high, and taking a fish-basket—which she carried on her back by means of a leathern strap passing in front of her shoulders-she opened the door quietly, and looked out. It was scarcely light yet, and all was still, save for the moaning of the wind in the trees at the back of the house, and the dashing of the waves upon the shore. Ivy shivered a little, for it was very cold, and wished herself safe back, for it was no pleasant journey over the windy hill in such an uncertain light, and down the cliff-side to Portstress. However, there was no help for it; she had promised both Ned and herself that they should have a big fire, and she was not the one to turn faint-hearted because the morning was dark and cold.

Locking the door behind her, she passed swiftly along the garden-path, and began to climb the hill, and gaining warmth with exercise she laughed at the whistling wind when she reached the top of the hill, and went bounding on like a young Amazon, and down the steep cliff-path without a fear of falling.

Early as she was, Uncle Jeff was there before her.

"What, Ivy," he shouted, when he saw her come bounding along the beach towards him; "right you are, my girl, an' it's the early bird as catch the worm, an' there's drift enough for both on us an' plenty to spare, an' as I've just been asayin' to mysel' the best Yule log in the world is heart o' oak-ha, ha!—and here's a big slice from somebody's keel as 'll burn like chips, and plenty of smaller bits to tuck 'un in with to keep 'un warm-ha, ha!" And Uncle Jeff paused in his speech, for he was quite out of breath; and Ivy, taking advantage of the break, said—

"But these chips are wet, Uncle Jeff; there'll be some dryer ones, I'm thinking, up among the rocks and round the cliff; suppose we have a search."

"Right you are, my girl," and away they started to the other side of the beach, where the cliffs were high, and the rocks rugged and peaked. Here, as Ivy had anticipated, they found many a stranded chip, some of them dry enough and resinous to boot.

"Just the thing," said Uncle Jeff; "these will kindle your log and help to cook your goose, my girl-ha, ha; but, by the bye, we're close to Smugglers' Cave; it can be got at only at low water, except by a boat, an' strange to say, I don't believe there's half a dozen men in Northhaven that have ever been in it. This way, my girl; la, massy, it's the snuggest crib I ever see. You see yon hole up there in the cliff? well that's the entrance at high water; this is the way at low water, of course, but folks think that when they've got in here that this is the only cave there is-ha, ha. You see yon narrow gap there? well, follow me, don't be afraid, it's only dark for a yard or two. Now, right we are; here's a stairs that might ha been built by a mason: up we go. Now then, Ivy, what d'ye think of this? Reg'lar little parlour, ain't it? Dry as tinder, and snug as a cabin. Just one winder in it, and a grand sea view, and hang me if here aint their old shutter, and not much the wuss. In yon corner they used to light their fire, and the smoke got away be tween the rocks somehow. Grand cave for smugglers this, an' they had grand times of it too, by all accounts."

And once more Uncle Jeff paused to take breath, and Ivy, who had been waiting ever since he started for an opportunity to speak, said, "It is a snug little place; but it's quite time I was off home, or Ned will wonder what has become of me."

Right you are, my girl," said Jeff; "now mind your neck," and a few minutes later he was helping Ivy up the cliff path with her Christmas log.

When she got home she found that Ned was still asleep, so she started for a second "helpin'," as Uncle Jeff termed it, and though she found a good many others on the beach by this time, there was enough for all, and Ivy's second journey was as successful as the first.

After dinner she had a stiff bit of work in sawing her Yule log in half, but she

succeeded at length, with a good deal of perseverance, and laughingly remarked to Ned, who had been watching her with critical eye, "that if the log warmed them as well after it got on to the fire as it had warmed her in bringing it home and saw. ing it in half, it would be the best Yule log they had ever had."

