Chapter XXII: Part II

Thursday afternoon arrived. Frank, Jane, and little Harry, went down to the station to meet Sarah Lane; whilst Emma stayed at home in the puffy new muslin, preparing tea and making ready for her sister-in-law’s reception. She was in high good humour; for Frank before setting off had praised her pretty face, and observed, ‘Poor Sally won’t look like that, I fancy, when she comes home again.’

She came. Just the old stately grace and fine features, but none of the old bloom; her eyes were dim and sunken, her cheeks hollow; instead of bright colours she wore widow’s weeds. She came back to the familiar home, the fond warm-hearted brother, the sister-in-law who had never loved her; only the dear old man was wanting, whose grey hairs she had brought down with sorrow to the grave.

Frank kissed his sister when she crossed the threshold, but could not utter one word of welcome, struck dumb by her changed face: it was Emma, who, really touched, came forward and welcomed her cordially. Not much was said that evening. Sarah held little Henry—so like his grandfather—on her lap till he fell fast asleep there, and Frank carried him upstairs for Jane to put to bed. Then Sarah, left alone with her sister-in-law, rose, and holding out her hand, ‘Emma, I promised John to ask your pardon for the ill-will there had been between us, and I do ask it. Please God, I shall not stand in your way any more to vex you, nor eat the bread of idleness for long. Good-night.’ To judge by her wasted form and frequent hacking cough, she would not for long eat the bread of men at all.

The next day, and the next, Sarah went amongst her neighbours seeking for needlework, but without success. Many old friends greeted her coldly, for Henry Hardiman’s death was generally laid at her door. Some promised to employ her, but had no work just then. She called at several houses from which she used to receive orders, but her richer customers had not yet left London for the sea-side: she trudged to Halton, and found that the young lady who employed her there had married long ago, and gone away to the Lake country.

Poor Sarah! she was a widow indeed, and desolate, trusting in God.

On Sunday morning, before setting out for chapel, she said, ‘Don’t wait dinner for me, as I dare say I shan’t be back much before tea-time.’ Emma tossed her head in its flowered crape bonnet, and wondered to Frank ‘which of her Methodist friends will give her a dinner?’

Sarah Lane sat down to no dinner that day; but when she felt pretty certain that the congregation must have dispersed from St. Clement’s, she went into the churchyard and sat down on her father’s grave. There, motionless, silent, past crying, she remained for hours. Will, mental powers, life itself, seemed at a standstill; whilst, as if of their own accord, old days came back before her eyes. She remembered toddling along, helped by the unwearied finger; being rowed out to sea in pleasant weather, till, grown tired, she nestled to sleep under the rough great-coat; changing once a-week from lessons and school discipline to snug home; walking hand in hand to church. She remembered being installed mistress of the cottage; altering, renewing, embellishing, just as she pleased; being fondled, cared for, scarcely allowed to work for him to toiled night and day for her; continuing first and dearest even after Frank brought a wife to live with them. She remembered the new love that hardened her against the old; the tacit deceit; the short parting, with its blessing, grave and sorrowful; the long, long parting, with its patient, unvaried, ‘Maybe, maybe, sally.’ Over and over again her eyes mechanically read,—

‘HENRY HARDIMAN, AGED 55. Affliction sore long time he bore, Physicians were in vain, Till God did please his soul release, And ease him of his pain.’

She did not perceive that these lines are doggrel; she only felt that they were true. Her baby, her dear John,—their loss seemed light while she sat by her dead father whom she had killed, and heard his feeble voice saying in her ears, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’

‘My!’ cried Emma, when, as the kettle sang on the fire, and Jane knelt on the hearth toasting huge slices for tea, Sarah crept into the cottage with a few daisies and blades of grass in her hand: ‘you startled me just like a ghost, and I declare you’re as white as one.’

It cost Sarah’s pride a severe struggle before she could bring herself to apply for work to Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife: she feared some harsh word might be dropped concerning her own conduct years ago; and John blamed for what, as she persisted in saying, she led him into. But not employment offered elsewhere; and the words of Holy Scripture, ‘If any would not work, neither should he eat,’ kept goading her; till one afternoon, by a great effort, she set off towards the curate’s old-fashioned house in the Croft. A strange servant opened the door, and perceiving a decent-looking widow, led her straight into the sitting-room. Mrs. Grey heard some one enter, but not catching the name, looked up from her writing, and seeing as she supposed a stranger, rose and inquired civilly to whom she had the pleasure of speaking.

