forth her pitiful cry again. Ben moved uneasily, and looked up in search of her.

There she was, the pretty thing, hopping restlessly from twig to twig, and with her keen, glancing eyes taking note of all Tim's proceedings.

Again Ben rose to his feet. "Tim!" said he, "put that bird's nest back exactly in the spot where you took it from, eggs and all; and then come down from the tree." [This was a random shot of Ben's. All that he had actually seen was the foot, and the bird's distress.]

"I dain't mean no harm, I'ze zure, Muster Ben!" said Tim in yielding tones. "There, I've been and put it in t'very same cranny. Now I're coomin." "

And he did come-not more gracefully than an acrobat would have descended-but he came, and with drooping head stood before his young master; while the little bird, with her plaintive cry of distress exchanged for a soft, motherly chirp, darted back to the restored nest, fluttered about it, then settled lovingly down on the still warm eggs.

Just then, Ben did not say so much as he thought about the matter. The result of his

musings we have to tell.

CHAPTER XII.

OFF TO THE HIGHLANDS.

"Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong."

LONGFELLOW.

HE sinking sun was casting long shadows across the old-fashioned garden of the Home Farm. "The mother," standing under a large apple-tree, was holding up her wide cotton apron for her son Ben, who was overhead, to drop the ripe red apples into.

On an invalid chair, well wrapped up to shield her from the cool autumnal air, sat Janet. A whole summer had passed since the accident with Barney, but still she was lame. Hopelessly so, her friends feared. A compound fracture, unskilfully set, was not likely to be got over very

quickly, if at all. And still the violently sprained arm was in a sling.

Janet had bravely borne her pain, was bearing it still, and doing better than even that. She was taking earnestly to heart the truth, that when the most cherished and beloved earthly streams are dry, there is still, if we will receive it, a wide, wide ocean of God's dear love for us; learning, as "the mother" long before had tried to teach her, that on our untoward, apparently crooked circumstances we may rise to a truer, nobler, even more really satisfying life than a more prosperous and smooth condition could ever have ensured for us.

Janet was schooling her heart into a state of loving acquiescence to God's will. Manly companionship and protection, she argued, were not for her now. She did not yet think Mr. Frost had been faithless; she thought he had taken offence at Robert's words. Still, under any circumstances, a life of loneliness, perhaps of suffering, was marked out for her. She would never burthen anyone with her lameness and helplessness; she would, as soon as she was a little stronger, use all means in her power to fit herself for a governess. She would make the work of training the young her life's work; yes, with God's good help, and in His strength, life should

H

be LIFE, independently of adverse circumstances. The "daily round," whatever that be, should be firmly trod, the "common task" faithfully accomplished.

Such were Janet's high resolves; resolves not made in her own strength, therefore dependable. Still, there were hours of physical weariness and depression, mainly attributable to the state of her health, which now and then overwhelmed her with the sense of her own weakness, and made her feel that after all she must become more or less a burthen to some one. And now as she sat there watching Ben descend from the tree, and carefully pack his mother's apronful of fruit in a large basket, then walk away with it to the storeroom, she could not help feeling that her heart would leap with joy if she could again, with a firm, elastic step, walk as he did; if she, with two strong helpful arms, could lift a basket of fruit, and so take part in duties which, alas! she once in her folly had slighted.

"Mother," said she, as Mrs. Moss moved to her side; "don't you think that perhaps this helplessness is sent to me as a punishment? Sometimes I cannot help feeling that it is so."

Mrs. Moss looked surprised. "Punishment'!" said she.

"No, not a pun

ishment; do not say that, Jeannie.

Whom the

Lord loveth He chasteneth,' dear. But punishment and chastisement are two things as widely apart from each other as the mountains are from the valleys, as a mother's tenderest love is from a schoolmaster's cane. And then, you know, it is 'whom the Lord loveth' that 'He chasteneth.' This affliction of yours may or may not be a chastening; it is not for me to judge; but whether or no, it was a bold, true step in the path of duty that brought it on. If you had not so bravely gone to the rescue, in all probability little Rob would have been killed. These things are beyond my understanding, Jeannie; but I do not think that you should reproach yourself. Your burden of pain is enough to bear, dear; it ought not to be made one bit heavier than it is by regrets for the past. No, you have nothing to reproach yourself with, my child-nothing!" and the kind motherly hands drew the invalid's wool shawl closer round her, and pinned it more securely; then took the pale, wistful face between them, and kissed it. "That was a brave act of yours, Jeannie; one that any strong man might well be proud of. Anyhow, we are all proud of you for it, and truly grateful besides, much as we grieve over its consequences to yourself."

"Take a seat, mother," said Ben, coming back with the empty basket, and turning it bottom