received no impression from surrounding objects. She was too busy with her own thoughts to notice the deepening twilight, or the heavy clouds that were scudding across the sky before a keen east wind. She was thinking of her father just then, lying in the cold embrace of that great, grey sea, that stretched away beyond the deepening shadows, and moaned and raved for evermore.

Somehow a visit from Captain Jack always set her thinking about her father. The two had been associated with each other from her earliest recollections almost. They had been together to the very last; Captain Jack had listened to the last song her father had ever sung on earth. He had brought to her the tidings that her father was no more, and ever since he had proved himself the truest friend she had on earth. It was an easy transition, therefore, from Jack to her father, and she scarcely ever thought of one without thinking of the other.

She had watched Jack stride along the garden-path and disappear behind the quick-set hedge, and felt somehow as if her best friend was leaving her when she needed him most. Ivy was not superstitious or even fanciful, and yet she could not help wishing that he was not going away. Two or three months seemed a long time, and who could tell what would happen in the interval; and if anything should happen, there was no one to whom she could turn for help when he was gone.

Then a low moaning came up from the sea and smote upon her ear. It seemed almost to smite her heart, for she placed her hand to her side, and heaved a deep sigh.

It was the thought of her father lying in that great cold sea that touched her so. It seemed almost cruel of the waves to moan so, and rave and roll. Why could they not let her father lie still and sleep in peace?

She put aside the thought, at length, as foolish and childish, and, with a sigh, turned into the house, and closed the door behind her. Then she counted over the money again that Jack had brought; this done, she put it in a corner of one of the dresser drawers, and carefully locked it. Not that she had any fear of thieves; in fact, Ivy could scarcely help smiling at herself as she locked the drawer; it seemed almost absurd to suppose that thieves would attempt to break into her house.

"They will go where they are likely to get something," she said to herself, “and they would never expect to get anything here."

Nevertheless, Ivy could not help feeling a little nervous; five pounds seemed such a lot of money to have in the house, and those yellow sovereigns represented so much to her. They meant home and shelter; they meant the companionship of her little brother; they meant a continuance of the old life for six months longer at least; they almost meant life itself; for if she should be turned adrift from the old house and separated from Ned, all the sweets of life would be gone, and death itself would be welcome, and the grave a refuge.

“I shall be glad when Mr. Swift has been and taken away the rent," she said to herself. "I'm sure I shall feel easier in my mind when I'm out of his power for a little longer."

Then she busied herself about the household duties, but somehow the uneasy feeling did not pass away as the evening lengthened, and when at length she retired to rest, she lay tossing for a long time before she could sleep.

Slumber, however, came at last, but it was neither sweet nor balmy, nor was it of long duration; for she had not been asleep an hour when she started up with a frightened look, and sat up in bed and listened; but save for the beating of the waves on the shore, and the sighing of the wind around the cottage, no sound disturbed the solemn night.

A A

"What a baby I am," she said to herself. "I declare I am growing quite nervous," and she lay down again. But in a few seconds she started up once more. "It's no fancy this time," she said, turning pale. "I am sure I heard a noise in the kitchen. I wonder what it can be;" and she strained her ears to listen. "There it is again," she almost gasped, as a sound something like the sliding of a drawer fell upon her ears. Then all was silent again.

"I daresay it's the cat," she said, smiling to herself. "I've seen it prowling about all the evening, and so I've locked it in, I expect, and now it's trying to get out;" saying which, she got out of bed, and, throwing a shawl over her shoulders, stole noiselessly downstairs.

The stairs were a winding contrivance in a corner by the chimney, with a door at the bottom. No sooner had Ivy pushed open this door than she stood still in utter astonishment and terror.

Kneeling before the open drawer, which she was so careful to lock, and with the light of a small spirit-lamp falling full upon him, was the figure of a man, busily engaged in picking up the coins of gold and silver that were scattered all over the bottom of the drawer.

He evidently had not heard Ivy's footfall on the stairs, for he did not turn his head, and Ivy had full opportunity of looking at him unobserved.

One glance was sufficient to reveal to her a young man, in very ragged attire, with hair long and unkempt, and general appearance untidy, forlorn, and broken down. A second glance revealed a fact more painful still, a fact that dashed all the blood from her cheek, and for several seconds paralysed every energy. It was that the intruder was her brother Fred. Yes, there could be no mistake about it, the light fell full upon his face. Changed it might be, unwashed, deeply lined, haggard, brutalised, yet it was the face of her brother; and unable to speak or move, she stood, with horror-stricken face, gazing at him, as he deliberately gathered up the money that was her all, almost her life.

Fred Stewart had no intention, when he slunk within sight of Northhaven the night before, of robbing his sister. In fact, he never supposed for a moment that she would possess anything to rob, even if he should be tempted in that direction. Why he had come to Northhaven at all was a question that he could not have answered satisfactorily, even to himself. He seemed to have been drawn thither by some invisible power which he could not resist.

