expounding the shadowy panorama, by no better light.

Three indeed, saw the sun set, and talked of the who never met it here.

morrow,

One, sleeping in his boat-the father of a little family, the support of a bed-ridden mother, industrious, kind-hearted, sober-borne away, dashed, bruised, battered; died piecemeal, far from human help, with a prayer for those at home upon his lips.

Another, a young mother, carried with her baby from under the tottering roof, died in her husband's arms, leaving her helpless first-born to sooth, or aggravate, his despair.

The third, a pitiful, silly, ne'er-do-well, Dickey Glossop by name, suffocated, drunk, in a pool, not half a mile from "The Crichton." Poor Dickey! the water had not harmed him but for the draughts of the "good creature" he had previously imbibed.

Little Philip, listening, watching, twice heard the heavy spray dash against the old church wall, far as it stood inland, heard the heavy groans of the surfbeaten shore, and thought. Its fury spent, appeased by the sacrifices to its might; the tempest lulled, the lightning heralded less frequently the distant thunder, which in a while muttered afar off; the sea sobbed over its victims, as it crept back from the land; and the gusty winds, like lions chained unwillingly, in suppressed roars gave token of strength yet unspent.

Dawn crept timidly up and peeped over the hilltops; then beckoned the Day, which, hurrying in, kissed Nature's tearful face, and gathered her to his breast, and soothed her till she smiled, and her drenched bosom glowed once more beneath his

warmth.

MORNING SUNSHINE.

209

Then, from rocked tree-tops and sheltered eaves, from stony clefts, from beds of reed and mud, or mossy roots: from knotty bark, wild heath, or opening flower-bell, each from his "home" came the firstcreated of the Great Master, and praised Him for the Sunshine and the Life. Even into the desolate heart of the boy, storm-swept as it was, that glorious sunshine came, and almost he repented of the thoughts he had welcomed and entertained. Punishment had visited the cause of all their suffering; yes, the storm was past, and now, now, in the sunshine came a promise-he should find her-oh! he felt it must be so.

He had crept up the steps, shading himself from the fierce lightning. His head resting on the Commandments at the communion, he dozed as day. dawned, worn out by watching and grief; and slept, till, with a loud clang, the bells overhead broke out :

Ring a ding ding dong-Dong dong ding ding dong-Ding a dong, ding a dong-Ring ding a ding ding, ding dong

He sprang up, his hands upon his head. Chiming! pealing!-the knell of yesterday was in his ears, even while he slept. Was it these bells? could it be the same ?-ringing-chiming!-a more merry peal never roused the echoes of Piert's Rest.

Bursting out again! glorying, exulting in their own music! Was he dreaming?

He rushed down the aisle; he would have fled from the sound, but it seemed to come louder―merrier. From the open door he could see that new-made grave-so awful, so real.

The boy burst into tears. Louder rang the bellsNo. 14.

P

false to their echoes of yesterday, which had shared his grief-mockery of mockeries!

Come back, oh troubled sea! onward again with your drift of doubt, and question, and uncertainty,bear him away. The tempest, which has laid waste the bonny vale of Birdiethorn, and made a desert of its much-prized garden, has left the house of Crichton scathless. The bells that tolled yesternight for your mother broken-hearted, ring this bright morning for his pride and pleasure.

See! here they come !—a gay and sparkling group. White vests and snowy garments, fair faces and bright eyes-fair and bright as become the sponsors of the happy little mortal unconsciously irresponsible in their midst.

Foremost Père Crichton; no vest whiter, no face more radiant.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

FIRE.

"In the name of this child, thou dost renounce the pomps and vanities of the world, and all the sinful desires and covetousness thereof, so that thou wilt not follow, nor be led by them?”BAPTISMAL SERVICE.

"I renounce them all."-RICHARD CRICHTON.

WITHOUT a second look at the approaching group, Philip darted from a side door, rushed down the mossy deserted side path, and flung himself upon the wet earth with passionate despair. He shed no tears, as in the past night; the tenderness of his grief was done.

As he rose, the christening party was quitting the church a smiling young godmamma, the proud bearer of the newly-made unconscious little Christian. The happy parents came first, all radiant and glowing with their lightly-sitting responsibilities.

"Goodness me!" cried pretty Mrs. Crichton, as they came down the centre path, and thereby causing a sudden halt in the procession-"look at that poor child, how pale and miserable! And la! it's a grave he's sitting on, a fresh-made grave!" She shuddered on her husband's arm.

"Richard, do speak to him, poor child!" But Richard, moving onwards, seemed in no way inclined to comply. "It's Steyne's boy-sad affair you know, my dear. They were buried yesterday, poor creatures! Nurse can take him a shilling, if you please."

But nurse was at that moment quite in the rear of

the party; and, in the fulness of her motherly sympathies Mrs. Crichton had so pressed forward that they stood within a few steps of Philip, the publican extending his hand with the proffered bounty.

The orphan was aware of his intention ere he had spoken a word, and the well-meant sympathy of the gentle wife was lost upon him, as, with flashing eyes, he started to his feet.

“Don't you offer me your money!" he cried, stamping his foot. "You killed my mother, you did! and my father too. They wouldn't have died but for you. I hate you! I hate your public-houses! I wish they were all burned, I do! If I was a man you wouldn't offer me your money—you should be afraid to come near me. I could kill you!" His boy's voice deepened to a fierce harshness, his pale face flushed, as he looked defiantly into the face of Crichton. The equable publican almost shrank before the childish wrath.

"God forgive you, boy!" said Mrs. Crichton.

"You'd better say forgive him, I think," pursued the orphan, his eyes still fixed upon Crichton. "I had a little sister once, but she's lost, and through him, his public-house, and his drink. Didn't he know all along? My good, beautiful little sister!"-for a moment his voice faltered, but he rallied bravely-" maybe your baby there'll be left some day with no home to go to, and nobody to care for."

"Oh Richard!” cried the young mother, trembling as she clung to him. The "Admirable” made a step towards the lad, as though to lay hold of him; but Philip started back.

"You'd better not touch me !" he cried.

"You are a miserable, sinful boy—a dangerous boy,"