thoroughly enlightened and virtuous population, who could understand and appreciate these foregoing elements of good, and by whom the doing of a private wrong, or the indulgence of any self-seeking prejudicial to the rights of any fellow citizen, would be reckoned treason to the general welfare, could not but seriously impede the efficiency of all other provisions.

By what means, then, are these essential requisites of national happiness to be secured? The world is getting old, and so numerous and unsuccessful have been the experiments tried for ameliorating the condition of nations, that many are apt to regard all schemes for any considerable improvement as absolutely Utopian. We would not discourage a single aspiration for such improvement. Let the yearnings for it, which are doubtless deeply seated in the constitution of human nature, have free play and utterance. Only let it be distinctly understood that they can never be satisfied save on a Christian foundation. All the theologies and moralities, and all other schemes of amelioration, which the world has ever tried, are inherently weak and inefficacious. Our only hope is in Christianity. It professes to do what every other system has failed to do, and its pretensions are sustained by actual results. It has already wrought a moral renovation in numberless individuals, and given a tone to public sentiment in many communities which has mollified much of the harshness and bitterness of their previous condition. And its avowed purpose is gradually to leaven all nations with its beneficent principles and influences, till they shall have attained that sense and love of rectitude and benevolence which shall originate all the virtues from which unprecedented national happiness is to grow.

True philanthropy and patriotism, therefore, will be best evinced in labouring to plant the religion of Christ in every member of every community. Themselves catching its spirit, and transformed into its likeness, and drawing a purer life from its bosom, will see and feel that it is the sole corrective of all the evils which have hitherto denied the irrepressible cravings of the human heart. The love of God, and of all righteousness and goodness for His sake, which none but the faith of Christ can rekindle in our fallen humanity, will set at rest all the baneful workings of passion and selfishness, and nourish the sentiments and prompt the acts which infallibly conduce to the repose and happiness of communities.

Let the regenerators of human society, the hopeful advocates of a better order of things than any nation has ever known, take their choice. If they decline Christianity, which alone touches the root of all human grievances, their efforts will prove abortive, and the world continue longing, discussing, wrangling, fighting, yet ever cheated of the object sighed and laboured for, and driven to an

endless succession of fresh and vain experiments. But let them embrace and propagate this Heaven-derived system, which goes down to the lowest springs of human thought, feeling, and action, aiding and cherishing whatever is right, correcting whatever is wrong, restoring men to God and binding man to man, and bringing every sympathy and aspiration into harmony with God's benignant purposes towards our race; and then we may confidently expect the opening of a brighter page in the history of all human nationalities. "Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir-tree, and instead of the briar shall come up the myrtle-tree; and it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off." W. F.

CHAPTER XLII.-NUNC DIMITTIS.

I LEARNED that the Ladies Olive and Maude were expected by the noonday train; the Marquis himself had written and given them his instructions.

"Of course he is at home?" I said.

"Yes, of course," was Mrs. Miller's reply. "He never leaves the castle, and he has been much of late in my lady's room. I think he is softened, Mr. Hugh; he told me himself to send that telegram to you."

I was glad to feel that I was there with his sanction, that I was at least a tolerated guest in my mother's stately mansion; but I should have come at her bidding had I had to steal or force my way into her presence. Through the long, thickly-carpeted corridors I followed the housekeeper, and my heart beat more and more quickly as I drew near the rooms where I had spent so many happy hours. I was taken into the dressing-room, which looked just as it used to do in the old time, and there Mrs. Miller bade me wait. In a few minutes she beckoned me forwards, and I was in my mother's chamber and at her bedside.

I was scarcely prepared for the great change which I beheld. She was still beautiful, but the lovely features were worn to attenuation, and for the first time I understood what the old hymn calls a "mortal paleness," for anything whiter than the thin hand and the delicate cheek on the pillow I could not imagine. Death had set his seal on that exquisite face,-there was no mistaking his awful signet, and yet something else had tenderly touched the sweet

lineaments, and given them an impress such as they only bear, whose vision is opening on the glorious world beyond. And yet it was scarcely joy that shone on the dear faded brow; it was rather peace-perfect peace-the peace that passeth all understanding.

It was all I could say as I bent down to kiss her. I took her little hand, and the frail fingers tried to clasp themselves in mine, and she whispered, "My boy, my own boy, you are come. Thank God; oh! God is good even to the last." Then, turning to a kindlylooking woman who sat on the other side of the bed, she said, faintly, "Leave us, nurse, please; I want to be alone with my son; go and take a walk in the corridors."

When we were left alone she did not for some few minutes speak she lay back on her pillows with both her hands locked in mine, and she gazed at me in a sort of quiet rapture.

"It is enough; it is enough," she said, presently. "All I wished for is accomplished. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace."

"Mother dear, why did not you summon me before?"

;

"I did not think the end was so near, darling; I knew deathwhat they call death-was coming fast, but I did not know how close it was. Oh, my boy, I have hungered and thirsted for you; I have yearned to see your face, to hear your voice, ever since you went away. And now you come back to me so grand and beautiful in your manhood. Hugh, my dear, you are just what your father was when he and I first met in Hawesdale, only-forgive me, dear -you are not quite so handsome. There could never be another man so like the angels of God, not even his own son. Ah, what a weary while it is since he sailed away from me. How many years, Hugh? How old are you?"

