out; that's the toddy. Next we drove to the burying grounds, and saw some Hindoos burning their dead. They have a pile of faggots, about three feet high, with some stuff underneath which catches fire easily. The 'body' is covered with pink muslin,—you can see the outline of the form through it. They carry it first to the seaside, on a stretcher, and pray; then they take it to the pile of faggots, lay it on the top, cover it with more wood, set fire to it, and wait till it has all burnt away. Some burn their dead with

all their jewelry on them.

"The rich Hindoos have a lot of sandal-wood amongst the faggots, and that smells very nice when it is burning. We didn't stay at that place long—it made me feel sick; so we went to the Royal Albert Hotel, and paid a rupee each for our dinners, which was all very nice, with nice vegetables and fruits; and as we were a bit tired with going about, we took our dessert into one of the porticoes, and enjoyed ourselves there till the cool of the evening. Then we got into our buggy again, and drove about from shop to shop, buying mango-chutney, pepper, baskets of onions, potatoes, bottles of curry, and sweet soap. And to wind-up our day, we went to Dungaree Green, where we stayed till eight o'clock, hearing the band play. Then we went aboard,—and there was an end of our holiday."

With emotions of deep thankfulness Mrs. Wentworth closed the letter, and put it carefully by.

"The postman will be sure to say he has brought me a letter from India," she said; "and Mr. Ford

will not be long before he comes to hear the news, I know; for he's been almost as anxious as we've been.”

It was a wonder he didn't happen to be there that evening, for he very often took his tea with the widow and her daughters. “It was a bit lonely in his lodgings," he said; "so he sat with them for an hour or two, just," as he expressed it, "to get chirped up.” At such times the conversation mostly turned upon the lads, his lad in Liverpool, and her lad at sea. It was a subject of which neither could weary; and the old man would go away quite happy.

As Mrs. Wentworth expected, the postman did say he had brought her a letter ;-and as she further expected also, the information brought round Mr. Ford; and they were scarcely settled to their evening work, when they heard the slow, uncertain tread of the old man's foot upon the crunching gravel.

Before he could raise his stout stick to knock at the door, Margaret had hastened to admit him, and welcome him to his seat in the accustomed corner.

"Welcome, good friend'!" cried Mrs. Wentworth, rising to receive the kindly grasp of the old man's hand. "Thank God! we have news of our dear boy; and all's well!" And as she spoke, she opened her work-box; and as soon as he had a hand to spare, she placed the precious letter in it.

Mr. Ford put on his spectacles, and drawing his chair nearer to the light, smoothed the closely-written sheets carefully on the table; and beginning with "Bombay Harbour, February 12th," was soon oblivious of all save the words before him, which were so

interesting from the love he bore to the dear little lad.

It would have heightened the colour on Frank's cheeks, and brightened his eyes, and made his heart throb, could he have peeped into CORNER COTTAGE that evening, and heard all that was then said about him; and his mother and sisters were so pleased to talk the news all over with one who appreciated their dear sailor boy as Mr. Ford did, that they thanked him heartily when they wished him "Good-night."

Mr. Ford had to pass by the Grange to get to his lodgings; so he promised to step in, with the good news and the widow's respects, and put them all in spirits in that quarter.

And singing cheerfully from the abundant joy of his heart,

"Give to the winds thy fears,

Hope and be undismay'd:

God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears;
God shall lift up thy head,”-

he walked on, while Mrs. Wentworth, standing at the door of her shop, shaded the candle with her hand, so as to throw a light on his path to the garden-gate.

A DANGEROUS

CHAPTER VIII.

ACQUAINTANCE

MOTHERLESS.

FATHERLESS AND

T is unnecessary, after so many accounts of the daily life of Mrs. Wentworth and her daughters, to stay our story for more particulars. Spring passed away with all its lovely companions; the fragrant May blossom; the cone-shaped treasures of the chestnut trees strewed the ground with their per

fumed petals; while the trees and hedges were alive with the singing of birds. Then came the time of roses (when, night and day, one sweet odour pervaded the air), and honeysuckles, and busy bees, and sheepshearing. Then the warmth and glorious brightness of the summer months, with their wealth of vegetation;

delicious, cooling fruits, and appetizing salads—so suggestive of the pleasant days when cooking was needed but once a week; when meals could be enjoyed out of doors, and consisted of bacon, or beef, with currant and raspberry or cherry pies, or salad and cheese, and hard-boiled eggs, with many other good but inexpensive luxuries.

A time to make one forget all trouble, a time to make one cry aloud and bless God for so much beauty. Such weather! with its bright sunshine and brilliant sunsets, its refreshing rains, and its calm, cool evenings; when all the sewing could be done under the spreading chestnut-trees; when silence was only broken by words of love and kindness, the twittering of birds as they sought repose, and the flipping of the merry little grasshopper among the green leaves.

And up to this time several letters had been received from Frank; and then a whole month passed away without one, and they knew he must be again on the wide waters, and that every day was bringing him nearer to home. His letters never grew old, and all through the autumn served to comfort his mother and sisters, and were read so often that many expressions in them became as household words.

And the autumn passed away, with its wild beauties and sun-bright tints, its field-fares and red-wings, its nuts and blackberries; and when winter again set in, there was little change in Mrs. Wentworth's family, beyond that wrought by time in the growth and improved appearance of her two daughters.

Margaret, now in her nineteenth year, had sprung