Miriam's Cross.

out of every cranny, doing their best to beautify once more what man had found it needful to deface.

'What a wet day!' she said to herself. 'I need not hope for Miriam's company, or any one else's.'

Her cold had been rather a serious one, and she had lost strength during its course; but what little housework Andrew had left undone she accomplished by degrees, and then settled herself comfortably in her arm-chair, with her work-basket and the previous day's paper. The wind had risen, and the rain was pouring in torrents, so the sound of the gate swinging back was unexpected, and Mrs. Beauchamp rose hastily to open the door, thinking the doctor might possibly have returned earlier than he had intended to do. Her surprise was great when she saw Miriam standing in the little porch, her dress soaked with rain, and with nothing over her head and shoulders but a large gray shawl, which was soaked also.

'My dear child!'

'I'm very wet,' said Miriam, with a laugh that sounded almost hysterical; the trees sheltered me a little, but it is pouring, you see.'

What is the matter?'

'Nothing new,' replied Miriam; and I was in the stable-loft all night. could die!'

only the servants are gone away,

Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, I wish I

Hush, dear, you don't know what you are saying. You are frightened and excited. Sit down quietly, or rather slip your things off by the kitchen fire, and I will bring you some dry ones.

shall tell me all about it.'

Then you

'No, I mustn't stay,' said Miriam; I shall take cold if I wait. I had no one to send, so I came myself to ask you to tell Dr. Beauchamp.' ' About your mother?'

'Yes, it must be told.

Something must be done for her, and I am

helpless. He has been very good to me

She hesitated, and Mrs. Beauchamp whispered, 'I know all about it, dear; he told me.'

The pretty crimson flush rose to Miriam's pale cheeks for a moment, but quickly faded away again.

'It can never be,' she said, pausing as she spoke, as if choosing her words with difficulty: 'not what he wishes; but I think he would help me -without that.'

I am sure he will help you if he can. Would you not rather speak to him yourself?'

'No! oh, no! I could not. knows what she used to be? you think any one has talked

How could I speak of her, when he Do you think he has any idea? Do about it yet?'

Miriam's Cross.

'I have never heard of it except from you. But what about the servants?'

6

She sent them away, all of them but Hannah. We have nothing to do with the farm-servants, you know; but the house-servants are gone, Anne, and Phoebe, and Reuben. I don't know what we are to do, and I have no power at all.'

'Will they talk, do you think?'

That is what I am afraid of. Anne would not, but Reuben and Phoebe might, and it is such a-disgrace!'

'What are you going to do now? What have you been doing?'

She turned us out last night just after it was dark; and we stayed in the loft.'

You and Hannah?'

'Yes. She let Hannah come in this morning, and then I thought I would come here, for' (Miriam's voice dropped to a whisper) I am afraid lest she should kill herself with it, so you must tell Dr. Beauchamp.'

'I will tell him, and he shall come to you.'

'He need not come yet,' said Miriam; the worst is over for this time, but we are never safe. She may begin again any day.'

'Can't you prevent the beginning?'

'No,' said the girl, wearily. I have tried, but you don't know how cunning she is; and she bribes Hannah. It is so dreadful to have to talk of, for she is my mother, and I can't help loving her!'

'We are taught to hate sin, not sinners. dear. Andrew will help you if he can, and him; he is worth trusting, Miriam.'

'I know he is.'

Of course you love her, don't be afraid to talk to

She cried all the way home, poor girl, thinking of the friend who was so well worth trusting, and whose love she would have to put away from her, because of the sin which was blighting her life, and which must not be suffered to touch his. She had never before needed sympathy and affection so sorely as she needed them now, and it was hard to turn from them; how hard, not even Mrs. Beauchamp could imagine.

When Andrew came in at tea-time, wet and tired, his stepmother for the moment felt almost unwilling to tell him of Miriam's trouble. She had said that the worst was over for this time, and yet if the doctor knew what her secret was, he would not rest until he had been to Thorn-tree. But Andrew was an observant man, and had not been in the house ten minutes before he perceived that Mrs. Beauchamp was not easy in her mind.

Miriam's Cross.

'What's the matter-eh, mother?' he inquired.

‘You always find me out,' she said, with a smile. ‘I am troubled about Miriam.'

'This secret that you cannot tell me ?’

'I can tell you now. She came here this morning to bid me tell you.'

́ This morning!'

'Yes, she was wet through, poor child! Andrew, I don't know how to tell you. Loving her as you do, it will hurt you, and yet you must know.'

'Don't keep me in suspense, then. She is not going to marry some one else, is she?'

'No. It is her mother. She drinks, drinks fearfully, until she is mad with it. I cannot tell you all that Miriam has had to bear. She spent last night in the stable-loft."

· Miriam did?'

'Yes.

Mrs. Newton turned her out with Hannah.'

The doctor did not speak. His mother's words were a terrible shock to him.

'Why did you not tell me before?' he said presently.

· She would not let me.'

'Where is she now?'

She is gone home; she would not stay.'

‘I will go to her. No, I could not eat any more, mother. If I bring her back with me will you take care of her?'

