if

Miriam's Cross.

you take my advice you'll drop such a very unpromising affair. What would become of you with such a mother-in-law ?'

'What was to become of Miriam with such a mother?' thought the doctor.

Hannah succeeded in getting her mistress safely into her bedroom without disturbing Miriam, who had just gone up into one of the garrets to look for a book which she had lost, and did not hear the confusion in the lower part of the house. She came down presently, and found Andrew waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She looked very worn and ill, he thought, though, if he had known in what manner she had passed the hours since his visit the evening before, he would not have been surprised at her appearance. He noticed with a thrill of pleasure how her face brightened when she saw him. It was something to feel that he had the power to bring even a little gladness into her sorrowful life.

'How long have you been here?' she said. I never heard you

Hannah saw me, and let me in.'

He followed her into the dining-room, and there, as briefly as possible, he told his story. Miriam's calmness as she listened almost alarmed him. He had expected tears, but she shed none. She just stood silently before him, with her head leaning against the window frame, and her hands clasping each other. He would far rather have seen her cry. This composure was not natural to her, and he feared that

she would suffer afterwards for her present self-control.

'Where is she?' was all she said when the doctor paused.

In her own room with Hannah.'

‘Dr. Beauchamp, I think I shall go mad!'

He drew her nearer to him. 'I will not have you talk so, Miriam. If I thought you were in any danger of that kind I should take you away at once.'

'We cannot stay in Eversleigh,' she continued; 'every one will know about it soon. But where are we to go?'

'Where does your mother think of going?'

She looked up at him in some surprise. She has never spoken of it. She does not feel the shame as I do. Soon I shall not dare to face any one.'

'Did she not tell you what she was going to do in Fainminster to-day?'

No. Do you know what she has done ?'

'She has been instructing Jones to offer this house and the farm for sale.'

'Who told you so?'

Frank Gervase.

Miriam's Cross.

Jones offered the property to him this afternoon.'

'She could not have been in earnest!'

'I think she was. Jones is so observant, that if she had not been quite herself he would have detected it at once; and I am sure he would not have spoken to Gervase unless he had been fully satisfied as to her intention.'

Miriam went to bed that night, but though wearied enough both in mind and body she could not sleep. What was her mother going to do? Was she really in full possession of her senses, or was her brain already succumbing to the effect of the poison she persisted in taking? Thorn-tree had belonged to the Newtons for generations, and was Miriam, the last of the family, to see the house she loved so well given into the hands of strangers? Surely Mrs. Newton had not known what she was doing when she gave her lawyer such instructions!

During the next four days, from Saturday morning until Tuesday night, the mistress of Thorn-tree was not sober for one single hour, and at the end of that time she became quite unmanageable. To give Hannah her due, she was a most patient and devoted attendant. Though Miriam often felt that for some reasons she would be better out of the house, still, when Mrs. Newton was at her worst, it seemed doubtful whether it would be possible to dispense with her services. As long as she could control her mistress she did so, but unless the drunken fit terminated speedily, the miserable woman was apt to defy all restraint, and break out into violence against which Hannah was powerless. Then, indeed, was pleasant, peaceful Thorn-tree transformed into a 'hell upon earth.' Miriam was compelled for safety to lock herself into her own room, and there on this occasion she remained hour after hour, until at length she could bear the solitude no longer, and taking the first favourable opportunity, she rushed down the staircase and out of the house. She had seen Andrew on the Sunday, and knew that to-day had been appointed for Miss Pembroke's funeral. He would not return from Netherstone until late in the evening, so that if she went over to Wood End, Mrs. Beauchamp would probably be alone. She walked quickly, and reached the cottage about four o'clock, but found, to her dismay, that both mistress and servant were out. She stood in the porch for a few minutes wondering what she should do with herself, for she knew that it would be useless to go home at present; and then she remembered that Mrs. Beauchamp was not yet strong enough to walk more than a very short distance. Most likely she had sent Anne to the village or to Fairminster, and had herself gone either into the quarry or the wood for a little stroll.

'She can't be away very long,' thought Miriam; 'I'll sit down under the beech-tree and wait for her.'

Miriam's Cross.

She was quite worn out, poor girl, and the shade and stillness in the little garden were very soothing; so, with her head resting against the old tree, she soon fell into a sound sleep, which lasted until long after Mrs. Beauchamp and Anne had returned. When at length she awoke, she was startled to see Andrew pacing up and down the gravelpath before her.

'I thought you were at Netherstone,' she said, as he came towards her.

'No; the funeral was put off. I am going to-morrow.'

'I came up to see Mrs. Beauchamp,' began Miriam.

'Well, I will take it for granted that you are glad to see me also. Now, come in to tea, and afterwards we will talk.'

