accepted; and who could doubt that in time, if | he wished, his living would be restored; the old vicar being, moreover, scarce able to preach at all, and sixteen hundred communicants having sent up a request from Kidderminster for the restoration of Mr. Baxter.

It was also unfortunate, she admitted, that many hundred "painful preachers" had been suddenly removed from their churches on the same grounds as Mr. Baxter; but the Protector and his triers (said Aunt Dorothy) had set an ill example, and ill fruit must be expected to grow of it. Then there were some severe dealings with books. Mr. John Milton's "Defence of the English People" was burned at Charing Cross by the public hangman. But at that, said Aunt Dorothy, no loyal person could wonder, seeing that therein he had dared to speak of the late king's execution as a great and magnanimous act. Properly regarded it was indeed a singular proof of His Majesty's clemency that Mr. Milton's book only was burned, and not Mr. Milton himself.

The public burning of the Covenant was a more doubtful act. This she saw with her own eyes at Kidderminster, in the market-place before Mr. Baxter's windows. The king had signed it and sworn to it, and there were excellent things in it. But there was no denying it had been used to seditious ends. Some (concluded Aunt Dorothy, pressed hard for a Scriptural example) had ground the brazen serpent to powder because it had been made an idol. And she had little doubt, with reverence she said it, Moses would have done the same with the very Tables of the Law, if they had been similarly desecrated. The Ark itself was not spared, but suffered to fall into the hands of the Philistines when Israel would have used it like a heathen charm.

Nevertheless, with these arguments I believe Aunt Dorothy herself was not easy; she was driven to them by Job Forster, who had asked her one day, with a grim irony, how she liked the new doings in Scotland, the execution of Argyle, the foreing of Prelacy and the Prayer-book on the unwilling Presbyterian people, and the burning of the Covenant in Edinburgh.

But as the months of 1661 passed on, and the Conference stood still, whilst Mr. Baxter and the other deprived ministers were not restored, Aunt

Dorothy's lofty confidence gradually changed into an irritable apprehension, which took the form of vehement indignation against all who refused to believe in the favourable issue of events, or who, as she believed, stood in the way of it. And it often moved me much to see how, with ingenious fondness, like a mother, with a wild son, she laid the blame on the servants of the house, on the riotous company or grudging hospitality of the far country, on the very management of the home itself, rather than on the prodigal.

A large portion of this diverted current of wrath was poured on the Queen-mother, Henrietta Maria, who held open celebration of Roman Catholic rites in her palace.

To any information concerning the appropriation of apartments in the king's palace to the king's "lady" or "ladies," she refused absolutely to listen. "It is written," said she, "thou shalt not speak evil of the ruler of thy people. But," she added, "if any one were to blame, it was the party that had exposed him to the seductions of his mother Jezebel, and the idolatrous foreign court. Indeed, who can doubt the pureness of the king's Protestant principle, which (even if his morals had been a little contaminated) had resisted Papistical enticements so long?"

The scene in Whitehall, where the king, under a canopy of state, laid his hands on those who were brought to him to heal them of "the king's evil," while the chaplain repeated the words, "He laid His hands on the sick and healed them," was indeed a sore scandal to her. It made her very indignant with the chaplain, who had misguided His Majesty. "Mr. Baxter must be careful," she said, "how he conceded too much to the Prelatical party."

But the chief force of her wrath was directed

against the Queen-mother, who, she said, had ruined one king and one generation of Englishmen, and was doing her best to ruin a second; against the Queen-mother and the Fifth Monarchy

men.

To the insurrection of Venner, the winecooper, in January 1661, she attributed the delay and disappointment in the Conference. How was a young king, kept in exile so long, to learn in a moment to distinguish between the various

the vision of this new world-this new English | world-rose before me as a new Land of Promise, which, if persecution ever made this England for the time "the wilderness," might be a refuge for our suffering brethren again.

Not indeed for us. I did not think so much of ourselves our convictions were moderate and our lives peaceable; and the Star Chamber was not likely to be re-established within the memory of the generation that had destroyed it. But the Anabaptists, and the more decided Independents, who objected to all forms of prayer, and the Quakers, might find such an asylum yet very welcome. Already there were four thousand Quakers in prison. Some had been shut up, sixty in a cell, and had died of bad air and scanty food. For sober Presbyterians, like Aunt Dorothy and Mr. Baxter, or moderate people attached with few scruples to the Liturgy like my father, my husband, and myself, there might not indeed be the triumph in store of which Aunt Dorothy dreamed. But of persecution or imprisonment we did not dream. The tide could never rise again in our lifetime as high as that.

It perplexed us much that during all these months we saw nothing of the Davenants. We did not chance to be at Netherby during the year 1661 or the beginning of 1662. My father had rheumatism, and was ordered not to winter on the Fens; my husband was much occupied; so that we did not have our usual summer holiday. Lettice and Sir Walter, we heard, were for a time in London, about the Court; but we saw nothing of them.

The children who were at Netherby brought back wonderful stories of the sweet lady at the hall; and Maidie especially was inspired with a love for her which reminded me of the fascination of Lady Lucy over me in my own childhood.

