do it; forcibly did he define the difference between what the Christian wanted or desired, and what he needed; and well did he urge the duty of taking God at his word, of being content with the portion of good we enjoyed, assured that if we needed more we should have it; and so clearly and delightfully did he illustrate the sweetness of simple reliance upon God, that some of his hearers began to think that the poorest Christian must needs be the happiest of all men. Years have since passed away by scores, and the preacher and the very far larger portion of his auditors have been removed from earth; but that Wednesday morning "lecture" has delightfully lived in my memory, and has a thousand times ministered consolation in the midst of trials. Blessed, indeed, are the plain simple truths of the Bible fixed in the memory in the earliest years of our Christian history!

THE STOLEN TREASURE.

CHAPTER X.

WE all started up at sight of the rescued ones, and rushed round Frances; a sort of silent rapture held our lips sealed; for awhile we could not believe she was uninjured, and we pressed closely about her, touching her singed and tinderlike gown, her disordered hair, her flushed hot feverish cheeks, and her delicate hands, that grasped May so closely. As for her, she said not a word, but held out the child; and a long low laugh of rapturous relief burst from her lips, but she neither shed tears nor stirred till Madame took May from her, and kissed her, exclaiming, in her native language, "O, my God, I do thank thee." Here Frances laughed again and cried a little, but still she did not speak.

Poor little May, how piteously she was crying, and how her tiny limbs trembled and shivered. Her small hands were a little scorched, and her night-dress in some places burnt brown; she did not seem to be seriously injured, but her terror was still extreme.

In spite of the anguish and anxiety that we had suffered about Frances, our demonstrations of joy at sight of her

were, after the first moment of her entrance, by no means violent or noisy. We were all beginning to feel the peevish exhaustion of excessive fatigue. Some of the young girls crept into the empty carriages that stood in this asylum of ours, and dozed upon the seats; others lay down upon a heap of clean shavings; a carpet was brought in for May and Frances-one of the few things that had been saved; and those noble, kind-hearted sailors went about from one of us to the other, giving us wine (almost like mulled wine, it was so hot) from black bottles, and serving it in a little tin cup. After this acceptable refreshment, Madame herself very soon fell asleep, and most of her pupils with her. I could not sleep at first, as the sound of the crackling fire still sung in my ears.

It was now broad daylight, and the watery, white sky was distinctly visible through a small dirty window, excepting when a sailor, leaning his weary arms upon the sill, would indulge in a contemplation of the people whom he had helped to save. Many sailors appeared in this way, one after the other, and seemed specially to derive satisfaction from staring at Frances and her tiny charge; and it sometimes pains me, even to this day, to think that we never had an opportunity of thanking them; for when we awoke at last, and inquired about them, the vessel was gone. The sailors, we were told, had said they could not stay, for a breeze had sprung up, and "The Lively Sall" must proceed on her voyage.

"The Lively Sall!" What a name! Some of the girls were quite shocked, and in writing to their friends called the vessel "The Lively Sarah.' A very handsome present was made to these brave men by the parents of those whom they had rescued; but I am often sorry to think that they had not our thanks also.

This, however, is anticipating.

About nine o'clock in the morning we all awoke, very much refreshed; some water was brought us; and from the contents of the trunks, which still strewed the sand, we were all made, with Massy's aid, exceedingly neat and clean. Frances seemed scarcely more fatigued than ourselves; but if any question was asked her about the rescue, would answer with a shudder, "Oh! don't speak to me about that; it makes my head swim to think of it."

The fire was

We now issued from the carriage-house. nearly out-only smouldering. The hotel was almost level with the ground, and none but its disconsolate owners lingered about it. Engines had arrived, and had deluged the place when the flames were already dying down. But

T

we did not stay to look about us. Madame was naturally anxious to see Caroline, who had been taken to the farmhouse, where Frances had, earlier in the evening, been sent to sleep.

We hoped also to find breakfast there, and were told that all the other people, who had been sleeping at the hotel when it took fire, had left the hospitable farm already, in different conveyances; having been received there in the night, and treated with the greatest kindness and consideration.

We walked across the fields to this place; and the smiling mistress met us at her door, all fresh, and clean, and cheerful, though she had been up nearly all night. She had set out breakfast for us in her large kitchen, and she now invited us in, at the same time assuring us that the young lady upstairs was not very much hurt. Of course, Madame went up instantly to the chamber, and there her own maid was waiting on Caroline.

Her injury was a long, severe cut across the brow, reaching from the parting of the hair to the corner of the right eyebrow. It was by no means dangerous; but, alas! it was most evident that it must leave a mark for life.

Several of us-I among them-crept up the stairs after Madame; and though forbidden to enter the room, listened to what might be going on inside.

