CHRISTMAS-TIDE; OR, DEEDS NOT WORDS.

(Continued from page 24.)

TWENTY revolving years had brought the festival of Christmas-tide round to Mary Leslie, and those years had passed almost without a cloud. Why did this seem clad with such unearthly brightness? Why did the deep blue sky seem to her like a thin veil which her upward glance could almost penetrate, and those floating clouds the wings of angels descending on messages of peace and love? Why did she gather those very early snowdrops, and hide them in her bosom with almost a reverential touch, as though they were love-tokens from another land? There is a word whose farthest significance has been only known to Him Who is All Perfect-yet taught by Him, some of His saints have entered deeply into its mysteries. Self-surrender, utter, intense, enduring, seems the perfection of a saintly character, and like the shadow to a substance, its constant companion is peace and joy. Mary had but caught a glimpse of its full meaning—and yet that dim vision brought unutterable happiness. She paused upon old Humphries' threshold, and uttered the sentence that was to be henceforth the watchword of her life; and as she listened to the old man's sorrows, and encouraged him to speak of the lately departed wife, who for so many years had sat beside him, and whose voice he would never hear on earth again, her words of gentle sympathy and consolation, uttered in that Holy Name seemed endued with a portion of its power. He to Whom she sought to minister in His old and sick, and sorrowful servants, received her act of love, and stored it up in the treasury of heaven.

It was a happy party that was gathered at Eldon Hall that Christmas Day: one of those blessed homes, where the hearts of all are attuned to harmony; or where, if for a moment a cloud pass over the sky, it is gone almost before perceived. And yet they were not all alike: there were many points of difference, many strong marks of individual character. But they were a remarkably unselfish family, and though there were thoughts, and joys, and sorrows, which each one felt the others knew not, and could not fully understand, yet each one seemed to live in and for one another, and individual feelings were never allowed to push themselves forward for notice.

Mr. and Mrs. Leslie were two of the most united people who, I think, were ever joined together in the holy bands of wedlock. Mr. Leslie was a great invalid. He had suffered acutely for many years, and in long exile from outward communion with

the Church, and debarred from many of the ordinances he loved with no common intensity, he had attained a state of such perfect and joyful submission, of such unbroken communion with the unseen world, that he appeared to be dwelling rather there than here. "The earth seemed floating beneath his feet, and the great white cloud ready to receive him." One may always notice how the interest of the family hinges on the sick or the weak one-how the arm chair of the invalid seems a centre of unity, around which all congregate. It was remarkably the case at Eldon Hall. Mr. Leslie was, so to speak, a living witness to the power of the Cross, and the exceeding love with which every member of his family regarded him, was mingled with a reverence and awe, as towards one on whom the Finger of GOD was manifestly laid. His children were devotedly attached to him, his comfort was their chief care, his judgment and taste were the first consulted, his approval was their highest pleasure. The twin little ones, Grace and Edith, the very treasures of the whole household, would bring their daily offering of flowers for his table, and then in happy possession of each hand, would gaze up at him with their deep blue eyes and earnest faces, listening to every word he spoke. And then when the slightly contracted brow, the only evidence he ever gave of suffering, warned them to leave him, they would go away and talk in a low wondering tone of how very good and how very patient dear papa

was.

Charles, a talented high-spirited youth, just entering upon his Oxford career, rather inclined to go his own way, would at a word from his father relinquish any favourite pursuit, or perseveringly go on with any irksome occupation; "because," he said, there was something so holy in his father's eyes, that if they turned upon him in displeasure he should expect evil would befall him."

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Mary and Helen, the two eldest ones, looked upon him as they would have done upon one of the saints of ancient days. Helen declared he was exactly like a picture she had once seen of S. Bernard. Mary did not think so. Her father was an ideal in her mind distinct from everything else; and once as she gazed through the half-open door upon his calm uplifted brow, around which the western sun seemed "weaving bright rays of glory," she almost thought it was the promised Crown of Victory, and that he had bidden adieu to restless nights and days of suffering for ever.

But it was to his wife only that Mr. Leslie turned for full companionship. She had been his earliest, his only love; and if ever human affection was bathed and gathered up and penetrated with love divine, it was that which knit those two hearts in one.