‘You don’t recollect me, ma’am,’ began Sarah; but at the sound of that familiar voice Mrs. Grey started forward, and cordially pressing her hand, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sarah Hardiman—Mrs. Lane—how glad I am to see you! I heard you were come home, and thought it would not be long before you paid me a visit. Sit down, and let me help you off with your bonnet and shawl; for now that you are here I shall not let you go so easily.’

This kindness quite overcame the poor widow. A great flow of tears relieved her; and when Mrs. Grey spoke soothing words, she answered, ‘Let be, ma’am, let be: it’s the first time since I buried John, and it does me good.’

So the curate’s wife, who had known her from a baby, seated herself by her; and drawing the bowed-down head to her bosom, let her sob there; not attempting to check her grief, but only whispering that she understood the lightest part of it, having lost her own youngest boy five months ago. When the sobs grew less choking, she poured out a glass of wine and made her eat some cake—little guessing how sorely her guest stood in need of food; since Sarah grudged herself every morsel she ate whilst she earned nothing and was a burden to Frank and Emma.

At length the purpose of her visit was told: ‘I came to ask,’ said Sarah, ‘whether you would give me some needlework. I have been trying ever since I came back to find employment, and no one wants my services. Will you let me work for you?’

Mrs. Grey replied directly, ‘I have plenty of things to make just now, and you shall have them all if you like to begin to-morrow.’ Then, remembering that in days of yore there was not much cordiality between the sisters-in-law, she added, ‘If you don’t mind, I should prefer your not taking them home, at least not at first, but working here with me. Perhaps some day it may comfort you to tell me about your troubles: you don’t know how often I thought of you and felt for you whilst you were away.’

Just then little Jane Hardiman, whose course of study had undergone temporary suspension on account of the extra bustle at home, came in for her hour’s lesson. Sarah rose to go; but Mrs. Grey begged her to sit down if she was not in a hurry, and wait till her niece was ready to walk home with her. Then business commenced.

The addition sum was produced, worked at last without one blunder; the blotted B elicited a mild rebuke; a flower-pot added to the sampler was inspected and approved. Next Jane, who had, in preparation, read it over by herself, was questions on the parable of the lost sheep (Luke, xv. 4).

‘Where was the shepherd pasturing his flock?’

‘In the wilderness.’

‘What is a wilderness?’

‘A barren place, without houses, or trees, or grass, or water.’

‘But what then were the sheep to eat?’

Some moments spent in thought. ‘Did they have manna, ma’am?’

‘No, I do not suppose they had manna. In a wilderness there are certain spots where water springs out of the ground; and round about this water or fountain the ground is fertile, fruit-bearing and other shady trees grow, and grass springs up. I recollect once reading of a traveller who found a single most beautiful lily blooming by such a fountain. Doubtless the good shepherd fed his flock on a fruitful spot of the wilderness, as the Psalm says,—“He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort” How many sheep were there?’

‘A hundred.’

‘Who took care of them?’

‘Their shepherd.’

‘Did the shepherd fall asleep at night and let the wolf come and catch them?’

‘No.’

‘No, certainly. He kept watch over his flock by night: if he saw a roaring lion or a great heavy bear coming to tear them, he rose and killed it or drove it away. Well, ninety-nine sheep followed him wherever he went: but what did one do?’

‘It got away.’

‘Where did it go?’

‘Did it go into the other part of the wilderness?’

‘Yes; quite away from the grass and water, where there was nothing but sand. It couldn’t eat sand or drink sand, could it?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘So it must have died very soon of hunger and thirst, even if no wild beast had devoured it. Did it die?’

‘No; because the shepherd went and fetched it.’

‘And when he found it, did he drive it before him, striking it and using angry words?’

‘No; he laid it on his shoulders rejoicing, and all his neighbours rejoiced with him when it came safely back.’

‘Very well. But this is not merely a beautiful tale about a shepherd and his flock; it is one of the sacred parables spoken by our blessed Saviour. What do I mean by a parable?’ asked Mrs. Grey.

A long pause: at last,—‘Stories that tell about other things.’

‘Really that will not do for an explanation,’ said the teacher; ‘because, though I understand what you mean, a person who knew nothing what a parable is would be none the wiser. Perhaps your aunt will kindly help us.’ Then, turning to her, ‘Mrs. Lane, will you inform your niece what a parable is?’

