'My dear, we have no time for such feelings here, we are fearfully busy. Just let me show you your room, and then come down and help us, as I know you

can.

To-morrow we close at two—a pleasant change from eleven at Islington, Clara; and I want you to come home with me to Hampstead to see my mother and little sister Edna, they have often heard of you!' 'Nothing to my credit, I'm afraid, Anna. I was a wretch to you!'

'No, Clara, only a little thoughtless; and you don't suppose for a moment I ever told mother. She knew we were friends at school, and it would have worried her dreadfully if she thought we did not get on. She always considers you the best and kindest of friends; as, indeed, you have been! If it were not for you I should never have come to London.'

Clara hung her head in abashed silence, she could scarcely understand Anna's generosity and magnanimity, but Anna only remembered that poor Clara, who had been so proud and arbitrary, and ruled the whole house at Islington, had now to seek her living among strangers, and she tried to make it as easy for her as she could.

As the spring advanced business became more and more pressing at Brown and Bolton's. The girls had all to remain in a little later arranging their stock; Anna in her department was kept constantly busy, and Isabel in hers was on her feet all day, trying on mantles and having her measure taken for new ones, so that neither of the girls had time to see very much of Clara Chalfont. But, if only for an hour, Anna and Isabel found time to run round to the Recreation-room every evening. They couldn't bear the idea of any of the younger Members going there and finding no elder sister to receive them; and at last Clara Chalfont asked, more out of curiosity than interest, where they went to so regularly every evening, and where two of the girls that shared her room went with their work just as soon as they got away from business.

'Why, to our Recreation-room, of course!' Isabel replied. 'Don't you know anything about the G. F. S., Miss Chalfont?'

'No. What is it?'

'Come and see!' Anna cried. This is what we call amongst ourselves a "guest-night;" that is, every Member can invite a friend. Just come with us, Clara, and you will learn more about the Girls' Friendly Society in two hours than I could tell you in two months!'

Half unwillingly Clara accompanied the girls to Q. Street, and once inside the rooms she felt halfinclined to run away. It was warm, and bright, and cheery; there were fresh flowers before "the shrine;" books, magazines, chess-tables, and draught-boards lying about; pictures, brackets, illuminations, and a

pencil-drawing or two on the walls: altogether, it was as pleasant a room as a girl who had been cooped up in business all day could wish for; but curled up in a cosy arm-chair before the fire sat a girl whom Clara had been the means of driving from her father's shop in Islington under the cruellest circumstances. However, Kitty Baring did not bear malice-not a bit of it; she was only too heartily glad of the chance that sent her to Hanover Street and made her a Member of the G. F. S., and she greeted Clara cordially.

'This is better than our dreadful dining-room in Sidney Street, Miss Chalfont,' she said, heartily. 'I am so glad to see you here! I call the Recreationroom my home, and when the Lodge is opened I believe I'll work "outdoor," and live in it.'

After a time Clara expressed an earnest desire to join the Society, and Anna took her to Miss Howard. She would be able to judge whether the wish on Clara's part came from a desire to help or to be helped. However, she was admitted a Member, and on the very next night volunteered to give French lessons twice a-week to any of the girls who cared to learn: so that Anna at least was satisfied that Clara's thoughts and ideas had undergone a complete change. She was no longer proud, overbearing, and arrogant; and Mrs. Bently, who always welcomed her daughter's friends with motherly kindness, thought Clara Chalfont a quiet, unassuming girl, naturally a little subdued by the reverses that had overtaken her, but bearing them with Christian fortitude and meekness. Neither Anna nor Isabel undeceived her; but Edna, whose eyes were sharper, and whose thoughts were quicker, saw in Clara a girl trying hard to redeem an unpleasant past and make a better future.

When Mr. Ramsay heard that Clara was engaged at Brown and Bolton's, and that it was entirely through Anna that she secured the situation, he was surprised for a moment, but afterwards he admitted that it was just like the girl to sink her own prejudices in the interests of her employers, for every one knew Clara Chalfont was a thorough business woman. Not once nor twice had Clara reason to be grateful to the forewoman at Brown and Bolton's. Occasionally the old imperious, commanding spirit, would break out; and when complaints were carried to Anna she was always ready with the soft answer that turns away wrath, so that at the end of a month every one was ready to admit that Clara was 'a wonder to work, and not so bad when you came to know her.'

But it was Miss Howard that worked the great change in the proud, wilful, selfish girl; it was she who, by precept and example, taught Clara that the greatest pleasure in life is helping others; the second greatest, helping yourself. In the old days at Islington, Clara

had tried to be a 'lady' to the girls in her father's shop, but till she met Miss Howard she never knew how utterly and completely she had failed; the sweet graciousness, the tender thoughtfulness, the unconscious dignity, that saved the most familiar acts and words from being presumed upon, showed Clara, for the first time in her life, how shallow and empty were her pretensions. Miss Howard was always thoughtful and considerate for others, whatever their rank or position might be; Clara Chalfont, till she knew Miss Howard, had never been thoughtful or considerate for any human being in her life.

