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death do us part. Perhaps I ought not to mention that

• Phantom of grisly bone' here among so much youth, happiness, and beauty, but my wife and I have talked of the time when death shall mean to us an 'eternal union' in the land where there is no more death—we look beyond the valley and do not fear: why should we? When Jesus, the Saviour, has passed that way, leaving a brightness that dispels the gloom, the one of us that crosses first intends, if permitted, to look out for the last comer. If it will give more happiness to the redeemed, this may be, but if it is not, we shall find each other there. And even as we together serve Him here, so shall we praise Him there. In the meantime we will be all the world to each other, and do all we can to make those we love happy. Last, but not least, we mean to dedicate our lives to God's service."

When Herbert sat down, Mr. Aubrey said it had been the happiness of himself and wife to know the Lancaster family, when in the Ribcaster circuit. He had seen them under the most severe trial, the greatest that could befall a household—the loss of a parent. “No two girls,” he said, “could have borne more bravely or possessed more largely the true Christian fortitude required in a sick room. This,” he went on to say,

“I know from all I saw in the death chamber of one of the dearest little lads on earth, -Horace, -when, Mr. Dermont, as you I daresay know-your wife gave her heart unreservedly to God. Ever since she has walked in the light of His love. How she will be missed in the Wesleyan Church and Sunday-school, we know. How she has been loved, the beautiful presents on that sideboard show. In what light her scholars regard her,

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let these gifts tell. I congratulate you, Mr. Dermont, on the prize you have drawn in marriage. You have won one of our very best Methodist girls. I confidently predict for you a very happy and honourable future. We all rejoice with you, more because it has been your wisdom together to consecrate yourselves to the service of God.” Then, lifting up both hands and face to heaven, he said, “The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord cause His face to shine upon thee, and show thee His salvation."

A deep “Amen” showed how entirely the hearts of all present echoed the prayer.

“Really, we must never think of tears at a wedding after this,” said Mr. Bright. "I see some of the happiest faces and pleasantest smiles I have ever witnessed. I have learned a real lesson to-day of the happiness of those who take God for their guide. May you, my dear young friends, always find Him your Helper and Father. Decidedly, you have the best of both worlds. I would that all young persons began so well, and with such a clear knowledge of who was with them. The world

. would be better for it. I am sorry to say that I must leave you, for, like Mr. and Mrs. Dermont, I go with the

I three train north, though only a few miles. I have to preach at Burkton this evening, so will see you, and say good-bye at that place.”

The time came when Herbert and Mabel were to leave Ashfields. The young bride came down stairs in her pretty travelling dress of grey serge, with plain black hat. No single article of her dress would cause a stranger to look at her twice, though her happy face might well do so.

A carriage was in waiting to convey them to the station. As they passed into the garden, the school

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children, who had assembled in front of the house, scattered rose leaves in their path—"the scented leaves, without the thorns, “Mrs. Dermont," said one little fairy. Others threw rice by handfuls over the happy pair-"emblem of plenty," said another.

When the carriage was reached, and they were seated, Herbert said

Now, dearest, we go forth alone, for richer or poorer, for better or worse ; but we must make it all better, and have no worse at all."

A swift train conveyed them to Penrith, from whence they would proceed to Patterdale, to spend their honeymoon on the banks of the Ulleswater Lake, where Herbert had spoken first of his love, for Mabel, and where she had given him "her promise true.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

" Grave, where is thy Victory?

“ More than conquerors at last,

Here they find their trials o’er ;
They have all their sufferings past,

Hunger now and thirst no more.
No excessive heat they feel

From the sun's directer ray ;
In a milder clime they dwell,-

Region of eternal day.”—Wesley.

“PLEA

LEASE, Miss Lancaster, could you come in the

kitchen a moment ? Mary is so very poorly, and"

Before the young woman could finish her explanation, Helen had thrown down the book from which she was reading to her father, and was swiftly crossing the hall that led to the kitchen, almost as quickly followed by Mr. Lancaster.

Mary-poor, sorely-tried Mary-was in the easy chair her master had bought for her own use ; the head was thrown back, the eyes closed, the mouth drawn slightly to one side of her white face. Helen, alarmed, had raised her old true friend's head, only to feel that there was no strength left in the stricken frame. One arm lay helplessly at the side, one foot slid forward, as if power of motion was over for ever. Her young mistress called on her in tones of deepest sorrow

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“Oh, Mary, dear Mary, do lift your face up; do look at me. It is I–Miss Helen. You know me, Mary, don't you, dear ?"

But not Helen's tears, nor the sobs of the young servant, who was on her knees chafing the poor hands, awoke in her any answering smile or word. The right hand had lost its cunning, the tongue clove to the roof of the mouth.

In a short time Mr. Lancaster, who, after one brief look at the stricken woman, had hastened for medical advice, entered the kitchen, accompanied by Dr. Burns. The moment the latter gentleman saw her he said, “Paralysis—Where is her bedroom ?” he asked.

The servant went first to show the way. The doctor hifted Mary in his arms, and carried her upstairs, placing her on the bed from which she was never more to rise.

“Is it death ?” Helen asked, controlling herself.
“Yes, Miss Lancaster, it is."
“ Will she live long, or suffer much ?”.

"She does not suffer,” he replied, "for she is quite unconscious. She may live a day or two; not longer, I think. She must not be left."

“Left! No, doctor, not while she lives. Sarah and I will not leave her, please God."

“She must have a nurse, Miss Lancaster : one who understands such cases."

“All that love or money can purchase she shall have,” Helen replied.

“I will send you a suitable person at once. could go with me, Mr. Lancaster, you could bring word

, back, and this poor girl looks so distressed that I fear there is no chance of your dinner being cooked. Mine, I know, will be ready ; so, Miss Lancaster, your father can just take some with me whilst we wait for the nurse.

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