greater ease and freedom if he was surrounded by the comforts of his home and supported by the help and sympathy of his family; so they went out with him, accompanied by Frances, who was then about fourteen, and made arrangements to remain in Turkey for the few years which he assured them would alone be necessary, to place him in the position of a millionaire.

Once established in this foreign country, Mr. Amherst willingly agreed to Claud's suggestion, that he should make over all his own affairs also to the hands of his son; Claud was much better acquainted with modern languages and with continental ways than he was, and he meekly accepted the young man's dictum that his income, if properly managed, would go much further there than it had done in England. The family life was therefore organised on a scale of luxury and expenditure, very different from their former habits, as Mr. Amherst's rent roll was by no means a large one. They had carriages and riding horses of every description, and the full enjoyment of a very pleasant society at the cost of expensive entertainments and extravagant outlay of all kinds. Frances benefited very decidedly by the freedom with which their money was spent, as she was provided with first-rate masters, and her talents for music and painting were cultivated to their fullest extent.

It was a very gay and pleasant life for them all, and for the young girl with her refined tastes and her ardent, passionate nature it was full of the highest enjoyment. So it went on for ten happy years; but meanwhile the poor little Welsh estate had been drained to the uttermost, and then Claud, still perfectly sanguine of a prosperous result to his extensive speculations, began to borrow money at a ruinous rate of interest. Mr. Amherst, nothing doubting that Claud was right in expecting the shower of gold to descend very speedily, put his name to as many bills as his son pleased to bring to him, and so at last— about three months previously, the crash had come like a terrific thunderbolt from a clear sky-Mr. Amherst was suddenly confronted by a liability so heavy that his whole estate, even unimpaired, could scarcely have met it; and when it became known that it was not in his power to cover it, the charmed circle which Claud had drawn round him by exaggerated statements of his English wealth was broken through in all directions, and creditors, of whose claims he had never so much as heard, rushed in upon him like a pack of ravening wolves. The poor old man fell into a state of physical prostration and bewildered despair,

and the whole family must have gone down to irretrievable ruin but for the timely succour offered to them by Mr. Amherst's nephew, Thorold. He was a solicitor in good practice in one of the largest of our manufacturing towns, and had carved out a most successful career for himself by his own indomitable perseverance and energy, but he owed his education and first start in life to his uncle, whose house had also been the home of his boyhood, as he had been left an orphan at an early age.

He had not seen any of the family since they left England, and he was no favourite with Mrs. Amherst, who maintained that he had never done justice to the precocious virtues and talents of her dear Claud; but there was none other to whom they could turn in their overwhelming difficulties, and he came to the rescue with the utmost promptitude and efficiency. Mr. Amherst gave him unlimited authority to do the best he could for them, and implored of him to spare him a knowledge of details so far as it was possible; he was quite incapable of even understanding the intricate dealings of the foreign money lenders and others who held him in their toils. The whole miserable business seemed to him one hopeless confusion, and nothing was clear to his own mind but the bitter sense of disgrace and humiliation which it had brought upon him for the first time, in the whole course of his blameless and honourable life.

Thorold took the whole burden and responsibility on his own shoulders. He was a man of few words, and after the first letter, in which he relieved his uncle's mind by telling him he would do so, they heard no more from him till, in an incredibly short time, he wrote to tell them of the arrangements he had made, in so far, at least, as he thought well to reveal them. The estate had to be sold. Mr. Amherst had known from the first that this sacrifice could not be avoided, but he also knew that no price it could bring would cover all his liabilities, how the rest were to be satisfied he did not know and could not bear to ask; but Thorold wrote to him that the more urgent claims had been met and he had provided for the liquidation of the remainder at a future date. They were free to quit Constantinople, and he begged his uncle to do so without loss of time; they must leave the problem of the future subsistence of the family to him for the present, his house was open to them, and he trusted they would make it their home till they had time to consider other plans. He forwarded to them a sum of money amply sufficient for their journey to England, and to all these benefits he joined but one condition, on which he insisted very firmly

-they were to leave Claud to his own resources.

Thorold gave him no invitation to his house, and the funds for the return of the family to their own country were carefully calculated to suffice only for Mr. and Mrs Amherst and Frances.

Claud-who already considered himself the victim of unprecedented ill fortune by the failure of his schemes-was loud in complaints of his cousin's hard treatment, and Mrs. Amherst wrote an indignant letter to Thorold, requesting him to arrange at once that Claud should accompany them home. The answer came very speedily in most firm and decisive terms. Unless Claud were left abroad to find employment for himself, as he might do very easily with his versatile talents, Thorold would withdraw altogether from the management of Mr. Amherst's affairs. This threat settled the question, for even Mrs. Amherst saw to what a hopeless condition they would be reduced if Thorold abandoned them; and it happened fortunately just at this time that an Italian friend of theirs was going to settle in Bucharest, and he offered to take Claud with him in the hope of finding him some lucrative occupation there. The young man somewhat sullenly agreed to go provided some money were given him on which to live at least for a time, and this was provided for him by the sale of Frances's horse and of some articles of value belonging to Mrs. Amherst.

