lieve it is to be attributed to Major de Vinton's influence. They say she had learned quite to despise all her old friends, and had no thought but for him."

"Was he a slight, dark, foreign looking man?" Mary asked. "Yes, exactly."

"Oh! now then I remember perfectly," Mary said; "those two were always together in the walking and riding parties that I sometimes met. I observed they were always in advance of the rest, and certainly seemed devoted to each other. When

I have gone into the country to some of the distant cottages, I have met them, and concluded they were out on some pic-nic party, and had wandered far away from the rest."

Mary did not add that she had never passed them without having been subjected to a haughty stare and unrepressed sneer; nor that the gentleman, whose favourite post of observation had been the window of Lady Austen's drawing-room, had ever been the first to draw the attention of his companions to her approach, and lead the laughter as she passed. She sighed to think of that young and noble looking creature trusting her happiness to one who seemed so unworthy, and prayed in her inmost heart that both might be made to know the transforming power of that grace which alone could lead them to reverence the Gospel which they now appeared to despise.

The little party were assembled at breakfast one morning, when a note was brought in, and handed to Mrs. Elton. She glanced over it with a look of extreme surprise, and then read it aloud. It was from Lady Austen, couched in most polite and even beseeching phrase, begging of Mrs. Elton to forget that they were strangers, and to allow Miss Elton to visit her daughter, who was far from well. She added, that from what

she had heard of Miss Elton, she felt assured that no persuasion was needed to induce her to visit one in suffering, who anxiously desired to see her. The note was written in evident agitation-the word confidential hastily scrawled at the close, and underlined. Such a request from the fashionable Lady Austen occasioned great surprise; but Mary's sympathies were at once excited for the sufferer, and her uncle and aunt agreeing that she could not do otherwise than comply with it, she at once left the table to prepare for her visit. Calm and selfpossessed as she was, Mary could not but feel some agitation at this most unexpected summons. She felt it wiser, however, not to dwell for a moment on painful scenes that were past, or to perplex her mind with surmisings of what might be before her. She felt the hand of God was in this thing, and though

THE ENGLISH MONTHLY TRACT SOCIETY, 27, RED LION SQUARE, LONDON.

her busy fancy would try to speculate on how it could have come about, and to picture the scene which might be awaiting her, she endeavoured to still all such misgivings, and to commit herself simply into the hands of Him who would, at the right time, teach her what she was to say. She spent some time in earnest prayer for direction and guidance, and then taking under her shawl the little Bible which was her constant companion, she set out in a spirit of quiet hopefulness and trust. How strange it was to pause at that door which she had so often passed in trembling haste-to feel that her coming was now anxiously looked for in this very house where her appearance had once excited only mockery and derision! She entered, and the next moment was met at the drawing-room door by Lady Austen, who led her in, and, taking her hand, thanked her with even affectionate earnestness for her "great kindness" in coming. Mary expressed her perfect willingness to be of any service in her power, and inquired for the invalid, saying she had not heard before of her illness. An expression of pain and anxiety passed over the mother's face.

"The illness is more mental than physical," she said, “and it is this that makes me so anxious. For the last few days and nights she has implored me to send for you; and feeling that there must be something burdening her mind, I at last ventured to make the request; in fact, she would not be refused, and I know she is now impatiently awaiting you, so I will ask you to come at once to her room.'

Lady Austen led the way, and Mary followed, up the staircase and along the corridor, till they reached the invalid's door.

"I will now leave you," Lady Austen whispered; "Edith wishes to see you quite alone," and showing Mary in, she gently closed the door behind her, and withdrew. The room was darkened, and Mary had only just distinguished the face and form of the sufferer, propped with pillows beneath a crimson canopy, when suddenly from those pale lips issued the most appalling shriek that had ever fallen on her ears. Inexpressibly shocked, Mary stood for a moment overcome with fear and dismay; then seeing that the poor sufferer had clasped her hands over her face in great agitation, she endeavoured to calm her, by drawing nearer and addressing her in tones of gentle sympathy. But she had scarcely begun to speak, when Miss Austen interrupted her in a voice expressive of intense mental anguish, and exclaimed :-"Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive all my treatment of you?" and as Mary was for a moment silent, too much affected to speak, she added, “Oh, you cannot-you can never forgive me!"

Mary took her hand, and assured her of her entire forgiveness, begging that she would not for a moment distress her mind by dwelling on anything that had occurred with regard to her. "I have long prayed for you, dear Miss Austen," she added, feeling that the sufferer's eyes were fixed intently upon her; "prayed earnestly that you too might learn to know the value of those things that are so precious to me-that you too might learn to reverence and love them."

"Have you prayed for me?" she asked; adding, in a lower voice, "then you never prayed for anyone more miserable!"

There was something in the tone of anguish with which these words were spoken, that touched Mary very deeply. She could not speak, but the sufferer felt her silent sympathy, and looking earnestly at her went on speaking.

