were carried by the wind down the street, and we concluded that this Welsh town was about to be assailed by a detachment of the Salvation Army! We afterwards found that the singing came from a very interesting procession of Sunday scholars and teachers belonging to one of the Methodist chapels. Their anniversary services were to be held that day, and they were going round the streets by way of making the fact known, so as to draw a congregation. Teachers and scholars took their parts correctly, and the singing was rendered with much taste and effect. I fancy I can see the procession now, turning the corner of the street, and sending back the strains of the chorus,—

"We are young and we are happy,

We are young and we are happy."

This singing was repeated before the afternoon and evening services, and delighted us very much. Anxious to have fellowship with brethren of like faith, we attended the Independent Chapel, and with very great profit listened to the ministrations of the pastor, the Rev. T. L. Jones,-who is a thorough Welshman. He gave us the impression of being a man full of force and fire. The poetry of his native valleys and torrents was beautifully blended in his sermons with that of the mountain rocks and boulders. Intellectually and spiritually we had a treat that is not often enjoyed. The crowning point of the day, however, was the Communion-service in the evening. Eight new members were received into fellowship, and all from the Sunday-school! One of these was a girl of about 13 years of age. These new members were brought forward to the Communion-table, and I shall never forget the touching address which the pastor delivered to them, and the tender fervency of his prayer that they all, and especially the very young one, might be kept in the faith. I know not how far the people generally were affected, but my friend and I were both moved to tears. The Scotch Communion Sunday has become well known for its impressiveness, but I never was more impressed, and never felt the sweetness of our simple administration of the Lord's Supper more than I did that evening. The service was concluded by a prayer entirely in Welsh, which the older portion of the congregation evidently enjoyed very much. We found that it was not so easy to leave the chapel as to enter. move out, one of the deacons bore down upon us with speed like that of the messengers of the King of Jericho to the house of Rahab when he heard of the arrival of Joshua's spies. He was evidently bent on knowing whence we had come, and on what business. We, therefore, made ourselves and our business known to the good man, thereby lifting a burden from his mind. Our presence had been noticed in the morning and talked about, and

As we rose to

we were set down as spies, sent out from some town church to take stock of the minister! We cheered the good man by saying, "Thy servants are no spies;" but it would not surprise us to hear of other spies, and even captors! for the minister is a man of rare gifts and spiritual power. Such men are sadly wanted in the present day.

Tricksey had enjoyed her Sunday's rest thoroughly, and looked quite prepared for the road, as she turned out of the stable on Monday morning. We were just over sixty miles from Kidderminster, and resolved to do the return journey in two days, if possible. Leaving Pontypool at ten o'clock, a few miles carried us through the neat little town of Usk, which looked somewhat busy, Monday being market-day. An old road was rejoined at Raglan, and we arrived at Monmonth about one o'clock. After a stay of over an hour here, we went on to Ross, passing through the charming scenery of the Wye Valley, which had impressed us so much a few days before, and which was all the more welcome, after our experiences in Bryn-Mawr. Another agreeable evening was spent at the Royal Hotel. Amongst the visitors there was a shrewd old farmer, who was great in the matter of horses and their treatment. He assured us that we could manage the thirty-six miles from Ross to Kidderminster on the next day, provided we did not drive too fast! "It is the pace that kills, not the distance," he said; and then he advised us to see about the feeding of our horse, telling us with a twinkle in his eye that it was a good thing when travelling to keep a pocket comb. "It comforts the animal to have his mane combed while he is crashing his corn." We had not the comb, but we were of the same mind with the farmer about the corn, and saw that Tricksey was well fed before we started on Tuesday morning for the last and the longest stage of our drive.

Leaving Ross, we took the road to Malvern, passing through Ledbury, a little more than half-way. We were obliged to walk up the side of the Malvern Hills, and often stopped to drink in the exhilarating breezes and admire the extensive view. But when we crossed the hill and passed through the cutting at the top which leads to the town of Malvern, suddenly the glory of the place enchanted us, as we looked over the extensive plain of Worcestershire below, and beyond the town. Space will not permit me to notice the many points of interest in this beautiful and fashionable town, and, indeed, we did not see all that we wished, for we could only make a halt of two hours. About three in the afternoon we left Malvern, and shortly afterwards trotted through the busy streets of Worcester City. "Tricksey" became conscious of nearing home, and went briskly along, and to the last showed no

signs of fatigue. After a brief trot we reached my friend's house about seven o'clock, where the young folks greeted us with hearty hurrahs and a modest display of bunting. So ended our ten days' drive; and as we talked over our experiences at dinner that night, we concluded that it was one of the best holidays we had ever spent! On some future occasion I hope we shall be able to repeat the holiday. Driving is the very best way of seeing the country, for you can go where you like, and stop at any place which interests you. Besides, being in the open-air for the greater part of the day, you can in this way lay in a store of vital energy and freshness, which one is constantly needing after a long term of hard work.

CLARISSA'S

TANGLED

WEB.

BY BEATRICE BRISTOWE,

Author of "Unforgotten," " Windaway Hill," &c.

CHAPTER XX.-FOUND.

NIGHT was come, and no tidings whatever had been received.