In his days of health, she had shared with enthusiasm his exalted schemes of benevolence and usefulness; in the dark hour of trial, when the boon of health was withdrawn for ever, and instead of the energetic life he had planned for himself, one of enduring patient suffering was given as his portion, she had prayed unceasingly by his bed side for the strength he so much needed, had hidden her own anguish, had calmed her trembling voice, had looked upon him with those clear eyes, in which a light from heaven seemed ever beaming. And the storm had passed, and in the perfect surrender of his will to GOD, she too had her portion. And now their communion seemed scarcely to need words, so deep, so complete was it. And when he called her to his side to read some glowing passage from the Fathers, in whose writings he found, next to holy Scripture, his chief delight; or looked into her face for sympathy as he uttered some earnest aspiration, the tears which gathered in her eyes, and slowly fell upon the thin hand she held clasped in hers, were those of thankfulness too deep to be expressed, for the high privilege of witnessing the daily perfecting of a spirit on which the awful shadow of the REDEEMER'S Cross had fallen.

Such were the heads of the family I wish to introduce to my readers. What wonder that it bore a stamp of no common character? What wonder that in such a school were trained devoted children of the Church of CHRIST?

Happily passed on that Christmas Day at Eldon; with gentle affection the amusements of the little ones were shared by the elders; and when Mary drew Grace and Edith to her side, and talked to them about the first Christmas-tide, and how they might follow the steps and learn the lessons taught by the Holy Child JESUS, she was almost surprised herself at the glowing words which sprang to her lips, and the power that seemed given her to impart to others the thoughts with which her own heart was full.

There was one beside in whose heart some new ideas had risen up during his intercourse with the Leslies. Charles had brought home with him a college friend, some years older than himself, who had now for several weeks been an inmate of Eldon Hall. Edward Hamilton was one whom nobody could help loving; he was so open and affectionate, so full of energy and life, his mind seemed like a master key to open with intuitive address the secret stores of science." He had been met with a warm welcome by all the Leslies, and somehow seemed to have established himself as one of the family. Mary had seen with sisterly pride the respect and admiration with which he watched the beautiful child-like character of Helen, which was reflected in her calm pure face, which some one had called moonlight on

the water. She thought him earnest and true in his religious service. And yet there was something which made her feel a sort of anxiety in seeing him so very much with Helen, and in the mere possibility of that dear sister's happiness being involved with him. She felt rather than saw that his faith did not go so far as Helen's. She saw the perfect unworldliness, the simplicity of her father and mother, almost perplexed him, he evidently could not enter into it. There seemed ever something keeping him back, preventing his entertaining high and exalted thoughts, or with his whole heart admiring them in others. She almost fancied sometimes he struggled to be free, and the chains which were upon him held him fast; and then a cloud would pass over his lofty brow, and an impatient spirit take possession of him. And when she received a letter from some friend, incidentally hinting that Edward Hamilton was supposed to have formed a connexion with a man notorious for speculations, not strictly righteous, she felt as though a key to a mystery had been given.

It was not therefore without a feeling of great anxiety that a few half-uttered words which seemed to escape without being intended, made her aware that his mind was quite made up before he left Eldon, to ask Mr. and Mrs. Leslie's permission to seek to win the priceless treasure of their daughter's heart.

The arrival of tea disturbed the conversation, and Mary felt sure that Edward would not resume it. Her mind was so occupied with the thoughts of what she ought to do, or to wish, that it required the greatest effort not to be entirely absent from all which was passing.

The evening closed with sacred music. They had spoken of S. Ambrose, and the food of heavenly song with which he fed the fainting spirits of his flock during their imprisonment in the Church's cause, and Mary and Helen chanted" LORD now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," to "a deep Gregorian chant of plaintive under chime." Solemn thoughts passed through Mary's mind-thoughts of a long waiting, and the hope attained, of a long struggle and a perfect rest, of a long martyrdom and an eternal crown. And the voices of the sisters died away like the gentle sighing of the trees over a peaceful grave.

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"That is a mournful close for Christmas Day," said Charles. Sing something more joyful before we go. Sing my favourite, Sound the loud timbrel.' "

Mary was peculiarly susceptible to the influence of music, and the unchastened exultation of this particular composition rendered it utterly out of harmony with her present feelings. She felt strongly tempted to refuse, and half injured by her brother's want of sympathy. But the evil feeling was checked. How

could he know what was passing in her mind? Why should she not sing praise to GOD in any notes to which his heart responded? So they sang the requested piece, and parted with love in every eye, and Christmas joy in every heart.

THE SLEEP OF THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED.

SAY, shall we mourn the mighty dead,

The creatures of a day!

And weep around an earthly coil
The soul hath cast away?