quite conscious of her own shortcomings, and earnestly sought to correct the effects of her weakness, and prevent the reproduction of her faults in the younger members of her sister's family. She had prayed earnestly and waited patiently for some evidence of a change of heart in Winifred, and longed for the time when "all her powers with all their might" should be engaged in the highest service, while before her was but one object-the glory of the Eternal.

"And so the Ruthins want you to go with them to Cliffcoole," Mrs. Lorne said, addressing her eldest daughter on this particular morning. "I am sure, Winifred, you would like it."

Mrs. Lorne had no suspicion of Frank Ruthin's feelings for her daughter, or this invitation might not have been so readily entertained. Immersed in household cares, and forgetful that the girl had grown to womanhood, the thought of a lover for Winifred had not occurred to her.

Winifred hesitated; she did not feel she ought to express the pleasure an acceptance of the proposal would give her.

"I don't see how it could be managed, mamma," she replied, seriously revolving in her mind her mother's increased responsibility during her ab

sence.

"I don't see why it cannot. Leave the management to me. I think you will admit I am a manager," replied Mrs. Lorne, triumphantly. "What do you say, Isabella?"

"I think a little change, and all that, you know, would do Winifred good," said Miss Freeman, somewhat dubiously, as if she would fain say more, while she regarded her niece affectionately.

"Dear Billie," murmured Winifred, meeting her aunt's look with one as affectionate, "you always say the right and kind thing for us all."

"What seems kind is not always right," answered Miss Freeman, quietly.

"The worst of Winifred's going is, the clergyman at Cliffcoole is hardly up to my standard," said Mrs. Lorne, musingly.

"In social position or stature?" inquired Winifred, maliciously.

"Winifred, how can you jest upon such a subject?" replied her mother, severely. "You know I mean as regards religious principle and church matters."

"Mr. Archer is a good and truly pious man, I hear, and all that you know," said Miss Freeman, hastily.

Womanlike, Miss Freeman took the weaker side, but in addition to this she had a habit of espousing the cause of the absent. Her own views were sound and clear, and she was independent, at least, in the belief that God would have her draw them for herself fresh from the Fountain of Truth. She brought all teaching to this test-stone.

From some unexpressed feeling, Winifred avoided meeting her aunt's eyes, in which she had just read

You are a prophetess, Aunt Isabella.'

"Old women generally are, my dear. Experience, and all that, you know, casts a light upon the future, and they can see what lies before the young. It is well we cannot tell too much. For myself, I am thankful that I know not what may befall me.' Winifred, if you know to Whom to commit yourself, and all that concerns you, you would seek to please Him in the present, and leave the future in His safe keeping. Until you can do this, I must feel anxious about you. One thing I am sure of, you will never be contented with mean things."

'Aunt Isabella !" exclaimed the girl, starting up in sudden displeasure, "how can you connect meanness with Frank Ruthin?"

"Why should you think I alluded to him now, my dear? Winifred, beware! many a life has been clouded, and many young feet turned out of the paths of truth by the mistaken impulses of untried hearts. The young have a way of colouring things, and all that, you know, which is very pretty but very deceptive; and feeling, not reason, guides them.

It is a

night she offered the petition, "Lord, that my eyes may be opened!”

And the answer came, but not immediately; and not in the way-no, not in the way the offerer desired.

CHAPTER III.-THE SILVER BAR.

A MIST was creeping up out of the sea, stealing gradually, like

an enemy, into a broad harbour on the south coast of Ireland, bounding the beholder's view. Before it, across the mouth of the harbour, lay a long line of

silver light,

strangely glim

mering and

smiling in view of the approaching darkness.

In that line of

silver light, a

single sail was visible. Many ships lay at anchor withintwo or three men-of-war, a huge Cunard and an Inman steamer (miniature worlds in themselves), merchant vessels from all parts of the globe, of diffe

rent size and lading, and several fishing

"There was a watcher down by the sea, There was a sailor-lad coming to me, And ever the wind whistled merrily, Bearing him on.

I care not for breezes in tree-tops high, For waving corn, or a summer sigh, But it fills the sails right merrily, Bearing him on."

Only a peasant girl was little Minnie Connor, yet with a gentle loving nature, and perceptions as deep

smacks. The prospects of "dirty weather had driven them to their moorings, and across the bright bar of which we have spoken the last of the fishing fleet was seen approaching. Her return to shore was eagerly watched by a young girl, who was standing on a low promontory jutting out beneath a huge grey cliff, shading her eyes with her hand.

Her lithe and active figure was well shown off by short skirts and a tight-fitting jacket. Her dark hair, loosened by a freshening breeze, blew across a cheek whose clear olive was tinged with the ruddy hue of health. Her dark eyes gleamed with hope and pride as she watched the distant sail, and she sang to herself in a clear treble

learnt to analyse her feelings in any way, or properly express them. When they must find vent, they generally came out in broken snatches

of songs which she had learnt from the village girls, or spelt out for herself

on old newspapers which fell into her hands. These, with wonderful facility, and the ready wit of her people, she adapted so, on various occasions, that they might almost have seemed improvised, and even amused her idle hours by teaching them to her brother, of

whom we shall hear more by-and-by. Though but a fisher-maiden, she could draw pretty similes about silver bars in her own young innocent fancy, as she sang.

