"I understand," said Margaret: "though he is short, he is a sturdy fellow. They are a family well brought up, and very brave."

"Well brought up!" said the fisherman, with the same tone of contempt he had used before, and which seemed to be familiar to him. "Well brought up!" he repeated. "I suppose that means well fed, and dressed in fine clothes. I tell you that's not worth so much as the breath that blows away a bit of thistle-down, when the wind roars and the sea rages. But come you on, and follow me, my little lass. I like the looks o' ye, though you do talk nonsense, like the rest o' fine folk, about bringing up."

"I don't mean," said Margaret, following very meekly in the steps of the great powerful man, and not able to keep up with him except by now and then making a little run,"I don't mean that they are brought up delicately, but bravely-sensibly, as boys that are to be useful men should be brought up."

"Well, that is something," said the fisherman, who seemed to Margaret to be going far too leisurely to work, as if his object might be to catch a herring, not to save a human life. "That is something," he repeated. "Folks like you don't often talk about being brave. I fancy they leave that for the most part to us poor fishermen, and to all that live by hard service both on sea and land. But, mercy on us, child! what are we doing? Yonder he is--the poor little dot of a fellow, and all yon big sea running up like fury! I must be off, or he'll be swept away before any rope can reach him. He can never stand that for long."

So saying, the fisherman ran off at full speed, leaving Margaret to take care of herself. Happily for her, she never once thought about herself, or she might have been terror-stricken by the nature of her situation altogether, for she was entirely alone in a strange, wild, solitary place, without any protector or friend to take her by the hand, or to say to her a soothing word under the agony of apprehension which she was enduring. For before her, full in view, as the fisherman had said, was the little "dot of a fellow," clinging to the rocks

on the opposite side to that where his brother had seen him on the ridge or promontory; and now, in all probability, he was for the first time aware of his danger-he must indeed be aware of it, for the water was deep on this side, and the waves lashed fiercely up among the scattered fragments of earth and stone which had fallen from the huge cliffs above.

Margaret knew now that the little boy did see his danger to some extent. She watched him intently, and saw that he looked around as if taking in the full horror of his situation at one glance; and then she saw him throw up his arms in an attitude of terror-perhaps, as she thought, uttering some wild cry which the sea-birds alone could hear.

It was impossible for Margaret not to cry too, but her words were those of encouragement, if they could but have reached him. Yes, Margaret saw and knew that he was suffering agonies of terror and distress; and she now ran on to the place whence the fisherman had disappeared, in order that she might wave her handkerchief, or in some way attract his attention, and so make him aware that help was at hand; or, if indeed he was beyond all human help, that he might know and feel that he was not left there to die alone, without any effort being made to save him.

Archy! dear little Archy!" cried Margaret, until the tears choked her utterance; and then she prayed fervently to her heavenly Father, and his, that He would stretch out His arm of power, and help and save the boy. She had scarcely sought this relief before she discovered by the look and attitude of the poor child that he also was praying, for his clasped hands were raised, and his knees bent upon the rock, and so he remained for what seemed to Margaret a long time; for the water was still rising, and she could not see the fisherman at all, and for Archy to climb the rocks above him was impossible.

Well, indeed, was it for both children, in that moment of agony, that they had been early taught to pray; that an appeal to their Father in Heaven was no new language to

their lips; and especially that they, young as they were, could pray believing that they should be heard for the sake of that Saviour in whom they had early learned to trust. Little Archy was perhaps naturally less brave than his brothers; but they all regarded him as having more faith; perhaps he was more reliant in his own disposition; but especially they regarded him as loving more devoutly Him to whom he was now crying from his rocky prison, while halfencircled by the raging waves.

But hark! There is a sound. A manly voice breaks through the roar of the surging billows. Margaret sees that the boy has heard, and is looking up towards the cliff. By a circuitous way the fisherman has gained a standing place above, and yet not very distant from the spot where little Archy remains, having discovered, to his horror, that to proceed is impossible.

