"Dear Allan, I love you," she said, blushing to the brow as she made the avowal.

"My darling!" he exclaimed, rapturously, pressing his lips to hers, for, though he knew it before, the confession was sweet to him. "Allan knows how to appreciate a love like yours. I have seen too much of heartless coquetry and mercenary matrimonial speculations not to value the pure and guileless heart you have given me. You may not find in Dion Devereux the hero you imagine, but I promise you will find Allan Power a loving and devoted husband."

Soon these were seated side by side on the sofa exchanging confidences, but Allan had most of the talk to himself, for Molly was still too bewildered with the sense of unexpected happiness to say much. But by degrees, with tender words and soft endearments, he won her from her shy reserve, and she opened her mind to him frankly and freely as he did to her. He found that he had never known her thoroughly till now, and was more enchanted than ever with her sweet simplicity of character, united with so much good

After a series of questions and explanations which lovers delight to prolong, he said, "Did you wonder why I never came to see you all this time when I was in town? Did you think me unkind, dear?"

"No," said Molly. "I never imagined I had any claim on your attention; why should I?"

"You had no suspicion that I cared for you?"

"Not the least till-last night."

"You did begin to understand when I told yon who I was?" "I did, but it was only a vague hope, soon to be crashed as an absurd presumption."

"The presumption was on my part," replied Allan, fondly stroking her hair. "Bad authors like me are as plentiful as blackberries in September, but where could I find a wife like you?"

66

"Allan," said Molly, with a smile and a blush, drawing her lover's hand gently down from her hair, and holding it in both her own, "I will not hear my favourite depreciated, and I beg yon will not throw out any more unkind insinuations about him. He is not a whit less a hero to me because he has honoured me with his affection."

And with a charming mixture of playfulness and tenderness she bent her graceful head over his hand and kissed it. "There now, I have done homage to my king; I am bound to defend him hence. fortb." All this was delightful to Power, and he wondered why he had denied himself this joy so long when he might have entered into it sooner. But his bliss was not altogether without alloy; it

seldom is with any of us. His honesty would not permit him to accept this kind adoration without a protest; though he had already made a general confession of unworthiness, which might mean little or much according to the ideas of the person addressed -he felt bound to say something more to relieve his conscience.

"But if your king was not up to your ideal, if you learned that he had not always been true to his high calling, that he had sometimes forgotten his duty, that he had used his prerogative for unworthy ends would you still hold to your allegiance ? "

"I would never be so unreasonable as to expect perfection at any time; and whatever I might hear of the past would not shake my confidence in the future."

He drew a deep breath and tightened his clasp round her waist, as he murmured, "You shall not be disappointed; regrets for the past are useless now, but the future is ours."

Yet the regrets pursued him unbidden and still pursue him. The love and admiration of a wife, however sweet and acceptable, could not always silence the reproaches of an awakened conscience, and though Allan's union with Molly was crowned with all the happiness which mutual affection born of deep sympathy brings, he had moments in which past memories intruded themselves like hydra-head monsters which would not be driven away. The Nemesis of wrong-doing, though it comes not always in a tangible form, is not the less inevitable and inexorable.

"THE OPEN EYE AND EAR."

FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE.

"And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus."-PHILIPPIANS VI. 7.

HAVE you ever passed a fine spring morning amid the new-born beauties of nature? When, at such a time you have been wandering in the shade of peaceful groves, through the canopy of which the rosy waves of sunlight broke; when the soft breath of morn was wafted across the landscape, and the little flowerets shivered, and the dew on the leaflets glittered; the cascade leaping from the cliff, the broad river flowing in its bed, the forest still bare sending forth its solemn murmurs, while high above and deep below the air resounded with the trill of birds and the buzz of insects-oh,

what were your feelings? Did not a sense of irrepressible delight flash through your bosom? You drew a deep breath; your body seemed etherealised. You felt as if you must join your voice to the voices of the air! You longed for the wings of the dewy morning, to soar up high into the empyrean, or to lose yourself in the dim blue haze, that veiled the unknown distance! You longed to

pour

love over all about you !

out your Did you ever take your rest on the top of a mountain, whence you beheld a broad landscape, with its fields and cottages spread in silent repose before your eyes? In your bosom, also, perfect peace resided? You forgot your cares; no sorrow weighed upon your spirits, no unpleasant remembrance disturbed the calm, no intruding passion dared to break the holy peace of your soul, and a voice within whispered, "Blessed should I be, could I remain for ever thus!" What you then felt was a fleeting foretaste of heaven, which sometimes, even passionate, unquiet spirits are permitted to enjoy, in order that they may look into themselves, and earnestly ponder how this tranquil, blessed state may be perpetuated. You were happy, because you had forgotten yourself, because you were free from mere earthly desires. But the true disciple of Christ needs not to forget himself in order to be cheerful in the depths of his heart. On the contrary, it is when he examines his inward being, and his relations to the great Father of life, that he feels most happy. The present may have its storms, but the future still smiles brightly for him. Whether he be of high or lowly birth, rich or poor, praised or blamed, it is all the same; for the source of his happiness is not in the outward world, but within himself.

