by its very excess of horror, seemed to have deadened him to the faculty of suffering; but whose fatal effects became daily more perceptible. It was long too ere poor Lucy arose, the shadow of her former self, from the sick bed on which the same cause had laid her prostrate. While Jane was saved, by the absolute necessity for exertion, from similar bodily sufferings, it may be doubted whether the repressed misery, the stifled anguish of her heart, were not more dreadful than theirs, from the very circumstance of their not re-acting upon her health, and so leaving her faculties in all their unimpaired intensity. Desolate indeed would have been her situation, but for the unfailing, almost parental kindness and attention. of Dr. Willis, the Rector of the parish, her father's bosom friend since their college days; and who, upon this terrible occasion, thought, felt, and acted for all. It was he who took upon himself the task of ap

prising Arthur of what had occurred; and to whom Mr. Stanley, as soon as he was able to think collectedly of anything, delegated the office of writing to urge upon his only surviving son the necessity for taking immediate steps to leave the army, that he might come home to close the eyes which his father felt had well-nigh looked their last upon this world, and to afford a home and protection to his sisters. It was sickening to reflect on the length of time which must elapse ere Arthur could receive and act upon the letter; for India was indeed in those days a banishment, to a degree which in ours we have nearly learned to forget.'

Frederic Stanley met his death early in the month of February; and about the middle of the following June, his father lay upon his death-bed. Mr. Stanley's decay was gradual, and latterly almost painless -more a sinking of the vital powers, than positive disease, and soothed to himself and

those around him by the most humble spirit of resignation to the will of God, and undoubting trust in the atonement of the Saviour. One thought alone remained to trouble the serenity of his departing soul. He had committed his poor girls to the Father of the fatherless, he had them ever in his sight, he knew them to be safe at home, and trusted their future with confidence to their affectionate brother; but that brother, where was he? how was it with him then? Could he but see Arthur, could he but embrace his dear boy once more, he would die in peace. This he repeated incessantly. It is true the letters from Arthur and Marion were unfailing in their arrival; their family had missed none, and had never been harassed by long delays in their correspondence; but they were all inevitably of such old dates, so many things might have occurred since they were

written, that it could only be a very imperfect joy to receive them at any time, and much more at the present. The longings of the father's heart were unappeasable, and could not be controlled.

CHAPTER III.

It was a beautiful moonlight evening after a day of burning heat. Not a leaf was stirring; the rich foliage of the old trees round Helmsley Hall hung down in heavy, motionless masses, casting their dark shadows on the silvered turf. The atmosphere was odoriferous with flower-scents, and in the perfect stillness, the plashing of the fountain in the pleasance came low and musically on the ear. The fragrant scents, the sweet murmur of the falling water stole into the chamber of the dying man, where a window had been left open to admit the