Margaret heard the shouting, and she saw at length that Archy had discovered from whence it came-that he had seen the man, and was beginning to understand something by his gesticulations. But how could a rope thrown to that little dot of a fellow ever help him out of the mouth of that raging gulf? It was worth trying, however, and it was evident that James Halliday thought so, for he kept repeatedly throwing the rope, to the end of which he had made a noose, until at last it caught upon a point of rock immediately beside the boy, who had the presence of mind to seize and grasp it firmly. Having done so, he looked up again at the man, who showed by gestures what he was to do. He was to slip the noose over his head, and let it remain securely drawn round his waist. Then he was to begin his perilous ascent along a line of rocks which the fisherman pointed out. Impossible! it looked to Margaret; and once having seen the boy slip, and fall back a short way, she covered her eyes with her hands, and absolutely dared not look again-not, indeed, until she heard what sounded like another voice. Then she looked up and beheld two figures on the cliff. It was Harry Dunlop, who by some means, having clambered up from the shore

on the other side of the ridge of rocks, had joined the fisherman, and was helping him to steady and ease the rope, and all the while shouting words of encouragement, which his brother was now just able to hear.

Margaret never knew exactly how the boy was saved. It seemed to her then, and indeed ever afterwards, like a miracle; but so it was, that Harry, at length losing patience, descended a short distance by hold of the rope, and caught his little brother in his arms just as his last effort was failing. The boy had struggled hard for life, and by the help of the rope had been able to clamber over many difficult points of rugged ascent which would otherwise have been wholly impracticable to him; but by the time his brother appeared on the scene, his strength was rapidly expiring, and had he not been caught in those affectionate arms, it is more than probable he would have fallen back into the now foaming gulf, from which no human power could have saved him.

There was still both danger and difficulty to be encountered. With his almost insensible burden, Harry had enough to do to keep his own footing, though the steepest portion of the cliff was passed, and he had the steady hand and encouraging directions of the fisherman to help him. His own active and adventurous habits were here of great service to him, as, indeed, had been the case with little Archy; for had his bringing-up been as tender as his general appearance might have led a stranger to suppose, he would scarcely have had the resolution to make the first attempt to reach a place of safety by seizing the rope and adjusting it to his person. It was now absolute physical exhaustion under which he sank; and when at last the summit of the cliff was gained, Harry placed his burden gently on the ground, scarcely knowing whether the last spark of life was not actually gone.

Margaret had hastened to the spot, and was there on the top of the cliff ready to receive little Archy into her kind caressing arms; for although one year younger than her charge, she eagerly undertook the office of nurse and comforter, inspired only by

that womanly instinct which many a little girl, even younger than Margaret, has exhibited in the form of matronly kindness, while herself but a child.

Almost for the first time in her life Margaret had found herself of use this day, and that conviction came upon her like the dawn of a new existence. She did not see herself differently, because, as already said, she was not thinking of herself; but above and around her all things expanded and grew, and ways seemed to open in every direction, while a certain power of action rushed through her whole frame, making life-even that troubled life of the last few hours-a kind of ecstacy, it was so full of purpose, energy, and hope, and now so rich in fulfilment.

Yes, there was something very much like happiness beaming from Margaret's earnest face, along with this consciousness of having been of use, which she could enjoy to its full extent without attributing the least merit to herself; for what had she done? And now she was indeed happy, for the colour was beginning to come back into Archy's pale cheeks; while, seated on the ground, she held him closely in her arms, with his head resting on her shoulder, chafing his purple hands, and trying to warm his cold feet, Harry at the same time bending over him with intense anxiety. His large blue eyes at length opened, he gave one look of grateful recognition, and for a moment smiled upon them with his accustomed expression of guileless and cordial affection.

The little woman held him in her arms with caressing tenderness. The motherly ways of the young girl often made Harry smile afterwards when he recalled the scene. Yet somehow he liked to bring the picture up again before his mind. He liked to see Margaret in that attitude of anxious and loving care. She had had neither brother nor sister of her own. She had scarcely known what it was to be herself the object of a mother's tenderness. Yet here was nature working in her heart, and actually directing her what to do in one of the most trying emergencies of human experience.

We are often called upon to admire the provisions made by an all-wise Creator in completing and sustaining the works of His own hand; and a glorious call for rejoicing thankfulness it is when science brings to light some new manifestation of the wisdom and the goodness of God, as shown in the natural structure of our world. But there is another world within the human heart-a world in which provision has been made for all our social, relative, and individual wants, which does not the less excite our wonder and gratitude. It is a great thing that the reindeer is supplied through the icy solitudes of his long winter with the moss which sustains his life; that the swift and graceful wing of the swallow is strong enough to bear its autumnal flight over sea and land in search of some sunnier shore where the storms of our climate are unknown. But I think it is a greater thing, because it is a provision more exquisitely adapted to our necessities, that a gentle brooding love like that of a mother should be found in every woman's breast, whether young or old, whether solitary or planted in families; and that this bountiful provision needs only the cry of pain, the look of agony, the spectacle of suffering, to call it into active usefulness.

