6 Miriam's Cross. stepmother, and not more than six or seven years his senior. He was thirty when his father died, and had then been living in Eversleigh about twelve months. Not long afterwards, Mrs. Beauchamp lost the whole of her small fortune through the failure of a railway company, and thankfully agreed to her stepson's proposal that she should come and make home like home' for him. At her suggestion he took the little cottage on the brink of the quarry, and there they had lived peaceably and happily for ten years. Mrs. Beauchamp had had only one child of her own, a girl who died in her father's lifetime, and some real or fancied resemblance to this lost daughter had won for Miriam Newton the second place in the mother's heart. The first place was Andrew's, and he deserved it. He was past forty now, and the silver threads were beginning to shine amongst his hair. Friends asked him sometimes why he did not marry, but he always replied laughingly, that his mother was so good to him that he was afraid to make any change lest it should be for the worse. Mrs. Beauchamp, however, knew that he had chosen his wife long ago, and that when the right time came he would bring her home. 'If she will come,' he always said, when they talked about her; but Mrs. Beauchamp smiled at the 'if,' and went on building castles in the air until Andrew was ready to scold her for her hopefulness. 'You forget how young she is,' he would say, ' and that it may be years before I am anything but a poor, struggling country doctor; and that in the meantime she may have a dozen other suitors, more eligible in every way than I am. You are too sanguine, mother!' 'No, I am not;' and in her heart Mrs. Beauchamp looked upon Miriam Newton even now as a daughter. They were very happy together on that pleasant May evening. The cottage parlour was simply but comfortably furnished, for the doctor had a little workshop at the back of the house, where he was wont to spend his leisure time in the winter; and if his tables and chairs were not quite so elaborately finished as those in the Fairminster shops, they were as well put together, and far more durable. Mrs. Beauchamp's clever fingers had stuffed and covered the two roomy arm-chairs that stood on either side of the hearth; and there was also a little rockingchair, manufactured especially for Miriam, which, in the intervals between her visits, was pushed away into a corner so that no stranger might occupy it. Andrew brought this near to the window when tea was over, but Miriam would not sit down again. 'Mother will want me,' she said; and it is a long walk, so I had better be going home.' She ran upstairs for her hat, and the doctor turned to his stepmother. She had been crying when I came in ?' Miriam's Cross. 'Yes,' replied Mrs. Beauchamp. 'What was the matter?' I can't tell you.' 'Not tell me!' 'She will have no one told, poor child! Oh, Andrew, she needs comfort sorely, but I promised her I would say nothing.' 'All right, mother; you know best.' He looked round for his hat, and when Miriam reached the gate into the wood, he was waiting for her there. He often walked home with her, but to-night she knew tha he was tired, and begged him to let her go alone. No,' he said; 'I want to talk to you.' Miriam trembled. Her secret was a sad one, and she had an intense dislike to the idea of it coming to Andrew's knowledge. So far she had kept it from every one outside Thorn-tree, excepting Mrs. Beauchamp; and the servants on the farm, who could not fail to know it, had hitherto been too faithful to speak of it. Yet Miriam fancied that Andrew did know, or at least that he suspected something. They walked on silently through the wood for some distance. Andrew was a quiet, reserved man, and though he knew very well what he wanted to say to Miriam, he was at loss for words. As for Miriam, the sorrow she had brought with her to Wood End in the afternoon, and which had been for a time almost forgotten, was now rising again in her heart. What might she expect when she reached home? Dr. Beauchamp must not go as far as Thorn-tree with her. Yet how to prevent him doing so poor Miriam did not know. Oh, why had this trial come to spoil her life? She raised her hand to brush the tears from her eyes, forgetting for the moment who was walking by her side. 'Miriam,' said the doctor, abruptly, you were crying this afternoon.' She did not answer. 'You are crying again now,' he continued. with you-eh, child?' 'What is the matter 'I can't tell you,' she replied at length, for he was standing still, and waiting for her to speak; it isn't anything you could help.' 'How do you know? Miriam, I have loved you since you were a little child: I shall never love any one else half so dearly. Won't you trust me?' For two or three minutes she stood looking away into the wood, where the hyacinths spread like a sea of blue amongst the grass; then she turned to him. Dr. Beauchamp, you have been very good to me all my life, and I do trust you, but I couldn't tell you this-indeed I couldn't!' He could see the tears in her eyes, and yet behind them there was The Years are passing by! a light which seemed to assure him that the knowledge of his love had brought comfort with it, though she did not confess it. Well, he had waited a long time, and he could wait a little longer, if he might hope for his reward in the end. 'Does it concern you only?' he asked; because if it does, and if you love me, Miriam, I have a right to know it.' 'But it doesn't,' she said, not lifting her eyes this time. 'I would tell you if I could: some day, I am afraid, I shall be obliged to tell you, but let me keep it to myself a little longer.' 'It can't be that you want money, Miriam? I am not rich, you know, dear, still I have a little stored away Oh, no,' she interrupted, it is not that: I wish it were! It is a far worse trouble. Don't persuade me; please say good-bye and let me go. It is the kindest thing you can do.' Her face had grown pale, and she spoke so imploringly, that the doctor did as she bade him; but turning out of the path into the shadow of the trees, he followed her at a little distance until she was in sight of the village road and her own home. Then he went back to Wood End, and told his mother what had passed. We watch as from an open door Their passage through Time's corridor: Across the grave of buried hopes; The pulse of being slowly beats Through winter's snow, through summer's heats, As we grow old, as we grow old! The years are passing by! The years are passing by! Time's record hath such pages blurred Such sad mistakes mark all life's years, We scarce can read because of tears; We hear dead voices in the halls, We touch some hands on bended knee, We kiss some lips we cannot see. The years are passing by! Humility. The years are passing by! The years are passing by! The years are passing by! American. Humility. N the ancient city of Carthage dwelt a holy man, who was held in much esteem among all the people for his piety and charity, and, up to the time I speak of, he was remarkable for his great humility of demeanour. But Scripture says, 'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.' This man had begun to think a little more highly of himself than he ought, and at the same time to think a little less kindly and considerately of his neighbours. A spirit of vain curiosity. also, had begun to work in him, such as became not the Gospel of Christ. He prayed to God, not to save his soul nor yet to certify him that it was not in a safe state, but he desired to be informed what exact place he should hold in the kingdom of glory. No answer came immediately, and he laid him down to rest; but a little before dawn he was suddenly awakened, and he heard a distinct voice saying to him, Arise, and go out into the principal street of the town, and there the question which thou hast asked shall be answered.' He lost no time, and soon stood at the head of the main street of Carthage. Presently he perceived a figure emerging from a neighbouring street. It was an old man-his cheeks were furrowed, his countenance worn, and his |