Sarah, who, as we know, had been well taught in her childhood, and who had greatly increased her religious knowledge during the years of her married life, replied readily, ‘A spoken emblem; just as holly in a window tells us of Christmas.’

‘Thank you, yes; or as the cross brings before our eyes Him Who hung thereon. And since all our blessed Saviour’s parables teach us something concerning God, or heaven, or our own duty, we must spare no pains to understand them. Now then, Jane, tell me the hidden meaning of this parable of the lost sheep. The shepherd is—?’

‘Jesus Christ, who calls Himself the Good Shepherd’ (John, x. 11).

‘The flock are—?’

‘Every one.’

‘Not every one. He has “other sheep” (John, x. 16). The wilderness where they lived is this world. What was the fruitful spot where he pastured them?’

No answer. ‘It is the Church,’ continued Mrs. Grey; ‘the fold or pen if we speak under an emblem, the Church if we speak plainly. So this flock is not all people, but—?’

‘Christian people.’

‘Yes; in those days every one who was a Christian at all belonged to the fold, or Church. What, then, did the sheep do who went wandering away?’

‘It committed a sin.’

‘And if the good shepherd had not gone to seek and to save that which was lost, what must have happened to it?’

‘It must have died,’ answered Jane, earnestly. ‘But he went and looked about for it, and brought it back, and called all his friends and neighbours to rejoice with him.’

‘Quite right. A verse which follows tells us who the friends and neighbours are: which verse is that?’

The child considered a moment, and then repeated, ‘I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance’ (Luke, xv. 7).

‘Or,’ resumed the teacher, ‘it is explained still more clearly at the end of the next parable (ver. 10): “Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.”’

Now Mrs. Grey, much as she loved Sarah Lane, and admired her many good qualities, could not doubt that she fell into grievous error when she turned her back on the church of her baptism, and followed ever so dear a person into schism; neither could she judge how eager the widow might be to lead her family after her. Therefore she added, trying not to look conscious,—

‘This sheep by sin wandered, as it supposed, quite away from its kind shepherd’s eye and care; but if, instead of going far, it had just crept through the paling and sat down outside the fold, and when its master called it back, had answered, “Master, I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest: but the grass outside the fold is more nourishing than that which grows inside, and the sheep whom I lived with there do not love and follow thee as entirely as I wish to do,”—would its master have been pleased with it?’

‘Oh no!’

‘Yet this, Jane, is just what many people do now. They fancy they can find better food for their souls out of the Church than in it, and so join the Dissenters; refusing to return, though they see written in the Bible that God added to the Church daily such as should be saved. That will do for the present: next time we will talk about the parable of the lost piece of money.’

Then Jane drew from her basket a large bunch of rose-coloured seaweed, the dock-leaved fucus, neatly smoothed on white cardboard, and said timidly, ‘Please, ma’am, father desires his respects; and will you accept this, as you seem to fancy such things? It came up in the net last week, and he says he never found such a handsome piece of the sort before.’

Mrs. Grey looked delighted: ‘Oh, how lovely! I have nothing like it. Do thank your father very much for his kind present, and tell him it will be the beauty of my collection.’

So day by day Sarah Lane went to the Croft; and when it was not convenient for her to sit with Mrs. Grey, took her needlework up into the nursery: for nurse, as her mistress knew, was a good steady person, much more likely to lead the young widow right than to be led wrong by her. Or sometimes she carried her work home, because Emma complained of being left always alone. Or sometimes, if the day was fine, and the material one that could not fade, she sat amongst the Pier Rocks sewing, much as she had sat years ago watching for her father’s boat.

Native air, bracing sea-breezes, a mind at rest as to the supply of daily bread,—under the influence of these blessings her health rallied, her wasted figure became plumper, and her step more elastic. By little and little, old friends warmed towards her, and old customers came back; soon she had as many orders as she could execute.

Mrs. Grey remarked, ‘Why, Sarah, you’re growing quite stout and rosy: I do believe, after all, you may get as strong and live as long as any of us.’

The widow turned a little pale, but answered cheerfully, ‘Please God, ma’am, I shall, if it is His will.’ Only the cough continued, hack, hack, and scarcely seemed to get better.