I felt sure Lettice's heart could not change.

Had her will, then, grown so weak that she dared not make one effort to break through the barriers which separated us?

Or was it, rather, stronger and more immovable than I had thought? Did she indeed still refuse indemnity to the political offences of the Commonwealth? Could, indeed, no lapse of time efface, no shedding of traitors' blood expiate, the shedding of that royal blood which separated her from Roger?

Nothing but repentance?-the repentance he could never feel without desecrating the memory of that good prince who, as he believed, had been trained by God, through conflict within and without, anointed by wars, and crowned by victory after victory, to be such a ruler as England had never known, over such an England as the world had never seen.

He never

What Roger thought I know not. mentioned the name of any of the Davenants, except that of Walter, the youngest, who seemed to come to him from time to time, and whom I saw once at his lodgings, and did not recognize till after he had left, when Roger told me who he was.

For I remembered Walter Davenant- -a lighthearted boy, with frank face and bearing, and eyes like his mother's. And this Walter Davenant had a manner half reckless and half sullen ; a dress which, with all its laces and plumes and tassels, looked neglected; and restless, uneasy eyes, which never steadily met yours.

"Is that Lettice Davenant's brother Walter ?" I said.

"It is Walter Davenant, one of the courtiers of King Charles the Second."

“He is a friend of yours, Roger."

"He is Lettice's brother," he replied; "and she asked me to see him sometimes; and now and then he likes to come."

S

O high are the Lord's ways and thoughts above ours, that we cannot comprehend nor take them in until the Spirit of God enables us. The light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not, until He who commanded the light to shine out of darkness Himself shines in our hearts, and gives us the light of the knowledge of His glory in the face of Jesus Christ.

It is hard for the unrighteous man to forsake his own thoughts of God, and of God's way of salvation. Specially hard for him to take in the wondrous fact that mercy is free-that a Saviour (and eternal life in Him) is God's free gift to sinners-that grace means free favour to the unworthy. We truly need to receive the Spirit which is of God, before we can know the things that are freely given to us of God. So hard is it for a man to become poor in spirit-to humble himself, and become as a little child-to forsake all that he has or thinks he has to enter in at that gate which is too narrow for any but naked, empty souls. So hard, that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Free and abundant entrance for the poor and needy who have nothing to pay, and who are content to be debtors to mercy alone; but for none else. Nature cannot understand this, nor submit to it. It is a blessed sign of the Spirit's working when the language of the soul really becomes,-"Nothing in my hand I bring;" "God be merciful to me a sinner." Like cold water to a thirsty soul, so is the good news of a free salvation to one brought thus low; and whom Satan, it may be, is tempting to utter despair.

The Scripture reader came to me one day with tears in her eyes, and begged me to visit a poor young man whose life was hanging by a thread, in consequence of the effects of an accident. Sudden inward hæmorrhage hrad weakened him extremely, and his mind was sunk in the deepest despondency,-"There can be no hope for me; none, none!" was the mournful reply he gave to all her pleadings with him. She said he seemed to have been well taught; and the consciousness that he had lightly esteemed the Saviour when in health, made him feel ashamed to apply for mercy, now that he was in extremity. He had been a sober, industrious youth, and blameless in the eyes of the world; but he needed none to tell him, now, the deep guilt of forgetting God, and the deeper guilt of neglecting His great salvation.

When I went to the ward in which he was, and inquired for him, the nurse led me to his bed, and told him who I was, and who had asked me to come to him.

But he took no notice, either by word or look, of what she said. He lay with downcast eyes, the marble whiteness of his features intensified by the masses of silky black hair scattered, as by weary tossing to and fro, on the pillow; and every line of his face, and even the listless position of the bloodless hand on the coverlet, betokened not weakness of body merely, but the deepest dejection of soul. I sent the nurse away, and sat down beside him without remark. What pity filled my heart, looking on the young creature thus suddenly brought to the very brink of death! and as I thought of the poor fainting spirit sinking down into the depths, the bitter waters of despair closing over it, and coming death and judgment threatening to overwhelm it for ever, I cried in my heart that the strong hand of Him who is mighty to save would make haste to help him, and draw him out of the fearful pit and miry clay. How feeble and useless in such a case did man's power appear! What hope, what help, what comfort in the knowledge that "salvation is of the Lord!"

Presently I sung very softly some verses of the hymn, "Just as I am," and whilst I was singing, his sullen apathy seemed to give way, and the poor fellow threw the sheet over his face, and wept bitterly. By-and-by, he asked for water, and, as I held the cup to his lips, I said: "Just as truly as I am now putting to your lips this drink, so is God holding out to you the cup of salvation, in that last and freest invitation of the gospel, Whoseever will, let him come and take of the water of life freely;' ;" and then, as the Lord enabled me, I sought t set before him the grace of God in the gospel of His Son. When I ceased, he feebly said: "It's all of no use-all you've been saying just slides out of my mindindeed, all the time you've been speaking, my mind's been running after other things. Oh, you don't know how bad I am!"

