The tears fell down Miss Mary's cheeks. Dorothy gazed at her for a moment with the wondering distress of a child who, for the first time, sees a grown-up person weep, and then with a look of perfect comprehension and infinite compassion, she said

'Don't wet your tears, my Mary.'

Miss Mary struggled hard for calm, and Dorothy spoke once more. "Please sing "Sorrow and Sighing."

Oh, hard task! To sing when the heart is breaking, and the bitter tears are waiting to flow; to sing when the light is fading out of life, and God is taking to Himself of our best and our dearest! But Miss Mary could not refuse her darling's last request, and her voice rose sweet and true-' And sorrow and sighing shall flee-shall flee away,' while Dorothy listened with a smile of sweet content.

At the unexpected sound Miss Stuart came, hurrying, and soon all the household stood round the little bed. Sadly they looked their last on the gift which God had given them, and took farewell of the child they had befriended, and when the blue eyes gently closed, and the fluttering breath was still, there arose a sound of weeping, and only Dorothy, safe folded in the Everlasting Arms, smiled calmly on.

How pleasant are thy paths, O Death!

E'en children after play

Lie down, without the least alarm,
And sleep, in thy maternal arm,
Their little life away.'

Is that all the

nothing at all!'

CHAPTER VI.

'Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,

A star, death's uncongenial wild

Smiling above!

Soon, soon thy little feet have trode

The skyward path, the seraph's road,

That led thee back from man to God.'-Delta.

story? Why, she only lived, and died, and did

Yes; and the roses only live and die, and we don't make soup of them, or pickle them in vinegar; yet who will say their fragrant lives do not make ours more fair?'

The tidings of Dorothy's death was received with universal sorrow by the Gowanside people. Many of them did, indeed, discover that they had known all along that she would die young, still her sudden death seemed to shock and sadden them none the less; and, as they had considerately refrained from expressing their fears while she lived, they enlarged all the more upon them now. Others seemed to think that there was a great deal of mismanagement somewhere

that things might surely have been arranged differently; and the baker's wife, who had a special penchant for Dorothy, even went so far as to hint that one of Mrs. Falconar's bairns could better have been spared, an opinion which Mrs. Falconar would have been slow to endorse, as she caressed her red-haired baby with a deepened sense of its preciousness.

The Miss Stuarts themselves, after the first bitterness of their grief was past, showed that calm resignation to the will of God which is so strong in the Scottish character, and went quietly back to their former pursuits and way of living. They were much touched by the many expressions of sympathy which Dorothy's death called forth, but they did not speak much of her themselves; it was not their way. They laid the dainty little garments which she had worn in her chest-of-drawers, with sprigs of lavender between (it was like a second burial), and her doll and picture-books were placed beside them. The nursery remained untouched, and often during the winter which followed Dorothy's death, Miss Mary climbed the attic stairs, and, standing before the open drawers, turned over one by one the precious relics, till the fast-dropping tears blotted them from her sight, and Poppet, rubbing against her skirts, grew weary of neglect, and retired to the cosy kitchen.

'To think on that blessed bairn mindin' on John James !'

Jean often alluded thus to Dorothy's mention of the gallant sailor in her last prayer, and although Lisbeth sometimes perversely reminded her that the dying child had included Toosey, Poppet, and her doll in the same petition, Jean valued none the less Dorothy's care for her nephew, and trusted somewhat superstitiously to it to keep him safe amid the perils of the sea.

She placed the beautiful photograph of Dorothy, which the Miss Stuarts had given her, beside the daguerreotype of John James, and as she now mingled her stories of the latter with fond praises of the former, she found in Lisbeth a more willing listener than of old.

The Miss Stuarts still live in Gowanside-the four 'old' Miss Stuarts as they are called now, for there are many silver threads in Miss Stuart's hair, and even Miss Flora, as she cautiously admits herself, is not so young as she used to be.

Miss Mary is not married, in spite of the prophecies of the wise women of Gowanside, who confidently predicted that she would marry Admiral Tweedie. Lovers in the bright spring-time of their lives, and through long years of separation, these two are 'only' lovers still, too near to the land where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage to be aught else. Miss Mary has gone back to her invalid ways a good deal; she sits often in her low chair at the parlour window, gazing dreamily at the distant Pentlands; and when the setting sun glints golden on the grass, and the birds are singing their evening hymn, her mind is full of Dorothy, the precious link which binds her to the further shore. And if there is a strain of

sadness in the thought, she hears again the little voice which forbade her to weep, and looks on to the time when God shall wipe away all tears. She does not go out much now, and it is always Miss Peggy who accompanies Toosey and his mistress on their daily walk.

Toosey, poor fellow, is very frail indeed, and has had to be provided with a new coat of warmer material than his old one. It fits well, and is very becoming, but it has not cured his cough. Miss Flora often says that she is afraid he is not long for this world,' from which expression we may infer that she hopes to meet with him in a better land—a hope of which, I am sure, those who have had a faithful dogfriend would be very sorry to deprive her.

*

'She's no' near sae contradictious as she used to be.'

Mrs. Falconar, who is enjoying a gossip with her next-door neighbour, indicates with a jerk of her head the subject of her remark-Miss Stuart, who is wending her way down the hill towards the village, for she is as active as ever, and there are still doingless' mothers, and uncared-for children in Gowanside.