One day the curate’s wife came into her nursery, carrying a basin full of whitish jelly. ‘Do try this for your cough, Mrs. Lane,’ said she; ‘and if it does you good, I will tell you how to make some more.’ Sarah tried it: the taste was rather pleasant, and in a day or two that extreme irritation at her chest abated. Then she learned that this soothing jelly was made by boiling down a whitish seaweed (the carrageen, or Irish Moss), which washes up in abundance on the Hastings coast, and adding a little sugar and lemon-juice to render it palatable.

Jane and Harry, when they walked on the shingle, used to fill their baskets with white weed for poor sick Aunt Sarah. Sometimes Harry got lazy, and would not take any pains to find the carageen moss; but conscientious Jane looked carefully for it, and seldom failed to collect a little store, which was dried in the sun, and then laid by against cold wet weather, when she might not be able to go out seeking it. Her kind teacher had once made her learn the text, ‘Whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink in My name, because ye belong to Christ, verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward’ (Mark, ix. 41); explaining that any act of kindness done to any person for the sake of pleasing our Lord Jesus Christ, will be remembered by Him and rewarded at the last day. This it was which made Jane so diligent; and often, when she felt inclined for a run in the lane and green fields to gather hyacinths, or pink lychnis, or bunches or fiery poppies, she coaxed Harry to come down on the shingle instead, and look for pretty stone and shells and star- fishes, whilst she picked up seaweed.

One certain Wednesday morning symptoms of extraordinary bustle became evident in the snug cottage on the Tackle Way. To judge by appearances, a birth, marriage, or death at the least, must have been impending: no, it was only Emma Hardiman’s quarterly cleaning-day, which, having come round, occasioned such commotion. Frank was packed off from a quick breakfast to his fishing; Sarah received a broad hint that the sooner she vacated the sitting-room the better it would be; Harry was sent into the garden with his knife and bits of wood; and Jane was bid ‘put away her nonsense [a prize picture-book received only the day previously for good conduct], and turn her hand to something useful.’

Now, as Emma on cleaning-days was fretted and snappish, Sarah pitied the poor child; so instead of starting for the Croft, she said to her sister-in-law, ‘Indeed, I would rather not stir out to-day, or do needlework either; only that dress ought to go back at once to Ecclesbourne, as Mrs. Bright said she wanted it in a hurry. Will you let the children carry it home for me? They can take their dinner with them, and keep out of our way all day, whilst I remain to help you. We shall get through the work twice as fast, and do it twice as well. Don’t you remember the hand that I am at scrubbing and tidying?’

So the dress was neatly pinned up in a handkerchief for Jane to carry, and a basket stocked with two hunches of bread and two blocks of cold bacon was given to little Henry. Sarah sent also the bill, and showed Jane where to sign her name when she took the money; for Mrs. Bright liked to pay at once for whatever she had.

It was a fine warm morning when the children started along the East Cliff towards Ecclesbourne, trudging amongst all sort of pleasant sight, sounds, and smells. There was the scent of a hayfield, the sweetness of dog-roses and honeysuckle, and fragrance of thyme beneath their feet; there were chirpings in the hedges, scattered skylarks in the air, a murmur of waves; there was blue sky above their heads, bright living green and golden sunshine around them, glittering sea far down below the cliff, flowers in the grass and about the hedges, butterflies here, there, and everywhere.

Cap in hand, shouting and jumping, away ran Harry after the butterflies; whilst elder Jane, precious parcel in hand, plodded steadily forward, sometimes calling her truant brother, sometimes waiting for him to come up with her. This walk over the glorious East Hill was doubly delightful after those many strolls along the shingle.

Mrs. Bright lived in a pretty house that stood in its own neat garden. The children felt quite shy as they opened the wicket-gate and proceeded soberly along the gravel walk up to the house-door. Perhaps Mrs. Bright would see them out of window, and wonder what they wanted. Harry got behind Jane, and looked as if he had never run in his life, much less after a butterfly; Jane put the best face she could on the matter, and rang the bell.