We speak often of this love with tender and admiring reverence, where, implanted by nature, it is manifested by a parent towards her own offspring. But have we not all seen it yet even more wonderfully displayed where there has been no natural claim to call it forth-where it has arisen as it were spontaneously, and grown into active life during the exigency of some calamitous moment, answering promptly and willingly where there was no other requirement than that of urgent need, and still more wonderfully persisting in its kindly offices where there was no earthly reward?

We grow accustomed to the natural exercise of motherly affection, because the little birds feel this when they spread their wings over their unfledged young-the sheep when it answers to the bleating of its own lamb among a thousand-the lioness when she defends the cave in which her nurslings are asleep. But when a woman who is no

mother herself takes the poor orphan to her heart and home, when she devotes herself by day and by night to another woman's child, when she gives herself liberally and continually to the self-denying services required in nursing and training, cherishing and comforting those who were born with no natural dependence upon her, then, I think, we recognise more immediately the working of God's own hand in this provision, the history of which, if it could be written, would be a history of the noblest and truest heroism that language has ever recorded, embracing much that lies closest to human feeling, and deepest in our experience both of happiness and misery.

And yet such instances of the wise and merciful care of our heavenly Father in His provision for our necessities are continually presenting themselves within the range of ordinary observation. Thus, when I speak of a little girl on a sudden emergency doing just what was kindest, and best, and most motherly to do, without instruction, and without premeditation, I speak only of the acting out of a natural impulse -the exercise of a natural gift which all women, except in very rare and revolting instances, have received as an unalienable and most blessed heritage-a talent which is capable, perhaps beyond all others, of being rendered back with interest to the Divine Master when He shall call from each one of us for an account of what has been lent us to use in His service.

It is impossible to say at what age, or under what unlikely circumstances, the exercise of this gift may not be found. In the nursery, the schoolroom, or the hospital we expect to find it. But we also see it touchingly displayed in our streets and lanes, where the little motherly girl, scarcely fit to be more than a nursling herself, takes willing charge of a lusty infant too heavy for her strength; where she sits among a group of tiny creatures committed to her care, and makes garlands for them beside the meadow path, or snatches them away with resolute arms at the sound of coming danger. More beautiful still it is to see her motherly attempts to soothe the fretfulness of

the little one when she herself might reasonably be fretting: how she will kiss the small pricked finger, and bind it up, when her own is torn with briars; and how she will pet, and rock, and sing to, and crow over some baby tyrant, when sorely in need of a little tenderness herself.

It was in this spirit, and actuated by this natural impulse, that Margaret undertook in a moment, and without being conscious of what she was doing, her first duty in the way of motherly care-taking. She had nursed many a pet in her short life—many a dumb creature, four-footed or winged: nothing came amiss to her that was young and helpless, tender or suffering. But now she had a human sufferer, and a very precious one-a case of life and death upon her hands; and absorbing as the office she had undertaken might well have been to anyone, it was intensely so to her. Only a girl whose nature was deeply imbued with the kind of interest here described could have done exactly as Margaret did under so sudden and pressing an emergency-feeling, as it were, with her soft warm hand for what life might yet be left in the shivering boy, clasping his wrists and ancles, pressing him again and again close to her own warm heart, and then looking up, ever and anon, into the brother's face with an exulting smile, and saying, "He is better-warmer!" or uttering some other sudden and joyful announcement, with an air of as much confidence and triumph, as if she had been conquering a city.

There was, in fact, no fear in Margaret's mind after the boy had once opened his eyes and looked around him, as he did, with a smile of intelligence. But he fell off again after that, and shivered, and closed his eyes, and looked as if he might be actually dying. It seemed as if a kind of cold stupor was creeping over him, and Margaret set herself to rub and chafe his limbs, throwing off as fast as she could the heaviest of the wet garments which clung around him, and wrapping him closely in her own mantle.

In the meantime, James Halliday had run off for some kind of restorative, with