"No," I replied, "I do not, and neither, I am sure, do you, but God knows; and does not all you do know about yourself show you that what He says of you is perfectly true? Your heart, He says, is desperately wicked. When a thing is desperate, it is surely past mending. Again He says: "Thou hast destroyed thy self;' but He adds, 'in Me is thine help found.' God knows far better than you do how helpless and lost your state is; but it was just because He knew its utter lostness that He sent His Son to be the Saviour of those who will receive Him as such, and it is in the full knowledge of your helplessness and utter unworthiness that He sends you such an invitation as that which again I give and would leave with you: Whosoever

will, let him take of the water of life freely." He made no reply; but, as I rose and prepared to leave him, he suddenly seized my hand and wrung it.

Next day I went, he held out his hand when he saw me coming, and gave me a cordial welcome. There was a slight change for the better in his bodily state, and a gleam of hope. The day-star of hope, too, had risen within, and the shadows of gloom and despondency were passing away. He told me he had just been asking God to make him thankful for the improvement in his health, and asked me to pray that the Lord would lengthen his life a little, in order that he might be brought to Jesus. I told him I had just come from a prayer-meeting where special prayer had been made on his behalf. He looked very grateful, and said that he had thought little of such prayers when he had heard them made for others in such circumstances; but now he felt their value.

He spoke a great deal that day, telling me of the impressions he had had at the Sabbath school, and of the solemn scenes of revival times in the north of Ireland through which he had passed unsaved. He seemed to have a very deep sense of the aggravated nature of his sin against light and grace, and he covered his face and wept as he spoke of his teacher's pleadings with him, and the Spirit's strivings so long resisted, and again he thanked God for his great goodness in not entting him off suddenly.

I took him a little china drinking-cup to keep for his own use, as he could not raise his head from the pillow, and, as I gave it to him, I said I wanted it to remind him, every time he used it, of the true and faithful words of the exalted Saviour: "To him that is athirst will I give to drink of the fountain of the water of life freely." After I had left him I returned for something forgotten. I moved noiselessly, lest he might be sleeping. But no he lay with closed eyes, and hands clasped, and lips moving in silent prayer; and I stole away with heart gladdened by the signs of the same breathings of spiritual life which the Lord in vision described to Ananias, with regard to Saul of Tarsus, "Behold, he prayeth!".

There is no need to enter into a detailed account of the way in which this awakened spirit was led on till he arrived at settled peace in believing on Jesus. The rising of the Sun of righteousness on a dark heart is usually like the rising of the natural sun. There is the gray morning dawn, when things unseen before become faintly visible, and as the light waxes brighter and brighter they become more and more clear and distinct; and there is the marked and memorable moment when the first beam of the rising sun touches with glory the top of the mountains, and, rapidly rising above the horizon, floods the whole scene with inexpressible brightness and beauty. But the first faint glimmer of morning spread upon the mountains is from the sun, as well as the dazzling glory when he comes like a bridegroom out of his chamber. And so the first discoveries

of sin and ruin, and the first dim apprehension of an all-sufficient Saviour, are from the entrance into the heart of these life-giving beams which proceed from Him whose goings forth are prepared as the morning.

In "following on to know the Lord," the light which reveals Him waxes stronger and stronger, even though passing clouds may for a time dim its radiance, and this steady advance distinguishes the saving work of God's Spirit from mere transitory impressions, which, like gleams of lightning in the night, only die away into darkness again. The God of this world, whose destroying work it is to hide the gospel from the sinner's heart lest he should be saved, strives hard to darken and obscure the rising light, and thus seldom indeed in the spiritual world is there such a thing as a "morning without clouds." But when "He who commanded the light to shine out of darkness shines in the heart," Satan's blinding power is destroyed. All his opposition. is in vain; for as well may the sun in the heavens be restrained from rising, as the true light from shining in. due time in the heart of any of His chosen ones.

Robert continued to improve, and with increasing bodily strength he was able to give more earnest heed to the things belonging to his peace. On one occasion, when the gospel had been clearly stated, and its free offer urged upon his immediate acceptance, he seemed depressed, and said, while he saw it all plain enough, it seemed to him as if he had no power to lay hold on it. Next day was the Sabbath, and much prayer was made for him in more than one congregation; and when I saw him in the evening, he seemed more lively and hopeful. I told him I had brought him a verse I thought would just suit him: "To them that have no might, He increaseth strength ;" and the lines,

"None but Jesus

Can do helpless sinners good;"

and these seemed to give him great comfort.

But

About this time I went to the country, and with great regret had to leave Robert for a fortnight. the kind Scripture reader often reported how he was getting on. His bodily strength rapidly returned, and every hope was entertained of his ultimate recovery. It was the month of May. The woods and fields were bursting into new life, and all nature gladly rejoicing. I sat down to rest one morning on a branch which had been cut off its parent stem, and which was putting forth its tender young foliage as vigorously as those which were waving overhead. But I knew that, long ere the summer was past, the leaves of the severed branch would be hanging sere and dead, whilst those on the tree were still fresh and green. I was writing to Robert, and used this as a similitude. I spoke of sin as having cut off man from God the source of life, so that now the life we had for soul and body was no better than the life of the severed branch; and that the bodily life now reviving in him, and all his impressions and good re