During the months that he had been away life had gone hard with him. Too proud to work, though not too proud to beg, he had sunk lower and lower, until he had reached a state of utter destitution and want. One by one the articles of dress he could best spare had gone to the pawn-shop, and when winter came he had not sufficient clothes to keep him warm. He soon grew tired of London; weary with tramping its endless streets, sick of its ceaseless roar, lonely amid its surging crowds, and wanting bread in sight of the most wasteful luxury, he began to pine for the green fields and surging sea of his early home.

His dream of wealth had vanished like the morning mist. London was not what he had expected it. There were no golden streets, no friendly hands stretched out to him as soon as he arrived; he evidently was not expected, for his advent made no impression upon London life. No one took the least notice of him, except a few street arabs and pickpockets; and in less than an hour after his arrival he felt more utterly alone than he had ever felt before. For the first time, too, he realised how exceedingly small he was. Up to that time he had considered himself a person of very great importance; but in the heart of London, a unit among millions, he felt that he was nobody.

This to most people would have been a very useful lesson, but Fred did not seem

to profit by it. "If he were nobody in London, he might be somebody somewhere else;" such was his thought. And so he turned away disgusted from the great city, where he had expected to make his fortune-or more correctly, where he expected that fortune would make him—and sought the country once more. And in the villages and hamlets through which he passed he found people much more disposed to listen to the very pitiful story he had invented than in the great city he had left behind.

In this way he managed to pick up a living; precarious, it is true, and often scanty, but while he could get bread and beer he was not the one to trouble himself about seeking employment. With Fred Stewart it was almost anything sooner than work.

True, up to the time of his returning to Northhaven he had never stooped to theft, nor had he thought of doing so, and yet the lying and deceitful way in which he got his bread was scarcely less dishonest; but Fred's moral perceptions were too dull to see that getting money by false pretences, and actual theft, amounted to about the same thing in the end.

And so he tramped from town to town, and village to village, and yet all the while kept drawing nearer and nearer to his early home. More than once he had been within a few miles of it, but fearing lest he should be recognised, he had turned back again. Yet the longing to see his home once more was great, almost overpowering sometimes. But how could he see it? He was proud, after a fashion, still, and to show himself to the people of Northhaven as an outcast and a beggar was more than he could submit to. He had gone away to make his fortune, could he then let his early acquaintances see that he had miserably failed? No, no, his pride would not let him do that. If he went there at all he must go after nightfall, or in such a disguise that no one would recognise him.

But one day as he was passing a furniture broker's shop he saw himself reflected in a large mirror that was exposed for sale outside the shop-door. It was only a passing glimpse of himself he caught at first, and so he turned back to have another look.

"Can it be possible?" he said to himself." 'Why, even mother would not recognise me if she were living."

And certainly it is questionable whether she would have done so just at that moment, had she been living. His cloth cap was pulled low over his forehead, the broken peak shading one of his eyes; his hair hanging low in his neck and covering his ears; his throat enveloped in a red worsted comforter; his coat dragged tightly over his chest and fastened with pins, and his shoes dropping to pieces as he walked. Such was the object that stared at him from out of the depths of the mirror.

From that moment he resolved to visit Northhaven once more and run the risk of discovery. He did not expect to gain anything by going to his old home, his only object was to see the old place once again, to ease the heartache and longing by a glimpse of old faces and familiar scenes.

It was evening when he reached a hill-top overlooking the village, and at sight of the quaint familiar houses he sat down and wept. Then his eyes went wandering out over the great restless sea, and he thought of his father lying uncoffined in its dark embrace, and of his own cheerless, wasted life; and getting up he crept to a hay-rick that he saw in a corner of a field, and slept till morning.

The next day he felt a wish to see his sister Ivy and his little brother Ned. To take up a position near the cottage unobserved was no difficult matter, for, as we have before stated, the cottage stood alone, and behind there was a plantation of trees where one could easily hide.

But though he watched long and eagerly he did not see his sister pass in or out. As the afternoon waned, however, he saw Jack Winchester enter the cottage, and so he got into the garden and looked through the window, and saw the money Jack brought spread out on the table, and with that sight the better feelings that had taken possession of him during the day and the previous evening passed away, and the devil entered into him, and he resolved that the money should be his.

Nothing could be easier; he had an old bunch of keys in his possession still that would unlock every door and drawer in the house. He knew where Ivy always kept her money, and so he would wait until she was asleep, and then get into the cottage and take it.

He did not wish to injure his sister; he knew that if he made himself known to her she would share with him to the last crust. But he could not bring himself to ask charity at her hands, and so he would take the money without asking. "It means the same thing in the end,” he said to himself; and with this sophism he satisfied what little conscience he had left. He said to himself also that Ivy and Ned had a claim on Captain Jack, seeing their father had lived and died in his service; and knowing what a generous fellow Jack was, he persuaded himself that he would not let Ivy want.

"So it will be all right,” he said to himself; "the money will help me to new clothes and a fresh start, and Ivy will be no loser in the long run."

So waiting till the cottage was wrapped in darkness, and he thought Ivy and Ned would be fast asleep, he got quietly into the cottage, and without much difficulty; and taking the little lamp from the mantelpiece-he knew it well-he lighted it at the fire that still burned, and taking off his cap he kneeled on it before the drawer where the money was kept, and inserting the right key, the drawer was soon open, and the money exposed to view.