"Heigho!" sighed pretty Minnie, as, yielding to the general influence and the unrest of the sea, her strains became more sorrowful; "sure an' that's a sad note, somehow, an' I waitin' for Will, an' noways sorrowful. Thank God! the trouble 's not comin' next nor nigh us; the holy angels between us an' harm."

Minnie Connor, as we have said, was but a fisherman's daughter. Her father and elder brother slept beneath the wave beyond the silver bar; her mother

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was a plain unlettered woman, yet one who in some mysterious way received an awful sense of the goodness and majesty of God, which always possessed her soul. It may have come to her in the voice of nature through the sounding of the sea, in its ever. recurring calm and sunshine as well as through its storm-cloud and roar; it may have been in the "still, small" whispers of grace. However communicated, its end was accomplished in her. To that Majesty she bowed unquestioningly when trial came upon her. How could she do otherwise than reply," Thy will be done" to Him whose lightnings rent the heavens, and thunders echoed like a mighty voice from cliff to cliff and crag to crag? He doeth according to His will in the armies of heaven and amongst the inhabitants of the earth," might have been the language of her heart, and who could resist, or dared gainsay that will? Mary Connor knew intuitively what so many great and learned are slow to receive, that to fret at it would be only like some poor prisoned bird beating its life out against the walls of its cage. Her highest wisdom and safety was to bow submissively, and trust where she could not trace. So on the goodness also of the mighty God who ruled on high she depended when all things seemed against her, and of course was comforted and upheld; for who can doubt His faithfulness? Then in her lonely musings beside the solemn deep there was borne in upon her mind with the clearness of a vision, a view of the stupendous sacrifice of the Son of God upon the cross, and a sense of the love which led to it. On His finished work she depended for salvation; in that love her soul was stayed for time and eternity. The simple questioner after truth, like other questioners of every rank and state, and age and clime-

An infant crying in the night,
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry-

without extraneous mortal aid was making progress towards the Divine source-the Fountain-head whence alone need can be met. Falsity and superstition were losing their hold on her, or rather her hold of them was loosened, and gradually there was "falling from her eyes as it had been scales." What she could not reconcile with her belief in Christ she quietly, perhaps unconsciously, ignored. One son remained to her -a simple, dutiful lad—of whom we shall have occasion to speak at greater length hereafter-and Minnie -pretty, bright, busy, innocent Minnie-was the pride of her heart and joy of her life. With the help of the girl she sold the fish at the nearest market which her son Danny caught. From her quiet, inoffensive manner, and her daughter's good looks and modest ways, they were favourites in the neighbourhood, and obtained employment of various kinds when bad weather prevented the lad's putting forth on the wild water. Indeed, Mrs. Connor (or "Granny," as she was called in the neighbourhood), was never idle, and found the longest summer's day too short

for her. There were few families amongst the gentry and well-to-do farmers around where finely-knitted stockings and other samples of her industry were not to be found.

The line of light was narrowing, the silver bar becoming less and less. On the other side was the grave of Minnie Connor's father, but on this side for her was light and love and joy. A strong young fisherman, like herself the prop of a widowed mother, who declared “a good son would make a good husband,” was nearing shore in the on-coming boat, and, as she watched it, Minnie's heart grew light, and she sang to herself as joyously as a bird. But yestereven she had known "for sure" that Will Joyce's true heart was hers, and they had plighted troth under the shadow of the huge grey cliffs which stretched away from the pretty village of Cliffcoole. It was wonderful to her to feel that the strong, brave man's happiness depended on a look, a word, a smile of hers; that he was under her pretty little womanly reign, and, as it were, wholly at her mercy. Oh, how well she would guard the sacred trust! Even as her little hands could clasp his arm, so her watchful tenderness should cling round him, and shield too, when it depended. The distant silver bar was like the near stream of light that had fallen across her path, and in which she seemed to be treading. It represented to her a good man's love, and his protecting care, for this was the brightest thing memory could recall or imagination conceive. And so she was now waiting and watching, yet meanwhile, with all "a child's delight in little things," while "of the grief unborn" she rested secure. Oh, had we but half the faith in God which we exercise towards others, how bright our paths in life would be!

"Waiting for Will!" As Minnie lingered on the shore, now sending an anxious glance over the darkening water, now looking intently into holes and and crevices of the rock, as if in quest of mussels, or mivawn*, there came into her mind some lines she had read in an old magazine, and she proceeded, with the habit or gift to which we have already alluded, to adapt them for the occasion by interposing the word “Waiting."

Minnie did not set this to any decided air, rather a sort of wild recitative, but the monotone of the "waiting" so often recurring in the silence and solitude, was most effective. One heard it for whom life had grown suddenly dim, and who travelled hither and thither seeking to forget its burden in earth's strange sights and sounds. It came to him on the water, as he, too, was returning to shore to go on his way and leave that place for ever. What wait I for?" he asked, and like an answer to the chime rang some words in his memory which he had once learned but long time forgotten

"Truly my hope is even in Thee."