Ned, who had been eager for the blaze ever since he got up, was delighted, just as the afternoon began to wane, to see Ivy put the first instalment of the log on the fire and carefully set it round with smaller chips, and when at length it began to crackle, and the curling flames went roaring up the chimney, he clapped his hands in genuine glee, and shouted as loud as he was able

"Ain't this jolly, Ivy? ain't it fine?"

Ivy was delighted to see her little invalid in such excellent spirits, and forgot any heartaches of her own in the genuine enjoyment of the child.

At length the kettle was swung above the blaze, and a white cloth spread on the table, and the bun-loaf exposed to view, and Ned began to smack his lips in anticipation, when a loud rat-tat-tat at the door startled him and Ivy.

"I wonder who it can be," said Ivy, starting up.

She had not long, however, to wait for an answer, for her visitor, impatient of the load he carried, and anxious to lay it down, lifted the door-latch himself, and stumbled into the room, letting down a big box on the floor with a jerk.

'There," he said, straightening his back, and wiping his hot forehead with his hand, "thank goodness I've got here at last.'

"I think you have made a mistake, Billy," said Ivy, looking rather bewildered, "that box cannot be for me."

"Oh no," said the grocer's lad, "it's right enough."

"It can't be," said Ivy, "for I've not ordered a single thing."

"Don't care who ordered it," was the reply; "I was told to bring it here, and that's enough for me."

"Are you quite sure you were told to bring it here?"

"I wish I was as sure of my Christmas dinner," grinned the lad; and was gone. “Well,” said Ivy, beginning to examine the contents of the box, "this is strange; " then after a long pause, "Well, if I ever! Only think, Ned, here is sugar, tea, currants, raisins, rice, candles-real wax ones-marmalade, and oh, I don't know what else."

"Oh my," said Ned, clapping his hands, "that is fine."

Ivy had scarcely put all her treasures out of sight when there was another rattat-tat at the door, and this time Judy-Captain Jack's housekeeper-entered with a basket on her arm.

"Good evening, Mrs. Judy," said Ivy, "I am very glad to see you; take this chair by the fire."

"I can't stay, thank you," said Judy, "but my John thinks nobody makes plumpuddings like I do, and he said I must bring up one for you to taste, and that while I was about it I'd better bring you just a taste of beef as well."

Ivy's heart was so full that she could scarcely speak, but she tried her best to express her thanks, and then showed Judy the other good things that had been sent her. "I didn't know I had such kind friends," she said; "I'm sure the Lord must have put it into their hearts; but I wish they knew how thankful I feel." When Judy had taken her departure Ivy sat for some time in silence, and would doubtless have remained so much longer, had not Ned, who was getting very impatient, ventured to remark

"Come, Ivy, ain't we going to have our cake and cocoa ?"

66

Ivy's darling," she said, springing to her feet, "I had forgotten all about it.” "But I hadn't," said Ned, sententiously.

U

“I'm glad my little invalid has such an appetite," she said, stroking his hair ondly, "but it will soon be ready now."

Ivy could not eat very much herself, but Ned, who had been saving himself for the feast, was quite equal to the occasion, and did ample justice to the fare, much to Ivy's delight. He acknowledged himself defeated at length, however, and for the rest of the evening sat in Ivy's lap watching the glowing fire.

Now and then, when the log crackled and the flames roared up the chimney, he would clap his hands and exclaim, “Aín't it fine ?" But he grew tired at length, and before Ivy was aware, he was fast asleep in her arms.

The next day was one Ivy never forgot. Of all the Christmas-days of her life that one stood out separate and distinct. Not that anything happened that day; on the contrary, it was as uneventful as any day of her life, and yet it seemed to mark off an epoch in her history. In after years she always, in imagination, drew a line at that day, as separating the old life from the new. It seemed to her as if she had lived two lives, one of which ended at that day, the other began.

To Ned the great feature of the day was the plum-pudding. That the child appreciated Christmas cheer there could be no doubt. Ivy was afraid that he would make himself ill, and told him so; but Ned was quite willing to risk it, and much to Ivy's surprise, he never seemed better than on the following day.