But when a maid-servant, having opened the door and asked their business, showed them into the parlour, Mrs. Bright’s goof-natured smile and manner gave them courage. She had spied them as they came along the garden—not treading on the borders or meddling with the flowers,—and wondered in her own mind who that neat little girl and boy might be. When she found they were Mrs. Lane’s niece and nephew come with her new dress, saw Jane write her name steadily at the foot of the bill, and noticed her civil ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ and curtsey, she was quite pleased, and showed them several pretty things. First of all, they watched a large white cockatoo crack a nut, and heard him say, ‘Pretty Poll,’ and ‘Pretty cockatoo;’ next they saw a glass bowl full of water, in which swam golf and silver fishes, much handsomer than those their father brought ashore in his boat. Mrs. Bright showed them some coloured pictures—amongst which Jane recognised the good shepherd seeking his lost sheep—in a handsome old clasped Bible, and gave a story-book to the girl, but shook her head when she heard the boy could not say his letters. Then, handing each of the children a cup of milk, which they drank at once, and a hunch of sweet cake to serve as pudding after their bread and bacon, she sent them away very well pleased.

Down the steep cliff steps they scrambled to the rocky beach below, to sit on a huge stone which was hollowed ‘something,’ as Harry said, ‘like father’s arm-chair,’ and eat their dinner. By this time the beauty of the day was gone; clouds which in the early morning had been ranged along the horizon were spread over a great portion of the sky, and the air felt much cooler. The children, however, were hungry and happy enough not to notice these changes, but held their feast with great glee. Then they had a long game at hide-and-seek in and out amongst the rocky fragments, Jane hunting for Harry, and tickling him well when she found him. At last she proposed setting off homewards; but Harry by this time was tired and sleepy, so she sat down in the ‘arm-chair’ with his curly head in her lap, and soon both the little ones were fast asleep.

When Jane woke it was with a start, and a loud sound roaring in her ears. She felt chilled and cramped, but could not at first remember where she was; when she did remember, she shook up Harry in a great fright, and bade him keep fast hold of her hand and come straight back to the cliff path. During their sleep a thick brown fog had risen from the ground like smoke; it hid the cliff, and even the rocks and shingle at a very few yards’ distance: only Jane could make out the sea distinctly, because the tide was rising; waves were foaming, breaking, roaring, close at hand amongst the huge stones; not a moment must be lost in escaping for their lives.

They scrambled as fast as they could from the terrible advancing sea; but that was slowly, for the fog thickened and thickened, and many a fall they got slipping on the slimy tangle. Hand in hand they kept on stoutly, but in the darkness turned to one side, being quite unable to make out the cliff. Suddenly a shower of foam fell on them. Harry stood stock-still, hiding his face against his sister, and trembling all over; he did not cry or utter a word, but he could not move one step further. ‘Come on, dear,’ said Jane, trying not to seem frightened; ‘perhaps we shall see the steps directly.’ But Harry could not stir; he clung to his sister, utterly unable to move a foot forward. Louder and louder the tumult, thicker and thicker the foam, closer and closer came the strong, broken, irresistible sweep of the sea.

Jane felt ready to sit down and cry; but she remembered the Good Shepherd seeking His lost sheep, and in her heart prayed Him now to seek and save His little lambs. Next—there was no help for it—she caught up Harry in her arms, and stumbled as well as she could guess towards the cliff.

At last they dimly discerned it, not so high as at the spot where they descended, stretching sheer, rugged, upwards; but no trace of steps was on its precipitous face. This was a different point of the East Hill, and at high tide the sea dashed against its foot.

A little above the ground a narrow shelf jutted out of the rock. This they succeeded in gaining, but further ascent was impossible. Jane made Harry kneel by her side, and together they repeated the Lord’s Prayer in small, sad voices: then, sitting down, she took her brother on her lap, and, rocking backwards and forwards, tried to sing him to sleep before the dreadful death came; praying in her heart all the while as well as she was able; not even starting, lest she should wake the little one, when the first cold touch of water reached her feet.

But it was not God’s will that the waterflood should drown them, and the deep swallow them up; at that very moment lights flashed above their heads, and loud shouts reached them. Jane screamed in answer, bidding Harry scream too, lest they should not be heard; and scream he did with all his might. Then a man secured to a stout rope was swung over the cliff by his companions, and took both children in his strong arms; then all three were drawn up into safety, just as a foaming wave swept over the rocky shelf.

‘O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men!’

Next Sunday morning—

‘Frank Hardiman and his family desire to return thank to Almighty God for great mercies received,’—gave out Mr. Grey, before reading the ‘General Thanksgiving;’ at which announcement half the congregation turned their heads in one direction.