Her business done, she leaves the clustered cottages, and follows the steep winding road which leads to the old churchyard on the hill. There, where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade, where all is peace and quiet, and the voices of the children, playing in the sunny village down below, sound faint and far away, she sits down to rest. A white cross heads a tiny daisy-covered mound.

DOROTHY,
Aged 5 years.

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be
the name of the Lord.'

Miss Stuart's eyes rest mechanically on the familiar words, and then wander away to the other names—names of many whose faces were once well known in Gowanside. High and low, young and old, rich and poor, they are sleeping here together, in the bosom of their common mother, until the day breaks, and the shadows flee away. And the sun shines, and the birds sing, and the laughter of children bubbles forth, for flowers spring on graves, and life is born of death, and God is Love.

THE END.

CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

CAMEO CCLVIII.

MONMOUTH'S REBELLION.

1685-1686.

PERHAPS the reign of Charles II. may be thus summed up: He came with great abilities and fair intentions, but with habits corrupted by vicious surroundings and principles overthrown by professing to be of one communion, while his faith was with another.

His course under any circumstances would have been hard, but his brother's open Romanism maddened the nation, and made them believe in the Popish plot. He had not courage to withstand their fanatic violence lest his real proclivities should be suspected and cause his ruin, but he was resolved to support his brother's lawful claims to the throne. Therefore he avoided assembling Parliament, and kept himself afloat by French bribes, gradually advancing in power, and at last, when the Rye House plot gave him the oppor tunity, availing himself of it to destroy those leaders whom he thought most perilous to his throne and to his brother's succession. It was a miserable policy, a miserable time, and the stain long rested on English statesmen.

Charles, the object of so many hopes, all so grievously disappointed, endowed with so many gifts, all thrown away, had reached the term of his trial. He was only fifty-four years old, and full of energy, apparently in strong health, though he did not walk as much as usual, but worked in his laboratory. On the last Sunday of his life, the scene in the evening of February 1st, 1685, at Whitehall, is described by Evelyn

A game at basset was going on with a bank of at least £2000 in the midst, while the King sat a little apart, with the duchesses of Cleveland, Portsmouth and Mazarin, listening to love-songs sung by a French boy. Already the King was unwell, and had hardly tasted food, and somewhat later, he went to the Duchess of Portsmouth's rooms and asked for some 'spoon meat,' but he could not eat it, and said it was too strong for him. He rose early, but seemed drowsy and confused, stumbling in his speech, and forgetting what he was going to say. At about eight o'clock, as he came out of his dressing-room, he fell into Lord Aylesbury's arms in an apoplectic fit.

Dr. King was in the next room, and having no lancet at hand, opened a vein in the arm with a penknife. The Queen came instantly, and was at once followed by the Duke of York and his wife. They

found the King, purple and distorted in the face, held up in a chair, a hot iron on his head, and his teeth held apart by force.

Presently the Queen made her way to Mary Beatrice and whispered to her, 'Sister, I beseech you to tell the Duke, who knowing the King's sentiments with regard to the Catholic religion as well as I do, to take advantage of some good moments.'

The effort of speaking brought on a hysterical convulsive attack, and poor Catharine had to be carried out of the room. The Duchess had long to wait to speak to her husband, and when she told him, he replied, I know it, and think of nothing else,'-all in the wonted spirit of their Church, striving for a death-bed reconciliation.

In a little more than two hours, Charles recovered consciousness and asked for the Queen. She was not yet in a state to come, but sent a message to beg his forgiveness if she had ever offended him. Ah! poor lady,' said Charles. She beg my pardon! I have much more cause to beg hers.'

She was able to come to him after he had been placed in bed, but she was too much overpowered to speak.

There was a rally during the next two days and the whole city rejoiced sincerely, the bells were rung and bonfires lighted, for there was so much that was lovable about Charles that he had the hearts of his people in spite of his grievous faults; but on the Thursday morning his case became manifestly hopeless. The Archbishop and the Bishops of London, Durham, and Bath and Wells were in attendance, and to the last of these, the saintly Ken, fell the office of warning him that his hours were numbered.

Charles listened calmly, and Ken read the office for the Visitation of the Sick, asking the King if he repented of his sins. He replied by a general expression of contrition and the Bishop gave him the Absolution, asking afterwards if he would receive the Holy Communion. He did not answer, and on the question being repeated more distinctly, he said, 'There was time enough for that.' Preparations were made, but when all was ready, he would only say he would think of it.' The Duke of York meantime was in great perplexity. He was a sincere Roman Catholic himself, and knew his brother's real faith was the same. He believed that Charles's final salvation depended on being received into Communion with his Church, and absolved by her authority. He knew the Queen trusted to him, though she, poor woman, had fallen into another swoon, and was lying unconscious on her bed. The Duchess of Portsmouth, Louise de Querouaille, a true Bretonne in faith, was roaming about the palace in misery, not admitted to the death chamber, and bemoaning to the French Ambassador, Barillon, the difficulty of introducing a priest, among all the Protestant Bishops and courtiers.

One of Burnet's many falsehoods is that she was present, supporting the King, but Barillon's account shows that this was a calumny. There were crowds enough there already, five Bishops,