hood merges into that brief burning summer of the woman's life, whence she, and yet more of course her elders, would pass so soon into the autumn of the hopes and heart, and onward, if existence were prolonged, to the evening of decaying years, and the night when no man can work.

Maude went to her room unusually silent, quiet as she always was; she was absent and languid; but as her sisters shared the apartment, she had no leisure to indulge in the reflections which seemed to occupy her till all three were laid to rest for the night. Fanny and Charlotte were soon asleep, but not so Maude; she lay with her eyes wide open, gazing on the narrow strip of dark and cloudless sky which was revealed to her through the small window; there was just space enough to show the pure cold light of one or two stars, quivering faint and bright in the deep gloom of the midnight hour; and Maude unconsciously riveted her gaze upon them, whilst she yielded up her spirit to the host of vague bewildering thoughts that came sweeping over it.

They had sprung from a simple source, but they went on deepening, deepening in her inmost heart, till they woke within her a disquietude not soon to be laid to rest. She had been thinking that there was now no longer a child in that house where they all had grown up together; the youngest of the family had passed into womanhood, and with that thought the swift ebbing of life, the sure, steady approach of its mysterious close, came upon her with a startling reality. She remembered the days of childhood, with their golden dreams, when this same life had spread itself out before her, as an almost illimitable prospect, a vast field of untrodden ground, wherein hope and imagination built up a high fabric of joys and interests that were awaiting her, of a something great and good, and above all happy, which was to meet her there, for which she had been born, and in which she was to live; and now she had entered on existence, in its full maturity some years ago; and what after all was this life which had seemed so great and glorious a thing in those young days.

What was it? the dropping of day after day into the past to become lost therein, as the drop of water into the still deep sea, day after day, monotonous, aimless, objectless, filled up with a trivial routine of petty occupations and interests, which never lifted her one step above the passing occurrences of the moment, and containing assuredly nothing worth her having been called into being. She saw no reason why this mode of existence should ever materially alter-some few of its present attractions she might lose-friends might fall away from around her in the course of nature, and she might become outwardly as lonely and

companionless as she was in heart already, but this was all the change that seemed likely to befall her. Marriage, the great event of a woman's life in worldly calculation, was out of the question for her, with her bodily infirmities and weak constitu tion; one only great and essential change there might be, there would be-death! Death, that dark shadowy problem never to be solved on this side of the grave. It was thus she ever thought of it; it had neither light nor hope for her; not that she had ever experienced religious despondency, for the views of religion in which the Elliston family had been brought up, were not of a nature to awaken any fears as to a future state, because they did not render it a sufficient reality (though an acknowledged truth) to be either a thought of blessedness or of dread.

All that Maude Elliston had learnt of the Catholic Faith had been acquired in her regular attendance along with the rest of the family at a neighbouring church, where the ministrations were regulated by the distinct principle, that GOD was to be worshipped on one day of the week alone. This was a creed which suited admirably with the personal habits of the comfortable, easy living incumbent, who had served it for the last twenty years; he was, to use an expressive term, “a man of no views;" his only decided line of conduct being a stout opposition to what he termed “innovations," by which means he retained undisturbed possession of a wooden fortification, containing reading-desk and pulpit, where he and his clerk mumbled over their duet Sunday after Sunday, in great peace, if not precisely in harmony. And there Maude continued to hear what she had learnt at her Sunday-school in earlier days; that there was in truth a great GOD and a great salvation, and a REDEEMER Who had died to stay the world's perishing; and in these facts, whenever she did think of the future beyond the grave, she rested her hopes, vague and indefinite, that herself and all she loved would be "saved;" that at least this great black mystery of death would reveal no dire punishment for them.

But these were mere abstract truths for her, distant and unsubstantial, unto which it seemed to her that her panting soul and wearied body could no more reach than her powerless hands could have grasped those coldly glittering stars. Far as the heavens were above the earth this great GOD seemed from her; distant as the gulf of eighteen hundred years would place her, she felt from Him Who trod the world then, a Man of Sorrows; and now sat on the Right Hand of GOD. That there was any means by which she could even now, be brought near unto Him, yea into His very Bosom, and through His sinless

Humanity into beatific union with the Most Holy Trinity, were glorious mysteries, of which she had not the faintest conception; and yet more was she utterly ignorant that in His Love, His present Love, for ever present and eternal, there could alone be life for her-the life, the joy, the hope, the ALL which her yearning spirit craved for, or that there were appointed channels by which she might, whilst still in mortal flesh, be lifted up into this Love, there to make her rest for ever. All these things were utterly unknown to Maude Elliston; for of the Sacraments she knew nothing; she was aware that she had been "christened;" but the main fact connected with this ceremony in her mind was the receiving of her name; and of the other great Christian mystery, she knew that her mother on Christmas-day remained an hour later in church than the rest, in order to partake of the "LORD's Supper;" which she told Maude was a 66 Remembrance of CHRIST'S Death;" an explanation that conveyed no idea of any kind to her daughter's mind. Maude herself and her sisters had never so much as been present at the Celebration; they had been confirmed along with some fifty other children at the school where they received their so-called education; and immediately after that holy rite, their mother told them that she considered them too young to "take the Sacrament," a decision she had never revoked, though now one and all had more than reached their full maturity.

