Then came the two weary hours with Mrs. Carrock, devoted to repeating pages of "Mangnall's Questions," and reading aloud "Hume's History of England," "Contes à ma Fille," &c., such being the school books and system of education which were in vogue in Mrs. Carrock's youth, and she would have considered it treason had any one hinted to her that they were surpassed by those of the present day. Helen did venture to say something of the kind, but was immediately silenced by a severe look from her grandmother, accompanied by the following rebuke, "I must be allowed to judge in such matters, child. The system of education on which I was educated was a good, solid one, worth all the trumpery accomplishments and poetical trash of the present time,—you have far too much romantic nonsense in your head already. Pray let me hear no more on the subject." Helen coloured with vexation, but did not venture any further remonstrance. And so the studies continued, and terribly dry and tiresome she found them. But they were as nothing compared to the worry of the calisthenic hour. No rest was to be had, for no sooner did Helen relax for a moment the straining exercises and weary pacing of the garden walks with a book on her aching head, than a stern voice from the library window exclaimed, "Go on, child, what are you wasting your time about now?"

Helen felt many times on the point of rebelling, but awe withheld her, and besides what good would it have done? However "'tis a long lane that has no turning," and this weary hour came to an end like everything else. One o'clock struck, and with it came the dinner, and release for Helen. Ronald was not to return till four o'clock, so after dinner our heroine went into the drawing-room, and practised for an hour on the old spinnet, which, though very jingling and oldfashioned, was all that Burnstones possessed in the way of a piano, Mrs. Carrock being no musician. The hour passed quickly enough, for Helen loved music, and played very fairly, though she had had but little instruction. She was just finishing the beautiful old Scotch air, "Lizzy Lindsay," when the cuckoo-clock chiming three, announced that she was free at length to do what she pleased with herself.

What this was to be, had long since been settled in her own mind. So, springing up stairs, she seized her hat and shawl, and ran merrily out of the house, carolling in her clear ringing voice,

"Will ye gang to the hielands, Lizzie Lindsay ?"

Up the sparkling Carrock Cleugh, went the springing footsteps of the

light-hearted girl, following its rapid course through the glen, and up among the dark fells of the Giant's Wall. Now bounding from stone to stone, now wading with bare feet through the pools, while the clear brown water flowed wimpling past, flashing in the sunlight, and eddying and foaming about her ankles, seeming to murmur laughingly in low silver tones at the unaccustomed interruption to its downward course. Oh, how happy Helen felt! Her spirits rose every moment, all the more because of the restraint which had been placed on them during the long weary morning. She felt so irrepressibly joyous and free, all alone for the first time among the beautiful fells.

The stream became more and more wildly lovely as she tracked it to its source. Now it dashed over a high limestone rock, with a roar like muffled thunder; now glinted like silver among the green spears of the flowering reeds; anon foamed and glided round a huge stone, all green and gold with moss and lichen, to slide babbling and glancing like liquid crystal over the white pebbles, which looked like amber jewels under the transparent flood. At length Helen stood, panting and breathless, on the hill top. It was one of the highest in the northern range, and commanded a magnificent view of the surrounding country. Carrockcleugh glen lay immediately below, all bathed in golden sunlight, with the stream running through it like a silver thread. The soft, dark shadow of a mass of floating clouds rested on the old castle and its surrounding woods, like the dark cloud which still brooded over the fortunes of its owners; while far away to the west the sunbeams descended on hazy ladders to the shimmering sea. Around were the swelling tops of many hills, covered with a purple ocean of heather-bloom, varying in tint from glowing crimson to pale lilac, with the ever-changing lights and shades, as the beautiful dusky shadows of the clouds swept slowly over the mountain sides. A profound stillness brooded over the wild landscape, broken only by its own peculiar music-the dash of the waterfall, the sough of the warm wind among the bent, and the plaintive cry of the plovers, as they rose and fell on their long winnowing wings, never settling, ever restless.

On the spot where Helen stood was an ancient cairn, surmounted by a rude stone cross, and bearing a roughly carved, half-effaced inscription, and at its foot was a huge fragment of rock in the form of a chair, of which Helen's mother had often told her, for it was here that she and her sailor lover had plighted their troth to each other.