I have said before that the day was an uneventful one. From morn till night the snow came down in blinding drifts, and the wind howled dismally in the leafless trees behind the house, and drifted the snow in heaps against the door and in the garden-path. Few people in Northhaven ventured out of their houses that day, and for years after it was spoken of as the "White Christmas," but it was not that fact that marked it off in Ivy's memory from every other Christmas-day; but it was rather the fact that it was the last Christmas she spent at the cottage. The only home she had ever known was soon to be hers no longer. Before Christmas came round again many things had happened-things strange and painful. What they were shall be told in their proper place in the story of Ivy's life.

So Ivy spent her last Christmas at the cottage with little Ned; and when at length he fell asleep, she sat alone, listening to the mournful music of the waves and to the wild wailing of the storm. Rocking herself idly in her chair, she little recked of what was coming, or dreamed of where next Christmas would find her or little Ned. But God knows best; and He in mercy hides the future from our gaze. And we His children, blindly straying in the dark, can only trust and wait. (To be continued.)

MEMOIR.

MR. WILLIAM WALE JACQUES.

On Friday afternoon, January 14th last, in the picturesque little cemetery of

Mount Sorrell, in Leicestershire, the writer stood among a band of mourners beside the open grave of the subject of this sketch. The snow lay deep upon the quiet resting-places of the beloved ones of his nearest kindred buried here long years ago. A thick, biting mist filled the keen air, and shut out the prospect of the neighbouring woods and of the far stretching meadows; but, near by, the tall surrounding trees were clad in their richest fairy-like beauty of snow and icecrystals, looking as though in full, white leaf, a sight such as only once in a long time is presented. A large number of friends and of the towns-people had accompanied the mourners to the cemetery, and calling to mind the upright, consistent life, and triumphant death, of the young man whose remains were now committed to the dust, each heart responded to the words of the Divine Saviour which were

now read, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord." Of this life and death it has fallen to my lot to furnish a short record.

"Willie" Jacques, for so he was always called, was born on the 3rd of November, in the year 1860, being the eldest son in a family of ten children. His home was a pleasant one in every respect, and had been the honoured dwelling place of successive generations of pious Methodists. His father, Mr. William Jacques, is an eminent local preacher of the Loughborough circuit and a leading member of the society at Mount Sorrell; and, from a child, Willie was trained by his parents in the ways of truth and godliness. The Holy Spirit strove powerfully with him during his early youth, and the writer remembers one Sunday, several years ago, when after an evening service, Willie came forward to the penitent form as a seeker of Salvation, although it is not clear that at that time he obtained a sense of peace with God. In the month of August 1874, a deep impression was made upon his mind by the death of a younger brother, "Georgie," who at the age of ten years was called home to heaven. Before he died he had given evidence that he was a lamb of the Saviour's fold, and on one occasion near the end of his illness, he had exclaimed joyfully, "Oh, ma!-Angels!" and they are saying, "Glory to God in the highest." We must look upon Willie's conversion to God and union with the Church, however, aş taking place in the nineteenth year of his age, and as one of blessed results of a series of special religious services, which were conducted in the chapel at Mount Sorrell. From this time to his death, two years afterwards, he took an active part in every good work connected with the society. As a Sundayschool teacher his efficiency was increased, while at the class-meeting, Sundayevening and cottage prayer-meetings, his presence and help were much valued. He was an officer in the Good Templar Lodge, and a most zealous advocate of total abstinence in Mount Sorrell, and in the adjacent villages, which, as his father's valuable assistant in an extensive bread-baking business, he frequently visited. He was never ashamed of his colours, either as a Christian or as a teetotaller, and as he called from house to house delivering the bread, he held many an argument with the cottagers on his favourite themes, and as the months rolled by grew in the esteem of all who knew him.

