things and set them on things above, these earthly contrarieties will trouble us less and less."

"But you can't help thinking of what is happening to yourself and others day by day. You can't shut your eyes. Grant even that the hope of compensation some day may be always or frequently present, that does not explain nor satisfy you about the injustice and oppression you have to suffer in this world."

"Compensation!" said the girl, her countenance lighting up, and her eyes gleaming; "you insult the goodness of God by talking of compensation, as if the glorious hereafter were but a set-off, as it were, against our paltry trials and sorrows here!" "Isn't that it?"

"Nay, nay; the two will not bear comparison -are not worthy to be thought of in the same thought. The glory that is prepared," continued she, speaking low, "throws the things of this world into nothing—makes them not worth thinking of. They that have treasure in heaven cannot stoop to count the little losses and gains of this mortal life."

"Indeed," said George, "if you have reached that state of elevation, there can't be many like you. You go beyond me a long way."

"I don't know about being like me; but I know that there have been thousands who have attained to that state of mind. Did you ever read the works of a bishop in the Church-Taylor, I think, his name is—who says again and again to himself, to the world, and to his Maker, that he knows everything in this world to be absolutely worthless?"

"No, I never did."

'Well, there was such a man; and what is more, there may be always such men. It is our own fault if we do not come to feel that way."

"And you think going to chapel may help one to this indifference to worldly things?"

"Assuredly, if one goes in a proper spirit. If one repents of one's evil deeds, and goes there determining to lead a new life as far as one can.” "You must repent?" asked George.

"Yes; repent and forgive."

They did not separate until George had promised to go to chapel on the Sunday coming. He would not attend the morning service, because he thought his haggard appearance would attract attention; but in the evening he would go. All the rest of the week he did not get more calm nor less urgent

in asking for news; but the news he looked for never came, and he knew that it could not now be very long before Roberts's career would terminate: the day of the execution he had never seen announced, and that, he thought, looked like an expected pardon.

On the Saturday night, George, after searching as usual all the papers, went to bed very much disquieted. Even the most depressed and anxious sleep sometime; and George, exhausted, fell into an uneasy slumber, wherein he dreamed a disagreeable dream. He saw a woman of forbidding countenance and aged, clad in an Eastern dress, stand suddenly before him in a room where he was sitting, which room was a prison cell. The old woman spoke, but in accents which the dreamer did not understand. Her tone and manner, however, left no doubt as to her meaning. She was exulting over some great calamity which had come upon him; fiendish delight made her features hideous; her gestures were awkward, but as made in triumph; her harsh voice screamed in transport. George felt that she was his evil genius. He tried to speak, but could not; then, with a mighty effort, he rushed at the grinning fieud, overcoming some

power which had been paralysing his limbs. He had nearly struggled out of bed in his agony; and awaking, he found that it was a summer morning. He could not, however, refrain from recalling all the particulars of his dream; illusion as it had been, it weighed on his spirits; a dream is enough to agitate the nervous and debilitated.

George Bateman went into the fields and wandered under trees all that Sunday, forming resolutions and weighing chances. If on the Monday he should hear nothing concerning Roberts's pardon, he would give himself up, tell all that happened, and cause the convict to be set free.

Whether any communication passed between George's female friend and the preacher of that district relative to George going to chapel in the evening cannot be distinctly ascertained. There is reason to believe that there was some arrangement, and that the girl announced to the pastor her conviction that George had some crime on his mind of which he had better unburthen himself. If nothing was said, then, certainly, the preacher chose his address by one of those coincidences which frequently astonish and perplex us. George accompanied his friend to chapel, and was very restless

and excited during the hymn with which the service commenced, staring about him wildly, and not joining in the chant. Then there followed a long prayer, during which he could not be seen, as everybody knelt and bowed down the face; but he was heard constantly shifting his position. Then they sang again, and after the hymn the preacher stood up to deliver his discourse. George had folded his arms, and was leaning his face on them, when the chapter and verse which furnished the text were indicated; but he changed his demeanour when the words of the text were uttered: "We are verily guilty concerning our brother," were the words. The preacher seemed to look at George as he uttered them; and George, as if answering the look, stood up, darted a defiant glance at the pulpit, and seemed as if ready to do battle with the speaker. His friend laid her hand on his arm, and by an imploring look, induced him to be quiet and to sit down. As the sermon proceeded, he remained with his eyes fixed upon the preacher, whose argument was the heavy, the crushing burden of concealed sin. He illustrated this in various ways, closing every illustration with a view of the terrors produced by an evil conscience, and the rising up