occurred to him to think what he should do when his little friend grew too big to spend her days wandering about with her hand in his.

Other people feared for him that he would be utterly lost when little Linnet Lorimore was taken home, "and it was quite time too for the child to be put to learn something."

Luckily Mrs. Meredith insisted on keeping her favourite grandchild with her, and Jasper had his darling till he no longer needed her.

For Jasper was "taken home" before little Lena. In the still night the message came that the tired man need never be wakened more to the stir of earth-might wake up fresh and bright, and find father, mother, and brother waiting for him.

When Linnet made her appearance at the Grange as usual one sharp September morning, she beat with her little fists on Jasper's bedroom door to rouse him. He was late, lazy, she said. But they who went in a little later, alarmed themselves at his non-appearance, found him lying in that sweetest sleep that comes to good men-the sleep of death.

A STRANGE LANDLADY.

PART I.

N everyday picture-a mother with her first-born son-none the less beautiful for being everyday though. It is repeated on the wall of many a room in the old manor-house of Oarswell,

where the Virgin Mother holds in her arms the

"Son that never did amiss,

That never shamed His mother's kiss,

Nor crossed her fondest prayer."

Mrs. Vansittart is repeating these lines to herself half unconsciously, as she prepares her child for his pillow. They have haunted her every day for a week past. She cannot tell why. She is a very happy wife, and would have been very happy she believes to the end of her life without any "small babe smiles" to brighten her home, but the responsibility and the blessedness of motherhood having come she does not wish them away. They seem to her reasons for praying more fervently, giving thanks more heartily, loving more devoutly than ever before. She knows, by the intuition of a finely-strung nature, that as heights of joy, hitherto undreamt of, are rising around her, so surely must depths of suffering, once impossible to her, be entered, struggled through, overcome, before she can hope to see her child safe in his Father's arms.

(220)

A

Presumptuous that she is, Mrs. Vansittart imagines that she can see what course this suffering is to take. Her little Claude, kneeling beside her in his white draperies, with large soft eyes lifted up, and chestnut curls hanging down, looks to his mother's view so wondrous fair, that she does not believe she will be able to keep him with her long. Early death is written surely on the broad, transparent brow!

Is it better that it should be so? The anguish will be very keen, but there is comfort in falling into the hands of God.

So her lips frame, with full consciousness of what she is saying, the same petition which those angel lips are murmuring rather fast, and without any definite idea at all, "Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven."

"Good night, my treasure," she says at last, tearing herself from the contemplation of the lovely head as it sinks languidly into the little pile of down prepared for it.

"Good night, mother, I'se goin' to s'prise you tomorrow."

He is always talking about surprising her, always inventing shallow plots which shall take her in completely, but which never do. In after years, this little phrase of his recurs to her very often and very sadly. He will surprise her once, and for all; and she—well, perhaps, she will surprise him still more.

Children will not stay with us, cherish and plan for them as we may. Their gratitude for our care of them seems to be chiefly shown by shooting up as fast as possible out of their old likenesses into some new semblance, to which we have to transfer our affections. Baby Claude could not be expected to remain with his mother.

One day she woke to the consciousness that he was a great boy, and must begin to learn Latin and Greek, and about this time she was obliged to separate from him.