But his life and work soon came to a close. On Wednesday, December 29th, a day on which the winter rain poured down incessantly from morning till night, and to which he was a good deal exposed, he took a severe chill, which was afterwards increased, and though, when inflammation of the lungs set in, every effort that medical skill and a mother's nursing could devise was tried, it soon became evident that the end of his earthly life was at hand. On Sunday, January 9th, he was suddenly found to be sinking, and he expressed a wish to see his most intimate friends, as well as the members of the family. The Missionary Services were being held at the chapel, and at his request some of the family had gone thither, carrying his own contribution to the collection. As they gathered one by one in his room he spoke a few words of farewell to each. To his mother as he threw his arms around her neck, he said, "Oh mamma, don't cry, they ought to be tears of joy, you have been a good mother to me," and he kissed her fondly and smiled. To his aunt Rebecca, who had come in from the chapel, he said, "Good bye, auntie, I'm going to Heaven, you'll meet me there, it'll not be long." She asked, “Do you feel that the Lord is your light and salvation?" and to this he answered joyfully in the affirmative. To another aunt he said, "Kiss me auntie, I want to say good bye," and when she inquired of him if Jesus was precious, he replied, "Yes, precious." To another friend, with whom he had a few days before been conversing on the death-beds of infidels, and who now entered the room, he said with the light of triumph on his face, "This is no infidel's death you have come to see,

Mr. Hunt," adding," Come and kiss me, I'm going home!" The room seemed filled with an unearthly joy, and was as the gate of heaven to those present. Once, raising his arms, he exclaimed joyfully, "I see Georgie, and myriads of bright spirits awaiting me;" adding, "If this is death, it is glorious to die." One of the family asked him, "Do you see Jesus, Willie ?" to which he replied, "No, not yet, but I shall see Him, He will appear to me, I have no doubt." To another friend he said, "Ma wants me to tell you that the fear of death is taken away; I have no fear." Afterwards, his face full of brightness, he sprang forward with outstretched arms, exclaiming, as in welcome to his approaching Lord, "Come! Jesus ;" and to those about him, "He's coming." One or two unconverted persons who were the privileged witnesses of this glorious death-scene went away utterly broken down, and said they had never beheld anything of the kind before.

It was not until the evening of the next day, Monday, January 10th, that the spirit took its flight. As one of his sisters moistened his dry lips, he said, “No more, thank you Sarah, I want to make haste home." His last smile was given to his father as he said feebly, "That is for ever and ever." He died with one hand in his sister's, and the other in that of the Christian maiden to whom he was betrothed. When the spirit had fled, and the eyes were closed in death, this friend gently laid down the lifeless hand, and said with that solid joyful hope which Christianity alone can give, "I shall see him again," which words suggested the following lines :

"I SHALL SEE HIM AGAIN."

Not where the snow lies deep,

O'er the silent and peaceful dead,

And the chilling mists through the woodlands sweep,

And the sun hangs low and red;

Not where the cheeks grow pale,

And the body is racked with pain;

And the tears flow fast from the mourner's eye,

Not there shall I see him again.

Not where the roses fade,

And the leaves in sadness fall;

And the wintry trees look cold and bare,

And the birds are silent all;

Not in the land of storms,

Of darkness and pattering rain;

Where the flood rushes on with its whirl and its foam,

Not there shall I see him again.

Not in the house of prayer,

Where the righteous in harmony meet;
And the sighs of the holy like incense rise,

Around the mercy-seat;

Where the songs of the saints ascend

In exalted and rapturous strain,

And the penitent's tears into gladness are turned,

Not there shall I see him again.

But high in the home of the blest,

In the land that no mortal hath trod,

Where the ransomed with brightness and glory are dressed,
And stand in the presence of God;

Where the songs of the perfect arise,

As they worship the Lamb that was slain;

And all tears have been chased by His smile from their eyes,
THERE! АH THERE! I SHALL SEE HIM AGAIN.

R. BRLWIN.