diseased; so the soul that never lifts itself in prayer-the highest expression and manifestation of its life becomes equally torpid, paralyzed, unsound.

There was no immediate answer. Mr. Warren's eyes were fixed on the blue crown of a distant hill, with a dreary, hopeless expression, unlike anything I had ever seen in his face. Finally, he said, in a broken, disconnected, listless way,

"I almost wish I could think as you do. The most superstitious belief would be more comfortable than this ever-shifting doubt. But the habits of youth and middle age become fetters to the mind and limbs of later years. I don't know as I could shake them off,-if I cared to; and I don't care for anything-much-now that Maggie-"

The sentence was left unfinished.

For grief such as Mr. Warren's, it is hard to find words of comfort. One can point to the soothing power of time, to be sure; but time, without God, is more likely to harden than to heal. I worked on in silence, therefore, until my floral emblems were finished; then I held them up for inspection.

"I have made these for Maggie, sir. I wish to put this little cross on her bosom, and the wreath in her hand, showing thereby that they who patiently bear the cross shall win the crown. The cross is a tiny thing, you see, not larger than is often worn for ornament, while the wreath is massive,—by which I would suggest also that rich, triumphant saying of St. Paul's, 'I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us!' These four or five single flowers I shall scatter over her feet, to show how few and scattered must have been the joys of earth, even if she had lived to taste them. Have I your permission to place them thus ?"

MR. WARREN (huskily). Do what you like with her,

now, I know you mean well, And don't think I am too rough and crabbed and sneering, to feel your kindness to Maggie.

I disposed the flowers around the corpse, according to my design; their symbolism, you will not fail to see, being intended for the living rather than the dead;-for I knew not if Maggie had ever borne any cross, or aspired to any crown. For her, I had ceased to have either hope or fear; -having left her with a prayer, in God's tender mercy, I felt no disposition to take her thence, even in idea,—that being the only safe place in the universe for her benighted, undeveloped soul. Mrs. Warren came in, for a moment, and looked at my work with a face wherein the gravity grew ever sweeter till it bordered on joy. "Aunt Vin" bestowed on it some qualified admiration.

"It's very statistically done," she remarked, jerking her head at it grimly, "and shows you might be a painter, if you ambitioned it. But isn't it a leetle mite Romanesque ? I hope you don't belong to the Pusseyites or the Jeshuites, or any of those people with queer pigments in their brains, who set more store by the shell of things than they do by the kernel."

Mr. Warren came, too, after a time, bringing me a deeptinted, half-blown damask rose.

"Could you find a place for this?" said he, "Maggie liked bright colors. And I should like to have something from her father somewhere about her."

"Certainly; she shall hold it in her hand with the wreath. You know, Mr. Warren, that red is the color of Love; so this rose may fitly image, not only your own tender affection for your darling, but also that mighty love of Christ, as shown in His precious bloodshedding for us; without which, we should all struggle vainly under the crosses of earth, look for no heavenly crown, and be forever buried in the darkness of spiritual death."

Mr. Warren turned away, looking half displeased. I

was well aware that this last meaning was alien to his thought, but I was glad that he could not look at his rose, henceforth, without being reminded of it. For, though I expected no swift miracle of conversion to be wrought in him, no one could tell what planting, or what watering, it might please God to bless with slow-perhaps almost im perceptible-yet steady increase.

VI.

THE REACTION.

WENT home through the ripened glory of the morning; noticing-with those sharpened and concentrated senses that city-refugees sometimes bring to lovely rural pictures-the vivid, lustrous green of the turf, the bright hues and delicate odors of the flowers, the sharp, clear outline of verdure and rock, the soft, pure depth of

the sky, the infinite beauty and diversity of formi and color that enriched my way. For the first time in many days, my heart was singing within me. I felt well pleased with my night's work: out of that shadow of death, there seemed to have been born unto me new hope and meaning in life. I even fancied that Bona walked hand in hand with me all the way, and that Mala had departed for a considerable time.

Mrs. Divine met me at the door, and inquired, in her ringing, cheery voice, "Well, how is Maggie Warren this morning?"

"She is dead," I answered, briefly.

Her face grew grave and sympathetic at once. But Mrs. Prescott, busy in the kitchen, caught the words, and delivered herself of a quick, caustic commentary,

"It's a mercy to her and the neighborhood! That miserable Warren will have one child the less to bring up in infidelity."

E

MALA (ironically, through my lips). Thank you, madam. Shall I convey your consolatory message to the afflicted family?

MRS. PRESCOTT (with heightened color). Just as you please. I ain't afraid to stand to it that the less family that man has, to train up in the way they shouldn't go, the better.

I (in a cold, hard tone). If that rule operated universally, is is perhaps easier for us to discern the houses which Death would visit, than those which he would spare. Thousands bring up their children in practical infidelity, having less excuse than Mr. Warren has. He teaches what he believes. They believe one thing, and teach-by implication-another.

BONA (softly, to me). Are you "speaking the truth in love?"

I took no notice of her inquiry, but went up to my room, with a mortal fear chilling my heart. Nor was it groundless: I found waiting there, ready for my shoulders, the same old burden which the little excitement of last night, and the hope of doing a good deed, had enabled me transiently to throw off. Wearily I took it up, and a great discouragement came over me. And Mala, of course, took delight in pushing me over the brink of the moral precipice upon which I trembled.

"You expected a great deal from this 'doing something for Christ,' as you so nicely phrased it,-have you found it?" she asked.

I admitted to her and myself, that I had not.

MALA. You even fancied, this morning, that a life of this sort of work would bring you, first healing, then happiness;-do you think so still?

I confessed that such a fancy, if I had ever had it, had vanished utterly, leaving not so much as the shine of its wings in the distance.

MALA. And all that very good and proper talk, where