"He ought to be the husband of Mad Pru,'" Philip answered, in a sarcastic tone. 'By-the-by, Lerrie, aren't you sorry you will be deprived of the pleasure of visiting that lady when you get to Brambleside?" "I am not there yet," she answered in a teasing tone, “but I am sorry I shall not see her again. But I cannot think, Phil, why you will persist in calling her by that absurd and disrespectful name! She is no more mad than you and I are, perhaps not so much so." Philip shrugged his shoulders. "I should think your friend, Mr. Trueman, is afflicted with the same species of insanity," he observed ironically, only, perhaps, in a rather milder form." "Philip, what do you mean ?" His words had awakened a terrible fear in Lerrie's mind, a fear that had secretly rankled there for some time, but had never sprung into life and tangibility before. "Do you not believe in Christianity?" The words sprung from Lerrie's lips impulsively; and the words, the tone, the troubled, frightened look in her eyes, were so unlike herself, that Philip was startled. "What possesses you this afternoon?" he asked, laughing uneasily, "you look as though I have shocked-" "Don't Phil," she said, though with a revulsion of feeling at the familiar sound of his voice, "you have got to answer my question." "What for?" he asked, veiling his vexation by an attempt at playfulness. "Are you going to prove yourself a veritable tyrant ?" "Of course, I am!" she answered, assuming her natural look and tone again, though waiting with a beating heart for the answer to her repeated question: "Do you really believe in Christianity?" "Of course I do," he answered, "you persistent little monkey. I know what you mean by that question.' The anxiety in Lerrie's heart was hardly allayed by these off-hand replies, with the words of that hymn ringing in her mind. "Sell all thou hast, and buy it, 'Tis worth all earthly things." "I couldn't give up my love," her heart said, "that would be too great a sacrifice." (To be continued). While the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, and summer and winter, shall not cease.-Gen. viii. 22. [No. 20.] AMONG THE CORN. POPPIES were blushing among the corn, Just for a moment kissed, I think, Noisily whistling, the blackbird shrill Suddenly hushed its song, Peeped from the hawthorn curiously, Even the sad autumnal eve, Never a word to my lady-love, Why did she tremble as if in fear? Then low in the stubble field lay down Whispered the tale till the blackbird bold Somebody's dimpled cheek. Quivered the beautiful face with pain, A gate swung wide with a mocking cry, Hands that I may not clasp in mine, Some day in the harvest fields above, I shall know her voice in the angel choir, And, oh! the joy when we meet at last, TRIX AND GERTIE. (Continued.) FRED deposits Trix on the couch, and turns round in bewilder ment. "Who is it," ejaculates he. "It's Gertie-Gertie herself! O child, child, where have you been? We have searched half England for you. Didn't you know ?" "I had not seen you-I was not sure,' "falters Gertie"whether-there had been such-such—” "Such quarrels? Yes, Gertie, but not between you and me. My husband's law-suit with your father was no reason why-' Mother," interrupts Fred, rather gruffly, pointing to Trix lying faint and miserable under her wrappings, "the explanations must wait. Cousin Gertie, I am very glad to see you; but, unless your friend is to have an attack of fever, or " 66 Friend! echoes Gertie. "Trix! What Trix ?" Why, it's Trix.” "My Cousin Trix-Beatrice Fanshawe. Don't you remember?" What, Trixie-naughty little Trixie?" The young fellow takes two strides to the couch, and looks down at the half-drowned, forlorn occupaut thereof. "Are you really little Trixie ?" The words came out in a softened tone, as if the remembrance of naughty little Trix were something rather pleasant. "Yes," says Trix, the ghost of a smile fluttering into her face as she looks up and meets his smile. "Then I might well be puzzled! The more I looked, the more I seemed to know you, and the more puzzled-" "Now, Fred, it is my turn-stop your recollections," interrupts Mrs. Arnold. "Please retreat to your own sanctum and change those wet clothes, or I shall have two invalids on my hands instead of one." With another friendly glance at Trix, the young man retires, only stopping a minute at the door to summons his mother to a short, whispered conference, from which she comes back laughing. "That boy imagines no one knows anything but himself," says she, as she shuts the door. "He has given me a whole string of instructions for your benefit, Trix, and orders unlimited quantities of blankets; so I think the sooner you are in bed the better. Gertie, there is an eider-down dressing-gown in that wardrobe-please give it me." In another hour poor Trix lies fast asleep in the pretty chintz bed, and not very much the worse for her perilous bath. Breakfast is always laid in the morning-room at Yewbarrow, a pleasant room facing the east, and getting a flood of sunshine through its long, French windows, which overlook the lake. The old clock on the staircase is just chiming eight; breakfast stands all ready on the table-for they keep early hours at Yewbarrow; the family are all assembled, and only waiting for Mrs. Arnold. In a few minutes she enters, and, with a pleasant good-morning to all, takes her place behind the urn. "Trix is incorrigible," says she, pouring out the coffee as she speaks. "What is the matter? Is she not better this morning?" inquires Arthur. "Better! She will be down directly. She says she is quite well, and would not stay in bed at any price. I have been all this time with her, trying to make her listen to reason, but I might as well have talked to the winds. Get up she would, and get up she did." "Trix is just as wilful and mischievous as ever," remarks Gertie. "What a character, Gertie!" says a voice behind her; and Trix herself comes in, looking as fresh and fair as a rose, and none the worse for her cold bath of the evening before. A chorus of eager inquiries greets her as she takes a vacant chair by Arthur, to all of which she answers almost nonchalantly that she is all right; she thinks that the cold water did her good, and that the mishap almost served her right for her stupidity in tumbling in. Only Fred, who is just opposite, notices that her lips tremble, and that her face becomes a shade paler, as she listens to the remarks on her narrow escape; and the eyes she lifts to him are neither careless or thoughtless. How did it happen?" asks Annis Arnold. "Trix would take off her hat," explains Gertie, "and it fell into the water. She tried to reach it with the boat-hook and overbalanced herself, and—” "And tumbled in, like a stupid, senseless old log," finishes off Trix. "There, don't talk about it." "You seem to have a mania for tumbling into rivers and lakes," says Fred, leisurely dissecting a couple of chickens. "I believe the very last time I saw you was on that memorable day when you and Gertie fell into the Greta, and I waded in to your assistance. Eight years ago, is it not?" "Yes, about that," answers Trix, demurely, stirring her coffee. "I ought to have recognized you, having such good cause. Would you have known me, do you think?" Trix glances up. In truth, recognition would have been as difficult on her side as his. The tall, thin, angular and awkward boy of her memory has become quite a noble-looking man, in his great height and strength. The face is a fine one-power and decision are the predominant expressions; the features are clearcut, and the complexion is brown and healthy-looking. 66 No, I don't think I should have known you," says Trix, thoughtfully, looking across at him, and fully recognizing the difference between the fine-looking man of twenty-six and the tall, lanky youth of eighteen, whose prime favourite and companion in many a mischievous frolic she had been, notwithstanding her juvenile twelve years. "Which of you was singing?" inquires Arthur, after a while. |