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with her cordially. He had stepped into the shady room from the glare without, and his vision was somewhat indistinct for a second or two. "Where is Molly?" said he. Then his sight came to him, and he saw her rising, with a half-weary, but very pleasant look, from the old arm-chair in the corner. He took her hand, and then, despite all his professional caution, he suddenly changed countenance. "I am very well, sir," said Molly; "only tired and feeling a little funny about the head. I think it's the sun." "Perhaps so, my dear. What is the funny feeling you speak of?"-still holding her hand. "Well, I can hardly tell; but it is as though somebody were holding me gently by the back of the neck, and, now and then, something shoots up towards my head. It isn't painful at all, but it makes me feel tired somehow ; and Molly gave a little weary sigh. Then the surgeon dropped Molly's hand and spoke. "Mrs. Pengelley, the child is not well. I think you had better put her to bed." But the old people saw that something serious was coming. Molly alone seemed not to take alarm. She looked rather listlessly upon them; in fact, as though a topic was being discussed in which she had little interest. She was obedient as usual, however, and went upstairs at once; satisfied that in so doing she should please Uncle Jim. As soon as she was out of hearing, the old man turned a sad face on his visitor. "What is it, doctor?" he said. "My old friend, I fear it's fever," said the doctor.

What need is there to tell at length the story of the fight? Day succeeded day, and Molly tossed and moaned in the paroxysms of fever; or lay exhausted and almost motionless in its deadly pauses. Patient and loving hands tended her. Benallack was almost always with her, scarcely eating or drinking; his life, to all seeming, bound up in the life of his darling. Neighbours and friends came to help; none seemed to fear contagion in this case, for Molly was the pet of all, and the old man the friend of all. The surgeon was indefatigable; all that human love and human skill could do was done, but all was of no avail. There was hope at first, but it gradually faded away; and, at length, even the kindly surgeon was constrained to say that Molly was going to leave us.

The end came at last. I had called to see the sufferer once more, and was silently ushered into her chamber. She seemed to be asleep. The fever had left her for the moment, and her thin, colourless face, framed with its wealth of golden hair, lay quietly upon the pillow. Her eyes were closed; an infinite calm possessed her. Just then the rays of the setting sun crept through the curtained window and fell upon the bed; at that moment the canary in the room below broke into soft song, and Molly

opened her eyes and spoke: "Uncle Jim, open the window, please." "No, no, my dear," said he, quietly, "it will do you harm." "Please, dear, open it. I want to see the golden road again." He looked at me-we both saw that a change was coming-and then lightly stepped to the window, drew up the blind, and threw open the leaf-lined casement. Without help, Molly raised herself in the bed and gazed out intently on the sea. The sun had touched the horizon, and across the heaving waters shone again the golden pathway. From where she sat the child could see no land, and it might well seem to her that the heavenly road was close at her feet. The sunlight shone upon her till she looked like one transfigured; her hair glowed as a halo, her eyes gleamed with unearthly light, her face was suffused with colour, her lips parted-"Uncle Jim, the angels," she said, "the angels! -and she fell back dead.

I write these last lines at the open window of my study, and, for a moment, I raise my eyes from my work to glance at the scene withoutfamiliar, yet ever new. Beyond is the sea, mile after mile of breeze-specked water, paling as the cloud-shadows flit across its unstable surface, gleaming again when they have passed. Near, and below me, is the churchyard, its grass already losing its bright green hue, its hedges showing the reddening tints of early autumn, its trees still full of foliage, but changing the colour of their garment with the change of season; and, as I watch, there drops from an overhanging bough a leaf that gently rests upon a tiny white marble cross, standing in a quiet corner of the churchyard, but commanding glorious view of the open sea. At this distance I cannot read the inscription on the stone. There is no need, I know it well. At its base is one word, "Molly," followed by the simple. sentence, "Jesus called a little child unto Him,'

that is all. And now, slowly walking up the churchyard path, I see the worn, though still upright form of Uncle Jim. He comes to the grave and bends over it for a while, and then, with a far-away wistful gaze, looks out upon the distant ocean. I know the thoughts that are passing through his mind, for he has often told me of them, and they are almost always the same. He is dreaming of his darling, of course, but in his heart grief has little place. "I am getting old. It cannot be for long. I shall soon be with her again," and here he patiently waits for the welcome call.

