"From your own experience, who do you think is the happier man -the Christian or the infidel?"

"Christians always say they are the happiest, and look so, too. But I cannot tell why they should be, because belief brings responsibility, and responsibility care and sorrow."

"But what hope has the unbeliever? After death he knows not what becomes of him; he only has hope in this life- -no eternal home to look forward to in heaven. What a miserable thought! The Christian knows by the Spirit, which bears witness with his spirit that he is a child of God; and if a child, then an heir of everlasting glory after death. Do you never wish to be a Christian?" asked Ethel, gently.

Raymond gave no reply for a moment, but pressed his hand to his forehead, and then said, with a sort of desperation "I must tell you; it would be wrong to withhold it any longer. You are the greatest friend I have. Oh! do not loathe me for what I tell you. I often, very often, have no belief in the existence of a God at all; I find no distinct proof of his existence. How, then, can I be a Christian?"

Ethel buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. It was too much for her. That he who had won her heart's dearest affections should own that he was a disbeliever, struck with a sharper wound than any other trial could have done. Raymond was grieved to see her distress, and heartily wished he had never spoken; he drew his chair nearer to her, and gently took one of her cold hands in his own. What might have followed it is impossible to say, for words of passionate affection trembled on his lips, when Minnie, who had been out of the room playing with Fido, ran

in to say Miss Grant was at the door; she had seen her from the window.

Ethel started to her feet, and dashed her tears away. At the same moment Raymond's dog-cart stopped at the door, and the horse was so restive there could be no delay. He clasped both Ethel's hands in his own, while he said, hurriedly:

"Do say you will not quite despise me—that you forgive me-that-that-you will pray for me?" "Yes, indeed I will!" she murmured faintly.

A long, earnest pressure from his hand; another thrilling look from his lustrous eyes; and he was gone.

66

CHAPTER XVI.

"As the Lesbian, in false worship,
Hung her harp upon the shrine,
When the world lost its attraction,
So will I offer mine:

But in another spirit,

With a higher hope and aim,

And in a holier temple,

And to a holier name,

I offer hopes whose folly

Only after-thoughts can know;

For instead of seeking heaven

They were chained to earth below.

Saying, 'Wrong and grief have brought me
To thy altar as a home;

I am sad and broken-hearted,

And therefore am I come."-L. E. L.

THERE was no time for Ethel to think, for Sally opened the door for Miss Grant as she let Raymond out, making all one trouble of the thing," as she would have said. It was a dreary evening until after tea; Ethel's thoughts so continually wandered to Raymond. Miss Grant talked incessantly, making allusions to alterations she should like in the house in a very rude manner, yet in a plausible, ingratiating way peculiarly repulsive to Ethel. Mr. Woodville was angry because Laura was out; Harry sulky;

Minnie troublesome; and Sally intentionally upset the contents of the cream-jug on Miss Grant's rich new silk dress, which made Mr. Woodville only the more irritable. Miss Grant, however, bore the misfortune with equanimity; her time for showing her real disposition was not yet come. After tea, Ethel, knowing her father did not care for her presence, retired with Harry and Minnie. She was unusually negligent; and her brother spoke rather sharply once or twice, saying that she seemed to have no pleasure in helping him with his lessons, until at length she closed the book wearily, and replied :—

Harry, I cannot help you to-night; I know I am stupid: you must forgive me."

The warm-hearted boy threw his arms around her, and begged she would not bother herself about him further, hinting that she might well be unhappy. Ethel suffered him to suppose it was grief occasioned by her father's engagement, as she could not tell him what really oppressed her so much. Throwing a shawl round her, she retired to her own cold room, to think over all that had past. What had she said to Raymond? Had all been consistent with her knowledge of God? had she said too much, or too little? would Raymond think of it afterwards? were questions that suggested themselves to her mind. She pondered how she durst have spoken so freely to him, knowing how much more really clever he was than herself; but it seemed as if the Spirit of God had, as it were, forced her to say the words, and she could not regret they had been spoken. It is thus with Christians; the promise vouchsafed ages ago has never failed- a mouth and words have been given them to speak in the cause of truth, and they are taught of God in the hour of trial, to "give a reason for the hope that is in

them." Had Raymond and Ethel entered into discussion on some point of science, the former's superior power would soon have triumphed ; but the worldlyminded man was no match for the earnest, enlightened Christian, whose heart God had opened to the knowledge of the truth, and who had entirely submitted to the guidance of the Spirit. Raymond was astonished by the weight and force of Ethel's arguments, though clothed in such simple language, and spoken in a diffident manner, as if she feared herself unequal to combat with him. But his heart, though it yielded homage to her quickness and earnest endeavours to convince him, was not yet softened. His pride was too great; he could not bear the thought of humbling himself to the meek and lowly doctrines of the Saviour, and therefore he once more closed his heart against the conviction that there is a God which reigneth, and who has given his creatures a revelation of his will, which is binding upon each one of them, and whose precepts, if not followed, will result in everlasting destruction to those who rebel against them. Thus Raymond was thinking, as Ethel, sad and lonely in her own room, sat and sorrowed over his infidelity. Tears of bitter agony stood in her eyes as she thought of him. Something told her then, that his interests were too dear to her, although as a Christian she must grieve for any one who had "erred and strayed" as he had done; yet it was not every one whose unbelief could have filled her heart with such overwhelming sorrow as his. Still she knew not how far her heart had yielded; how closely linked was his with her earthly happiness; neither was she aware that she was dearer to him than any other. He sought her friendship; but he had never spoken of love, and until such a declaration had been made, Ethel never surmised on