and I love him as a son, for he was more than a son to me. I've forgotten his name— I wish I could remember it. Oh! here's his card;" the old man took it from his pocket and gave it to Minnie.

What made the tears come to Minnie's eyes, and why did she start?

In his own hand-writing, Minnie read—

"RALPH MERTON."

"What's the matter, Miriam ?

know him?"

"Yes," with a very bright face.

Do you

"Now, Miriam, I've come home to die, to sleep where my father and mother sleep-and with Miriam !" said he to himself.

The autumn had come, and Sophie had returned to B. The home at Oak Grove was as quiet as ever, and quieter, for Uncle Harry was ill, very ill. Minnie watched him

with unwearied care.

She it was who

smoothed his pillow, gave him the cooling draught, and bathed his brow. Hers were the footsteps that never disturbed him; hers

the voice that was sweetest of all, and he wished no one else near him.

Laurence was sent for. He came in great grief. Minnie was watching over his father when he entered the room.

She advanced towards him, saying,

"My cousin!" and gave him her hand. He held it one moment without speaking, and then turned to his father.

Minnie went to the next room, and left father and son alone.

For a fortnight Laurence shared her care; and then the silver cord was gently loosed, and the old man went to his rest. "It is not hard to die!" were his last words. They that looked upon him said, "He is not dead, but sleeping," so gently did he breathe away his life as a tired infant sinking to repose. Life is sweet, but death is sweeter. And he was laid in the family burial-ground. The wanderer had gone home at last.

Laurence staid with them three months. They all loved him, though they knew he

was not their cousin. Minnie always said "Cousin." Laurence was too sacred a name for any other than her own angel Laurie. Laurence Carleton he always wrote his name; he knew no other.

He went away suddenly, looking pale and sad they all thought.

Minnie knew the reason; he had asked her to be his wife, but her heart was not her

own.

About this time Old Isaac died; he died of a broken heart, and died, as he had lived, in the faith of his fathers.

XIX.

The Old Bay Window.

WO years have passed. Sophie has almost finished her last year at school, and is expected home. Nellie has grown into a reserved, thoughtful girl

of sixteen; and Gracie, wild Gracie, the twin-sister, is as bright and beautiful as ever, with the same artless, winning manner.

1

One Sunday evening Minnie was standing alone in the old bay window in the library. Gracie came in, and putting her arm around her, asked,

"Sister-mother, why are you so sad?"
"Not sad, Gracie, but thinking."
"Thinking as ever! about what?"

"Of you, dear Gracie."

"Of me?"

"Yes, Gracie, and of mother's trust. I

promised her that I would train you all for heaven. Sophie is a Christian. Nellie too. Laurie is in heaven-dear little blind Laurie; and, Gracie, you are the only one straying from the fold."

Gracie burst into tears, and sobbed for some time. She always did when spoken to of religion.

"Dear Gracie," said Minnie, "won't you try to love the Saviour? Promise me, darling, will you try?"

"I do try, Minnie, I do try. I would be glad to love Him if I only could."

"Gracie, He is more willing than you can be; you will try?"

"Yes!"

"Because, Gracie, I'm going away soon, and I can't leave my mission unperformed— my mother's trust slighted!"

"Oh! Minnie, I can't let you go!"

"Jesus did more for me. I'm only leaving home and friends, and if I love these more than Him, I'm not worthy of Him."