ear,

can safely unburden your griefs, who will not turn away His who knows all about it already, and will not condemn by mistake, and who can freely forgive whatever has really been amiss."

Clarissa did not answer; she was conscious that it was for Edward's forgiveness she longed.

"Now, dear, try to sleep. When that letter has been received things may be very different."

"Yes; I hope-I believe they will. And he was sorry to part from me. I looked out of the carriage window and there was such a look of trouble on his face! He does love me, Mary."

"I should think he did; most people loved my little Kitty." Then the sisters kissed again and bade good night, and Clarissa felt a little comforted.

With anxious care, tremblingly, yet not unhopefully, the letter was written. The same facts were told, with the same truth and fulness as in that letter lost so long ago; but now there had to be added confessions of weak delay, ending in deliberate concealment, of evasions and prevarications resorted to, that secrecy might be preserved; ail followed by pathetic appeals to his affection, and entreaties for pardon and recall. It was a long letter, and could not be completed in less than two days. When, the next morning, it was posted, Clarissa was sensible of some relief.

But from the first she had endeavoured that her depression should not be apparent, and neither Mr. Brownslow, who was not a very clear-sighted man, nor any of the household, suspected that the guest had any special cause of unhappiness; it had not appeared necessary to Mary to mention to her husband what she trusted might prove only a passing cloud over her sister's domestic happiness-such as it was.

It would not be possible to receive a reply to her letter sooner than the third morning after posting (in Northallerton there was only one delivery), nor did she think it likely that the answer would be received so soon. The letter must take some time to read, to consider, and to reply to, and possibly Edward might undertake another journey to Westhaven, to assure himself of the truth of her statements. No; she did not think she should get a reply by return of post, on Tuesday morning. Yet, when that morning came, she found it difficult to partake of breakfast, or join in the quiet conversation of the breakfast table, because thinking-would the postman come ? would there be a letter from Edward?

Just as the first breakfast was over, and Mr. Brownslow and the assistant descended to their duties below, the postman arrived, and the apprentice, coming up to the dining-room, brought with him a letter and handed it to Mrs. Weatherill. Yes; it was

Edward's handwriting, and no mere note-a thick letter, double postage! Hastily she rose, went to her bedroom, shut the door, and with eager, trembling fingers tore open the envelope and saw -her own letter returned, unread, the seal unbroken!

A cry of distress she uttered-a low call of "Mary, Mary," and the watchful sister, who was not far off, heard and came. "Oh, Mary, he has returned my letter-never read it, never opened it! What shall I do?"

66

Really I do not know," she replied, her indignation against her brother-in-law overpowering for a moment her sympathy with her sister. "I have had no experience of such impracticable tempers."

"There is not one word to me," sobbed Clarissa, looking again into the empty envelope, and turning it over with weary, longing eyes. "Not a single word; not one. Oh! it was not kind."

"Let me read your letter; let me, dear," begged Mary, holding out her hand. "You cannot be bound by the wishes of any one so utterly unreasonable."

But she held the letter fast. true to my word to him.

"No; whatever he does, I will be But oh, Mary, what am I to do now?" "Dearest, I hardly know. I would keep the letter, and perhaps in another week or two his temper may have subsided, and he may not refuse to read it. Or is there any one who might have influence with him-his sisters, do you think?"

She shook her head mournfully. "That would never do; interference would only make him more determined. You know Edward is peculiar. But oh, he might have written just a wordjust a word!" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, and weeping. And her sister, not knowing how to advise or comfort, bent over her with soothing caresses.

Mary," she said at last, looking up, "I hoped to have gone home very soon, but now it may be a long, long time. Will you

mind having me ?-will Mr. Brownslow object?"

Dearest, do you think I could ever be tired of my own sister Kitty," Mary said, half reproachfully; "and I can answer for James as confidently as for myself that you are more than welcome to a home with us as long as ever you like; though, for your sake and for his, I hope your husband will come to his senses before very long."

After this it was not easy for Clarissa to maintain an appearance of cheerfulness; but she strove so to do; it seemed to her not right to darken with her grief the home which gave her such kindly shelter, and she so far succeeded that Mr. Brownslow would probably have remained unaware that her visit was not entirely one of pleasure, had not his wife now felt it desirable to acquaint him with all that she herself knew.

"Certainly, my dear; we shall be glad for your sister to remain with us as long as ever it is convenient to herself," was Mr. Brownslow's reply. "I should always give a welcome to any relative of yours, Mary; it would be very wrong not, after your kindness to my people; and surely she is a very nice, pleasant lady. If her husband cannot get on with her, the fault is his, I'm persuaded!"

Wearily the days passed, and yet more wearily the nights; for in the daytime she tried to find occupation for her thoughts and hands, though to do so was not always easy. She would gladly have shared her sister's domestic interests, but household arrangements so regular, superintended by a mistress so efficient as Mary, and carried out by a servant so quietly capable as Bridget, left no room for any such assistance. She had not spirit to visit any ac quaintances of former days; there was not any pleasure in walking through the dull streets of Northallerton; November was not the pleasantest season for country walks, and even in summer the immediate neighbourhood of the town was singularly tame and uninteresting. So she read more than was her wont when at home, and sewed diligently upon garments for the poor, supplied by a Dorcas Society with which her sister was connected, accompanied her to morning service held in the parish church at eleven (not at 7 a.m., the innovations of Ritualisin not being popular at Northallerton), and she visited, first with Mary, and then alone, a sick and lonely neighbour, who found comfort in her sweet voice and gentle manner.