I do not think this is a sad story. God sent His angel to turn a wandering soul into His paths again; and when the work was done, He called the messenger to Himself. Is it not meet that when our labours are over we should go home?

CHAPTER III.

OLD FRIENDS TURNING UP AGAIN.

ERHAPS fifteen years may have passed away; and one summer afternoon there appeared a horse and waggon toiling up the long hill that looked down upon Nancy's Harbour. The hill was tiresome, and the horse old and lazy, so that the latter seemed to make as little progress as a big blackbeetle crawling in the hot sun. In the rear of the waggon were an old leather mail-bag, a wash-tub, and a few household packages. The driver in front was busily talking with his female companion, sharing the ride with him. He was a young man, anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, with reddish hair that seemed like a section of the sunset. His face was continually growing redder and redder in the heat, till he looked like one of the round full moons that hovered on winter evenings around Moody Tucker's stove. This ruddiness, and his red hair made the driver anything but a cooling object to look at, that day.

"What did ye say, ma'am?"

"How many people are there at Nancy's Harbour?"

The driver's interrogator was a woman, at least thirty-five, with a firm, sweet expression to her mouth, and great depths of tenderness in her dark blue eyes. Somehow, the whole face spoke of much quiet, and yet strength, within.

"How many people, ma'am? Well, sure as my name is Vespie, I can't zackly say." It was our old friend Vespie, grown to be a young man, and carefully driving home Moody Tucker's sacred mail-bags, with a few added articles from market.

"Did you ever hear of a Rev. James Jeffreys at Nancy's Harbour?"

"Did I ever? Ask me if I know'd my mother?" The latter question seemed superfluous to the lady, and was not put. The "mission'ry," as James was distinctively known, was still a great man in the people's memories at Nancy's Harbour. To have known him was a privilege, ranking one as high as a visit to the top of

Bunker Hill Monument elevates a down-east boy among his companions. While all who were then boys considered themselves favourites of James, it was felt that Vespie stood a little nearest to him, and in the older days could venture farther than any other in taking liberties with that distinguished personage. Vespie's tongue, never slow to run, now went on at express-train rate. "See!" said he, "that's the chapel! He got the money for it!" It had been built since James left, but the funds he had gathered.

"There's our buryin' ground! He did that." Vespie's small eyes, dilating with interest, grew to an unusual size. He told how the "mission'ry" used to say that he would like to be buried in a certain shady nook, where the robins loved to build their nests, and they must reserve a place for him, he would add. "Who knows?" says Vespie. "The parson may yet come back." People used to say, that if the parson's bones were resting under the robins' nests, Vespie would not have been more attentive to that corner.

Bad

"There's those houses in Cobble-lane! enough once, but the parson he got the folks to repair 'em," added Vespie. While he had been speaking, his companion now and then had given sundry nervous twitches. Vespie, in his absorption in his subject, gave the horse credit for shying when these disturbances occurred, and followed up each little twitch with a whip-stroke across old"Nellie's" back. But as for shying, Moody's old horse, "Nellie," wouldn't have been equal to it if the sun had dropped down before her face.

Vespie suddenly broke out, "Did you know him?" This unexpected turn in the conversation seemed to disconcert his companion, for she gave another sudden start. Credit for this disturbance was immediately given to "Nellie." and Vespie apportioned her a fresh cut with his whip. Well-yes-the stranger had seen Mr. Jeffreys.

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And you are still in Nancy's Harbour?” she added, making a new turn in the conver sation.

"Yes; I may say that Moody and I have gone into the partner business since my marriage (not with Moody, but his Mary Ann), and we all live together. I fetch Moody's mail-bags home, plants his potatoes, and gets his hay in.

and so on. And now may I ask your name?" said Vespie, levelling two sharp but kindly eyes at her.

"Mine is Graham, Margaret Graham."

"And are you going to stay in Nancy's Harbour, or only comin' to pay a visit, if I may be so bold ?"