He seemed in no hurry to gather up the money and leave the cottage. He knew that Ivy was a sound sleeper, and so thought himself perfectly safe. And so while he gloated over the gold, and counted it with great deliberation, he did not know that Ivy had crept softly down the stairs, and stood looking at him with horrorstricken face, and rendered powerless to move or speak by the greatness of her terror and grief.

(To be continued.)

NEWS OF THE CHURCHES.

BOYTON.-On Tuesday evening, April 26, the Rev. John Stafford preached a sermon from Acts xiii. 36: "For David, after he had served his own generation by the will of God, fell on sleep." The sermon was intended to call special attention to a brother in Christ just departed this life, the late John Grigg, of Boyton, who for more than thirty years had been a worthy member of the Free Church. He was born at Egloskerry, Cornwall, in the month of August, 1801. At seven years of age he removed into the Boyton parish as a boy labourer with the late Mr. Downing, in whose family he remained more than thirty years. John was a quiet, plodding, pleasant, humble and honourable man, not a scholar, but learned in his vocation as a hind. He never gained the position of a master, but he attained the high rank of "good servant." Mr. John Henry Gubbin, of Tavistock, in whose service he had been for tweny years, says of him, "that he was one of the most honest, faithful, industrious, and trustworthy men a master could

have in his employ." He died in peace, on Sunday, April 3, in the 80th year of his age. Well done, good and faithful servant, thou hast entered into the joy of thy Lord.

GLASGOW. The seventh annual soirée of this church was held on Friday evening, the 25th of March, in Campbellfield Hall, Campbellfield-street; the Rev. A. Hanesworth, pastor, in the chair. There was a good attendance. The following gentlemen delivered excellent addresses :-Rev. Ebenezer Hall, Rev. John Hauson, M.A., Whitevale Free Church; Rev. James Imrie, M.A., Gillespie United Presbyterian Church; and Messrs. Robert McArthur, Sen., and John Bowie, circuit stewards. A programme of music was rendered by the choir, under the leadership of Mr. Alexander Stuart, assisted by Mr. George T. Hall as accompanyist, who played the instrumental portions in an able and effective style. The soprano solo," There is a green hill far away (Gounod), sung by Miss MacCartney, elicited a merited round of applause, as also did Mrs. Joseph Alexander's rendering of "Too Late" (Lindsay); the solos, "Comfort ye," and "Every valley shall be exalted ("Messiah"), as sung by Mr. James Eaglesham; "Nazareth (Gounod), by Mr. R. M. Stevenson; and "He wipes the tear from every eye" (Lee), by Mr. James P. Cubie, were all gone through with much respect to taste. The anthems, "O taste and see (Sir John Goss) and "What are these? (Dr. Stainer) were treated in a similar manner. The gentlemen who spoke during the evening heartily congratulated the chairman on the success of the meeting, and upon the satisfactory condition of the Church under very difficult circumstances.

GREAT HARWOOD.-The ladies at this place regaled their friends at a banquet and entertainment on Saturday, February 19. About 260 sat down at the tables, which were plentifully supplied with choice viands, the ladies having evidently paid great attention to the culinary department. The entertainment was well patronised, the room being quite full. Mrs. Barker (wife of the Rev. J. Barker, Accrington) occupied the chair, and in her opening remarks said that she was exceedingly pleased to be present and take part in such a gathering. The object they had in view-the reduction of their chapel debt-was a very worthy one, and she also thought that the Harwood people themselves were really worthy of help, seeing that they were so willing to do all that lay in their power to help themselves, as was abundantly proved by the Christmas-tree they had recently had, and the various other efforts that they were constantly putting forth. Perhaps some of the gentlemen present would think that the ladies were great talkers, while others might think they ought to be at home. She (Mrs. Barker) thought that there was still a great work to be done, and that they all ought to help in its accomplishment. They could all visit the sick, they could all be kind to the poor, and relieve the orphan. Let each do her part, forgetting herself in her work, and steadily keep the example of the Saviour in view, and the world would be the better for their having lived in it. The following friends took part in the proceedings:-Mrs. Mercer, Miss Davies, Miss M. Calvert, Miss Entwistle, the Misses Whittaker, Miss L. Hargreaves, Mrs. J. Ratcliffe, Mrs. A. Kenyon, Miss M. E. Baron, Miss E. Clayton, Miss C. Birtwistle, Miss Grimshaw, Miss M. E. Walmsley, Mrs. J. Clayton, Miss S. Davies, Miss J. Walmesley, Miss M. Taylor, Miss E. Kenyon, Miss M. A. Smith, Miss H. A. Turner, Mrs. T. Gregson, Miss M. Smith, Mrs. John Smith, Miss Witham, Miss M. E. Monk, Miss M. E. Calvert, Miss C. Harris, Miss C. Westwell, Miss S. J. Wilkinson, Miss M. A. Lord, Miss M. Ratcliffe, and Miss Bell. Mrs. Priestley presided very efficiently at the piano. The entertainment throughoat was of a very high character, the different pieces being