They had heard of his safe arrival at Bucharest, and as they intended to go to England by the Danube route, he wrote that he would come down to Galatz to meet them when their steamer touched at that town. Frances privately thought this a needless piece of extravagance on her brother's part, but she could not regret it when she saw how much her mother was cheered by the prospect of seeing him. Her father, too, had quite regained his spirits as he saw his difficulties vanishing away and the return to his native land made easy at last.

Yes, this is a beautiful place," he said, as he walked slowly along the shore on that last evening with Frances by his side, "and we have been very happy here, though at a cruel cost; but I have no regret in leaving it, I am glad to go home."

"Do you think that great manufacturing town where Thorold lives will seem like home to you ?" said Frances. "You have never been

there."

"No, but it is England-it is my native land, where I hope to lay my bones in peace when I go to the true Home that is waiting for us all."

"Do not speak of going away from us, father," said Frances, pressing closer to him.

"I need not speak of it if you do not like it, dear child," said the old man gently, "but I must think of it. Remember, Francie, I am more than threescore years and ten, and you know what the Bible says of those who reach that term."

Seventy years! what a long, long time it seems. I have hardly lived twenty-four," said Frances, thoughtfully. Then she walked on without saying a word for a few minutes. At last she turned, clasped both her hands round her father's arm, and looked up to him with earnest eyes. Father," she said, "will you let me ask you one question, though I almost fear it may seem impertinent in me to try to penetrate so far into your mind as I wish to do?"

Impertinent! My dear child, you have never been that in all your days, and I do not believe you could be if you tried. Say whatever you like."

"Thank you," she said. "Dear father, you have lived seventy years in this changeful, difficult world, and I know that now your faith is firm as a rock in the Divine Revelation, which is our only hope for the unknown eternity to come; but I want you to tell me whether at any time in the course of all these years there has ever passed over your soul the shadow of a doubt-the awful shadow of doubt," she continued, her voice sinking to a whisper, "in that which, if it be not truth, there is no truth in earth or heaven."

The old man turned his gentle eyes upon her, and answered simply,

"Never-never have I known what it is to doubt the SAVIOUR who said 'I am the Truth.' He has been my LORD and my GOD all the days of the years of my pilgrimage. He will be my Guide unto death."

Never, never! Happy blessed old man! thought Frances. How fair and undimmed that child-like soul had passed through all the mists and clouds of earthly life. How like some pure still lake reflecting the steadfast light of heaven, and never so much as ruffled by a breath from the stormy world without. He did not pursue the subject, but the sound of his calm voice as he spoke that emphatic "Never" echoed long in his daughter's heart like a salutation of peace, for the question she had asked was one that sprang from a momentous episode in her past life-an event which was likely to influence strongly her

whole being, both in this world and in that which is to come, although it had occurred only in the secret and silent depths of her own innermost spirit.

CHAPTER III.

"I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

How an army of phantoms vast and wan,
Beleaguer the human soul."

THE circumstance in the life of Frances Amherst which had caused her to interrogate her father so strangely had taken place about three months previously. Near the Villa which was her home there stood an old Byzantine Church, where all the sacred rites of the orthodox Eastern Communion were regularly performed for the benefit of the Greek speaking population, scattered here and there among the adjacent villages. Frances was in the habit of attending the services there very frequently, as the English Chapel at Constantinople was at too great a distance to be available for the Amhersts every Sunday, although they made a point of accomplishing the journey on all the great Festivals, and on the first Sunday in the month.

This old Greek Church with its domed roof, its dark arches, and its 'Holy Doors" which hid the celebration of the "Sacred Mysteries" from profane eyes, had a great attraction for Frances, without its impairing in the slightest degree her perfect loyalty to her own Church of England. She understood the language sufficiently to follow with intelligent appreciation, the beautiful words of the ancient Liturgies, in which she could join for the most part as heartily as in the services of her English Prayer Book, and she liked the simple arrangements for the worshippers much better than the pews, or even the open seats she remembered in the churches of her childhood's days.

Very simple in truth was the accommodation provided for the poor Greek women on the one side, and their dark-eyed husbands and brothers on the other; only the worn stone pavement where they stood, and on which they prostrated themselves at certain parts of the service, and especially when the priest brought out the Sacred Elements from the inner Sanctuary: they knelt only on Trinity Sunday according to the rule of the Greek Church, but their peculiar mode of making the sign of the Cross was to them an act of the deepest devotion and

reverence.