spoke, dwelling with marked emphasis on the words that were not his but God's-pausing before and after them.

one

Stranger as I was to those golden words, I felt their power, and half divined their source, recognizing at once the allusion to the Mediator" as one of my mother's sentences. "But how can I-where can I find him, seek him?" I asked.

He made no reply for a moment. Then, as we reached the path that led to the spot on the wall where he had laid down the book he had been reading, he took my hand and drew me towards it.

Taking up the book, he placed it in my hands, saying, "Mademoiselle Léonie-here, and here only." It was a German Bible.

"But I have no Bible," I said; "oh, that I had!" "Would you read it if you had? You know, your Church and priests forbid it."

“Ah, yes; but-but-oh! Captain von Edelstein, the Church in which I have been brought up does not cannot satisfy the soul's hunger; it gives but chaff in place of the bread of life. My mother forsook the Bible for it, and it broke her heart and blighted her life; she turned to the Bible again at the last, and it gave her a light in the darkness of death itself. And I-oh! I will trust the Bible, I will take it for my guide-not the Church; and oh, may God indeed make it a light to me!"

"Amen," rejoined my companion solemnly. Then taking his Bible from my hands, he led the way to a garden-seat near, and placing me on it, sat down beside me. There he opened the pages of life, and read first one text, then another, while I listened as one entranced. The old, old story was so new to me then! Then, in few words indeed, but full of power, "he preached unto me Jesus."

When he ceased I sat motionless, tears of joy dropping on my clasped hands as they rested on iny knee.

"Now I must go to my men," said the captain, after the silence had lasted a few minutes; "do you understand German?"

He took the book again, and turned over the leaves thoughtfully for a few seconds, then returned it, saying, "No, mademoiselle; the Lord himself knows best your need. He will supply it. Lay it before him, and ask him to teach you where and what to read, and to open your heart to receive it. He will do it. Do not doubt him. Ask him in the name of Jesus. He is the Truth. Do you think he can lie?"

"Who! God? Jesus? No; oh no! terrible thought!"

What a

"Then believe him.

Listen to his own words:

'If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'" Raising his cap, he left me.

I had no time then to examine the treasure he had entrusted to my keeping. I had already remained longer from my father than I had intended; it wanted little more than an hour till lunch-time, and I generally read to him for that period. I therefore ran to my room, and carefully putting away the book, joined my father. But not before I had knelt for a few moments and poured out my heart's need and desire before Him of whom I had first heard that morning as a "God of love." Did I believe it all? I think I did. But my mind was in a whirl of wonder, and surprise, and joy. The sudden blaze of light dazzled me. It was like stepping suddenly out of a cold dark dungeon into the glorious light of a summer day. A rapture that was almost pain. I longed to be able to draw for myself from that pure fountain of living waters. But I had to wait. I read till lunch, when Captain von Edelstein joined us. The conversation was lively and pleasant, like the evening before, but no allusion was made to the subject of my thoughts; and immediately after it our visitor left us, saying he should not return till late that evening. Then, at papa's request, I drew up the study table and placed his papers before him; but as I was leaving the room he called me back, saying,

"Léonie, darling, I cannot write; my hand shakes. I must have your nimble little fingers."

So I took my seat before his desk, and wrote, at his dictation, for what appeared to me two very long hours. Not that I was writing all the time; I noticed, with pain, how very feebly the stream of thought flowed into my father's mind. Often he would pause for words, sometimes pressing his hand to his brow, and seeming to lose altogether the thread of the subject he was dictating. And formerly, when his eyes failed, and I took his place, I could scarcely keep pace with the rapid flow of his ideas, in writing. Now I saw tooI, who was so little able to judge-that the style was weaker, broken and confused. My eyes burned with the effort to keep back the welling tears-my fingers trembled. Oh, it was so hard!