would think of me as one who was disgracing the Christian profession."

"I did for the moment, but it would not have returned to my mind again. I only wished I had not told you, dearest, of my unbelief; it is needlessly making you miserable."

pray

"No! no! I would rather you told me. I shall

for you all the more earnestly. But will you tell me, Herbert,—did Ethel know all this?"

"Yes, dear Ada, she did. It would have been cowardly and dishonourable on my part if I had not told her."

"Yes, it was better she should know it. But, oh! what will she suffer?"

"Do not speak of it, Ada. The misery I have brought upon her and you almost breaks my heart. I can never forgive myself, but truth must be told. You little know what it has cost me, and all I am now suffering," replied Herbert, with emotion.

"It must make you wretched," said Ada, almost shuddering as she spoke.

"I feel that I must seek something away from here; it is insupportable even to be with those dearest to me so I have made up my mind to leave England in the course of a few days, and wander about on the Continent for awhile."

"Oh! do not go, dear Herbert! You will only be more wretched away from us."

"No, dearest: it matters not what becomes of me; only I cannot remain where my presence brings sorrow. Much as I love you, in some points there must necessarily be an estrangement between us, and this would be insupportably bitter. Better, therefore, I should go away now, and gradually you will get accus

tomed to my unbelief; and then, if I live to return, we shall meet, and be the same as ever.”

"I should always love you, Herbert. Nothing could ever lessen my affection, whatever differences of feeling on religion might arise. I wish you would stay here."

"It is impossible! I cannot bear it; it would be selfish to do so, for I know it would cause you additional unhappiness. But ever remember that my affection is unchanged, although I believe you to be a victim to a delusion. England is no place for me; I must try in other lands to dispel this load of wretchedness which rests on my heart."

"Believe me, dear Herbert, the load of which you speak can never be removed until you cast it at the foot of the cross. Like the weary dove, when sent forth by the patriarch, you will find no rest for the sole of your foot until you return to the ark of God's love; there you would be safe, even amidst this deluge of sorrow which threatens to overwhelm you. Oh, dear, dear Herbert! when will you respond to the Saviour's loving words,- Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest?"" said Ada, earnestly.

"Rest! not for me, Ada; no rest in this world. Death, that 'eternal sleep,' may bring it, though I may be unconscious of it: but there is no repose but in the quiet grave," said Herbert, pressing his hand to his throbbing temples.

"Oh, Herbert! do not say so; it almost breaks my heart. The grave would but open to you the gates of that awful region of everlasting wretchedness, where, in the misery of the lost spirits, you would find your own increased a hundredfold."

"Do speak of something else, Ada; it is most distressing. You must pray for me, if you have faith in God; surely with her prayers and yours a blessing, if there be one, will be vouchsafed to me. Now,

darling, you are weary; you had better retire to rest. Do not let the thought of me disturb you-I am not worthy of your love; and I shall no doubt get over this by and by," he said, in a forcedly cheerful voice, for he was aware he was contradicting his previous assertion, that there was no rest for him while life continued.

Silently Ada received her candle from him, and his parting embrace; her heart felt almost bursting, and yet she was unwilling to show Herbert the anguish his words had caused.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"The tones in every household voice are grown more sad and deep,

And the sweet word, 'Brother!' wakes a wish to turn aside

and weep.

Oh, ye beloved, come home! The hour of many a greeting

tone,

The time of hearth-light and of song returns-and ye are gone!"- MRS. HEMANS.

"Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud—
Slowly and heavily it came; a cloud

Of ills we mention not. Enough to say,
'Twas cold and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes
One after one put out, as nearer still

It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst;
Endure whate'er should come without a sigh;
Endure, and drink e'en to the very dregs
The bitterest cup that time could measure out;
And, having done, look up and ask for more."

POLLOK.

POOR Ada was, if possible, as wretched as Herbert. It seemed to her the bitterest cup of sorrow that could have been given, to know that her beloved brother the man Ethel had loved-could have sunk so low as to declare himself an alien from God. She felt the shock now more than at any time, because

she was just herself rising, as it were, from the bondage of sin into the glorious liberty of the children of God. She had tasted to some extent the preciousness of the Saviour's blood, and now her only brother had debarred himself from participation in His redemption. Deeply had she mourned over her want of Christian charity and her passionate outburst to Herbert; but the shock of his declaration, and Morton's offer, had absorbed all her watchfulness. She knelt long in her own room in earnest supplications for her brother; her heart was too full to think of a form of words,— they came at intervals, as in bursts of anguish she poured out her soul to God.

What would be the end of all this unbelief? Could she do anything, make any sacrifice, in order to save him, or convince him? was the question she asked herself, as she restlessly tossed on her pillow. But she felt prayer was her only weapon. She could not argue, she knew nothing of evidence, beside the witness which every child of God possesses in himself. Moreover, although an earnest seeker after truth, her natural disposition was by no means tamed. Quick, impulsive, and impatient of restraint, hers was not the mind, as she rightly owned, to cope with Herbert's, or meet his sophistries. He knew and felt his superior intellect, and would but regard her with indulgent kindness if he listened at all, considering her incapable of the task. Besides, what convinced Ada would not be conclusive to him. Her best course she felt, therefore, was in silence and prayer, in which she was resolved never to faint, and give the Almighty "no rest" until he had mercy on her brother. There was one bright spot of hope which gleamed to cheer her. The growing conviction that she was dear to Edward Beauchamp. Several times he had spoken words which led her to this con

VOL. I.

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