There knelt Frank, his handsome, sunburnt face full of emotion: on his right hand was Emma, one his left Jane, holding Harry almost as tightly as when they clung together on the terrible rock. But who could that be with bowed head, kneeling next to the boy, and sobbing in her prayers? There was no mistaking the close widow’s bonnet and heavy black dress, though the patient widowed face remained hidden; once more Sarah Lane was kneeling where so often she had knelt by her father’s side: if that day her sweet voice could not be heard joining in the hymns, doubtless in her heart she praised God.

Jane had said, ‘Please do come, Aunt Sarah;’ so she yielded to one longing of her divided heart, and worshipped once more in the familiar holy house; yet the next Sunday found her again amongst the Methodists. ‘John,’ she pleaded, ‘seemed upbraiding me all through the service for deserting him in his cold grave.’

‘Oh, Mrs. Grey,’ she said earnestly, ‘he may have been right or wrong, I can’t tell; but it’s not for me to sit in judgment on him who loved Christ and spent himself to save souls. I led him into sin, but he led me to repentance: if I’m patient, he showed me first the way; and if I’m humble, he prayed without ceasing that I might become so.’

‘God forbid,’ replied Mrs. Grey, tenderly, ‘that either you or myself should sit in judgment on any man, least of all one who loved our blessed Lord, and laboured to do Him service. This I know’—and the wife coloured—‘your husband taught my husband a living lesson of boldness, self-denial, and trampling false shame under foot. Often when I see him earnest in the pulpit, or zealous in his schools, or energetic amongst his poor, I remember John Lane, and thank God for his example. Do not let us dwell on the worn, suffering body, at rest now in its dust; let us lift our minds towards the free soul, resting, we both hope, in Paradise. Oh, dear Sarah, if he now sees that there was a more excellent way than he himself trod, can you imagine he would grudge you the knowledge of it? Would he not rather say, “Be very jealous for the unity of Christ’s fold, even whilst you open a wide heart of love to all who love the Lord Jesus?” It is not my part of exhort you; only recollect, if ever you allow my husband to teach you anything which you need to learn, he will but be repaying to you some part of all he owes John Lane.’

From that day forward one great barrier between the widow and the Church was removed: she no longer fancied that Church people were criticising and branding her dead John; she no longer felt as if, by continuing a Methodist, she stood by one whose excellences were unappreciated, and whose errors, if such she admitted them to have been, were triumphantly condemned. Often before this, when she sat at work listening to the earnest, simple words in which Mrs. Grey expounded parable or miracle to Jane, and drew out its lesson of mercy or warning,—sometimes dwelling on the holiness without which no man shall see the Lord, sometimes on the yearning Divine compassion which sought and saved that which was lost, sometimes on the many mansions, sometimes on the one fold under one Shepherd,—conscience had spoken, now at length she listened to its voice only to answer, ‘Speak, Lord; for Thy servant heareth.’

‘Line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little, and there a little:’ so the message was revealed to her as she was able to receive it. First she opened to her tried friend the curate’s wife, stating her difficulties, willing, if it might be, to have them removed; next she took courage, spoke to Mr. Grey himself, and found in him a patient listener, a faithful guide, and one who felt and professed deep obligation to John Lane.

Back from meeting-house to church, through church up to the blessed Sacrament of the Altar, the grace of God led her.

Another five years of patient progress passed away, let us take a parting glance at Sarah Lane.

Sarah Lane still? Yes, though faithful John Archer tried once and again to win a kind answer. She continues to wear black for her dear husband’s sake, and at least once in the year journeys up to London to see and tend his grave. Though she cannot preach on the highways, his example stirs her up to energy in the Sunday-school, and tenderness in visiting sufferers. Many a time has she stinted her own meal to feed the hungry; many a time has she curtailed her night’s rest to nurse the sick. She teaches Jane her business, calls her her right hand and little forewoman, yet feel perhaps a secret preference for Harry, so like his grandfather.

Though very diligent at her work, and frequently in the season hurried by her employers, she is seldom absent from the Wednesday and Friday morning service, held alternately at St. Clement’s and All Saints’ Churches. Sunday she strictly and thankfully observes; partaking, whenever an opportunity offers, of the comfortable Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood.

Certainly now neither the prettiest nor the merriest woman in Hastings, but I truly believe this widow is one of the happiest: having chosen that good part which shall not be taken from her; thankful that her idol was removed for a season, if so she might receive him for ever; able to say at last, ‘Whom have I in heaven but Thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire in comparison of Thee. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.’

THE END.