Foolish, playful, hypocritical Minnie! As the boat drew to shore, she strolled along the beach, prying

Or dilisk, an edible weed.

into holes and corners, as though thinking only of their hidden stores, and not waiting or watching for lover or brother at all. Presently she felt Will's strong hand on either shoulder, and then the pretty deception was at an end. There were no spectators, for the tall cliffs shut out the hard world beyond, and shut the simple lovers into their own bright world below. Danny having secured the boat, began in his own awkward fashion to ascend the rocks; and what the rocks heard, we need not say.

CHAPTER IV.-DANNY CONNOR.

Even

As Danny Connor climbed the sides of the steep rock, he presented a singularly grotesque appearance. His figure was strangely misshapen, no two members of his body being in proportion one with the other, but, perhaps, nothing was more remarkable than the extreme length of his arms and size of his bony hands. His reddish-brown hair hung in a tangled mass of irreclaimable confusion round his uncovered head, which was unnaturally large; his shoulders were broad, yet stooping, while his legs were short and thin. The face he turned ever and anon to the brow of the cliff did not altogether lack intelligence; on the contrary, there was a strange mixture of shrewdness and innocent wonder in the light grey eyes which was far removed from cunning or stupidity. The best thing in the face was a set of very white and regular teeth, which he showed with the faintest smile that flitted across his usually quiet face. Altogether the most casual observer might have felt that the fisher lad, though falsely reported half-witted, was entirely to be trusted. in his rapid ascent, as was his wont, he sang in a low tone wild snatches of song, now in a single line, now a refrain without any regular tune, and interspersed pretty freely with pointless mutterings. It was this habit of singing and speaking to himself which had suggested a doubt of his sanity to the country people around, but many a traveller who had watched his strange motions and listened to the verses his sister taught him, and which they could scarcely have fancied impromptu, called him, in derision, "the poet of Cliffcoole." A poet he certainly was not; he knew as little of the real inspiration of genius as of the meaning of the term. He was never wrought up to making verse, and his mood seldom changed. That he could attract any one by his wild strains never occurred to him, and indeed, he would not have been ambitious of such honour. Still, he had the power of stringing together disjointed thoughts in irregular verse, oftener regardless of rhyme, like beads of different shape and size upon one string, or rays of light divided in their passage through a dark and narrow channel. His sister had a great advantage over him in having a quick ear, while all his idea of tune was a doleful monotonous croon.

"Which is the best, the sunshine or the dark, the

bright or the storm?" muttered the lad, according to his custom, thinking aloud. ""T is a wise person can tell. Mother says nothing can hurt us unless God lets it, not even the big thunder. I have seen the hot sun scorch up an' ate the little bits of pinks an' flowers an' moss that grows so purtily in the holes of the rocks, an' was never loosened by the storm from their holdings. It is a grand thing to have one's trust in God for fair weather and foul, as mother has. He often sees me, I know, through the bright holes in the sky. I catch His eye looking down, but I never see more of Him than that, though I looks up pretty often. Danny's doing no harm; Danny's catching fish for his mother, an' thanks God for his good arms."

And, with the latter strange ascription of praise, the lad threw out the long members in which he gloried, like enormous feelers, until his large hands grasped the top of the cliff, and buried themselves in some strong roots growing there, by means of which he drew himself up. As the bony hands waved themselves in the air above the summit, a faint cry issued from it; and when Danny's shoulders appeared, a group of ladies and a gentlemen were visible to the climber, shrinking back from his approach, yet, perhaps, too curious to beat a precipitate retreat. Danny, with the quick instinct which is given to persons of weak intellect, understood his position amongst them, and their feelings, at a glance. One did not fear him at all. He met her gaze for a moment with intense satisfaction. Another was at once amused and frightened; a third only frightened. To her he addressed himself.

"Don't be afeared, lady; it's only me."

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"I

Only you?" reiterated the gentleman. should not say 'only,' my man. I never saw anything like you before." Then, in an aside, "Such a specimen of humanity is uncommon enough to attract notice, and stand alone in its ugliness."

A mischievous gleam shot from Danny's eyes. Though he did not hear Mr. Ruthin's last words, and, perhaps, would not have received their full meaning if he had, he had the wit to perceive that he was only a butt for the shafts of the gentleman's ridicule. For a moment or two his anger was excited, and he felt inclined to resent this; but his wrath quickly died away, and he said, quietly, yet with a mixture of pride, which was extremely ridiculous

"I suppose, indeed, you never seen the likes of me--leastways, the likes of these arms," extending them to their full length. "Well, I'm Danny Connor, that lives in the cabin over yon, above Guyleen, and I-a-a-follow the art of fishing."

"A noble art!" laughed the gentleman, who was no other than our acquaintance Frank Ruthin.

"Yes," returned the lad, softening his voice almost to a whisper, "I know it is. Mother told me of Him as walked right a-top of the waves on a wild night. Well, I've looked out for Him many, many times, but never He comed my way; but then I'm a