And over the gloom she was thus striving to bear patiently some gleams of brightness came, in letters received from Alice and from Irene. She was very well, the letter from Alice said-well, and happy. She was glad her mamma was with dear Aunt Mary, to whom she sent fondest love. It was nice that they should be both away at the same time, only she was afraid poor papa must be very lonely. She should be glad when they were all together again once more, and it was a long time to be away from school; still, she did not think she was forgetting much. She went over things in her mind now and then to see; and she really was much stronger and stouter, and could eat anything! and the country was very pleasant, very beautiful, indeed-even in November. And there were so many nice creatures to love-four dogs, and a horse and a dear little colt, besides three cows in the field, and there was the prettiest goat in the stable, and such numbers of little birds, hopping about everywhere! And all the dogs were fond of her, and the two pussies (she wanted to see her own Tibby). And all the people in the house were so good to her, and the children all loved one another, and hardly ever quarrelled the least bit in their play, and they treated her as if she were one of

them; every one was kind, so she could not but be very happy. But oh! it would be delightful to be home again, and to see dearest mamma and papa once more!

Equally satisfactory was the report received from Irene. She, too, continued to find her present abode a very happy one. Mrs. Palmer was still most kind and thoughtful for her, and Mr. Palmer was just as good. She should be very sorry to leave them, but they had not said anything yet about her going away; indeed, Mr. Palmer had said he did not see why she might not as well stay through the winter. And Mrs. Simmons did not seem to be looking out for any one else to teach her children, and they were really beginning to get on very well. They were not at all clever, and their last governess, she was sure, must have been a very stupid woman. At first she found teaching them very tiresome work, but it was not so now; they were getting to take an interest in what they learned, and that was the main point in teaching, after all.

Mr. Palmer encouraged her in spending as much time as she could spare in drawing. She was studying some books on perspective and colouring which had belonged to her father, and she had made several sketches from nature before the weather grew too cold for outdoor work, and lately she had taken a likeness of Mr. Palmer in crayon, which every one thought very good. No doubt she should require some technical instruction before she could find in art a means of livelihood, but that delightful pursuit had this advantage above almost any other education in it could be going on all the time, except in the darkness of night, simply by observing.

She was trying also to improve herself mentally; was reading Stewart's "Philosophy of the Human Mind," just for half-an-hour before breakfast; was also reading Macaulay's "History of England," and Hallam's " Constitutional History." But there was one pursuit she was more deeply interested in than any other; only this had to be reserved for times when she was quiet and alone. She was beginning to note down what she could remember of her father's conversation, and of the paintings he had executed, and the great works he had projected, with memories of the places they had visited together. For there were two things she intended to do if she lived; and she hoped-ob, she so hoped!-she should not die young. She would be a painter; such a painter as she could be, doing good work, though she knew it would never be great or grand. And she would write a life of her father, and let the world know that there had been one among them who could have taken his place with the highest, and have left a name which should never have perished, had not death come just too soon.

This purpose she kept secret; she had not spoken of it to any friend, not even to Mrs. Palmer (yes, she had told John what she intended, he was no one, she told anything to him); but she could not help telling dear Mrs. Weatherill also. However kind any others might be, she should never love any one else as she loved her. Mrs. Weatherill was like a mother, and she had once known her honoured father, and he had once loved her, and had never forgotten her to the end.

"Dear children!" Clarissa thought, what a comfort it was to know that they both were happy; but, oh, when, when should she see her own sweet Alice again? The days went on, and each seemed longer and drearier than the one which went before, until at last she could bear the utter silence between her husband and herself no longer, and she wrote a beseeching appeal, entreating to be permitted to send again the letter of explanation, and begging for some assurance of speedy recall. Then there followed a season of intense suspense; each morning a re-awakened hope, growing daily fainter, yet more eager, and quenched in deeper gloom as no letter came; each day adding to the difficulty of maintaining outward composure, each night welcome, because she could weep unseen, yet dragging through its endless hours in sleeplessness, or in feverish dreams.

So the melancholy time passed until November ended and December came, bringing with it to all Christendom the thought of Christmas-tide; an anticipation full of joy and brightness to how many, but for how many others shadowed-as for Clarissaby clouds of sorrow, anxiety, and dread.

(To be continued.)

THE MUSIC OF OUR PUBLIC WORSHIP.

BY WILLIAM A. LEONARD.

CHAPTER II.-EARLY CHRISTIAN PSALMODY.

PAUL, having appealed to Cæsar, was brought to Rome in the year 62 of our era. Though there were Christians in that city before Paul's arrival, we may safely affirm that had it not been for his undaunted courage and inspiring words and presence, the Roman Christian Church would never have assumed those proportions which enabled it successfully to outlive the terrible per