"Well," said the woman, smiling, "I may stay some time. I am very fond of mission work. Indeed, that is my work. How would you like to have me stay here as missionary?" Vespie's eyes went up in admiration. Of all classes on earth, missionaries did seem to him to live a little nearer the clouds than other folks. "And where do you think I could stay?" she asked.

"Well," said Vespie,-an idea breaking upon him, and overspreading his face with light like the sun coming out of the sea,-"p'raps Mary Ann and I could take care of you. She's smart."

"I think I should like that very much," was Margaret's reply. The idea of having a "mission'ry" under his roof,-a real one, a whole one, all to himself-was too much for Vespie. It seemed as if it would be enough to raise the roof of Vespie's home. At least, it so filled and excited his thoughts that speech failed him, a thing never known to happen before, and in silence the party drove up to Moody's door.

Tall

Moody's home was a neat little storey-and-ahalf house, the door standing hospitably open. There was a little garden in front, that the thrifty "Mary Ann" cultivated; and Vespie took pride in saying that the "mission'ry," years ago, had suggested this garden, and given seed for it. The garden was divided up into those squares, and diamonds, and circles, and hearts, that a florist's ingenuity delights in. bunches of gelder rose lifted their broad, snowy heads. Salvias proudly trailed in the air their bright scarlet streamers. Gladioli had unsheathed their swords of flame, while on many a stem the nasturtium had pitched its tents of yellow and crimson. An old elm, back of the house, held up an immense parasol of foliage against the sun, and gave the picture a massive background of emerald.

While Margie lingered among the flowers, Vespie was hunting up his Mary Ann. She soon appeared with blushing cheeks, and looked like a peony that suddenly had shot up and bloomed among the other flowers. She warmly welcomed the stranger. Moody soon came out, short, thick and infirm, waddling along like a wounded duck. Vespie had told Margie that her staying there would depend upon Moody's reception.

"This is a mission'ry, father," said Vespie. "A mission'ry? Good as James Jeffreys ?" asked Moody. There was a little agitation in

the face of Margie at this allusion, only making it more attractive, though, as when a wind ruffles the beauty of a field of grain. She recovered herself quickly, and simply said she was a missionary.

"A mission'ry? That's good," added Moody. There was a twinkle in Vespie's eye as he looked over toward Margie. Its language was, "All right."

By the time that the sunset had stretched its glories above the little garden, till it seemed as if gladioli, petunias and nasturtiums were blooming in the sky, one garden-bed touching another, it was fully settled that Margie would stay at Moody's.

The

When night came, and Margie went up into her chamber, scented with the fresh sweet flowers Mary Ann had brought in from the garden, she looked out of her window toward the sea. water, in the moonlight, lay in broad shining surfaces. "Ragged Pint," as the fishermen called the long line of dark rocks curving half round the little harbour, seemed like a border of ebony sweeping about a shield of silver. Margie heard the voices of the fishermen arriving in the late boats.

A strange peace came to her, till her heart rested like the sea. She thought over her past life, of the step she took in leaving Oakville, of her entrance into the mission training-school at B-, of all her shifting experience afterwards in mission work in cities, of her life among the sick and poor and neglected. It had been a pleasure to imitate James's work. And now her long desire to visit and labour in Nancy's Harbour was about to be gratified. Somehow, James seemed very near. She lay down to sleep only to be drifted off upon a sea of dreams, bright as that sea sleeping in the moonlight not far away.

It seemed as if in those dreams James came to her. She felt the old touch of his hand. She saw him looking out of his earnest eyes. Could it be that he was still living, and not dead, as she had long thought? Then she felt that he was yet true to her, wherever he might be that night.

CHAPTER IV.

A BUSY LIFE.

AUNT MARGIE, as the children called her, was soon established in her work. She had her daily round of calls; she met little prayer-meeting groups in the evening; she weekly gathered about her the children in the Sabbath-school; sometimes the little girls met at her room to be introduced to all kinds of needle mysteries

And "Aunt Margie" was soon established in the affections of the people. Everybody liked her. It was not because she agreed with everybody; very often she differed. If her opinions were not as hospitably welcomed as she herself personally was, if she differed from others, she had the happy faculty of knowing how to differ pleasantly. The kindly way in which she expressed dissent kept back the thorn that dissension naturally plants.

