blacker than usual, from the contrast with the pale or rather sallow face, and the white nightcap and dressing-gown.

"How is Fred?" asked she, as well as her parched tongue would allow her to speak.

"Much the same, only talking a little more. you up still? Your grandmamma said "

But why are

"Never mind, papa," interrupted she, "only tell me this— is Fred in danger?"

"You have heard all we can tell, my dear

دو

Beatrice interrupted him by an impatient despairing look, and clasped her hands. "I know I know: but what do you think?"

"My own impression is," said her father, in a calm, kind, yet almost reproving tone, as if to warn her to repress her agitation, "that there is no reason to give up hope, although it is impossible as yet to ascertain the extent of the injury."

Beatrice retreated a step or two: she stood by the table, one hand upon it, as if for support, yet her figure quite erect, her eyes fixed on his face, and her voice firm though husky, as she said, slowly and quietly, "Papa, if Fred dies, it is my doing."

His face did not express surprise or horror, nothing but kindness and compassion, while he answered, "My poor girl, I was afraid how it might have been." Then he led her to a chair and sat down by her side, so as to let her perceive that he was ready to listen and would give her time. He might be in haste, but it was no time to show it.

She now spoke with more hurry and agitation, "Yes, yes, papa, it was the very thing you warned me against-I mean-I mean-the being set on my own way, and liking to tease the boys. Oh if I could but speak to tell you all, but it seems like a weight here, choking me," and she touched her throat. "I can't get it out in words! Oh!” Poor Beatrice even groaned aloud with oppression.

"Do not try to express it," said her father; "at least, it is not I who can give you the best comfort. Here"-and he took up a Prayer Book.

"Yes, I feel as if I could turn there now I have told you, papa," said Beatrice, "but when I could not get at you, everything seemed dried up in me. Not one prayer or confession would come-but now, oh! now you know it and-and-I feel as if He would not turn away His face. Do you know I did try the 51st Psalm, but it would not do, not even ' deliver me from blood-guiltiness,' it would only make me shudder! Oh papa, it was dreadful!"

Her father's answer was to draw her down on her knees by

his side, and read a few verses of that very Psalm, and a few clauses of the prayer for persons troubled in mind, and he ended with the LORD's prayer. Beatrice, when it was over, leant her head against him, and did not speak, nor weep, but she seemed refreshed and relieved. He watched her anxiously and affectionately, doubting whether it was right to bestow so much time on her exclusively, yet unwilling to leave her. When she again spoke, it was in a lower, more subdued, and softer voice, "Aunt Mary will forgive me, I know; you will tell her, papa, and then it will not be quite so bad! Now I can pray that he may be saved-oh, papa-disobedient, and I the cause; how could I ever bear the thought ?"

"You can only pray," replied her father. "Now that I can again, ," said Beatrice; and again there was a silence, while she stood thinking deeply, but contrary to her usual habit, not speaking, and he knowing well her tendency to lose her repentant feelings by expressing them, was not willing to interrupt her. So they remained for nearly ten minutes, until at last he thought it time to leave her, and made some movement as if to do so. Then she spoke, "Only tell me one thing, papa. Do you think aunt Mary has any hope? There was something-something death-like in her face. Does she hope ?"

Mr. Geoffrey Langford shook his head, "Not yet," said he. "I think it may be better after this first night is over. She is evidently reckoning the hours, and I think she has a kind of morbid expectation that it will be as it was with his father, who lived twelve hours after his accident."

"But surely, surely," said Beatrice, eagerly, "this is a very different case; Fred has spoken so much more than my uncle did; and Philip says he is convinced that there is no frac

ture

"It is a morbid feeling," said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, "and therefore impossible to be reasoned away. I see she dreads to be told to hope; and I shall not even attempt it till these fatal twelve hours are over."

"Poor dear aunt!" sighed Beatrice. I am glad, if it was to be, that you were here, for nobody else would understand

her."

"Understand her!" said he with something of a smile. "No, Bee, such sorrow as hers has a sacredness in it which is not what can be understood."

Beatrice sighed, and then with a look as if she saw a ray of comfort, said, "I suppose mamma will soon be here."

"I think not," said her father. "I shall tell her she had better wait to see how things go on, and keep herself in reserve.

At present, it is needlessly tormenting your aunt to ask her to leave Fred for a moment, and I do not think she has even the power to rest. While this goes on, I am of more use in attending to him than your mamma could be; but if he is a long time recovering, it will be a great advantage to have her coming fresh, and not half knocked up with previous attendance."

"But how she will wish to be here!" exclaimed Beatrice, "and how you will want her!" "but

No doubt of that, Queenie," said her father, smiling, we must reserve our forces, and I think she will be of the same mind. Well, I must go. Where is Henrietta to sleep to-night?"

"With me," said Beatrice.

"I will send her to you as soon as I can.

You must do what you can with her, Bee, for I can see that the way she hangs on her mamma is quite oppressive. If she had but a little vigour !"

"I don't know what to do about her!" said Beatrice, with more dejection than she had yet shown, "I wish I could be of any comfort to her, but I can't-I shall never do good to anybody-only harm.”

"Fear the harm, and the good will come," said Mr. Geoffrey Langford. "Good night, my dear."

