a rather florid complexion, quite unlike the pale, delicate features of Aunt Abby; features now contracted by the acute suffering which had been her lot for forty years.

"I am much obliged to you, young ladies, for coming. How is your uncle, Edith?

"He is very well, I thank you, Mrs. Bascom."

"You need not speak so loud, child; I have not lost my hearing yet, though I am most a hundred years old. Think of that girls, most a hundred years old."

"You have had a long, weary pilgrimage, Mrs. Bas

com."

"Yes, it has been long, Mary, but not so weary. This world has been good enough for me. I have never wanted to leave it."

"You do not think, then, of a better country?"

66

'Why should I, child. I have not had trouble heaped on trouble, as Abby has. I never had a sorrow till Sarah's husband died, and then Bascom followed in a year or two, but he was getting too old to enjoy life; it was no sad thing to see him go. How is your uncle ?"

66 'Very well, as I said," I answered.

"Did I ask you that before? Well, you see I forget things very much; it makes me feel hateful, but I cannot help it. I am most a hundred years old. It's a good while to remember things. I have been a strong woman in my day. This three mile road was a little walk for me. I dare say you have been tired by it before now, young as you How are your father and mother, Mary?"

are.

Mary was very pale, but she answered quickly, "I hope they are very well-but they do not live here."

"No-sure enough; you see I forget about it. Abby can remember anything-Abby has had a great deal of

trouble too; but I am the oldest-I am almost a hundred years old."

"God has been good to you a long time, Mrs. Bascom."

Yes, and He will be good to me after I die. I know He will not condemn me. I have tried to do what was right all these long years. I have never committed any great sins, and I am sorry for my small ones. I have helped the poor, and kept a respectable, quiet family. God will be good to me always."

"For Christ's sake."

"That is what Abby always says; but I think He will not have it in His mind to put me with drunkards, and murderers, and blasphemers. No, I have been to church every Sunday for most a hundred years. He will remember that. He cannot punish such as I am. I am sorry I cannot go out now and spend an afternoon with your aunt and uncle, Edith, but you must tell them to come over here and see us― come early and stay all the evening. I hope they are well."

So the old lady talked and moaned, and often complained of her pains, and wished she could sleep as Abby did who had pain in the day-time, of course, with such an arm as hers; but she always slept at night. We gave her the medicines, and occasionally refreshments. About three in the morning I saw the door open gently, and "Aunt Abby" standing in it in her night dress. I went to her. She said in a slow manner :

"I came to see that you were warm, and I want you to go out and get a lunch, which you will find in the diningroom. I will stay by sister Bascom a little while. I cannot sleep."

She was holding the aching arm with the well one, and the

contraction of her countenance showed that she was suffering much from it.

We went out as she desired-for, unused to sitting up, we had both of us began to feel weary and sleepy.

"What a contrast in these two women, Mary, the Christian and the woman of the world. You don't know how I envied Aunt Abby last night, when she was so slowly and painfully repeating that beautiful psalm. What was her pain to her comfort and her consolation !"

66

I hope I shall see the dear old saint some day in heaven, if I am happy enough to get there. Just to think, Edith, that her flesh shall be fresher than a child's. What a life hers will be in heaven."

"Then you do not think that people will all be equally happy there?"

"They will all be perfectly happy there; but some will have greater capacity for happiness. It is like two persons going to a concert, where the music is very charming, and every one enjoys it as much as it is possible; but of these two, one has a totally uncultivated ear, and the other has learned by much study, and practice and observation, to appreciate every chord, and trill, and the most subtle of the harmonies; will their enjoyment be equal, even though both are there, and both hear it and love it?"

"I see, Mary. If old Mrs. Bascom does have sense enough left to feel her need of her Saviour, which now she will not acknowledge at all, and should at last reach heaven, she will not have a hundreth part of the bliss which we know awaits Aunt Abby. This attainment of greater happiness even in another world, I understand to be the effect also of sanctified knowledge. It will be found by those who studied here, that they might glorify God. Uncle Ernest always

says, 'all knowledge which we labour for here, must be im. perfect, because we being finite, apprehend it imperfectly; it will culminate in heaven in the broad light of eternal wisdom.' When I think of such things, when I see such people as Mrs. Bascom and Aunt Abby, I look upon myself with such distrust, I wonder at my own indifference to these things whose truth my intellect acknowledges. The impressions wear off soon, however, and I go on carelessly."

"God will not withdraw from you, my dear Edith, these convictions, which are, I trust, the work of His Holy Spirit, till your heart, as well as your intellect, believes."

We went back and released Aunt Abby from her watch beside the poor restless woman who had received only good from the hands of God for "most a hundred years," yet was blind to the source of these blessings, and who was depending now upon her moral life to find favour with Him, before whom we are all vile; "man that is a worm, and the son of man which is a worm." Poor soul!

She tossed and moaned, and talked much, and always of the good deeds she had done, and the kindliness which had marked her dealings with others. I shivered with horror at her situation, passing into eternity with no dependence upon Christ; poor, mistaken, unhappy soul

At the breakfast table on the following morning, I expressed my surprise that Aunt Abby had never married.

"She must have been a very pretty girl-she has such sweet eyes still, and her features are even now almost fine enough for a sculptor."

"Never married!" said Aunt Eleanor. "She was married when about your age, Edith, and has a daughter living still. She is the only child left of eight, many of whom died in

their infancy. This daughter has been one of the greatest sorrows poor Mrs. Gordon ever met with. She has always seemed quite destitute of filial feeling; she is much like her father, who was a hard, cruel man. She, too, had beauty, inheriting it from both parents. Aunt Abby' has not seen

her in more than twenty years."

"How long is it since her husband died?"

66

"I don't know that he is dead yet. He went away and left her entirely destitute of any means of living, nearly forty years ago, soon after her arm became so much affected and her voice began to fail her. It is just as well that he did leave her, for he used to abuse her shamefully. At first he brought home an abandoned woman, under the pretext of making her housekeeper; but when Mrs. Gordon said. she must leave the house, he said he would go too. She did not bid him to stay-and she has never seen him since. She has often heard from him during his career of crime. When Louisa was about eighteen, this cruel man wrote to her to come to him; so she left her poor home and her almost helpless mother, and lived for years with her profligate father. She is married now, and lives in New Orleans in great splendour, I hear. "

"What became of Mrs. Gordon? She has not been here for a great many years, only since Mr. Bascom's death.”

"No. She lived, however, with Mrs. Green in Boston, till she came up here; before that she had found a home with Mrs. Herrick, a beloved friend, who appreciated her, and thought it an honour to have her under her roof. I have heard Mrs. Herrick tell of her devotion to her children. She spent much of her time with the children, who all loved her dearly. She taught them all to read their Bibles, and to love their Bibles. Such instruction to her own