It was wonderful how the villagers came to trust her. Her bosom was the treasure-box whose cover went down on many secrets imparted to her. Young girls, who sat on the rocks watching the retreating sails that wafted their lovers far out to sea, came back to make Aunt Margie the depository of their confidence. Old people, whose hearts full of an uneasy remorse, were like the dark caverns that the restless waters played in and out of, unbosomed to her the guilty secrets of the past. Everybody trusted her, for they both loved and respected her.

After a while, the people put the management of their children's educational interests into her hands. The two schools that Nancy's Harbour boasted came under the shadow of her sceptre, and, it is needless to say, they flourished there. The teachers she secured and the scholars she stimulated, all gave promise that a new day of hope was coming to the little fishing village by the sea. If James had been king in his day, it was evident that Margie was queen in hers. People compared her with James, and said they were a good deal alike in their ideas and ways.

"Why," said Vespie, "she's like the parson in her way of talking 'bout God. To hear her speak of Him and how near He is to us,-why it makes me think of one night last summer, when I was four mile off the Pint' in my little boat, and the sea seemed so big and the stars so bright, and God was a-fillin' all that empty space with Hisself!"

"Orful peculiar, them mission'ries," said Moody, "and yet I takes to them." One peculiarity Moody was apt to criticise a good deal: in Aunt Margie's aim to be useful, she felt she ought to know something more about the sea. She envied the village girls, who could lay their strong brown arms on the oars, and send a boat shooting round Ragged Point; and why should not she? Moody never encouraged it. It might do for the rough fishermen's girls, but for a "mission'ry lady," it certainly was out of place! Margie in her quiet way, however, persisted.

One day Vespie brought from the town a boat. It was a "little darlin'," all the young men said. Strong, it was also light; and the air-chambers in it, that gave it additional buoyancy, made it practically a life-boat. Moody

was disgusted, though, and grumbled away while he waddled into the house, leaving the more sympathising crowd to follow it to the water and witness its launching.

Before many months had passed Aunt Margie handled her boat so skilfully as to win many praises, and, at last she completely won Moody over. It was in this way: Moody had a favourite grandson, Mary Ann's oldest child, Tommy. He was just the boy for a daring adventure. He had gone down one afternoon on Ragged Point as far as the Narrows. The latter was a channel between the Point and a stretch of rocks uncovered at low tide. The water in the Narrows was then so shallow that parties could wade and gain the rocks beyond. And yet there was danger; the tide, when it turned, came in swiftly. Soon there would be in the Narrows a current too deep for fording, and, at last, the rocks themselves would be covered with several feet of water. Lives had been lost there by parties failing to go back in

season.

The venturesome Tommy knew the danger, but it only fascinated him. With a companion, he waded off to the rocks one day. While carelessly lingering, the water deepened in the Narrows past hope of fording. Then it began to hurl over the rocks themselves. The boys were frightened, and called for help. Steadily the tide rose, creeping up the bodies of the boys, lapping their forms with a kind of chuckling sound as if in conscious mockery. The boys were frantic with fright. The men were off fishing, and the women from the houses nearest them had gone into the woods berrying, so that no one heard the call for aid. The water was steadily creeping up the boys' waists, all the while hurling and rippling and chuckling.

It chanced that Moody had come from his home, high up the hill; and, as he neared the beach, heard the warning sounds. He knew what it all meant. He hurriedly made a boat ready, and was busy launching it, convinced that he, probably, was too late, when to his relief he saw a boat shoot along the side of Rocky Point, and rapidly near the boys. They were taken aboard; but none too soon, for the tide had touched their chins and would speedily have swept over them. To the old man's amazement, the rescuer was Aunt Margie, whose little boat was coming in from the sea when the boys' peril became apparent to her. The old man, however, generously atoned for any withdrawal of appreciation in the past, and none surpassed him in enthusiastic praise of the heroine that day.

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"Just like them mission'ries," said Moody, allers surprisin' you, allers havin' their own way, and most allers right."

It

may have been a year later than this, early