The Editor's Table.

CHAPTER XII.-NO LONGER ONE BY HERSELF.

HE next morning it was not surprising that Crystal should appear at Mrs. Grey's breakfast-table, for the excitement produced at Priory Grove House by the communication of Mr. Grey on the preceding evening had disturbed the slumbers of several of the family. Certainly, neither Crystal nor her mother slept. The blind girl, amid her congratulations, related, with tears of sympathy, how she had been drawn towards the young mourner who, at Watchet, was bereaved of her only protector, and sent so strangely out upon the world. And Harriet's grateful lips bore testimony to Crystal's goodness, and how in giving her one DECEMBER, 1871.

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precious book, and with it a word in season, she had been her truest friend. That gift, the companion of so many lonely hours, was left behind at Mrs. Winchfield's. There, also, Harriet could not for a moment forget, lingered the poor sick girl, that in ministering to, she had learned to love. Amid all the new hopes and joys, the kisses of her brother Victor, the tender caresses of her mother, and the fatherly kindness of Mr. Grey, a pang was felt keenly about Julia.

"I hear that they leave town to-day," said Crystal, in answer to an enquiry of Mr. Grey's.

"Then," said he, "I must lose no time in calling."

"Let me go with you, Edward,” urged Mrs. Grey.

“My love, you have been so greatly tried, I fear any further agitation,” was his reply.

"Do not fear for me; I feel like a new creature. Oh, what a weight has been lifted from my heart. Let me go; I will be very calm. I scarcely remember my sister, and have never heard of her for years. I did not know more of her second marriage than she knew of mine. Yet she is my sister, and in trouble too about her daughter. I would like to go, not to reproach her, but to exchange forgiveness.”

"Oh, pray, do go, and take me, that I may see poor dear Julia," pleaded Harriet.

It was not likely that any reasonable request of a daughter thus newly found would be refused; and, therefore, as soon as the heartfelt morning prayers of the re-united family were over, a carriage was at the door. Crystal and Victor were dropped at Priory Grove, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey, accompanied by Harriet, were driven to Mr. Winchfield's.

Not a word was spoken during the drive, for each had much to think of, and now that she had to enter her stern aunt's presence again, Harriet felt some dread.

Ah! there was more there to dread than any mere mortal presence.

On arriving, they saw that Dr. Smythe's carriage was waiting. The halldoor was wide open, boxes and packing-cases filled the entry; the servants seemed to be running about in confusion, and the two little boys were clinging to a lad, whom Harriet recognised as Nappy, and who was guarding a heap of bags and shawls that had been hastily thrown down in the garden; something more than the ordinary bustle of going away was certainly the matter. Mr. Grey entered the hall in search of some one to announce him, his wife hung trembling on his arm, and Harriet followed close. But as she knew the house best, they signed to her to precede them; and thus very timidly she advanced to the dining-room door and met Dr. Smythe coming out rather hurriedly, and saying, as if calling to a servant, – "Go one of you, instantly. Miss Wilson asks for her young friend. Oh, you are here,—that is well."

His eyes had fallen on Harriet.

Without observing her companions, he took her arm and led her forward. There, dressed in wraps for her journey, and supported in an easy chair, into which she seemed to have

fallen, for her head sank back, was poor Julia. Her face was of marble whiteness, and every feature seemed rigid with the cold touch of death, but her lips moved, and her eyes had a glassy brilliance.

"Be calm; she has asked for you," said the doctor, as he led Harriet forward.

Harriet did not shriek or cry; she sunk down before the chair and bent her face to Julia's. A few faint, gasping words came.

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That's right, dear-I knew you would come-forgive all my wrong, wilful ways-for Jesus' sake."

"Oh, Julia-my dear, kind Julia, I have nothing, no, nothing, to forgive. Oh, dear, pray that He may raise you up."

There was an unintelligible murmur, then the two words "He has," -a strange sweet smile wandered over the face, a slight tremor shook the limbs, and with one long sigh she was gone.

Christ had raised her up!

This closing scene had been so solemn and swift that Harriet had not noticed any one in the room but Julia. Mrs. Winchfield sat on a sofa opposite as if turned to stone with terror; her husband, little less benumbed, was holding her as if he expected momently that she would fall insensible. No one could doubt that it was not a faint, but the last enemy-Death, that had come to the young and lovely Julia. Still Norris, who had been bathing the dying girl's temples with restoratives, was continuing her useless care, when Dr. Smythe touched her hands, and whispered the words,

"It is all over; look to your mistress and get her away."

He himself lifted up Harriet to her feet and led her out of the room. Mrs. Winchfield was carried, not only by her husband and servant into the back dining-room, but some hands unrecognised, and in the confusion unnoticed, aided to lay her on a sofa. Amidst streaming tears Mrs. Grey pressed a kiss of forgiveness on her sister's forehead, and then, without further intrusion in that house of affliction, she suffered herself to be led away by her husband; took up the almost heart-broken Harriet from the seat in the hall where she was weeping, and, gaining their carriage, returned from the brief morning call, whose termination had been so awfully solemn.

In the afternoon Dr. Smythe called on Mrs. Grey, fearing that she might have a relapse of her nervous depression from the event of the morning. But so true it is that a wounded spirit aud an uneasy conscience are the worst of all ailments, that now, by their removal, healing and peace having come to her; Mrs. Grey was able to sympathize with and soothe poor Harriet's grief without yielding to any return of gloom. In reply to their enquiries about the sudden termination of Julia's illness, Dr. Smythe said he had warned Mrs. Winchfield that her daughter's heart was weak. During her rheumatic fever it was the one great danger he had feared. The indulgence which had fostered, perhaps caused, the poor girl's wilfulness, had been as bad for body as for mind. He had disapproved of her sudden removal, and more than all of Mrs. Winchfield sending