It would be no wonder that we recoiled from admitting our continual sinfulness, if we could go no farther. But along with the one conviction there is combined this other, even that the very justice of God is pledged to show us mercy. Our iniquities, who can number them? But we abide in Christ, and know that He loves us; we appeal to the cross, and know that it cannot fail. We are washed in the blood of Christ, and know that it as truly makes 'God a liar' to | doubt our pardon, as to deny our guilt.

Yet, on no account is it to be supposed that this doctrine of unfailing mercy, as based on unchangeable justice-based on justice ever faithful to itself-can minister to sin. For our text assures us, that the same attributes of God which render our 'forgiveness' most certain, are equally pledged for our sanctification; so that, even were there nothing in the nature of pardon to heal the soul, it is linked inseparably with holiness by the promise of God. He who 'forgives' that He may remain 'faithful and just,' must cleanse from all unrighteousness' too, for this same reason, that He may remain faithful and just.'

In one word, then, let me counsel the believer, as John used: You are constantly needing forgiveness, because you are constantly provoking condemnation. But with Christ there is plenteous redemption. We stand in our own righteousness, no, not for an hour, but in the righteousness of the Son of God all the day

spiritual growth, if we are not alive to our need of Calvary every moment of this earthly sojourn. Without sin, let no one ever say that he is. But let this be our warranted boast, Accepted in the Beloved. Found in Christ;' let this be all our security.

6

เ

To the unsaved! let me now cry, Sleeper, awake! Awake, when awaking will save. Unbeliever, believe! Believe, when belief will bring not remorse, but deliverance. All things are ready,' and even now salvation lies within your reach. The Sin-bearer is here. Gather up all your sins; binding them into one sheaf, lay them on the head of Jesus! He will rise up and go with the sad load to Calvary. One by one, unsaved man, tell your iniquities over the sacrifice God has set forth, passing them on to Jesus, and you are 'forgiven.' Only look to Jesus as He hangs upon the cross, and you will find a virtue in the sight-a healing in the belief-that will bring you a present salvation, and in the end give you 'an inheritance with all who are sanctified.'

It would be no comfort to receive pardon from a God who had broken his laws and soiled his attributes to confer it. Never could we feel secure under the merciful reign of one who, having been unjust in bestowing his favours, might as capriciously take them away. But the forgiveness of God' we offer is a holy forgiveness. It rests on the work of Christ, and is thus the forgiveness' of a God who, in the very act of 'forgiving,' is at once 'just' to all his universe, and 'faithful' to himself.

-Anon.

CHAPTER I.

AUNT ETHEL'S LETTER.

T was a bleak day in the month of March, and the wind whistled round the old-fashioned country house; while the tall trees, with their young buds just opening, bent before it. Ethel Linton sat in the parlour window: she held a book in her hand, but her attention was divided between it and her little brother, who was playing on the rug before the fire.

Suddenly a step sounded on the gravel outside; Ethel looked up, and saw the postman. It was so very rarely he honoured them with a visit, that she might be excused for her start of surprise at the sight of him, and for the eagerness with which she hastened to open the door herself in answer to his knock.

'A letter for mamma!' she exclaimed; and it is Aunt Ethel's writing. Come, Archie, let us take it to her;' and she took the little fellow from his playthings on the floor, and carried him upstairs.

'Here is a letter from Aunt Ethel, mamma,' she said, as she opened the door of her mother's bedroom.

Mrs. Linton, who was confined to her room with a severe cold, was sitting in an easy chair by the bright fire with her youngest child, a baby of some three months old, on her lap. She stretched out her hand eagerly for the letter.

Take Archie into the nursery, Ethel, and then you can hold baby while I read it.'

Ethel took her little brother in her arms again, and mounted another flight of stairs to a large airy attic which was used as the nursery, as the very great uproar that came from it plainly indicated.

There were four little ones there already, which were quite as many, or more, than Martha the nursemaid could manage.

Oh, what a noise!' exclaimed Ethel, putting her hands to her ears, as the young ones all clustered round her. 'You should keep them quieter, Martha; they will quite disturb mamma.' 'I do the best I can, Miss Ethel,' was the answer with a weary sigh; but they don't mind me.'

