Ill news flies apace. The peal of joyful bells, the notes of music, the bustle of preparation, all were quickly silent; and a kind of funeral pall spread over the once happy Sunnydale. Many an eye was wet with tears; many a heart ached with sorrow; every cottage blind was reverently drawn down; for instead of the house of feasting there was the house of mourning; instead of life had come death!

CHAPTER XX.

IT WAS A PEACE WITH WHICH THE WORLD INTERMEDDLES NOT.

WHEN the first shock was over, and Leonard felt able to listen with some degree of calmness, the particulars of Colonel Fothergill's death were related to him by Michael, the old servant, who had been in the family for nearly half a century.

It appeared that, during the last few months, a change had taken place in the colonel's health. But he was not aware of the serious nature of the symptoms until a physician on board the vessel told him that such was the case.

The fact had been disclosed to him with the utmost caution; but the colonel had not appeared to be greatly affected by the intelligence. He was as cheerful as usual, when he came from the cabin where the consultation had been held. But whenever the arrival at home was afterwards alluded to, he would speak with less confidence; and there was a touch of sadness in his manner, as he added,—

"If I live, Michael; if I live to see them again!"

"I had no idea, sir," continued Michael, after a pause,—“I had no idea of what was coming, or that the end was so near. He had been reading most of the day, and had been writing in his note-book. We expected to land the next morning. When I bade him 'Good-night,' he said (I shall never

I shall sleep in peace-perfect peace.' Those were the last words he spoke; and then he turned on his pillow, and I left him."

It was a form of expression unlike his father. The thought forced itself into Leonard's mind. Colonel Fothergill had been a man of genial temperament, with a keen relish for every kind of enjoyment. Leonard had been taught by inward experience, that the peace, to which he felt his father had referred, was distinct from all the joys of earth, even the purest. It was a peace which the world can neither give nor take away, -a joy with which the world intermeddles not.

The subject of religion had rarely been discussed between himself and his father. Allusions to it had been vague and cursory. The colonel had been regular in his attendance at church. "A regard to religious observances," he would say, "tends to promote order and respectability, and is in itself a kind of discipline." But beyond this, he had never expressed an opinion, and, indeed, had sought none. In Leonard's present mood, he found himself weighing words and actions in a different balance. "Perfect peace!" an expression which he would little have regarded in days gone by, fell on his ear with a sweet and solemn sound. To die in possession of that peace would indeed be blessed! The knowledge that such had been the case, seemed, even now, to tip the edge of the cloud with a silver radiance.

"From this side the gulf," thought Leonard, "no relief can come. He is not. His vacant place will ever be unoccupiedhis voice ever be hushed. It is only from yonder side of the cold flood that hope can reach us. There we may meet again, in a land of unbroken peace beyond the grave!”

A trembling anxiety took possession of his heart. He wished to look upon the last record of a life, the slightest memory of which would be cherished with tenacious affection. The act would be a painful one. He scarcely knew how he could enter

the room where the treasured possessions, now brought home, had been placed. The sight of them would bring blinding tears. It would be like sacrilege to open that closed volume and look therein.

But a secret impulse urged him forward. He entered the room with hushed

footsteps, and a beating heart. He opened the portmanteau with a gush of wild

sorrow.

Each object that met his view was familiar from his boyhood. The watch his father had worn-his ring-his books, with his name written in them-his Bible. The sight of these things wrung Leonard's heart. It was as if the mute voiceless objects spoke to him, and repeated with mocking cadence, "He is gone! for ever gone!"

Leonard sat down, and struggled to regain composure. He thought he must have abandoned a search so fraught with bitter regret. But, after a time, he persevered.

There lay the note-book: he took it up reverently, and still with blinding tears. This was what he came to seek. He opened it with a desire to find in its pages some reference to the difficulties that beset his own path, some record of kindred experience. Blessed, indeed, would be a discovery like this!

In the quiet of the chamber, he sat down to read. It might be the very crisis of his soul's history. The words, though traced by a human pen, might be as the voice of the living God!

CHAPTER XXI.

THE COLONEL'S NOTE-BOOK.

THE note-book, or diary, which Leonard held in his hand, was a well-known and familiar object.

Its contents were not of a strictly private character. The colonel had been wont to read aloud, from its pages, many a little episode, which he thought would interest his family. Leonard could call to mind many such readings; and as his eye glanced

tions of scenes and characters which he had heard from the lips of him who was gone. These memories, once associated with all that was joyful and endearing to the home circle, now pained him beyond measure. He passed hastily on, as if anxious to turn his thoughts in a direction less fraught with regret and sorrow.

He did not, all at once, come upon the allusions for which he was seeking. Whatever might have transpired in the colonel's mind, he had given no outward sign or note. Yet, as Leonard advanced, he could perceive that a secret influence was beginning to work. There was a serious turn in the remarks jotted down, unlike what had gone before. And then, the subject of religion began to form the matter of these private jottings. Sermons were alluded to, as having made an impression on his mind; and conversations had taken place with men of those strictly pious views which had once been treated with indifference, if not contempt.

Leonard read, with interest, that, at first, these impressions were resisted. But this was not for long. It was useless to kick against the pricks.

"I took my Bible," said the record, "from its hiding place. I felt I must obtain relief from the anxiety that possessed

me.

When I put away my book, it was with the resolve that I would carefully study the Scriptures. The impulse that was leading me to do so, I can scarcely describe. It must have been of a supernatural character, for my thoughts had never been turned in this direction before."

Every word of the paragraph woke an echo in the young man's heart. The impulse here mentioned, with its mysterious leadings, was not unknown to him. He had passed through a similar experience; nay, he was passing through it still.

