remembered days," said Mr. Conway.

"Geoffrey

had not left her to fight life's battle alone, and Owen had not transported himself to Australia. Rina's is one of those hard natures that do not bend to the driving storm, but resist it steadily to their own injury.”

"Yet she too, papa, has her softening memories, and like us all can point to a treasure store. There is the oak clock that was her grandfather's, the old Bible, and the spectacles; some pleasant story of the past belongs to all, even in Rina's ungentle mind. Only the other day I was admiring some old-fashioned earthenware on her shelves, and she astonished me by saying that, much as she set store by them, she would rather lose all than the one plain china plate which had the central place among them. I turned to look at the treasure, and took it up, wondering why it was of such value. 'Mind!' she exclaimed, in a voice startling enough to risk its safety; 'that bit of china was your dear mother's, and it is all I have to look at of hers. She gave it me, and my Christmas dinner on it, years ago. I said, "I'm not mighty gentle in handling such things, but I don't think I shall ever lose the sight of that off my shelf while I live ;" and I never have.""

"Poor Rina!" said the rector, gravely; "if she would but have treasured some of the good counsel she has had as carefully as that frail relic, her life would have been a better and happier one than it has been. Yes, Linda, the simple tribute tells us that the memory of your mother is still beloved in Hazelmere." As he spoke he turned to the lychgate before him and passed into the quiet churchyard.

"How they so softly rest,

All, all, the holy dead,

Here where complaint is still;

And by the cypresses

Softly o'ershadowed

Until the Angel calls them, they slumber."

"Those lines suit this place," remarked Olive; “it is so still and quiet here, even the frost has trod lightly over the graves. These bordering chrysanthemums are white and unsullied still."

An often-trod pathway near the chancel led to the dark granite altar-tomb, with its white inlaid cross, where the ever-beloved name of Evalinda Conway was graven, deep as upon the hearts of those who stood together there, and who read it still with. tears. Then the peaceful remembrance of her sweet life stole silently into their thoughts; it soothed Linda's lingering disquiet, as her mother's voice had so often done, and it gave a strangely

calm expression to the rector's face as he stooped to guard the clustering buds of a white Christmas rose, touching them with a careful hand as he repeated—

"Labour and toil are past; one love, one rest to last
Ever shall meet thee

In that bright citadel, where around Jesus dwell
Saints who will greet thee.

"How fair the lilies blow, as through those meads they go;
All sins forgiven!

Sweet flowers of every hue smile as they wander through
The vales of heaven."

93

CHAPTER V.

THE MATIN SONG.

"The churchyard stones, all green with moss,
Bright Robin knew them well,

But oftener chose the lichened cross

His orisons to tell."

E. M. L.

JOYCE ARCHER was an old servant at the Rectory. She might have received the title of housekeeper, but that the chief part of her time was spent in the work-room; on the other hand, it would be equally incorrect to have called her a seamstress, for the store of preserved fruits and the Rector's oldfashioned plate were alike under her care. To this she added the charge of Linda Conway's birds, and a very important tribe of Dorkings and golden Hamburghs. She had also extensive window-gardening to attend to-rows of lemon-scented geranium and verbenum, ferns and creeping cedars. Last, though above all in Joyce Archer's estima tion, the care of her master's library; to dust

The Di xr Beclare that no one but herself ever somhed book or paper, was her especial pride.

I seemed that whatever capacity she could best render i service, there she laid claim to the work. And now, in the early December morning, still nearing that brightest of December days, the welcome Christmas-tile, Joyce Archer was as usmal astir, and ready for her varied employments. A bright fre gleamed through the library door as she ramed to give a look at its satisfactory condition; and then, after looking at the old clock on the stairs, she gave a knock at her young mistress's doer, and, shading the candle with her hand, drew aside the slight curtain.

"Bless her pretty face! she looks very sweetly asleep,” said Joyce, half regretfully; “but it's no use, I have given her the last minute. Yes, Miss Linda,” she said, in a louder voice, "you must wake up, it's full time. Mr. Conway has had his breakfast ever so long ago, for there has been a stir in the village, and he is gone to Farheath to see into it. You and Miss Olive were to meet him at the church, he said."

"Something up in the village, and papa gone to Farheath! What is it, Joyce ?" inquired Linda, rousing up.