'What are you doing here, May? It is quite time you and Gertie were at Mrs. Morson's; and here you are still, not even dressed.'

'We are not going this morning,' replied May; it is so cold and windy.'

Not going! nonsense. Who said so? not mamma, I am sure. And as to the cold, May, you know you never stay at home for that. You are lazy, and want to miss your lessons. I only wish I had the same chance of going as you have.'

'I only wish you had,' was May's reply, as she slowly put on her jacket and hat.

Ethel stayed until May and Gertie were fairly down stairs and on their way, and then she returned to her mother's room.

Mrs. Linton was eagerly reading the letter from her only sister, and Ethel silently took the babe from her lap, and sat down beside her. She waited until the letter was finished, and Mrs. Linton had leaned back in her chair with a sigh; then she asked if her aunt was well.

Quite well, dear. The letter is about you, Ethel. But stay, here is a little note to you from your cousin, that will, no doubt, tell you all.'

'A note for me, mamma? How good of my cousin to write!'

Yes, and a very loving little note it was; and contained such a pressing invitation for her to visit them, 'to stay a very long time,' for the writer longed so much to know her, and it was signed, Your loving and affectionate cousin, Rosalie Latimer.'

The eyes that Ethel raised to her mother's face, as she finished reading it aloud, were very bright indeed.

Oh, mamma, do you think I can go? It would be so delightful! Do you think it is possible, dear mamma?'

'I hope so, Ethel. But I think I must explain a little more than Rosalie has done. Your aunt's proposal is this, that you should go the week after next and stay three months. It is Rosalie's last half-year with her governess; and my sister thinks it might be an advantage to you to share her studies for a little while.'

'Oh, mamma, that would be truly charming; because you know, dear mamma, you cannot attend to my lessons so much as you used to do, and I should have all the books there that I want; it would be so pleasant. I do hope you will consent, mamma.'

We must hear what papa says, Ethel. If only my mother were willing for you to go."

Whatever has grandmamma to do with it?' 'A great deal. If it were not that she and my brother Edward and his family were away, Ethel would not have asked you; she says so.'

Mamma, why is it that we are so poor, and grandmamma and Aunt Ethel are so rich? Is it because you and grandmamma are not friends? I think I am old enough to know all about it now; don't you think I am? '

'Yes, Ethel, you must know it before you go to Feversham, if you do go. But I cannot tell you now, I am tired.'

'You want your lunch, mamma, dear. I will go and see about it.'

She laid her little charge lovingly in the cot,

and pressing a light kiss on the soft check, ran down into the kitchen.

Mamma wants her lunch, Charlotte,' she said. I suppose she will have some gruel, as usual. If you will just get me the pan, I can make it.' No, Miss Ethel; the last you made was so thick, your mamma could not take it. I shall do it myself this morning.'

Oh, very well; if you do not want my help, Charlotte, I have plenty to do,' was Ethel's reply; and she left the kitchen without another word.

Perhaps Ethel had plenty to do; but she did not feel inclined to do it. When she returned to the parlour, she drew an arm chair in front of the fire, and sitting down with her feet on the fender, gave herself up to the pleasant reverie caused by her aunt's letter.

She had left her own little note upstairs, so she could not read it again; but she knew what it contained, and it was a very bright picture that she drew of her visit to Feversham. She had a book in her hand, certainly; but she did not open it until Charlotte came in with the gruel; then she appeared very deeply engaged with it.

The gruel is ready, Miss Ethel.' Ethel merely handed out the keys without a word, and Charlotte poured in the spoonful of wine which was all Mrs. Linton allowed herself.

It will get cold if you do not carry it up, Miss Ethel, Charlotte said again; but still there was no answer. She had reached the door; but turned back again, and laid her hand on the young girl's shoulder.

I have vexed you, Miss Ethel; I am sure I did not mean it. But you know, dear, the mistress cannot take her gruel unless it be very

smooth.'

You can leave it there, Charlotte; I shall take it by and by,' was all Ethel said; and the old servant was obliged to take her departure.

Miss Ethel has the Feversham temper, and no mistake,' said Charlotte to herself; she is for all the world like her grandmamma.'

