and we'd live together. I'm a tolerable good gardener myself, and we can change sides now and then; he can take my journeys, and I'll dig and weed. I think I'll do it, Widow Wentworth. TIME, for all he's such an old fellow, runs pretty brisk; and I've lived a good many years now, and 'tis a bit lonely at home. I often long to have the lad with me: he'd be a sort of comfort, like; he could read me my chapters when my old eyes are tired; and he's been to evening schools, and lectures, and penny readings, and I don't know what again; and he's picked up a good bit of learning one way and another. Yes, I'll have him home, Mrs. Wentworth, I'll have him home-my George."

And George Ford's heart was gladdened one fine day, when his father left word at the lodgings that "George and his traps were to be ready that day week, when he would bring the van to convey the lot."

So George Ford returned to the village he had left as a mere lad when his mother died; and his own good conduct, his attention to his duties, his loving care and tenderness to his aged father, all combined to make him regarded as an acquisition in any circle of friends, and he gained the respect and admiration of all who became intimate with him.

CHAPTER XII.

DEATH OF MRS. BARNARD-MARGARET'S LOVE-THE

poor Mrs. Barnard is very bad; the maid says 'sinking.' I trust not that, but they are all in such grief and trouble; she begs I will go and see if I can be of any assistance. Dear, kind Mrs. Barnard! If good wishes and earnest prayers could prolong her life, I am sure she would not be taken from us this many a long year."

"Bring mother's thick shawl, Mary," said the thoughtful Margaret; “it is chilly at nights now, and she may be kept late."

A kiss from each, and the widow departed to minister that consolation which she knew from experience was so precious in the hour of affliction.

Margaret was stirring the jam over the fire, while Jessie, now quite strong again, labelled the pots, and prepared the papers with simple paste to cover them. Both were silent for many minutes, after the door had closed behind their mother; they were too deeply grieved for many words. Mrs. Barnard had been such a friend. Never, since they first made her acquaintance on that stormy night, had she once flagged in her kindness; ever thoughtful of their wants, ever ready to aid them with her advice, her Christian experience, and her purse. Indeed, she had helped them so much that it would almost be a question how they could get on without her. They would truly have cause to sorrow, and on these thoughts tears would flow, and the sisters tried their best to comfort one another. Mary was not in the kitchen then, for she had to mind the shop; so they could speak unreservedly of their troubles, and Mrs. Barnard's great goodness to them and their dear mother. They had not seen much of the dear lady in all these years of their acquaintance, but they loved her for her works' sake, and would indeed lament to lose her.

Mrs. Wentworth was late, very late, in returning home. So, sending Mary to bed, the two girls sat at

their needlework far into the night, longing to see their mother, yet fearing to behold her face, lest they should read there the sad tidings of the death of their friend.

It was nearly midnight when the sound of approaching footsteps, in the dead silence of the night, told them of her return. John (the man-servant) brought the widow to the threshold, wished her "Good night" in low, quiet tones, and departed.

It needed not words to tell the solemn truth; their mother's pallid features and tearful eyes were a sufficient reply to their anxious thoughts. The dearest, the best of friends had left them for ever in this world, and tears bedewed their pillows that night as they prayed for resignation to the Divine will.

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A week elapsed, and then many strange people appeared in the village; relations and friends, it was said, who in her lifetime were not welcome at the Grange." They flocked from all parts to attend the funeral of the venerable lady, ostensibly to show respect for the memory of the deceased, really and chiefly to be present at the reading of the will.

There were no deeper mourners at that funeral than Mrs. Wentworth and her daughters, albeit they were neither clad in funeral garments nor riding in a mourning-coach; but they were dressed in good black, which Mrs. Martin had presented to them, in accordance with the wishes of her late mistress, and their tears flowed from a source of pure love and grief.

Mrs. Wentworth would not accept the invitation of the kind Mrs. Martin, to accompany her to the

"Grange," and partake of the "funeral baked meats:" she said, "If she could be of any service she would go, but otherwise she and her girls preferred to return home, to commune with their own hearts and be still."

"Oh, how grieved Frank will be !" said Mrs. Wentworth: "he was so fond of the dear old lady; he saw so much more of her than ever we did. He never writes a letter without a heap of messages of love and respect; and now-the messages will still come, but the ears are closed for ever. Yet, God be praised! she died as she had lived-looking to Jesus. She has entered into her rest; her reward is with the Lord; the care of her is with the Most High. It is selfish to fret, or wish her longer here: she was a very great age, and her infirmities were many; but she was so patient, so good, so hopeful. This home is all dark and gloomy to me now,' she said, just before she

could no longer see;

passed away, and when her eyes • but I go to a home in heaven; to the bosom of my God, where all is bright and glorious. O Lord Jesus, come quickly: my soul longeth for Thy pre sence—to be delivered from the burden of the flesh, to dwell for ever and ever--' Her lips moved for several minutes, but she uttered no more words, and so -quietly, like a child hushed to rest on a mother's breast --she fell asleep. It was a blessed death. With such faith in the all-sufficient merits of Christ our Saviour, with such hopes of a joyful resurrection, it cannot be hard to die: the Everlasting Arms are a support through the valley of the shadow of death. Dear lady! she

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