Miriam's Cross.

that, in all the world, there was now no one who had a better right to watch over her, or a truer claim to her affection, than he had himself. In spite of his anxiety, therefore, he was happy, and Mrs. Beauchamp rejoiced to see the old brightness returning to his face.

He had taken Miriam from the hospital to the lodgings which she had occupied in the first days of her poverty, at the house of Mrs. Morris. Here, with Anne to nurse her, she remained for several weeks, too feeble to do anything but lie quietly in bed or on the sofa, and too excitable and nervous to bear more than a few minutes' conversation at a time. She never asked for her mother. Her memory seemed to have failed her entirely, and Andrew did not at first regret this. The story which he would have to tell her sooner or later was a painful one, and he scarcely dared to think of the effect it might have upon her.

It was not until the end of June, six weeks after her removal from Harper street, that she began to show anything like satisfactory signs of improvement.

'She's completely wore herself out,' said Anne; 'it'll take all the care we can give her to bring her round again, poor lamb!'

And you really think she's mending?' asked Mrs. Morris, who was almost as devoted as Anne in her attendance upon the invalid.

'The master says so, and he ought to know. If we can but get her safe home she'll soon look like herself. But there's a deal to be done yet, before she'll be even fit to move.'

Andrew had not been able to remain at Westpoint after Miriam was actually out of danger, but he had come over as often as possible to see her, though when he came she could seldom do more than give him a faint smile of welcome and a few gentle words. She never questioned him, or alluded in any way to the past, and this apparent failure of mental power made him at length very uneasy. His friend at the hospital, however, assured him that he need not be troubled by it.

'She has had her mind thoroughly overtaxed,' he said, ‘and but for this illness she might have lost her reason. As it is, Nature is just taking her own course, and as the body recovers its strength the mind will recover also. Don't worry yourself about it, and above all things don't let her fancy that you are anxious. Be as cheerful as you can when you are with her.'

But the hour which Andrew so much dreaded came at last; Miriam's memory seemed suddenly to revive, and she asked him one day with quivering lips,—

'Where is mother?'

In good hands,' replied the doctor; you must not fret about her til you are quite well again.'

'How long have I been ill?'

Nearly eight weeks.'

Miriam's Cross.

'How did it begin? I don't remember anything.'

'You had a fall, and your head was hurt; but don't try to remember.

You are getting on nicely now.'

'Anne has been nursing me all the time, hasn't she?'

'Yes, and Mrs. Morris.'

other

She asked several questions, but did not just then make any inquiry about her mother. Later in the same day, however, when Andrew was again with her, she said,

'When will you let me go home?'

'I will take you home as soon as you are well enough to be moved.' 'What has mother been doing?'

'I have not seen her for some time.'

'I ought to go back to her,' and Miriam moved restlessly upon her couch as she spoke.

'You are not to fret about her, dear; she has not needed you at all.' 'Is some one taking care of her?'

'Yes,' replied Andrew. Although he had gone through this ordeal a hundred times in imagination, and had believed himself prepared for any question that Miriam might ask, now that he was actually face to face with her, and her dark eyes were looking eagerly and trustfully into his own, he found it difficult to answer. Perhaps, after all, he thought it would be better to tell her the whole truth at once than to let her find it out little by little. But how was he to tell her? It seemed cruel to let her drag the story from him by slow and anxious questioning, yet to reveal the truth in one plain sentence would be equally cruel.

Miriam lay still for a few minutes, then she began again,—
Andrew, did you go to see mother?'

'Yes, dear, I did.'

'Has she never been here since I was ill?'

'No, she has been ill herself. She has been very ill, Miriam, almost as ill as you are, only in a different way.'

' And I have not been with her! Oh, Andrew, has she been taken care of? Did you leave her alone?'

'No, she has been well cared for, and she is being cared for still. You need have no more anxiety about her.'

For a moment Miriam's already pale face seemed to grow even whiter, and her lips could scarcely form the words, 'Is she dead?'

'No; she is living safely in a pleasant home for people whose illness is of the same kind as her own. I will take you to see her when you are strong enough, and in the meantime will you trust me to provide for her, and try not to fret about her yourself? You know you have been so ill that you are too weak to think much at present. What you have

The Fellahs of Egypt.

to do is to be quiet and patient, and to enjoy everything as thoroughly as you can. Where do you think I am going to take you next week?' 'You are sure that mother is comfortable and happy?' 'Happier and more comfortable than she has been since you

Thorntree.

left

Then I may rest in peace,' and Miriam closed her eyes and clasped her hands like a little weary child.

'Where do you think I am going to take you?' repeated Andrew. 'Where?'

'Home to Netherstone. Will you come?'

'Yes.'

It was a very faint yes,' but the calm, sweet expression which was stealing over her face told him how gladly she was laying down the cross that she had carried so bravely and so long.

(Concluded in our next.)

IN

The Fellahs of Egypt.

N the whole land of Egypt there are now only two cities, Alexandria and Cairo; yet Egypt was once the grandest country in the world, having as many as two hundred cities; but these have been swept away or covered with the sand of the Desert. If you look at Ezekiel, xiii, you will see the reason for the judgment upon the land.

In these two cities, Alexandria and Cairo, all the principal people of Egypt reside, while in the country districts up the Nile there are no towns and only few villages. There are scattered settlements of peasants, who are called Fellahs, or Fellaheen. The Fellahs, though of the same Arab race and religion as the people of Cairo, are different in other respects. Instead of the turban, the flowing robe, and the gay slippers, which the men of the city wear, we see only a half-clad figure with matted hair and skin blackened by the sun; instead of a veiled lady in a robe of silk, here is a poor woman with naked feet in a dress of woven grass. One thing, however, in common use, is a bracelet. The Fellahs of Upper Egypt are very numerous, and all are very poor; their houses are mud huts, only used to sleep in, as both men and women are in the open air most of the day. Their food consists chiefly of vegetables, which they eat uncooked; such as maize, melons, gourds, beans, lentils, and dates. Meat they seldom taste. There is one luxury, however, which all the men and women manage to get, and that is the long wooden tobacco-pipe, which they are constantly smoking. The poverty of many Fellahs is so great that their children are a burden to them, and cases frequently occur of parents selling their

Walking with God.

children as slaves to escape supporting them. Yet, anxious as these people are to sell their young children, their desire to retain them when they grow up is as great. They need their sons to work for them, but as the army of the Khedive is drawn from the Fellah class many old people have no son at home to support them, for the young men are compelled to become soldiers.

Walking with God.

'And Enoch walked with God.'-GEN. v. 24.

IIAT does it mean, I wonder?'

WHAT

A little maiden said,

As o'er the well-worn volume

She bent her shining head,
And read again the story,
So simply, briefly told,

How mortal with his Maker walked
Once in the days of old.

'I know the Lord Jehovah

Came down to earth one day

And walked in lovely Eden,
As fell the twilight gray;
But sinful Adam walked not
With his dear, gracious Lord,
But fled away and hid himself,
And trembled at His word.

In the sweetest psalm that's written
The singer knows no fear,
Because the heavenly Shepherd,

Who slumbers not, is near;
'Mid pastures green, by waters still,
He finds a present God,
In the Valley of the Shadow
Leans on His staff and rod.

And when the Hebrew children
Walked in the awful glow
Of the seven-times heated furnace,
One walked with them, I know,
Whose form and mien were Godlike,
Whose powers sufficed to keep
Safe as the babe that's cradled
On its mother's breast to sleep.