"My happiness for this world," she said, "is gone for ever. I ventured all, all upon one stake, and it is lost. Oh, it is dreadful to have cared only for one, to the exclusion even of those who once were near and dear-thought only of onelived only for one, and believed, oh, believed so entirely in his truth, and then-then to meet with coldness, cruelty, contempt! It is not a sudden thing; my heart has been breaking slowly, for I felt of late that I was trusting myself on treacherous ground. I knew the blow was coming, but still I hoped on, clinging to past assurances, past promises, and the mockery of devotion that was still offered me-but now it has come, bitterly come, and my heart is crushed and broken. I, that used to be called the proud beauty, feel that the veriest wretch is happier than I. But it was not of this I meant to speak; my sorrow has come upon me, and all the world cannot save me from it; but, Miss Elton, since I have lain here, I have remembered the world to come. I longed for death, but I recollected that after death comes-the judgment. I cannot bear to live-yet I am not fit to die. I must die some day, but the thought fills me with terror. Oh, tell me, you, who are so good and devoted— you, who can brave all for the love of souls, tell me what I am to do!" Mary was deeply moved.

"I know but of one remedy, dear Miss Austen," she said; "but that is an all-powerful one, sufficient even for all your sorrow and anxiety. You know who it is that has said, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give

you rest.'

"Rest, rest," she repeated; "oh, that is indeed what I want; but I am not fit to come to Him. I have lived all my life given up to the world and its pleasures, its empty follies, and its mockery of happiness. Oh, had I served my God with half

the devotion, I should not now be the wreck that I am. But it fills me with horror to think of being wretched, both here and in the world to come. Eternity is a mighty word! Oh, Miss Elton, I look to you to direct me-to tell me how I must begin to serve God.”

Young and timid as she was, Mary Elton was no novice in the task of "ministering to a mind diseased." Well was she acquainted with the blindness of the carnal mind, and its ignorance of its own exceeding sinfulness. She was not one to whisper smooth deceits, and say, "Ye shall not surely die! No; like a faithful physician, she traced the malady to its source, and showed the sufferer wherein her danger lay. She explained to her the lost and ruined state of fallen man, “alienated from the life of God," "dead in sin," "the whole head sick, and the whole heart faint." Could then one sunk in such a state ever recover himself to life and health? Could the slave, "sold under sin," ever free himself from the bonds of so powerful a master? Could the lost and bewildered sheep ever find its way through the tangled wilderness back to the soft green pastures of its fold? No; but love, omnipotent love, had been at work. The ransom had been purchased, and the slave was free-the physician was at hand-the shepherd was in search; helpless, powerless, the sinner had but to accept the mighty salvation achieved for him-but to grasp the hand held forth for his rescue.

Mary saw that her listener hung with wrapt attention on her words, and, taking her Bible, she now read to her the glorious invitation of the gospel, and showed her that acceptance of this, coming simply to Him who has declared himself to be the way, the truth, and the life,"—this must be the first step in commencing a Christian course.

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She then spoke from a full heart of the tenderness of the Saviour's character, of his deep sympathy, of his unutterable love, and she saw that her listener's tears fell fast.

"Will you pray?" she said, in a whisper; and kneeling by her side, Mary prayed with the simplicity and earnestness of a child, that her friend might be led to the feet of Jesus, and receive from him all that her suffering spirit needed, to guide, to animate, and to sustain.

So much time had now elapsed that Mary feared to tire the invalid by remaining longer; but before taking leave she placed her Bible in Miss Austen's hand, and showed her many chapters and passages from which the oil of joy had been poured into her own soul. She gave her the book, and left her, feeling that she was now directed to, and seeking for, One who could

abundantly supply all her need. Need we say that her prayers were deep and earnest, that this poor weary one might find rest in Jesus; that the bruised tendrils of this suffering heart might be raised from the dust, and drink in new life from the True Vine.

She hoped to see much more of one who had so greatly interested her, and the next morning called again; but to her great regret learned that Miss Austen had become much worse, and was too ill to see any one. Day after day the same answer was given. The illness became dangerous, and none but her mother and the doctors were permitted to approach the sufferer. At length there came a change for the better, but perfect quiet was enjoined; and then entire change of air and scene. This was effected so quickly, that Mary was quite unaware of their intention, and was dismayed on hearing one morning that the family had left for the continent. Soon after the house was given up, and Mary scarcely expected ever again to hear of her. But in her prayers she was not forgotten, and it was Mary's earnest and cherished hope, that in the solemn day, when they should meet before the great white throne, she who had once been a scoffer might be found to have "washed her robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."

Years passed on, and Mary one day hearing some friends conversing about a lady, whom they spoke of as a person of devoted piety, who was endeavouring to promote the spiritual welfare of all around her, she was much interested in the description, and inquired her name.

"Miss Austen," was the reply; "Edith Austen."

Mary's feelings may be imagined, not described. It was one of those bright glimpses which from time to time gladdened her with joy inexpressible, and encouraged her still more entirely to spend and be spent in the glorious service of her Redeemer.

Reader! are you among those who scoff at serious religion? If you despise it now, remember, the time will come when you will be forced to reverence it. There are those who "believe and tremble" in hopeless despair. There will be no sneering at the hour of death, no laughing at the day of judgment, no scoffing in the prospect of a dreadful eternity.

The Bible may now be neglected, warnings may be ridiculed, and the people of God despised, but the hour will come which will force on every heart the deep conviction, that vital godliness is the "one thing needful.”

J. F. SHAW, BOOKSELLER, SOUTHAMPTON ROW, W. C., AND
PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C., LONDON.

London: J. & W. RIDER, Printers, 14, Bartholomew Close, E. C.