CHAPTER VIII.

IF girls in business read this story (as I hope they will) they will know what 'the season' means, and how little time girls have for anything; therefore I think the Members of St. Margaret's Branch deserve all the more credit for having stuck loyally to their Recreationroom all the spring. And when Easter Monday came they assembled in great force to see the box open and count the piano fund, for that was still the grand idea in all their minds. All the girls who had been present on Boxing Day were assembled on Easter Monday, with half-a-dozen more, and they all waited with breathless impatience to see the box open and count the contents. There had been about thirty-six girls attending the rooms since Christmas, and Anna fancied that on an average they would have put in one penny a-week, which would have made about two pounds eight shillings: what was her amazement to find seven pounds ten, and amongst the coins two half-sovereigns! No one would own to that large amount; but from Isabel's downcast look and Clara Chalfont's guilty colour most of the girls believed they were the delinquents!

'Seven pounds ten!' Anna cried. "Why, that's splendid in a little more than three months! As much more will nearly buy us the piano.'

At that moment Miss Howard entered the room, and the money was placed in her hands.

'Seven pounds ten saved from your earnings since Christmas, girls, to buy a piano!' she cried. 'Well, you have done well!'

'We're going to make a present of it to the new Lodge,' one member said, shyly. As the G. F. S. is doing so much for us, we want to do something too.'

'Girls,' said Miss Howard, earnestly, 'I have a piano in my own sitting-room that I will gladly sell you for seven pounds ten, the contents of this box. It is my very own, so that I can dispose of it how I like, and I am sure you will all enjoy it here. Your self-denial must have been great to enable you to save so much money in so short a time.'

The girls one and all declared that it only meant wearing a pair of gloves a month longer, or walking all the week instead of going in an omnibus, or wearing a collar or handkerchief a day extra, or, in fact, a score of trifles that mean pennies, and which when saved up mean pounds.

The very next evening Miss Howard's piano arrived from Berkeley Square, and every girl in turn wanted to try it, and then only Anna found out how many like herself had been taught music without ever having had an opportunity of cultivating their knowledge. Every evening there was some one who could sing, and some one else who could play the accompaniments; and the real enjoyment of the Q. Street Recreation-rooms never really commenced till Miss Howard so generously sold her own piano.

Not the least person who benefited by it was Edna Bently. The rooms were not far from Trinity College, and often after class she went in and practised for a couple of hours; and in return she would sometimes come down of an evening and sing for the girls, and then, indeed, they felt their piano had been a splendid investment.

The summer passed, the London season was over, and then came a change in Anna Bently's life. Mr. Ramsay, who had always been so kind, proposed to make Isabel Lacy his wife, and she left Brown and Bolton's sorrowfully-for she did not like being parted from her friend, gladly-because she knew that in her own home (which would not be far from Vine Cottage) she might give a helping hand to many a business girl, and tell her of the G. F. S. It would never seem the same place to Anna without Isabel; still, she could get Clara Chalfont the vacant place, and she did, much to her old friend's surprise, who declared that their places were indeed changed, and Anna had the best of it.

Edna had just secured a scholarship at Trinity College; the new G. F. S. Lodge was to be opened in August; there were two invalid members at Vine Cottage waiting for admission to the Home of Rest: so that amongst them all Anna had not much time for idleness, or to miss Isabel, especially as Clara, who now shared her room, threw herself heart and soul into the work, and was as far as possible to Anna what her true and tried friend Isabel Lacy had been. Indeed she is still; for the Lodge, the Home of Rest, the Recrea tion-rooms, are established facts, and Anna Bently and Clara Chalfont in business, and Isabel Ramsay out of it, are true friends, helping others, bearing one another's burdens,' and so fulfilling not only the law of their beloved Society, but the still higher and holier law of Christ.

(Concluded.)

CHAPTER I.-THE FIRST TIME.

ES, I can see it now; father was right after all. I could not see it at the time, I was blind, deaf, unreasonable; not so much because I could not, as that I would not see and hear. My heart rebelled against his judgment, knowing that it was wise all the time; yet, having been brought up in the habit of strict obedience, I accepted it, and acted accordingly. Thank God that I did so. Yes, without hypocrisy, to-night I can say 'Thank God.'

I am sitting on the turf-seat by the bee-hives in our garden; the bees have all come home from their day's harvest among the heather, even the latest is back; and the stir in the hives, which followed their home-coming, is dying away.

The sounds in the village are dying away also, and the light is leaving the sky. Only the sound of the burn in the hollow, and the sough of a breeze wandering over the heather; only a light in the window down there, and a star showing between the two tall fir-trees on the top of the hill-that is all now.

And I sit on the turf-seat in the soft gloaming, and watch that light in the window; that star, like a point of heaven's fire on the golden floor, and I seem to see clearly now how it has all been. Yes, I have looked down the precipice to-night, over which, but for my father's opposition, but for the guidance (hardly realised at the time) of a Father in heaven, I had sc nearly been dragged; and I shudder to think of what might have been, aye, of what so nearly was.