He is with God, and God is with him. And "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God; " they shall see Him hereeven now—as a foretaste of the higher bliss of heaven.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

THE Editor of the CHRISTIAN WORLD MAGAZINE begs respectfully to intimate to voluntary contributors that she will not hold herself responsible for MSS. sent on approval. Unaccepted MSS. of any great length will be returned, provided the name and address of the owner is written on the first or last page, and provided also that the necessary stamps are enclosed for transmission through the post. Authors are recommended to keep copies of verses, short essays, and minor articles generally, since they cannot, under any circumstances, be returned. Miscellaneous contributions are not requested.

THE

CHRISTIAN WORLD MAGAZINE.

FEBRUARY, 1883.

MIDWAY ON LIFE'S JOURNEY.

BY BEATRICE BRISTOWE,

Author of "Clarissa's Tangled Web,"" Unforgotten," &c.

CHAPTER IV.-CONFESSIONS OF A STORY-WRITER.

FOUR days after that sunshiny day and moonlight night, on a morning as different in aspect as well might be, for the skies were leaden and the rain was falling fast, the postman stepped within the arched porch of Fir-tree Cottage, and delivered a letter which Miss Braden knew at a glance was from her friend Miriam.

Her heart beat a little as she opened the envelope and drew forth the sheets, for although she scarcely doubted her friend's compliance with her request, there was a certain excitement in the consciousness that her secret, so long and jealously guarded, was no longer wholly her own; some fear of a jar and discord through words of sympathy, though ever so kindly meant and delicately spoken. It was thus the letter ran—

"Alma Villa, Netherbridge, July 28th, 18-.

"MY VERY DEAR AGNES,-Many and warm thanks for your last letter. I thank you sincerely for the earlier part; for the kindly nterest you take in my little successes and plans, but more, much more, for all that followed.

"You will allow me just to say that I read with true, loving sympathy, and that I value, more than I can well express, this proof of fullest confidence. And that I may be tempted to say no more, I will begin at once to answer your inquiries, though I cannot help

some feeling of unsuitability. As, however, it is by your own request, the selfishness of turning so immediately to my own concerns is, I suppose, rather apparent than real.

"And yet I will not promise that once fairly launched upon this topic, egotism may not take the helm, and you may not find me enlarging beyond due measure. That is a mixed metaphor, I'm afraid; but, there,-it must pass. I used to take pains with my letters, but nowadays careful composition can only be afforded at so much per printed page.

"You ask, first of all, what made me think of literary work as a serious employment. Necessity, dear Agnes, or something akin to

it.

I fancied you knew enough of my affairs to suspect that. No delusion on my own part that I was a genius or had a 'vocation,' set me to work; but the delusion entertained in certain quarters, that a deficit was a surplus, with the necessary result of such a fallacy. When the crash came, in the uncertainty, it seemed quite possible that the problem presently to be solved by all of us would be 'How to live on nothing per annum ?' and, of course, the question arose: In such a contingency what was to be done? For myself; I could not dig-and to dig might stand for a great many things I could do about as well-nor was begging much to my mind: what could I do?

"I had contributed occasionally some brief story or sketch to a magazine for the little ones, and had advised 'British Workwomen' how to bring up their children and manage their houses, for, of course, as an old maid and a non-housekeeper, I felt myself peculiarly capable of giving instruction on such matters; but this had been only by the way, filling in hours of leisure, an occupation laid aside for almost any other claim upon my time. Rather strangely, just when I was pondering the question: What could I do? there came from an editor, to whom a brief story (this not for children) had been sent months before, a letter accepting, and adding words of encouragement to further and more sustained efforts. Set up as a writer of serial stories! The idea was perfectly bewildering by its novelty and oddness. I, writing a novel ! Well, I could but try; after all, I could handle a pen with rather better effect than a spade. I could but try, and try I would.

"So I sat down that very evening and began, and week after week, month after month, worked on; progressing slowly amid interruptions multitudinous and multiform; sometimes in hope, saying to myself, this is not bad;' sometimes in despondence, thinking, no one will ever care to read this;' until at last the final word was written, and the heavy parcel posted. Ob, the relief of it! the task quite ended; a relief, at first, independent of result. Not for long: soon anxiety would creep in, the fear that