On it also Helen saw that some words had been carved, and looking closely at them, she made out the names,- "WILFRED CARROCK" and "HELEN SCOTT," intwined with a true-lovers' knot. The bitter sorrow for her recent loss again came over Helen as she read these words; but this was no place for grief, it seemed to her that the hush She felt so near heaven on

of GOD's presence pervaded the very air. the tops of His everlasting hills, and as the wind blew freshly in her face, and the great wondrous shadows came sweeping over her, she kneeled down and repeated,

"O LORD, defend me under Thy wings, keep me safe under Thy feathers, and grant that Thy faithfulness and truth may be my shield and buckler."

It seemed to her that those mighty passing glooms must be the shadow of His wings spread out over her, and that GOD was in this place more than any other.

Before leaving this spot, she spelt out the inscription on the ancient cairn, which had evidently been renewed since the long past time when the stones were first piled there, for though the spelling was antiquated, yet it was not in that old language which was spoken when the first of the Carrocks found his glorious grave on the lonely fell. It ran as follows:

As Helen finished reading this inscription, she heard a rushing sound behind her, and before she had time to turn round, a huge paw was on her shoulder, and a cold nose thrust into her hand, announcing the presence of Wolf, who seemed perfectly beside himself at having found her, and manifested his delight by racing about like a mad thing, and leaping upon Helen in such a rough fashion as almost to knock her down.

The sun was already getting low, so the girl and dog set off together

on their way down the stream, and presently encountered Ronald, who greeted his sister with a loud

'Hullo, Nell, found at last! I shouldn't have known where to look for you if it hadn't been for Wolf,—he scented you up here, with some trouble however, thanks to your wading propensities. But I say, sis, I haven't had such a bad day of it after all. Old Randall's a jolly old chap enough when one gets to the right side of him. He said that father and I were as like as two peas, and hoped he should have the honour of caning Post-Captain Carrock No. 2 as he had done the first of that name. I couldn't think what he meant at first, but when the other fellows began to laugh, I looked at old Randall's face, and could tell by the twinkle in his eye that he was only joking, and so I said I hoped he'd spare me the cane, as I intended to be nothing less than Admiral Carrock, and it would never do to beat an Admiral. But he can be strict enough for all that, for when he caught one of the fellows using a crib, didn't he lay on! My word, Helen, I wouldn't have been that chap for no end of tin. But I say, I must shut up now, or her majesty'll be reprimanding me for 'making a noise in my house.'

"THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS WITHIN YOU."

THE angels sang on Christmas morn,

The Holy Babe of Mary born,
They bid the years of trouble cease,
And heralded the Prince of Peace.

Yet still the toil and woe of life
Rolled on its course of daily strife,
The sounds of discord rose around,
But in that manger peace was found.

And every Christmas morn since then
The Church has sung "goodwill to men,"
And bending at that lowly shrine
Adored the LORD of Peace divine.

Yet earth still groans with toil and pain,
Around us war and discord reign,
The cries of strife so harsh and strong
Have drowned the blessed Angels' song.

The strifes that tear this weary earth,
Within each sinful heart have birth,
Vain are all dreams of outward rest

Till CHRIST be shrined within the breast.

The Babe of Bethlehem must come
And make in us His lowly home,
Till CHRIST shall end the reign of sin
Our Christmas peace must be within.

W.

MADAME DE KRUDENER.

THE sympathy of the higher classes in France with Russia at the present crisis has been often commented on with surprise, as the two countries have been enemies many times during the last seventy years, yet it is easily to be accounted for, not only by the hope of some future aid from the Czar, but by the fact that in this century several Russian ladies of noble birth have had a preponderating influence in the religious world of Paris, and have brought with them a strong patriotism, which has not diminished by a lengthened absence from their native land. In Russia every Roman priest is bound by oath not to receive any member of the Established Church into his communion, consequently all converts have to go abroad for that ceremony to be performed. Yet the Russo-Greek Church permits her children to attend Roman Catholic services in Roman Catholic countries and Anglican services in England, and the very slight differences in ritual of the Roman and Greek Churches, places little more than a political barrier between them, so that a Roman Catholic writer, though speaking bitterly of Anglicanism, has lately described a Russian or Greek converted to Romanism as merely similar to a princess who was married into another country, returning to her father's house. In consequence there is no conventual establishment of any note in France which does not contain Russians, and several subjects of the Czar are in holy orders in the Gallican Church. Three Russians, the Princess Galitzin, Madame de Krudener, and Madame de Swetchine were at different periods the leaders of what may be termed a religious movement in the fashionable world in France; the second was perhaps the most celebrated, and is the subject of our present sketch, but the work of the last was the most enduring, and has left its trace to the present day.