Caroline was in a highly excited state; a surgeon had been sent for to attend her, and had ordered her to lie quietly in bed. The moment Madame entered, she at once declared that she was sure her face would be marked. Madame had all the sweetly compassionate manner of an amiable Frenchwoman, and she soothed Caroline with hopes to the contrary, asked if she would like one of her schoolfellows to come and sit with her, and told her that we were all safe; in fact, the great blessings of life and safety for all her large party did somewhat make it impossible, for the present, that she could feel much for Caroline's misfortunes. Not a question had been asked, and so little interest shown by Caroline, that we all thought, judging by this, and by the tone of her voice, that she was probably a little delirious.

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"Yes," she said when Madame again asked if she would like one of her schoolfellows to sit beside her. "Yes; she should like one of them, but not Sophia-Sophia would say she deserved it."

"No," said Madame, soothingly, "they are all extremely sorry, my child—very much grieved indeed, my dear”—and Madame showed a good deal of alarm at the speech, for, in

fact, not understanding it, she thought Caroline quite lightheaded.

"Not Sophia," repeated Caroline, tossing on her pillow; "I know I DID steal little May; I know I am branded for a thief, and she will think so."

On hearing this I fled down the stairs, wringing my hands and crying with a sort of hysterical violence, no doubt partly owing to my late excitement: it was some time before I recovered my senses: when I did so I found that the woman of the house was holding me on her knees, in a pleasant arbour out of doors, and that an old gentleman, with a most pleasant face, was standing before her.

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Why here's the Vicar, little Miss," said my good nurse. "Aye, aye," said the old gentleman, "don't cry, my pretty little bird-here are some nice jilly flowers to smell, and here is some cold water to drink. What! not one hurt in the fire! what a good God is ours; and how thankful you should be for such a merciful preservation!"

He looked so very old, and so venerable, that I gazed at him with pleasure and curiosity, sobbing out, "I do feel thankful, sir-indeed I do." His house was about four miles from the sea, close to the church, for it was a very large thinly-populated parish, partly warren, and partly salt marshes.

"Please to sit down, sir," said the woman, wiping the seat of the arbour with my handkerchief, and still holding me in her arms; "and I hope you'll have some breakfast afore you go."

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Aye, aye," the old clergyman replied, sitting down beside us. "I'm a great age now, Mrs. Peel-almost past my work-my Master's work."

"Oh, no, sir! not yet," replied the woman.

"Not quite yet. I must talk with these dear children before I go; and I shall hope to pray with them and the French lady."

"Yes, sir; that's what they want; you'll make 'em feel quieter like; for now they are all of a tremble."

I felt better, and we went into the house; but I was not allowed to stay down-stairs, and hear the delightful conversation and devout prayers of the aged clergyman. I was taken up-stairs and put to bed. Some breakfast was given me while there, and I soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which I did not awake for hours.

When at last I did open my eyes, they fell upon a bed, for there were two in the room. Frances and May were lying asleep in this bed, and beside it stood a tall and most elegant

lady-a lady, in a rich, rustling silk dress, and with a long Indian chain round her neck, which rested on the quilt as she bent over little May. She stood with her back to me ; but a round, old-fashioned mirror hung on the whitewashed wall before her, and in it I saw her face, and recognised it, though now it was changed, and illuminated by a kind of unbelieving joy, and though her eyes were overflowing with happy tears.

It was little May's mamma.

Every now and then she would venture to lift up the child's hand and touch it with her lips, but she seemed very much afraid of waking her and Frances; and, but for this little action, stood motionless beside them for some time.

I knew that for several days she had been constantly expected, and that she possessed Madame's intended address at the seaside, and I thought what a happy thing it was she had not arrived a few hours sooner.

At last the mother's kisses becoming unconsciously more fervent, little May awoke; upon which, forgetting her caution, she threw her arms upon the bed, and stooping over the child, exclaimed, with a laugh of exulting joy, "Who am I, May tell me?"

"Mamma!" exclaimed the child, after a momentary pause, and continued to gaze at her with a sort of ecstasy, softly repeating to herself, "Mamma, Mamma!" But when her mother tried to take her up, she said, in a confidential tone, "Mamma, you mustn't wake my Miss Christiana Frances."

On hearing the little silvery voice repeating this already beloved name, and bringing so vividly to her recollection the peril that her child had just encountered, the mother burst into a sudden passion of tears, which woke Frances, who, started up in a fright, uttering some confused words about the smoke, and the sea, and little May.

Finding herself kissed, blessed, and wept over by this beautiful stranger, was not likely to reassure her, and she did not recover from her bewilderment, till May cried out, "Mamma, Mamma, you don't know what a great hole was burnt in my bed last night!"

On hearing this, Frances instantly perceived who it was that was embracing her with such fervent expressions of gratitude and love, and she gave May to her mother, for on first awakening she had snatched her up in her arms.

May, who before being laid in the bed had evidently been carefully washed and dressed in a clean embroidered frock, looked particularly pretty, though her tiny hands were still very red from the heat of the flames. Frances herself was