Ethel was vexed at Charlotte's rejection of her services, but her pride never let her complain; she only showed her annoyance by a certain coolness of manner towards the offending party. But the old servant knew her well, and could always tell when she was not pleased.

Ethel was just rising to go upstairs, when she heard a loud clatter and screaming, and a racing and chasing down the stairs; the door burst open, and Edward rushed in almost out of breath, waving a doll round and round by its leg. He was followed in a minute by Katie, crying and sobbing in sore distress.

He has got my doll, and he is killing it. Ethel, make him give it up.'

'Oh, you tiresome children!' exclaimed Ethel. Why cannot you stay in the nursery and be quiet? Eddie, give her the doll directly.'

'I shan't,' was the reply; and the little fellow clutched his prey tighter.

By dint of coaxing and persuasion, Ethel at last succeeded in making him give it up, and then she sent him back to the nursery, and told Katie she might stay and play down stairs.

All this time the gruel stood on the table cooling, and fast assuming that crusted appearance which gruel will have when it is cool. Ethel stirred it down, and felt rather to blame that she had not carried it up before; but she hoped her mamma would be able to take it.

Mrs. Linton was lying back in her chair reading her letter again; and Ethel fancied there were tears in her eyes.

What is all that noise about, Ethel?' she asked.

'Oh, it is only the children, mamma. has been teasing Katie, that is all.' Mrs. Linton sighed.

Eddie

I wonder when I shall

Here is

be amongst you again,' she said. 'Very soon, I hope, dear mamma. some gruel to help to make you strong.' Mrs. Linton took two or three spoonsful, and then she turned from it in disgust.

'It is almost cold. I wonder Charlotte should send it up like that. I cannot take it.'

Ethel did not say it was her fault, nor did she offer to take it down again to have it warmed afresh-that would have been too humbling; so the neglected gruel stood on the table, growing colder and colder.

'Mamma, dear, do tell me all you can remember about Feversham. I ought to know all I can before I go.'

You must not reckon so confidently upon going, Ethel. Perhaps your papa may quite object. Oh, if I could only see Feversham again, how thankful I should be!'

And why cannot you, mamma? I don't see why you should not.'

I cannot tell you now, Ethel. It is a long story; and you ought to begin your lessons. You can bring your books and sit here with me.'

But I have left Katie down stairs, mamma, and I am afraid she will get into mischief.' 'Poor little Katie! Take care of her, Ethel.' Dinner time came, and brought May and Gertie from school. Mrs. Linton had taught them herself, along with Ethel, until lately; but her health was becoming more delicate, and they had grown too much for her; so they were sent to a lady in the village, who kept a small school. The two elder boys, Guy and Percy, did not come home till evening; they attended the grammar school in the neighbouring town.

What dinners they had in those days, when their mother was confined upstairs! Such rushing and scrambling over their food, from May downwards! Charlotte had often to interfere, for every one did what he thought right. They certainly did want Mrs. Linton amongst them again.

There was a quiet hour before tea-at least quiet in that house-it might not have been called so in any other; and Ethel came and sat by her mamma's fire, and begged again for the story she had been waiting for all day.

I must go a long way back, then, Ethel,' Mrs. Linton began, if you want to know the history of the Fevershams of Feversham. It is an old family-grandmamma would tell you how old, but I cannot; but I know that the house, as it now stands, was built by my grandfather; he

was the heir of the estate then, and my mother was his only child. I have often heard her tell how much he regretted not having a son; but it was some compensation that his daughter Ethel inherited the family features and the family temper. What the latter is I think you know pretty well, Ethel, for it has come down in some measure to you. Well, in order that the estate might still belong to the Fevershams, my mother was married to her cousin, the son of my grandfather's younger brother. I do not think there was much love in the match-at least I am afraid not; but it was her father's wish, and my mother was dutiful and obedient. The whole property was entirely settled on herself. My father was a very different character from my mother; he had nothing of a Feversham about him but the name; he was so gentle and loving, and would have unbent to the lowliest. There were only three of us-Edward, Ethel, and myself. I was the youngest, and my father's favourite; but my mother doated on her boy, the heir to her family name and wealth. Yet I was spoilt on all hands, and allowed to have my own way in everything, except in the one matter that was most important of all. I was just turned eighteen, when I went on a long visit to a friend, and there I met and loved your father, Ethel; and I had not a notion there was anything wrong in so doing.'

