To Mary these labours of love returned a rich reward into her own breast. They helped her to bear patiently, even cheerfully, the great sorrow of her life. Her constant interest in the welfare of others prevented even that sorrow from corroding her temper or making life miserable to her; and she daily trod the path of activity and usefulness, if without the motive of seeking her own happiness, yet with the richest result to her character and progress in all that is good.

About this time the Days suddenly left Newburn to reside in one of our larger towns. A more lucrative post being vacant than the one Mr. Day had filled among us, he became a candidate, and succeeded in obtaining the appointment. We were all very sorry to lose them. Mrs. Day's bright face and cheering words, tempered though they were by a great sorrow, were sadly missed by Mary, who was, as I have said, her especial favourite. Her husband had been little seen by any of us after Allie's death. He never appeared to leave the shadow of his grief, and we all thought he desired a change, that he might quit the place that ever reminded him of his loss.

So they went, and left little Allie quietly sleeping in Newburn Church-yard, with the daisied grass growing thickly over her grave, yet "in sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection," through Him, who hath said, "Of such is the kingdom of Heaven."

CHAPTER XXI.

MORE CHANGES AT FAIRFIELD.

Good men have said

That sometimes God leaves sinners to their sin,-
He has left me to mine, and I am changed;
My worst part is insurgent, and my will
Is weak and powerless as a trembling king
When millions rise up hungry.

ALEXANDER SMITH.

T is with a trembling heart that I attempt to narrate

the events that occurred during the remainder of the five years over which I am hastily leading my reader

Fairfield, the scene of many joys, and of many sorrows, the home of brightest promise, the grave of buried hopes, was destined to witness yet deeper woe, and to hide within its walls more terrible degradation than it had ever known. The dark shadow that had so long rested upon it, with few and transient intervals, once more began to gather blackness; and its gloom was but too plainly reflected in the fair face of the young wife who had thoughtlessly entrusted her happiness to the keeping of its master.

It was not a little thing that would shake Ellen's faith in the goodness of her husband. Indulgent to her, and generous to all dependent upon him, Frank Hamer was regarded by some, who could not be blind to the fact that he was returning once again to the slavery of his besetting sin, more as an object of pity than of blame. And Ellen shared this feeling when the truth at length stared her in the face that her husband was often intoxicated. Unaccustomed to regard the vice with the horror with which Mary looked upon it, she sought to excuse him when she was obliged to admit that he had "exceeded proper bounds." He was "far from well, and very little wine overcame him;" or he was 66 nervous and could not bring his mind to its usual tone without extra stimulant." "He has had great sorrows, poor Frank," she would plead. "He has never got over the loss of his mother, I know; and then that sad affair of the little girl who was thrown by that spirited horse of his, (such was the version she had heard,) I don't wonder that he sometimes tries to drown his thoughts."

For a time the trusting wife really tried to quiet her own peace by these excuses; and even when she began to feel their utter hollowness, she continued to plead them in her husband's defence to those whose forbearance she would bespeak.

But to Mary, whom she had come to love and trust with all the ardour of her nature, she at length, with

many tears, poured out her bitter grief and disappointment.

"I never knew he had been guilty of excess, dear Mary, when I was away at school. It seems as if everyone had conspired to keep this from me. But he actually told me himself, the other day, when he was not sober, that he was what you called a drunkard long ago. He mentions you, Mary, in such a strange way, when he's not himself. He never speaks of you at any other time."

Mary felt as though her heart must die within her when Ellen, in her artless grief, told her all this. She seemed to herself, for the moment, like a guilty creature, who had avoided a dreadful doom only to bring it upon another. Once more she asked herself-Is there anything I can do to lessen the evil? To arrest him in his downward course? But there was no hopeful response. Had she not exhausted all her efforts long ago? Could she not at least help poor Ellen to endure the lot that had fallen to her? Yet she might only aggravate the evil if Frank became aware of the confidence his wife had reposed in her. But Ellen was sanguine as to the effect Mary's expostulation might have upon him if she would but try it. And at the poor girl's entreaty she consented to do what she had formerly shrunk from as a work that could never be hers. Yes, as a friend, as the friend of his wife, she might plead with him, she might sound the truth in his ears, and

urge him to take the path of safety; she might use arguments and entreaties which in her former relation to him she could never have enforced. And she would do this. Painful as the effort might be, it should be made; and she consoled Ellen with the promise that she would use all the power she had, to induce Frank to give up the habit which threatened to bring utter misery upon himself and family. For there was now another to suffer from his sin-a fair-haired little boy of twelve months, who, Mary had vainly hoped, would be a mighty barrier in the evil way his father was prone to follow.

“When little Franky can amuse his father," she said, "when he can prattle and play about his knee, don't you think, dear Ellen, he will be a great preventative in the way of this distressing habit?" She was thinking of Frank's fondness for little Allie Day, and how Mrs. Hamer had hoped from the power of a little child.

“I don't know, Mary. He has never appeared very fond of baby, and as it gets more noticing and playful, I think he sometimes even shrinks from it, bonny and winning as it is. He loved that little girl very much, I'm told. It was a dreadful thing that her death should have happened as it did. I often think he can't bear to be reminded of her by his own little one, for more than once he has suddenly thrust the dear little fellow away, and rushed from the room as though some horrible remembrance haunted him."