"Rest comes at length, though life be long and dreary, The day must dawn, and darksome night be past, All journeys end in welcomes to the weary,

And Heaven, the heart's true home, will come at last.

"Cheer up, my soul, faith's moonbeams softly glitter, Upon the breast of life's most troubled sea,

And it will cheer thy drooping heart to listen

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To these brave songs which angels sing for thee.

'Angels sing on, your faithful watches keeping,

Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above, While we toil on and sooth ourselves with weeping, Till life's long night shall break in endless love."

"Till life's long night shall break in endless love," she repeated softly. "How sweet, dear Cuthbert, is it not? You have no doubt now, dearest, have you?"

He had read to her frequently of late, and I felt assured that a great and blessed change had begun in his heart, ever since that terrible day; perhaps even before.

He waited some little while before he answered her. Then he said, "My dearest, if our Heavenly Father is all good, all merciful, as you say, why is it that He has thus struck down, with so cruel a blow, one so young, so sinless, in the midst of life and health? Oh! Lotty, why are these things so? I do try to believe, that what is, is best, but it does seem so hard."

She drew him closer to her, and whispered, "The cup that my Father giveth me, shall I not drink it? pure and sinless none are. Oh, my

Cuthbert, God's ways are not as our ways. Far bitterer was the cup of which our blessed Lord drank even to the very dregs, for our sakes, and shall we repine or murmur at any thing He sees fit to send to us? rather let us say earnestly and humbly Thy will be done,'" and she clasped

both his hands together in her own, raising them towards Heaven.

Noiselessly I left the room. No intrusion ought there to be upon moments so precious, so sacred, and probably to be so few! That sweet sufferer was leading her beloved one gently to the feet of her Saviour. True, indeed, that God's ways are not as our ways, and, in the midst of an overwhelming sorrow, I felt comforted, for something told me that consolation and support through prayer would come to my Cuthbert in the hour of his utmost need, that an entire change of feeling would come at last.

CHAPTER XVI.

EBBING AWAY.

DR. T― had been obliged latterly to relinquish in a great measure his attendance on my brother's patients, though he helped him whenever he had time, so that Cuthbert was now necessitated to leave Lotty for some hours every day. I also had many things to attend to at home, our house generally being the one applied to by the poor for soup, gruel, and the like, which require the eye of a mistress if they are to have such things prepared as they ought to be, but as the dear girl was suffering less pain, and her mother usually sat with her knitting or a book in her hand (neither perhaps looked at), and Henry too, who was her constant companion, and who would willingly never have quitted her side, we could venture to be away with less uneasiness.

It was on a Sunday morning, many weeks after the fatal picnic, that we had (as it was our constant custom now) gone up to Emerald

Bank before church, when we met Maud Sullivan on the stairs.

"Oh, I am glad you are come," she said, "Miss Wilson has asked for you several times, and she seems very much weaker this morning, I fear."

"Can I go in," said Cuthbert ?

"Oh yes, Sir, she has taken a little breakfast, and I have made her as comfortable as I can. It is too early to take her up yet."

We entered her room. She lay with her eyes closed, her dark tresses parted on her brow, with her hands folded on her breast, and her face pale and still as a marble statue.

We both shuddered--it was, indeed, death in life, or like some sweet saint prepared for the burial. Mrs. Wilson was sitting, silently regarding her on the further side of the bed, in the deep mourning dress she always wore, and scarcely seemed to notice our entrance, while Harry was leaning against the window, looking out, but evidently unconscious of ought his eyes were resting on. As we softly approached the bed, Lotty opened her eyes, and tried to extend her hand to us, but seemed scarcely equal to the task, and as Harry turned round, we could not but see the tears wet upon his cheek. We knelt down by her, while Cuthbert took the transparent

little hands in his own, pressing them gently and fondly to his heart.

"Your poor little Lotty is not quite so well to-day, dearest," she whispered, "but I wanted you to come. I was so afraid you might not go to church. You must go, my own, to pray for poor me to pray that I may be spared from worse sufferings-that I may be permitted to pass away gently to my rest, and be quite ready to go when my Master calls me Oh, my Cuthbert, do not weep so-it is the saddest thing I have to bear-poor, poor mamma, and Henry too, and you, my kind, darling Maggie, you must not grieve so for me-for me, who will so soon be released from all earthly pain. Oh, do not break my heart, my loving ones. Think not of me, as

I lie here, all crushed and broken, like one of the frailest flowers of the garden, but as a bright and happy angel, freed from all the trials and sorrows of earth, and safe for ever, and for ever, in my Saviour's bosom! My own Cuthbert, go to God's holy temple, and pray that we may meet again in that beautiful world of spirits, where sorrow and separation no more can come. Do not pray for me to remain longer on earth, where health and strength I can never know again, but only that my bodily suffering may be brief--that my death may not be a painful one.

My