It had never occurred to Maude to inquire further on these points; she supposed she knew all she ought to know; and then she calmly took life as it came to her a dull, heavy, aimless thing, her utmost hope for the future of death being, that, whatever came after this world, might be less disappointing.

We believe that this is a state of mind in which thousands go tranquilly to their graves; but Maude's was not a soul to rest contented thus; and it is not to be wondered at, that as she lay there, it went drifting through a very sea of dark and troubled thoughts, like a frail bark without rudder or compass.

She slept ill and woke so feverish and unrefreshed, that she determined to go and take a walk, though it was many hours earlier than she and her sisters were accustomed to leave their beds; she stole out without awaking them or any of the household, who were all still buried in slumber; but just as she was descending the stairs, she was startled by hearing the house door opened, evidently by means of a latch-key;-a sort of momentary terror, of which she was afterwards quite ashamed, induced her hastily to enter the sitting-room, and stand behind the half-open door, whilst a step was heard approaching which she knew at once to be that of her brother Henry; she just caught sight of him as he passed to his room, and saw that he looked

extremely fatigued and harassed; it was evident that he had been out on some business all night, and a strange haunting dread took possession of her, as to what the occupation could be, which had thus to be performed in the hours of darkness. Her dear Henry, her one only beloved brother, was he falling into any danger, any evil? He had often been absent of late without telling where he had been; and when at home he was preoccupied, and altogether reserved with her; her heart grew heavier still as she thought on these things, and she gladly went out into the cool morning air to wander by herself through the streets, little thinking that she was at that moment being led, to take her first step on a path, which was ultimately to guide her to a clear solution of all that perplexed her now, and bring her out of her present darkness, into a most marvellous light.

THE TWO GUARDIANS,

CHAPTER XX.

"Let us be patient. These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

"We see but dimly through the mists and vapours,
Amid these earthly damps;

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,

May be heaven's distant lamps."

LONGFELLOW.

THERE were morning prayers before the hurried breakfast, which was interspersed with numerous directions about what was to be done for Mrs. Lyddell, and what letters were to be sent after Mr. Lyddell. Lionel was grave and silent, as became one whose fate was in the balance, without either shrinking or bravado; but somewhat as if he was more inclined, than had been the case last night, to hope for a favourable result. With heartfelt prayers did Marian watch him as he crossed the hall and entered the carriage, calling out a cheerful good-bye,prayers that, if it were the will of Heaven, his affliction might be removed; but that if not, help might be given him to turn it into a blessing, as he seemed almost to be beginning to do. His father, too,-little had Marian ever thought to feel for him the affectionate compassion and sympathy of which she was now

sensible, as she responded to his kind, fatherly farewell, and thought of what he must be feeling; obliged to leave his wife in so anxious and suffering a state; his daughter, the pride of the family, removed so suddenly; his most promising son probably blind for life; his eldest, a grief, pain, and shame to them all. Marian must pray for him too, that he might be supported and aided through these most bitter trials, and that the work which they had begun in him might go on and be perfected; that these troubles, grievous as they were, might in his case also turn to blessings.

The occupation of the two girls was all day the care of Mrs. Lyddell. She was not worse, as far as bodily ailments went; the attack of cold, brought on by leaving her room to attend on Caroline, had gone off, and her strength was in some degree returning; but she was restless, excited, irritable, and with an inability to restrain herself, that was more alarming than Marian liked to own to herself, far less to Clara.

She insisted on getting up at an earlier hour than she had hitherto attempted; she was worn out and wearied with dressing; she was impatient and vexed with Clara, for some mistake about her pillows; and the trembling of her hand, as she was eating some broth, was uncontrollable. The broth was not what she liked, and she would send for the housekeeper, to reprove her about it; asked questions about the arrangements, found them not as she wished; spoke sharply, said no one took heed to anything while she was ill, and then burst into a fit of weeping at the thought of the daughter who would have been able to supply her place.

This spent itself, (for the girls were unable to do anything effectual in soothing it away); the doctors made their daily visit, and cheered her up a little. The consequence of this exhilaration was, that she began talking about Lionel, and anticipating his perfect recovery; arranging how they were all to go and join him in London, and working herself up to a state of great excitement; pettish with Marian, for not being able to answer her hopefully, and at last hysterically laughing at the picture she drew of Lionel with restored sight.

Marian asked if she would be read to, and took up a serious book, with which she had put her to sleep two or three times before, but nothing of the kind would she hear; and as the best chance of at least quieting her, Marian went on a voyage of discovery among the club books downstairs, and brought up a book of travels, and a novel. Mrs. Lyddell chose the novel; it was a very exciting story, and caught the attention of all three. Marian grew eager about it, and was well pleased to go on; and so it occupied them most of the afternoon and evening, driving