"I'm sure I wish Miss Burges every happiness," says Gertrude, with a sigh she cannot repress.

"She has very little chance of happiness, my dear," retorts Mrs. Wilson, shaking her head in an ominous manner; "I could tell you tales of Sir Stanley's unkindness to his first wife, that would make you sorry for the poor young lady who is rushing on to a similar fate."

"I am very sorry indeed for her already," adds Gertrude candidly.

"I'm sure, Mrs. Thwaites, Sir Stanley must be greatly improved if he does at last turn out a good husband. He's frightfully in debt, all brought on by his own imprudence, people say, and then his temper is something neither you nor I could put up with, accustomed as we are to husbands that are quite the opposite of him." Mrs. Wilson warms with her subject, and exclaims, "Why, I'd rather give my daughter to the poorest curate in the diocese than to that bold, bad man, with all his rank and title! I hope though, Mrs. Thwaites, you don't think me personal in my allusions to 'poor curates;' I quite forgot for the moment how closely you are interested in them."

Gertrude laughs at the good lady's confusion.

"Don't apologize, Mrs. Wilson-though I'm sure no curate could well be poorer than Leonard is, I quite endorse your opinion. As a needy curate's wife, I am far happier than I could possibly be in any other position. I hope your daughter will be wise enough to prefer even a poor man, whose heart and life are right with God, than the richest baronet under the sun, if he cares for "none of these things."

"It seems a strange thing to me that the friends of Miss Burges urge on the match so much. They must take but short views, when they risk their child's happiness for mere rank. Squire Burges is frightfully ambitious, I know, and would do anything to get in with people of title. But there, if the Grey Towers' people are content, why should we trouble ourselves? "

But Gertrude cannot agree with this last remark. She does trouble herself, and thinks often and anxiously of poor Alice, and the lot that is evidently looming near at hand for her.

For it is true Sir Stanley has determined to win her for his wife, and he is not the man to relinquish any project on which he has set his mind. He admires her fair face and graceful figure, and notes that her voice is low, her manner natural and timid-utterly devoid indeed of that loudness and fastness the fashionable young ladies of Slopeley are so fond of affecting. He argues that if there is a spice of coolness and reserve in Alice's conduct towards him, why, all the more reason for him to show his power by overcoming it. Her reluctance only gives a keener zest to his wooing-teaches him he must conquer ere he can triumph.

Gertrude's thoughts and hands, however, have soon full occupation in her own household, for Lotty grows worse and worse. She is gradually drooping, like a bud that has been blighted in the early spring.

"An inward decline, and there is no remedy for it," the doctor has at length said.

But Gertrude and Leonard hope against hope. Night and day they are beside the little crib, tending, watching and praying. All their anxiety seems now to centre on the sick child, who looks up to them with sad, loving, expressive eyes, full of the deep mysterious language of coming death.

As it grows near the last, overworked Sarah keeps the other children away at the other end of the house, where their voices and noise cannot disturb the dying child.

In vain is the chicken-broth held to the parched lipsin vain the cool jelly, the rich beef-tea! Gertrude has managed to procure every single thing that has been recommended, no matter at what sacrifice to herself. The family meals will be scantier and more meagre for many a long day afterwards in consequence, but she hardly thinks of that.

All efforts fail! Lotty's summons "home" has come, and no human power can keep her longer here.

A dark, cold, bitterly frosty January morning is dawning into pale grey light, while Gertrude and Leonard still bend. over the crib.

But the head with its clusters of golden curls is motionless on the pillow. The pallid face is growing cold, and the faint smile of death is gradually stealing over Lotty's lips.

"And thus when the desolate morning

Shines through the wintry bars,
Lo! God has taken the snowdrop,

To blossom beyond the stars.

It is hard to bow in submission,

When they think of the vacant place,

And see on the snowy pillow

The white, little placid face."

The end came some time ago, yet father and mother still linger watching their child. Both see the awful change, but both are unwilling to believe it has really taken place. At last Gertrude rises, puts her arm tenderly on Leonard's shoulder, and says softly,—

"We must not grieve. Oh! we must not grieve, for we have a child in Heaven now, Leonard. Only think! one of our dear ones is safe with Jesus."

Gertrude is by far the bravest on this January morning. Her lighter, more impressible nature soonest asserts itself. As her grief has been the most violent while Lotty was suffering, and as each wave of pain that swept over the child seemed to be shared by the mother also, so now the reaction is more evident, when all is over.

Bowed

Leonard cannot look up hopefully all at once. and hushed, his spirit can only utter voiceless supplications and laments beside his dead child.

He knows Lotty is free from all ills for evermore, and yet he has not strength to exclaim at once, "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."

CHAPTER XIII.

CLOUDS STILL GATHER.

FTER a time, Gertrude grows alarmed at the dreary apathy that still hangs over her husband.

He

seems altogether unlike himself-so strange and stunned!-so dead and spiritless!

She watches him with sorrow more intense than even the

Lotty is at rest,
Taking him by

little pale face on the pillow calls forth. but what change has come over Leonard? the hand as she would have taken a child, she draws him slowly from that room of death into the study, where a fire has been burning all night. Hot coffee is steaming on the hob, and, pouring out a cup, she makes him drink it, and then seats herself on a low stool before him, holding his hand, and praying earnestly the gloom so darkly gathering over his mind may soon be dispersed.

She does not know then that he has caught the fever, and that it is slowly and certainly gathering over him with its resistless force. Gertrude thinks it is fatigue and anxiety crushing him down; she does not see that bodily illness is struggling with mental distress, and in the bitter strife reducing him to positive incapacity.

She watches him with tearful eyes, and her thoughts grow still more anxious as time speeds rapidly on.

"Oh! if he will only try to rouse himself a little. Anything would be better than that leaden dullness." Then she draws nearer to him, and says softly,

A dark, cold, bitterly frosty January morning is dawning into pale grey light, while Gertrude and Leonard still bend over the crib.

But the head with its clusters of golden curls is motionless on the pillow. The pallid face is growing cold, and the faint smile of death is gradually stealing over Lotty's lips.

"And thus when the desolate morning
Shines through the wintry bars,
Lo! God has taken the snowdrop,

To blossom beyond the stars.

It is hard to bow in submission,

When they think of the vacant place,

And see on the snowy pillow

The white, little placid face."

The end came some time ago, yet father and mother still linger watching their child. Both see the awful change, but both are unwilling to believe it has really taken place. At last Gertrude rises, puts her arm tenderly on Leonard's shoulder, and says softly,—

"We must not grieve. Oh! we must not grieve, for we have a child in Heaven now, Leonard. Only think! one of our dear ones is safe with Jesus."

Gertrude is by far the bravest on this January morning. Her lighter, more impressible nature soonest asserts itself. As her grief has been the most violent while Lotty was suffering, and as each wave of pain that swept over the child seemed to be shared by the mother also, so now the reaction is more evident, when all is over.

Bowed

Leonard cannot look up hopefully all at once. and hushed, his spirit can only utter voiceless supplications and laments beside his dead child.

He knows Lotty is free from all ills for evermore, and yet he has not strength to exclaim at once, "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."