6 one spoken to Abraham, Fear not-I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.'” "Don't go any further, Mr Carleton," said Hugh, with a smile. "Fleda-do you remember?" They sat all silent, quite silent, all three, for nobody knew how long. "You were going to walk," said Hugh, without looking at them. Fleda, however, did not move till a word or two from Mr Carleton had backed Hugh's request; then she went. "Is she gone?" said Hugh. "Mr Carleton, will you hand me that little desk." It was his own. Mr Carleton brought it. Hugh opened it, and took out a folded paper, which he gave to Mr Carleton, saying that he thought he ought to have it. "Do you know the handwriting, sir?" "No." "Ah! she has scratched it so. It is Fleda's." Hugh shut his eyes again, and Mr Carleton seeing that he had settled himself to sleep, went to the window with the paper. It hardly told him anything he did not know before, though set in a fresh light. "Cold blew the east wind, "Speak, fire, and tell me Thy flickering flame Fell on me in years past Say, am I the same? Has my face the same brightness In those days it wore? My foot the same lightness, As it crosses the floor? "Methinks there are changes I am weary to night I once was as tireless As the bird on her flight; "Tis not the foot only "My eye vainly peereth "What shadows come o'er me- The scenes where light roaming Come back through the gloamin'— "The cool autumn evening, The fair summer morn- Some dear ones have worn- The words and the faces "Die out, little fire Ay, blacken and pine! So have paled many lights Again with a breath, But the others lie cold Mr Carleton had read near through the paper before Fleda came in. "I have kept you a long time, Mr Carleton," she said, coming up to the window; "I found aunt Lucy wanted me." But she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and which shewed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. Her own eye went to the paper in search of explanation. "What have you there?-Oh, Mr Carleton," she said, putting her hand over it—" please to give it to me!" Fleda's face was very much in earnest. He took the hand, but did not give her the paper, and looked his refusal. "I am ashamed you should see that!-Who gave it to you!" "You shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me,” he said, smiling. "I am very sorry!" "I am very glad, my dear Elfie." "You will think-you will think what wasn't true—it was just a mood I used to get into once in a while-I used to be angry with myself for it, but I could not help it—one of those listless fits would take me now and then" "I understand it, Elfie.” "I am very sorry you should know I ever felt or wrote so." "Why?" "It was very foolish and wrong” "Is that a reason for my not knowing it?" "No-not a good one-But you have read it now-won't you let me have it?" "No-I shall ask for all the rest of the portfolio, Elfie," he said, as he put it in a place of security. 66 Pray, do not!" said Fleda, most unaffectedly. "Why?" "Because I remember Mrs Carleton says you always have what you ask for." "Give me permission to put on your bonnet, then," said he, laughingly, taking it from her hand. The air was very sweet, the footing pleasant. The first few steps of the walk were made by Fleda in silence, with eager breath, and a foot that grew lighter as it trod. "I don't think it was a right mood of mind I had when I wrote that," she said. "It was morbid. But I couldn't help it. Yet if one could keep possession of those words you quoted just now, I suppose one never would have morbid feelings, Mr Carleton?" Perhaps not; but human nature has a weak hold of anything, and many things may make it weaker.” “Mine is weak," said Fleda. "But it is possible to keep firm hold of those words, Mr Carleton?" "Yes-by strength that is not human nature's—and, after all, the firm hold is rather that in which we are held, or ours would soon fail. The very hand that makes the promise its own must be nerved to grasp it. And so it is best, for it keeps us looking off always to the Author and Finisher of our faith." "I love those words," said Fleda. "But, Mr Carleton, how shall one be sure that one has a right to those other words— those, I mean, that you told to Hugh? One cannot take the comfort of them unless one is sure." Her voice trembled. "My dear Elfie, the promises have many of them their double-stamped with the very same signet-and if that sealed counterpart is your own, it is the sure earnest and title to the whole value of the promise." "Well-in this case?" said Fleda, eagerly. "In this case, God says, 'I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.' Now, see if your own heart can give the countersign-Thou art my portion, O Lord!"" Fleda's head sank instantly, and almost lay upon his arm. "If you have the one, my dear Elfie, the other is yours-it is the note of hand of the maker of the promise sure to be honoured. And if you want proof, here it is—and a threefold cord is not soon broken-' Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation." There was a pause of some length. Fleda had lifted up her head, but walked along very quietly, not seeming to care to speak. "Have you the countersign, Elfie?" Fleda flashed a look at him, and only restrained herself from weeping again. "Yes. But so I had then, Mr Carleton-only sometimes I got those fits of feeling-I forgot it, I suppose." "When were these verses written?" "Last fall-uncle Rolf was away, and aunt Lucy unhappy —and, I believe, I was tired—I suppose it was that." For a matter of several rods, each was busy with his own musings. But Mr Carleton bethought himself. "Where are you, Elfie?" "Where am I?" "Yes-Not at Queechy?" "No, indeed," said Fleda, laughing. "Far enough away." "Where?" "At Paris-at the Marché des Innocens." "How did you get to Paris?" "I don't know-by a bridge of associations, I suppose, resting one end on last year, and the other, on the time when I was eleven years old." 66 Very intelligible," said Mr Carleton, smiling. "Do you remember that morning, Mr Carleton, when you took Hugh and me to the Marché des Innocens?" "I have thanked you a great many times since for getting up so early that morning." "I think I was well paid at the time. I remember I thought I had seen one of the prettiest sights I had ever seen in Paris." "So I thought!" said Fleda. "It has been a pleasant picture in my imagination ever since." There was a curious curl in the corners of Mr Carleton's mouth, which made Fleda look an inquiry-a look so innocently wistful, that his gravity gave way. 66 My dear Elfie!" said he, "you are the very child you were then." "Am I?" said Fleda. "I daresay I am, for I feel so. I have the very same feeling I used to have then, that I am a child, and you taking the care of me into your own hands.” "One half of that is true, and the other half nearly so." "How good you always were to me!" Fleda said, with a sigh. "Not necessary to balance the debtor and creditor items on both sides," he said, with a smile, “as the account bids fair to run a good while.” A silence again, during which Fleda is clearly not enjoying the landscape nor the fine weather. "Elfie-what are you meditating?" She came back from her meditations with a very frank look. "I was thinking-Mr Carleton-of your notions about female education." "Well?" They had paused upon a rising ground. Fleda hesitated, and then looked up in his face. "I am afraid you will find me wanting, and when you do, will you put me in the way of being all you wish me to be?" Her look was ingenuous and tender, equally. He gave her no answer, except by the eye of grave intentness that fixed hers till she could meet it no longer, and her own fell. Mr Carleton recollected himself. My dear Elfie," said he, and whatever the look had meant, Elfie was at no loss for the tone now-" what do you consider “I am afraid, in a good many things—in general reading— and in what are called accomplishments |