Wrong, mamma!' exclaimed Ethel, who had been listening intently; 'there could not be anything wrong in loving my dear, good papa.'

'It was so wrong in my mother's eyes that she has not forgiven it to this day. Oh how angry she was, and what things she said when I returned home and told her in all good faith and confidence what had occurred! My sister Ethel had just married Mr. Latimer, and I thought I had as good a right to choose for myself as she had; but my mother saw a very wide difference between a clergyman of independent fortune and a poor schoolmaster who had to work his way in the world. She was determined on her side, and I was determined on mine; and in spite of the threat of being entirely cut off from my family, I stole from my home back to my friend's, and Guy Linton and I were married.'

'I am very glad you did, mamma; it was cruel, it was wicked of grandmamma to act so.'

'Oh, hush, Ethel; it was my fault, all of it. I was disobedient to my mother, and I reaped the consequence; I ought to have waited at least for a while; I acted very wrongly, I know, but I never thought the threat would have been executed.'

'And you have never scen grandmamma since then, mamma?'

'No, never once. My sister has been to see me, but my mother and brother were so very angry that she never dared to come again. I have written several times imploring forgiveness, but my letters have always been returned unopened. Three years ago, when my father died, I thought my mother would have given way; but no. I was not permitted to see him, and a message of forgiveness through my sister

was my only comfort. And I do not suppose now that I shall ever see my mother again.'

Mrs. Linton leaned back and did not try to hide the tears that flowed unrestrainedly. Ethel looked up with a grave face of determination. 'Mamma, I glory in our poverty after what you have told me. I know we are very poor, but I would not have any of grandmamma's money if she were to offer it me to-morrow. And I am very glad you are not friends, mamma; I shall never forgive her as long as I live for her unkindness to you.'

'Oh Ethel, child, do not talk so, you frighten me. It is all my fault, and I love her dearly, dearly. I ought not to have told you all this; I might have known what a spirit it would rouse in you.'

I do not want to go to Feversham now, mamma.'

'Nay, you must not include your aunt, Ethel; she was always kind.'

'Well, I hope I shall never see grandmamma, for I shall never forgive her.'

'You must not say that, indeed, Ethel. Oh, how my heart pines for just one loving word of pardon and forgiveness from my precious mother-more precious now than I ever thought her in my youthful days. But leave me now, my child; I am exhausted with talking so much of the past and its sad memories, and I must try to rest.'

СПАРТER II.

A FIRESIDE TALK.

ETHEL LINTON was fifteen, and she was the eldest of a family of nine. She was old for her years, being of a thoughtful disposition, and, owing to Mrs. Linton's delicate health, she had been put forward a great deal. The reader will have gathered something of her character, and of the circumstances of the family, from the preceding chapter; but there is a little more to be explained.

Mr. Linton was the second master in the grammar school in the neighbouring town of Beckworth; but he had chosen to fix his home in the little village of Oakley, partly on account of its more healthy situation, but chiefly because there he could have a comfortable house for a small rent, for the accommodation of his numerous family; and the two miles' walk morning and evening was but pleasant relaxation in fine weather, for he only availed himself of the railway when it was wet. Mr. Linton was the son of a clergyman of but small means, yet he had contrived to give his son a college education, intending him also to enter the church. But Mr. Linton having finished his course at the university, did not feel himself qualified for the profession his father had chosen for him; and he would not enter upon duties he knew he was incapable of fulfilling. So he settled down as a schoolmaster, with a very moderate income, and with but little prospect of rising in the world.

It was at this period of his life that he met and married Mary Feversham.

Something of the family of Mrs. Linton has been

learnt from her own lips; and but little more remains to be told. If Mrs. Feversham was angry and unforgiving, Mr. Linton was equally so; and he would not bend in the smallest measure towards a reconciliation. If he was poor, he was proud; and he preferred fighting his own way, were it ever so hardly won, to being under obligations to any one-least of all to his wife's relations, who had treated him with such disdain.