How quiet and peaceful that little cottage parlour seemed! It was a very paradise to Miriam after the anxiety and excitement of the past four days. If she could only exchange life at Thorn-tree for life at Wood End! She was free to do so if she chose. She was twenty-one, and her mother had no longer any legal power over her. She had been very patient through all these months of misery. She had striven hard to draw back the poor victim from the brink of the precipice over which she appeared determined to hurl herself. She had done all that she could do, more than many daughters would have done. Who could blame her if she yielded now to the wish of her heart, and gave herself into the care of one who was so well able to cherish and protect her? She glanced at him as these thoughts passed through her mind. How kind and good he looked! And Mrs. Beauchamp too, so sweet, and gentle, and motherly! Miriam's courage almost failed her that night, and I think if Andrew had again urged her to quit Thorn-tree she would have done it. But her season of trial was not completed yet, and any further temptation to lay aside her cross was mercifully withheld from her.

She had her quiet talk, with Mrs. Beauchamp first, and afterwards with Andrew; and then he walked home with her through the wood.

How will it be?' he asked before he left her. Shall I come in with you?'

'I hope mother will be asleep,' she said; she was at her worst this afternoon, and she would exhaust herself in a few hours. When she wakes I shall have my chance. That is the time when she needs me

most.'

'Does she never begin again?'

'She never has done yet. She might do so if I were not with her. I put everything out of her way while she is asleep, and then I can do as I please. She will obey me like a child for

A King's Fancies.

the first few hours. It seems very wrong and strange, but I cannot help it.'

'What does?'

For me to rule her in any way, but I must do it. If I could only do it always!'

'If

you

think she is asleep I shall come in with you,' he said. “I ant to speak to Hannah.'

'Will it be wise?'

'I cannot tell, but I am going to do it, dear. like, and either call me, or send Hannah out to me.'

Go in first, if you

Mrs. Newton had, as Miriam expected, worn herself out, and had been coaxed into her room, and soothed to sleep; so Andrew came into the dining-room, and had his interview with Hannah, an interview which the covetous, weak-minded woman never forgot. He was very stern with her, putting her sin before her so plainly, that she was terrified at her own wickedness, and promised most solemnly that nothing should ever again induce her to encourage her mistress in her evil ways.

'I'm sure, sir,' she sobbed, that I didn't mean no harm. You've no idea what she is, and she'd many a time have half-killed me if I'd kept it from her.'

'It has been very hard for you, Hannah; I don't doubt that at all, and I think you have scarcely understood how wrongly you have been acting. Miss Miriam tells me that you are a faithful servant in other things, and now that I have warned you, I hope that you will be equally faithful in this. As for the love of money, root it out of your heart. It is almost as bad as the love of drink; indeed, I am not sure that it is not worse. Remember, when next you are tempted, that the most terrible crime ever committed upon this earth was committed for the sake of a few pieces of silver.'

IT

(To be continued.)

A King's Fancies.

T is recorded of Louis XI. that he had a mighty curiosity' for tame and wild animals. Dogs of all kinds he collected from every part. For a certain mule he sent to Sicily. Naples and the surrounding country was searched for any additions to his stock, and officers were sent to Denmark and Sweden for specimens of the elk. But what is more curious is, that when the animals had been safely brought to France he seemed to take no further interest in them: when they were his own he was amply satisfied, A. R. B,

The Two Crosses.

MIERE was one day, many centuries ago, a crowd assembled in a

Tgreat African city to witness a crucifixion. The man who was

suffering that terrible death was an African general who had once been high in the people's favour, but had now incurred their displeasure. Bomilcar, as he hung upon the cross and saw the crowd gazing up at him, some taunting, some accusing, some insulting, was even in his agony roused to anger, and crying loudly to them, he reproached them for their ingratitude and ill-usage. With such words as these upon his lips he died.

Three hundred years after this a cross was raised on Calvary. He Who was suffering there was One Whom the people had but a few days before received as a king and greeted with shouts of praise. He had lived a spotless life from His very childhood, He had done only deeds of love and righteousness and truth among them, yet the people had shouted, Crucify Him! crucify Him!' and there He hung now upon the

cross.

1 And how did He endure the cross? He uttered no word of reproach; He prayed for His murderers; and, at last, after three hours of silent, patient agony, He died commending His spirit unto God His Father.

The death of Bomilcar the heathen was in his day accounted very grand and brave, and so, if it were not for the death of Christ on the cross of Calvary, it might seem to us still; but from that cross comes to us the Voice of love and forgiveness and patient endurance, 'leaving us an ensample.' E. M. A. F. S.

A

Men of Weight and Doctors of

Divinity.

POOR man, who had joined a new and obscure religious sect, was reproved by a friend for so doing.

"You have joined a poor body of people,' said he; 'why, there is not a man of weight amongst you!'

No men of weight?' said the other, with simplicity; 'why, one of our elders weighs fifteen stone!'

'Ay, yes, but I don't mean that; you have no men of education amongst you-university men—no doctors of divinity.' 'Thank God we have a divinity which needs A. R. B.

'No,' said the other. no doctoring.'