Lilian ended her railway journey at the South Western station; and here she easily procured a carriage to take her to the remote corner of the park, where Mr. Brookes' lodge was situated. The sun had touched the horizon when she reached her destination. It was a roomy cottage, standing in a well-kept garden, and surrounded by sylvan scenery of the loveliest description. An old man was stooping down near the gate, busied with his verbenas and picotees, that were the pride and glory of his heart. He raised his head as the carriage approached, and seeing that it stopped at his house, he stepped forth, with all the grace of a gentleman of the old régime, to offer his services to the lady in alighting.

A few words explained who Lilian was, though Mr. Brookes had not been slow to conjecture; but they had not expected their guest till the following day, or even later still.

The carriage dismissed, Lilian stood with Mr. Brookes in the bright flowery garden. She trembled to ask how Alice was: she was living, certainly, for the little casements were flung wide open to the evening air; there was no sign of death about the quiet secluded house; but neither was there any appearance of the invalid herself. The sound of wheels had called no one to the window-no one sat there inhaling the sweet, cool breeze, so refreshing after the sultry heat of the dayno one was gazing at the large red orb slowly sinking westward, between the boles of the ancient forest-trees.

At last she summoned courage. "Mr. Brookes, how is Alice? is she better?"

"Alice is going home," said the old man, sadly, but so calmly, that Lilian did not understand him.

"Going home!" echoed Lilian, in extreme surprise. "I thought for the future she intended residing with you."

Mr. Brookes pointed to the blue cloudless sky above. "Alice is going there!-to her Father's home on high -to the house not made with hands!"

"To one of the 'many mansions,' to the place that is prepared for her," returned Lilian, softly, thinking of the chapter she had read so many times since the morning. "Mr. Brookes, may I go to Alice now?"

66

"Wait a little, dear lady," replied the old gentleman. Bridget! come here, Bridget. Mrs. Hope is come; go gently, and tell Miss Alice."

In five minutes Lilian was standing by Alice's side. She lay on a couch, in a roomy parlour, at the back of the house. The window was completely wreathed with roses and clematis, and opened upon a view of one of the forest glades, a scene of surpassing loveliness. Alice was little altered since Lilian last saw her. She was scarcely thinner, no paler, and her dark brown eyes were lustrous as ever; but she was weaker; the white, attenuated hand could scarcely clasp Lilian's, and her voice was very low; so low, that it needed close proximity to distinguish every word.

"Alice! Alice! oh, Alice!" was all that Lilian could say, as she knelt by her friend's sofa, and kissed the meek, fading face, that was so soon to behold the King in his beauty, in the land that is very far off. "Oh, Alice! I am come back to you once more, wounded bird, that can never, never plume itself for flight again."

like a

"Not for the old flight, perhaps," murmured Alice, "but for the heavenward journey. Lilian, dearest, you will start afresh, will you not?-you will meet me in yonder bright world?"

"If I might, oh! if I only might!" cried Lilian, passionately. And, Alice, my child, my little child, that I neglected; and yet I did love it; indeed I did;

my boy is there; and he will, I fear me, never see his miserable mother again."

"Not so, Lilian, the portals of heaven stand wide open; it needs only that one should present himself in his Master's name. 'There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.'

But it was too late that night to converse further. The agitation of Lilian's arrival had sadly exhausted Alice; and, ere long, Mr. Brookes came to carry her into the adjoining room, which had once been his own sleeping-chamber, but was now given up to the invalid. Bridget, who seemed to be both faithful servant and humble friend, begged Mrs. Hope to leave Alice for the night; and Lilian herself wearied, and still weak, was thankful to find her bed ready, and all things prepared for her repose. And that night she knelt not down to repeat a mere formula, but to beseech Him, who ever waits to revive the spirit of the humble, and the heart of the contrite ones, to bring her out of darkness into His marvellous light, and to lead her into the way of life everlasting. Like a little child, she asked to be taught, to be guided, to be governed!-and the Lord heard, and gave her an answer of peace.

In the morning she awoke refreshed and calmed, and the sun was shining brightly on the dewy flowers, and lighting up the mossy depths of the dark wood. The small household had long been astir, and Lilian, on descending, found breakfast awaiting her; but Alice was not brought to her sofa till nearly noon.

Mr. Brookes was gone on business to Frogmore; Bridget was busy in the kitchen; so Alice and Lilian were left alone to commune with their own hearts, and with each other.

Seen in the full light of day, Lilian perceived how

fragile Alice had become, and she saw, what she had failed to see in the dusky twilight of the preceding evening, an expression on the worn, white face, of such calm, such peace as might have graced the brows of the glorified spirits before the throne. Lilian looked long on the quiet countenance, and she read in its aspect the token of departure. It was even as if the lights from the windows of her Father's house were already shining on the mortal features; as if the yearning spirit beheld some faint glimpses of the glory to be revealed on the other side Jordan.

"Lilian!" said Alice, opening her eyes, and gazing tenderly on her friend, "the world has dealt hardly with you since you and I parted more than two years ago." Lilian could only lay down her work, and weep. "Tell me all," was Alice's request.

She did not

And Lilian told all without reserve. spare herself, though she spared Basil. She told how great had been her pride, her self-will, her neglect of her highest and sweetest duties; how she had lived without God in the world, caring only for the things of time; walking not after the spirit, but after the flesh; how she had sought for happiness; how she had craved peace and content; and how she had failed utterly in her search after all three, till the heavy hand of God was laid upon her, and her child was snatched from her embrace, and her husband estranged-it might be for ever.

"And now," continued Lilian, "now, in my great need and affliction, I have found a ray of hope. I have been reading of that peace which the world giveth not, and, in seeking it, some little of its sweet influence has fallen upon me. Weary and heavy-laden I come to Him, who calls such as I am to hear and follow Him, and be blessed for evermore :-surely He will give me rest."

He

"He giveth rest to the weary," said Alice. will take from you the burden of your sins; He will give you rest, and satisfy the deepest cravings of your soul. He has led me forth by a path that I knew not; He has been with me in hours of pain and weariness; He has long given me rest from vain struggles after health and intercourse with the world; now, He is going to give me the rest that remaineth for the children of God. This poor, shattered frame will lie down in the dust, and sleep there in undisturbed repose till the morning of the resurrection; then it will be clothed anew, changed and fashioned like unto his glorious body. Oh! Lilian, who can tell, who can know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge!"

"Alice, you said well, when long ago you told me there were bitterer things to endure than the body's sickness. Sometimes, lately, I have envied you. I have thought it would be far easier to lie down for years on a couch of pain and weariness, especially when there is the hope of heaven coming every day nearer and nearer, than to live a short life of disappointment in an evil, unsatisfying, mocking world. Oh, Alice! you have been spared much; you have never known what it is to make shipwreck of your most precious things. You have never loved with all the intensity of woman's love, only to have that love flung back upon your heart, as a worthless thing. You have never been misunderstood, wilfully misconstrued, as I have been. You have never been a deserted wife-a childless mother."

"No," returned Alice; "but, Lilian, I will tell you now what no one knows. I have loved truly and well, and I believed that I was loved again. Perhaps I wrongly interpreted words and glances, that seemed to me to speak volumes. I cannot tell, it does not matter now; but my I was laid aside for a

accident came,