Mrs. Weatherill had gone to Summer Street that she might await the return of John Rivers, who was expected home about half-past ten o'clock. She clung to the hope that some ray of light might, by his return, be thrown on the utter perplexity of the situation, that Irene might have confided some project to him, or, at least, that he might suggest some more effective measures than had yet been taken.

Her hope was quite unshared by any of his friends. John was a very sensible lad, remarked Miss Ingram, but it was not probable his sagacity should exceed that of the police officials; and as to his having received any confidences which he had not communicated to her, she knew him too thoroughly to allow her to entertain such an idea for a single moment.

66

And a little before nine a telegram arrived from John announcing that he had found a return that evening impracticable, and should arrive about nine a.m. next morning. 'Oh, if he had but come!" groaned Clarissa, to whom this new disappointment seemed almost unbearable, "if he had but come!" And she wished to telegraph an inquiry, but her wish was overruled. It would only make him very unhappy; and what could he do or say? He knew nothing; of that they were all confident.

So she returned to Portsmouth Square, but it was late before

she could be persuaded to retire to the apartment propared for her; to go to bed seemed like relinquishing all farther endeavour and hope, And when at last she went to the room, she sat for a long time in a chair near the window. How could she go to bed, and the child, she knew not where? Tired as she was, it would have been a relief to have paced the room; but that might have been disturbing to some of the household, and Clarissa, even when in deepest trouble, was seldom unmindful of the comfort of others.

At last she lay down; but she did not lower the gas, and she would not undress. Some tidings might come, some necessity for action arise, and she must be ready. She lay with her eyes wide open, seeing yet not seeing the unfamiliar furniture and the strange room; for other sights than these were visible to her excited fancy. She saw Irene's lifeless form drifting, drifting, on the dreary sea, or cast up disfigured on some bare beach. Then she saw her lying, mangled, tortured, on a bed in the ward of some hospital, whither she had been carried after some frightful accident, dying among strangers; and when the evidence of set purpose came again to mind, her fears changed, and there rose before her a vision of a ship, far away from land, and Irene, unprotected, among the rough sailors. Or, with a thrill of horror, she thought of other possibilities of haunts which her pure and sheltered life enabled her to picture but vaguely. "Oh, I promised to take care of her," she groaned, the wan, patient face of the dying mother rising before her as if in reproach.

Presently other ideas took possession of her mind. She thought of home. She saw her sweet Alice gently sleeping in her white bed; oh, if it could have happened to her, how even more dreadful it would have been. She saw Edward alone in the familiar room, sleepless, as he often was; and through her went a chill, keen pain as she recalled the cutting words, "No true wife," and felt again that cold kiss. But soon, forcing this trouble into the background, returned the never-ending question, "Where is the child,-where ? And over again, as the only answer, the torturing succession of hideous conjectures.

At last, when the brightening dawn had dimmed the gas jet into paleness, she fell into a feverish slumber, from which, just as the domestics were stirring, she awaked with a start, confronted again by all the sorrows of yesterday. It was not yet six o'clock, bat she rose and attended to her toilet; she must set out early for Summer Street; she must be there when John Rivers arrived.

Before eight o'clock, Mrs. Weatherill, with Miss Ingram, appeared at Mrs. Rivers' door, and were ushered into the front parlour, where the family were at breakfast. Ceremony had been broken down under the common trouble.

"He will be here soon now," Rose said, as the clock was striking, and she left the table and stood by the window watching. The minutes seemed long and weary to Clarissa, though they were really few, before Rose said, "Here he is," and ran to open the door. But she paused for a second, her hand on the latch. It seemed dreadful to meet her brother with such news.

His aspect was bright and his voice cheerful as he first greeted

her.

"Rose, what is the matter?" he exclaimed, when he caught sight of her face, a suspicion of the truth crossing his mind.

"Oh, John! we are in such trouble. I don't like to tell you, but you must know we have lost Irene. She is not at Easton, and we don't know where she is. Mrs. Weatherill was telegraphed

for, and

"Rose, she is safe! I know where she is," John said, making his way to the parlour.

Every one looked up as he entered. His countenance was full of concern and agitation, but the expected surprise and bewilderment it did not express.

"Mrs. Weatherill, cousin, she is safe and well. I know where she is," he said.

"You!" exclaimed several voices at once, astonishment for the moment overcoming every other feeling; but Mrs. Weatherill entreated, "Oh, tell me where she is."

"I am so sorry, grieved, that you have been so frightened. I ought not to have done it. I ought to have known this might happen," he said, ruefully.

"Dishonourable, pernicious boy!" Miss Ingram felt these terms all too weak to express her reprobation.

“Oh, John, so unlike you!" sighed his mother.

"Inscrutable, inscrutable!" repeated Hilda, solemnly, unable to recall any quotation or historical precedent; while Lettie began to cry, and his father looked at him in silent, stern displeasure.

"The disgrace, the shameful disgrace, you have brought on her and on my establishment!" Miss Ingram went on. "Handbills,

with her name and description, posted all over the city!" "Handbills! Oh, don't say so!" groaned John.

"I will run to the station and have them called in," said the practical Rose; and in a few minutes she was half way down the hill.

"But where is she?" again entreated Clarissa. 'Explain at once," demanded Mr. Rivers.

you."

"I am ashamed of

Father, Irene wanted to paint; my cousin knows all about it. She wanted permission to test her powers, and it was not thought best to grant it—”