If Ethel inherited the Feversham temper from her mother, she was like her father in his love for books. She learnt eagerly; and it was well she did so, or her education might have been somewhat neglected; for she was frequently left to pursue her studies alone, or with occasional help from her father in an evening; for though Mrs. Linton professed to teach her, she was often unable to do so. But only let Ethel be fairly engaged with a book, and she was forgetful of all else.

Ethel was proud, and her pride would not let her own herself in fault; but she was very fond of her young brothers and sisters, and did her best to keep order amongst them during her mimma's absence-not always with success, as we have seen.

Two boys, Guy and Percy, of fourteen and thirteen, came next to Ethel. They were only at home morning and evening, as they went to the grammar school every day along with their father. May and Gertrude attended Mrs. Morson's, while the three little ones were supposed to have an hour's teaching at home; but it was not always they had it.

Reared in a beautiful home amidst wealth and plenty, with no wish ungratified, it was a very sudden change to Mrs. Linton to come down to her present circumstances; and she was beginning to think that perhaps her mother was right after all, and that she was not fit for the wife of a poor man. She tried her best to make the most of their limited income; but when each fresh little face appeared, and the parents wondered how it was to be clothed, and reared, and educated, she felt then that she was scarcely fitted for the management of a large family. Deeply grieving for her own disobedience, she had yet failed in making her children obedient to her; and they did pretty much as they pleased, except when their father was present: he had them at a word, and the house was quiet the few hours he was at home.

Charlotte was a great help to Mrs. Linton. She had been with her from childhood, having been her maid in her old home; and she loved the little ones as much as if they had been her own; and Mrs. Linton felt sure that everything would go on right, as far as Charlotte could make it, during her frequent absences from the down-stairs quarters.

Charlotte's time was very fully occupied, for she was the only servant except Martha; and Martha had almost more than she could do to take care of the children. But Charlotte worked willingly, for she had the interest of the family

at heart.

It was six o'clock when Mr. Linton and the

boys returned that evening; and it was not long before he found his way into his wife's room.

'Well, Mary, how are you getting on? You feel pleasantly warm here; it is bitterly cold outside. Are you getting stronger? you do not look so well as you did this morning.' 'I think I am too anxious about getting well, Guy. I do so want to be down stairs again.' I hope you will be in a day or two.' If I could only see or hear from my own dear mother, I should be well directly. I do pine for forgiveness more than ever, Guy.' 'What! you have been fretting about that again, Mary? It is no wonder you look as you do. It was perhaps a mistake, after all, on our part,' he added bitterly; it was wrong to tie you down to a poor man all your life.'

'Guy, dear Guy, do not say that; you are the comfort of my life; you know I do not regret that for one moment, only that we acted as we did. And it grieves me often to think I cannot make things go farther; I do the best I can. But there, I will not talk of it any more. My mother will never forgive us now, so there is no use distressing you about it; only I have been thinking of it a great deal to-day.'

'Why to-day more than usual?'

'Partly because I have been talking of it to Ethel, but chiefly on account of a letter from my sister which came this morning;' and Mrs. Linton placed it in her husband's hand.

He read it through without a word.

'Oh,' he said, as he folded it up; 'so they have condescended to notice us at last! I am much obliged to them; but I do not want my child to be patronized by her rich relations.'

'Oh, Guy, you are too hard! Ethel has been our friend always.'

'Friend! I tell you I do not want them as friends. They have chosen their course; let them keep to it; I am quite willing things should continue as they are."

'But the Latimers are not Fevershams; you need not be so bitter against them. And only think what a good thing it would be for Ethel she has had so few advantages, poor child! And this might be the making of her, for you know, Guy, it is most probable she will have to earn her way in the world.'

'Better that than be dependent upon others. I only wish we could afford to send her to school; but that is out of the question. I suppose these Latimers would not let us pay anything for her.'

"That would be an insult; you could not do that. You see, Ethel asks it almost as a favour, to be a companion for her own daughter. So you will let the child go? she has quite set her mind upon it.'

Only on one condition, then-that she accepts no present in any shape or way.'

It was Ethel's usual duty to assist Charlotte in setting the tea-table, and it was generally a pleasant duty; but this evening tea-time came, and Ethel did not offer her services. Charlotte had refused her help in the morning; so she might do without it now, she thought, unless she chose to ask for it.

This Charlotte would not do, though she cast