Beatrice threw herself on her knees as soon as the door had closed on her father, and so remained for a considerable time in one earnest, unexpressed outpouring of confession and prayer, for how long she knew not, all that she was sensible of was a feeling of relief, the repose of such humility and submission, such heartfelt contrition as she had never known before.

So she continued till she heard Henrietta's approaching steps, when she rose and opened the door, ready to welcome her with all the affection and consolation in her power. There stood Henrietta, a heavy weight on her eyes, her hair on one side all uncurled and flattened, the colour on half her face much deepened, and a sort of stupor about her whole person, as if but one idea possessed her. Beatrice went up to meet her, and took her candle, asking what account she brought of the patient. "No better," was all the answer, and she sat down making no more detailed answers to all her cousin's questions. She would have done the same to her grandmamma, or any one else, so wrapped up was she in her own grief, but this conduct gave more pain to Beatrice than it could have done to any one else, since it kept up that most miserable feeling of being unforgiven. Beatrice let her sit still for some minutes, looking at her all the time with an

almost piteous glance of entreaty, of which Henrietta was perfectly unconscious, and then began to beg her to undress, seconding the proposal by beginning to unfasten her dress.

Henrietta moved pettishly, as if provoked at being disturbed. "I beg your pardon, dear Henrietta," said Beatrice: "if you would but let me! You will be ill to-morrow, and that would be worse still."

66

'No, I shan't," said Henrietta, shortly, never mind me." "But I must," dear Henrietta. "If you would but

"I can't go to bed," replied Henrietta, "thank you, Bee, never mind”

Beatrice stood still, much distressed at her own inability to be of any service, and pained far more by the sight of Henrietta's grief than by the unkind rejection of herself. "Papa thinks there is great hope," said she abruptly.

"Mamma does not," said Henrietta, edging away from her cousin as if to put an end to the subject.

Beatrice almost wrung her hands. O this wilfulness of grief, how hard it was to contend with it! At last, there was a knock at the door-it was grandmamma, suspecting that they were still up. Little recked Beatrice of the scolding that fell on herself for not having been in bed hours ago; she was only rejoiced at the determination that swept away all Henrietta's feeble opposition. The bell was rung, Bennet was summoned, grandmamma peremptorily ordered her to be undressed, and in another half hour the cousins were lying side by side, Henrietta's lethargy had become a heavy sleep, Beatrice was broad awake, listening to every sound, forming every possible speculation on the future, and to her own overstretched fancy seeming actually to feel the thoughts chasing each other through her throbbing head.

OF THE DUTY OF PRIVATE PRAYER.

THINK not that you have prayed, when your tongue hath gone without your heart. Labour after a deep sense of your sins, wants, and mercies, and labour more with your heart than with your tongue; for out of the abundance of a feeling, fervent heart, the tongue will be able so to speak as that GOD will accept it.

Present yourselves before GoD only in the name of CHRIST, trusting in His merits and intercession; and expect every mercy from God, through CHRIST.

Live as you pray; and think not that confessing sin to God will excuse you for continuing in it. Labour for what you pray for;

and think not that praying is all that you have to do, to obtain God's grace, any more than to procure your food and raiment. But you must labour, and beg for GOD's blessing.

AS TO YOUR RELIGIOUS CONVERSATION.

When you are with those that can teach you, be much more forward to hear than to speak.

If they be silent who can teach you, induce them to speak by some seasonable question; for the best are too backward; and many are silent for want of occasion, opportunity, or invitation. But avoid all ostentation of piety; and take heed not to introduce religious conversation at unseasonable times.

When you speak to the ignorant and sinful, do it not in a contemptuous, proud, magisterial way; but with clear convincing reason, and with great kindness and gentleness. Let instruction and friendly exhortation be instead of reproof, for the most part; and when you mean to reprove, do it usually in secret, and not before others; for disgrace will provoke them, and hinder them from repentance.

Let your conversation be directed to some practical issue, so to affect the hearts of your hearers, as to bring them to resolve on that which is their duty.

OF DAYS OF HUMILIATION AND THANKSGIVING.

The manner of humiliation is by due abstinence, and confession, and prayer, to humble your soul penitently for sin, and beg the mercy which you want: and the manner of thanksgiving, to rejoice soberly and spiritually, with moderate feasting when that is convenient; and give GOD thanks for His mercy, and beg the grace to improve it, and renew your devotion and resolutions of obedience.

The outward parts (fasting and feasting) must not be made a mere form or ceremony, nor judged to be pleasing to GOD merely in and for themselves; but must be chosen only as means which help us to their proper ends. As to the duties of humiliation and thanksgiving; these may be varied as men's cases and bodies differ. The weak may be humbled without fasting, or with less; and the poor and the sickly may give thanks without feasting, or with little. And all must take heed of offering GOD a sacrifice of the sin of sensuality and excess.

The Church requires, on days of fasting, "such a. measure of abstinence as is suited to extraordinary acts and exercises of devotion."

True repentance in humiliation, and increased love to God in thanksgiving, and true reformation of life by both, is the great end to be aimed at; and whatsoever attaineth not, or truly intendeth not that end, is vain.-Hobart's Manual.