"I am nearly twenty-three, mother."

"Then it is almost twenty-three years since I lay in his arms for the last time, and felt his kisses and his tears, and heard his dear voice bidding me farewell. It is a long, long time, Hugh, to be away from what one loves more than one's own life! And yet now it does not seem so very long-it seems as if it were but last autumn that he went away; and my youth comes back to me, and I feel as if I were Hugh's happy girl-wife once more. I suppose it is because I am going to him. Oh, my husband, my husband!"

And I knew that it was of my own father she spoke, not of the Marquis, who had called her wife so long. She could not talk for many minutes together, for there was an oppression on her breath and she had to wait between every few sentences to gather fresh strength. She told me that she had long ago arranged all such matters as pertained only to her and to me. She gave me the key

of the desk which contained my father's portrait, and other mementoes of him, and another key, which she said belonged to a small tin case, which Olive had in keeping for me. It held some important papers relating to my own settlement; also, the letters which had passed between herself and the Marquis previous to their marriage. "And as far as you can, dear," she said in conclusion, "maintain your relations with Maude and Felixstowe."

"Is not Lord Felixstowe here?"

"Yes; he came home several days ago. He is a dear, good boy. Never forget that he is your brother, Hugh. However wide may seem to be the gulf that separates you two, remember always that one mother bore you both. When will Maude and Olive be here?" Soon, I hope. Mrs. Miller said they were coming by the noonday train."

"That is well. Now I have you, Hugh, I want to see my other children. Till I saw your face I could only think of you; now I want my little Maudie, and dear Olive. She has been a good daughter to me for the last six or seven years. She is very fond of you, Hugh."

"She is very kind to me."

"She thinks there is no one like you. She has always stood your friend, and fought your battles, for she is the only person who is not afraid of the Marquis, and dares to speak out to him. She will be so sorry that she has been away from me for the last few days. She was unwilling to leave me; but she had no idea that I should so soon leave her-poor Olive!"

Then I asked her about the money-was it her will that I should still continue to receive it? She replied, "Hugh, my dear, do just what you think best; what you think right—you are wiser than I am. I never was very wise, my dear, and I will not hamper you with any sort of request which, after I was gone, you might esteem as sacred; so do as you like. I know you will do nothing rashly. You are not a boy now; you are quite a man. I see that in your looks and ways, as well as in all this dark beard, and these bushy whiskers that I never saw before. Remember, darling, I leave no dying commands-no dying wishes even-except that the bond between you and Olive, and Maude, and your brother, may never be entirely broken. I need not ask you always to think tenderly of me-erring though I was-and most reverently of your noble father."

Nay, mother; if you erred, you made yourself the sacrifice. The price paid for the error, if, indeed, it were one, was all yours." Not exactly, Hugh. I did wrong, though, God knows, not wilfully. My dear, you cannot imagine how clearly one sees things when one's eyes are about to close for ever on all that earth con

tains. Yes! clear vision is given to the dying, and I see now all my mistake, all the wrong I did to you, and to another-the Marquis. I wronged him greatly, for I married him, knowing that my heart was buried in the deep sea, that I had not one jot of wifely love to give to him who became my husband. I tried to do my duty, to obey, to be cheerful, to take my place as a woman of rank and position. I tried not to disgrace the high-born family to which I now belonged; but I never loved the Marquis-never! I love him more now than I thought I possibly could, for he has been very kind; he has even spoken kindly of you. And as regards you, I feel that I behaved very ill to him."

"Dear mother, surely you had a right to the presence, the occasional presence, of your own child, your first-born son ? "

“No, Hugh, that was my greatest mistake. I had not any right to the lawful pleasures of a mother. Having once consented to the unnatural compact, having once accepted the terms of barter, I ought to have had strength to complete the sacrifice. For your sake, I ought to have been stronger; I never ought to have brought you to Dovercourt. My life during those eight years, when we continually met, was one tissue of deceit. And I broke my solemn vow, not to the letter, perhaps. I did not in so many words tell you that I was your mother, but I let you know it. And my heart sang for joy when I found that you really gave me the love and obedience of a son. I knew all the time that you were in a false position; I knew that to some extent I did you injury.. The very need of your suppressing your father's name told me how wrong it all was; and I felt the blow was coming long before t fell. It was very bitter to have you driven away, and to be forbidden to hold any intercourse with you; but it was a relief to think that things were straight at last! that there was nothing to be found out! Yes, Hugh, I did wrong in giving you up; I ought to have trusted my Heavenly Father to provide for my orphan child. I did wrong in giving my hand where I could not give my heart. It was wrong to practise concealment and virtual fraud for all those years. And now it is all over! I wanted to say this to you, my dear, and I am thankful that I have had strength to say it. Now we have done with the past. It is fading from me. God has been so good to me-His poor, weak, foolish child. He has taught me and comforted me, and now He is holding my hand and guiding me along the dark valley. I need not be afraid; I hold my Father's hand; I hear His voice. If there comes over me a sudden dread and a cold shrinking, it is but for a moment, the next instant I hear Him gently say, 'Fear not, I am with thee!' And so I cling the closer, and all is well."

By the noontide train the ladies arrived; but, before that, I had