self-assertion and conscious innocence, turning in instinctive appeal to her true friend.

"Then dance aye, Jess, my woman," cried the large, leal-hearted old man, triumphant in escaping from the dilemma, and in silencing Jess's accusers.

me.

Besides, my dear, I would remind you, that though you are more intellectual, and appear to have deeper convictions for your years than your mother had at your age, it does not follow that you are, therefore, the juster judge of social obligations and of human nature. There are a great many girlish notions which are not practical, which are very high-flown-absurd, I would say, if I were not afraid of your misunderstanding You do not see so clearly how to balance the steps in your path, as your mother does for you. It is very likely that she is quite right in the impression that you would become odd, conspicuous, selfconscious at the least, combative, crotchety, opinionative, stubborn, if you were not induced to comport yourself like the genus girl in all ages. And, Mary, I for one do not want to see you conceited, dogmatic, domineering, reckless; neither, I am sure, does your father, for he used to hold such characters, falsely called strong-minded women, in natural abhorrence. Rather than see you in a fair way to destroy all your influence for good, with all your kin, and to grow up a self-concentrated, suspicious,

worried and worrying woman, I would put up with a good deal of what looks like trifling. So here, Mary, merit is its own reward; by giving in to your mother docilely and good-humouredly, and with the becoming humility to accord to her common, simple standard of girlhood its general correctness, you do the best thing to preserve the sweetness and graciousness of your youth.

There, we have at last come to the end of our twilight talk, and the rooks are at roost on the poplars, and the lilies sigh, as in Maude's garden, "'tis late." Granny is awake and brisk, with her evening cricket briskness. Your aunts have seen out their visitors, and are speaking of supper and hot negus for you after your journey. And I hope I have done you good, darling. I have tried, like a skilful surgeon, to probe your wounds, to take out whatever rankles there, and pour in the balm that will heal. And, if you feel a little contrite and broken, you know it is not bad for us to feel our infirmities; it is being in the road to the bourne, where they are all conquered and laid down for ever; and there is One who does not despise a broken and a contrite heart. It seems a fit conclusion now to our words and thoughts, that we should be summoned to pray to Him for His forgiveness and His divine blessing and care, as the whole household gather together to finish the day at His feet.

CHAPTER V.

I

BROTHERS AND SISTERS.

An Aunt's Christmas Visit-A Fireside Gossip-Philip.

AM at your home of Coniston, Mary, (there are

so many Conistons in England and Scotland, that I need not mind giving your little town its right name,) and it is winter time.

"Full knee deep lies the winter's snow,

And the winter wind is wearily sighing."

It is very near the time of the year indeed, when fairly

"The old year lies a-dying."

The leaves russet

But it is not necessarily a sad time, any more than a green old age is a sad thing. and scarlet before the fall, the mellow purple and amber fruits ripe for the plucking, the golden and white shocks of corn ready for the garnering, are not sad things. On the contrary, Christmas is the gladdest time of all the year-when even sorrow borrows a wistful smile from joy, and joy is so touched by the sympathy that she twinkles away

an impulsive tear from the fulness of her heart in return, at this blessed Christmas time.

But Christmas has pitiful memories pressing somewhat over-hard on the house where we are growing old —where there comes change never more, except a sorrowful change to the survivors. The mind will travel back to old days, when Christmas was eagerly looked forward to, because it brought-surer than the bracing frost, the stinging hail, the glossy green leaves and the red-berries of the hollies, the delicate budding white laurustinus-young, hopeful, loving faces, ruddy and brown with health and strength, hurrying feet from all points of the compass, coming to complete the circle, like which there is none on earth, broken and shattered now, for ever, here. The ear will be a traitor to the present, and will listen for the sound of wheels, the rattle of the gate, the quick steps on the threshold, the joyous voices in the air, which seem to be ringing and resounding through every house in the country, except the darkened houses—and the house which sees no absent member return at Christmas, which welcomes no child, or lad, or man, no married daughter, with her hearty husband and the firstlings of her flock, in keeping with the time-out-of-mind associations of the season, which existed even before Christmas, when mid-winter was Yule, feels in its members like an alien and an outcast in the happy world of overflowing

festival homes, and either bows in meek submission to the "it is ordained," or contends with the sharp pain of "Empty arms and treasure lost;"

in vain yearning, and life-long regret, and wants all the sacred promises;

"The light that shone when Hope was born,"

to tide it over the time which sees the fearless reunion of other families-older, farther separated on earth than was this family, with no greater reason to expect long leases of life, no greater security against wasting disease and sudden death, and yet their thanksgivings are as unquestioning, as the resignation of this house is only won by tears and groans and prayers.

Ah! me, Mary, His footsteps are in the great waters, His ways are not known. His dealings with men are widely different, and there is only one answer-deep-toned and solemn, to the fond tortured question, why? why? in the simple, sublime remonstrance, "Can mortal man be more just than God?"

Of all the pathos which mingled with the humour of England's great humorist, there was nothing more pathetic (thinking of the shadow which was to fall and bar with gloom the brightness of his own hearth) than the simple Christmas verse, which the man I have chosen to be your father once loved and pointed out to me,—