'You know I will; but she will not come back with you. She will never leave her mother. I was too sanguine after all, Andrew.'

6

'Hush!' he said. There shall be no "if" now. She shall not be left to suffer in that way. My poor little Miriam !’

The worst was over, as Miriam had said, and Mrs. Newton was perfectly sober that evening; but she was not yet in a condition to receive visitors; and Miriam, half hoping, half fearing that the doctor would come, had persuaded her to go to bed.

You will be well again in the morning,' she said, as she tenderly kissed the unhappy woman whose hand had been raised against her only the day before. I'm going down for a little while, and then I'll come back to you.'

Hannah was downstairs putting the rooms in order; but Miriam did not wish to speak to her, feeling sure in her heart that the servant was not as faithful as she might be. The rain had ceased at last, and though the garden paths were wet she put on her over-shoes and went out. The clouds were breaking down in the west, and a gleam from

Miriam's Cross.

the setting sun shone across the hillside. The pigeons were cooing in the great acacia-tree beyond the house, and somewhere amongst the flower-laden boughs of the old thorns a thrush was singing his evening song. Poor Miriam's heart was very full of sorrow just then, but the ray of sunshine seemed to bring peace with it, and the thrush's note was soothing in its sweetness. She did not hear Andrew open the gate, and started at the sound of his steps upon the path behind her. Her expression, as she turned towards him, the doctor never forgot. Her face said plainly enough, 'You know what I am-a drunkard's daughter. What do you think of me now?'

The laurels on either side of the broad gravel walk screened it from all observers, and Andrew answered the questioning glance by taking the girl into his arms without a single word of inquiry or even of sympathy. And with her head resting on his shoulder Miriam I cried like a little child.

6

'You don't think that would make any difference, do you?' he said, when her sobs began to cease. Miriam, nothing can ever come between us if you love me as I love you, and I have come to-night on purpose to tell you so. If we can make things better for you here, it shall be done; if not, my home is ready for you; and though it is a poor one, you know how welcome you will be there.'

Miriam looked up then, but Andrew did not release her. 'Tell me what I want to know,' he said; 'promise that you will come to me some day.'

6

'Some day, perhaps,' she replied, but not yet; not while mother lives. I couldn't leave her.'

6

'Some day,' he repeated; yes, then I will try to

make up to you for this, Miriam. Now, tell me about it, if you will; then I shall know what to do for you. Only we will go indoors, it is too damp for you to stay out here.'

It seemed to Miriam that she had never actually realised the weight of the burden under which she had been struggling, until she found herself no longer obliged to carry it alone. When Dr. Beauchamp

left her, and she sat down in the solitude of her own room to think over her conversation with him, she wondered how she had lived through the months that were gone without the loving sympathy and counsel which he had so freely given to her. She had begun to feel old and weary before her time. She had really wished, she had almost been tempted to pray, that she might die; but now all was changed for her, and as she knelt beside her bed she thanked God for the love which had come, like the ray of sunshine over the hills, to cheer her in her hour of trouble.

(To be continued.)

THE

Amalfi.

THIRTY miles south of Naples, in a crevice of the rocky coast of beautiful Southern Italy, stands the little village of Amalfi. Groups of fishing-boats anchored along the shore tell the fact that fishing is the main occupation of the inhabitants. The scattered and small white houses, the higher ones peeping curiously from their surrounding groves of lemon-trees, while the lower cast long white reflections on the deep blue sea, tell also that these inhabitants are both humble and few in number. Beyond these modern buildings along the overhanging rocks are old battlemented walls and ruined towers, which speak of an earlier and more extensive Amalfi, and to hear of it in its glory one must shut one's eyes to the present century and open them again in imagination in the ninth. Then, Amalfi was a large maritime republic of 50,000 inhabitants, at the head of Italian commerce and enterprise, and vying, with her beautiful sister, Venice, in her intercourse with the East. 'What ships are from Amalfi?' was the question with which foreign quays resounded, while the gold and silver of its merchants and navigators found a ready market in all parts of the world. Nor were their riches and their enterprise the only things for which the merchants of Amalfi were celebrated. Of their goods they gave to build churches and hospitals in foreign lands, the most celebrated of which latter was that in Palestine, which sent forth a chosen band to join Godfrey and the Crusaders at the siege of Jerusalem.

Amalfi has still another boast, and one to which every modern seaman owes a debt of eternal gratitude. To Flavio Gioga, a citizen of its republic, is due the honour of the invention of the compass, and its introduction into navigation; and through him this pretty little fishingvillage may be ranked as one of the greatest benefactors to mankind.

E. W.

ON

Little Jack.

NE day, while passing along a poor street in Edinburgh which is crossed by the Union Canal, I found that the drawbridge was up. and a coal-boat passing through. Having thus to wait a little, I had leisure to watch a group of persons gathered on the canal bank. They were looking on with interest, while two men with grappling-irons were trying to bring something heavy to the surface of the water. Soon their efforts were successful, and a large dripping bundle was laid on the towing-path.

It was the body of Little Jack,' a boy of eight years, whose pale