With trembling eagerness, he continued his perusal.

Gradually, a new light dawned upon me. I began to pray with earnestness.

up from childhood. How different was this heartfelt cry for mercy! That was a blessed moment when faith received, as with open hand, the promise of pardon and of reconciliation. All the happiness I had ever experienced shrank into insignificance by the side of the peace I now enjoyed,— a peace which may truly be said to 'pass all understanding.'"

The next entry was made on his homeward voyage; and here an account was given of the interview with the medical man spoken of by Michael.

"There is a physician on board the vessel, and I have taken the opportunity of consulting him. I am not ill, but certain symptoms have appeared within the last few months. They are trifling, but the man who is returning to wife and child holds his life. valuable. We were in the cabin when I laid my case before him. I am quick at detecting signals: the language of the eye, or the inflection of the voice, cannot easily escape me. I could see that he looked like one who has ill news to communicate, and scarce knows how to do it. I waited in some anxiety for his report. Still he hesitated. I knew afterwards why he did so. His kind heart was touched at the remembrance of those dear ones, and that home of which he has heard me speak so often, and with such affection. When, at length, he broke silence, it was reluctantly, and with the utmost caution. But I could not fail to understand him. It was a case more serious than I had supposed. I am, in fact, a dying man. And death may claim me suddenly, and without a moment's warning.

"Did the tidings stagger me? Was I alarmed or perplexed? I am a man of cool nerve, and have faced danger many a time. But when home and all the joys of domestic life await me, it seems hard to die. I must test to the utmost the principles on which rest my hopes. Will they sustain me in this trying moment? I thank God, they will. The peace within is not affected by what I have heard. It has its origin in a higher source than earth can yield, and it still flows

deep and calm. Of religion as associated with man's utmost needs and dangers, we may truly say, 'it is enough!""

The next entry was the last. He had written it the evening before he died.

"If I am spared to reach my home, and the voyage is all but ended, I will tell them what God has done for my soul. I will use my influence with my son, that when I am gone, he may carry out my plans and wishes, and may devote himself to the cause so near my heart. Now let me rest. To-morrow I may see the white cliffs of our native land. Tomorrow I may be united to those I love. Thank God for the gift of peace! peace-perfect peace."

His

With these words the diary closed. The morrow never came !

CHAPTER XXII.

LEONARD TRIES TO ADMINISTER CONSOLATION.

THE spring evening had stolen imperceptibly on while Leonard had been reading. The sun had gone down in gold and purple clouds, and threw a parting radiance over the deserted gardens, the lawns, and the shrubberies of Sunnydale. Leonard stood gazing at its parting beams.

"So sinks," thought he, "a good man to his rest! As surely as yonder sun will rise again to-morrow, so surely will he whom I lament come forth and shine in the kingdom of his Father."

Happy and consoling thought, born only of religion! What but a Divine power can say to the sufferer, in this grief-stained world, "Weep not"?

Leonard's tears had ceased to flow. He felt calmed and soothed, and a resolve woke within him which might affect his future life. He would carry out, God helping him, his father's plans and wishes. The time for indecision had gone by. Doubt, unbelief, the cavils of modern thinkers, the hindrances he had found so invincible, appeared to lose their hold on his mind and judgment. No human system of teaching, however specious,

could afford any good commensurate with this, the Christian's hope. Here was something tangible, and on which his feet might rest, as on the Rock of ages.

He had endeavoured, though without success, to administer consolation to his mother and his sister. On his way to the chamber in which he had found his father's diary, he had passed the room they occupied, and he had heard, as he did so, a stifled sob. Now he retraced his steps, desiring to comfort them with the solace he had himself received-to share with them the soothing hope which had robbed death of its sting.

He found his mother sitting, as he had left her some hours ago, in an attitude of blank dejection. Agnes was slowly pacing up and down, her hands clasped behind her. They glanced at him, but neither of them spoke.

Leonard sat down by his mother, and took her hand affectionately. He tried to rouse her from the apathy into which she had fallen. He told her of the record penned by his father, every word of which, he said, was calculated to dry their tears. He dwelt on the happy end of him who was gone-of the peace that had possessed his mind. And then Leonard spoke, as he had never done before, of the consolations of religion, and the light it casts over the gloomy valley. Mrs. Fothergill listened with interest, but Leonard failed to waken in her breast the

"You shall, dear Agnes, you shall!” replied Leonard. And he began to hope that the words, which had sunk so deeply into his own heart, might affect hers also; that they, who had seemed to tread each a separate path, might be united in the bond of Christian fellowship; that with one heart and one mind, the bereaved family might choose the things that alone could make for their peace.

He had never seen his sister so affected before. When he gave her the book, she kissed it affectionately, and retired to read it, as he had done.

Not for some days did she return it—not until the last sad rites had been performed, and dust rendered unto dust-ashes to ashes. On the evening of this eventful day, she brought it to him. She was very pale, her eyes looked wan and sleepless, and her hand trembled. Again she kissed the book, as she gave it back. But though he waited for her to speak, she said not a word.

OHN SELDEN was the most erudite of Englishmen; possessed much antiquarian, historical, and legal knowledge; was master of many languages, and author of works which had filled Europe with his fame; and was possessor of a library of 8,000 volumes. When he lay dying, he said to Archbishop Usher:-"I have surveyed most of the learning that is among the sons of men, and my study is filled with books and manuscripts on various subjects; but at present I cannot recollect any passage out of all

my books and papers whereon I can rest my soul, save this from the sacred Scriptures:"The grace of God that bringeth salvation hath appeared to all men, teaching us that, denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present world; looking for that blessed hope, and the glorious appearing of the great God and our Saviour Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for us, that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto Himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works.'"