Most of the folks hereabouts know my story, and my name will be on many a gossip's lip to-nightlittle doubt of that.

Well, let them talk, it can do no harm now.

How the visions rise! How the scenes of my poor little love-story paint themselves out there in the dimness, where that candle is shining, and that star beams up above—a flickering candle, a steadfast star. Aye, so they say it is with the earthly and the heavenly love. And yet I thought once his love would have been as steadfast as the star itself!

'He that loveth aught on earth more than Me is not worthy of Me.' Aye, Lord, and yet Thou knowest how hard it is when one is called on to choose !

Good, indeed, is it for those with whom the claims do not conflict; where the earthly love and the heavenly can go hand in hand. Such was not my lot. Thank God who guided my hand in my miserable blindness when the time came, and led me to take the right lot. To regret the other seemed

hard indeed for me then. Yet what, after all, was his love? Little, indeed, even in comparison with the earthly reality, let alone with the heavenly. He never loved me as I did him, or things would have turned out very differently--I can see it now.

I remember so well the first time I saw Dick. It was one summer's evening, when I was standing in the doorway of my father's forge; for my father, Daniel Kindred (as folks hereaways all know), is a blacksmith and farrier, and carries on a thriving business. No one in this country-side can shoe a horse like father; therefore they come to Rowansgill for their horse-shoeing from miles around.

Our forge is the last house in the village. Folks who have not been there before may know it well enough, even before they come nigh-hand, by the two biggest rowan-trees in the village, which stand, whiteclustered in spring, red-berried in autumn, by our gable-end. They may know it too (as father likes to boast) by the horse which is almost always, during work hours, waiting at the door for his turn to be shod.

There was a horse in the smithy that evening, though none was waiting outside. I had come to tell father that his supper was ready, and I was standing there, leaning against the doorway, waiting till he should have struck in the last nail, thinking that surely no more customers would arrive that evening. I had my knitting in my hand (I was knitting a sock for father), and my needles went clicket! clicket! all the time, as I watched the sparks fly merrily upward from the red-hot iron.

The shadows were gathering in the corners of the smithy; the light of the forge-fire shone scarlet against the darkness behind. Father and the horse which he was shoeing (it was a grey one, I mind that) stood out distinctly against the light.

Outside, it was not to call dark, though it was getting on for half-past nine. getting on for half-past nine. We were just in the first days of July, and it never gets beyond twilight at that time of year. The sky was still full of delicate lights; the hills rested their dark brows softly against it; the fir-trees, on the hill opposite, looked as though they were painted upon the sky. You could see the red colour of their rough old trunks where the light fell brightest; but as for their foliage, you could hardly have told whether it were blue, green, or purple, so dark and dim and softlooking was it, as it lay (so to say) against the sky.

Just then it was that horse's steps came quickly down the village, the hoofs sounding three firm beats and a hollow one; by that I knew at once that the creature had lost a shoe and was coming to be shod.

At that time of night, and supper waiting! It was in no welcoming mood, you may be sure, that I looked out to see who it was.

I knew the horse-it was Farmer Robson's, a brown one with a white star on the forehead, and one white hoof-but the rider I did not know. Yes, sure enough they were coming to our smithy; the horse stopped before the door, and the rider flung himself off and came and stood within the red circle of light where I stood myself. I can see him now, just as he looked then, with the glow upon him-tall and slender, dark and handsome, with those bright brown eyes which could look so soft, and the full red mouth which (though I did not perceive it then) could never have had any determination in it.

Aye, Dick Nicholson was a handsome fellow at that time; so every one said. I was not the only one to think so.

He looked at me, and I looked at him, as we stood there in the red light.

Says he, 'This is Kindred's forge, isn't it, mistress?' Says I, 'It is; but it's late for shoeing to-night.' Father looked up. 'You're wanting a horse shod, my man?' he asked, and I could see by the look in his face that he was not best pleased; he was tired with a long day's work, and wanted his supper, as was but natural.

'Yes,' said Dick. It's Mr. Robson's horse; it cast a shoe coming back from the hay-field to-night, and he wants it to ride into Penrith market to-morrow; so it's to be shod at once, if you please.'

'Well, I don't know,' answered father shortly; 'I don't know as I can to-night.' He hit a few blows on the ringing iron, and then went on: 'I don't want to disoblige Matt Robson, I'm sure; but I'm wellnigh dead-beat to-night. I've just more work at present than one pair of hands can get through, and that's the truth!'

The new-comer seemed to reflect a moment. 'Look here, Mister,' he said presently; if you've a second set of tools, and will allow me to use your anvil, I'll set on the shoe myself. I've served my time to the trade.'

Father looked up at him upon this, and then nodded his head. Do so, and welcome,' he said; 'the lass there 'll show you the gear. Nan, you know where the things are.'

Thereupon I got him the tools; the forge was blown into fresh heat, the sparks flew merrily, and

soon there were two hammers striking on the iron, and raising a very babel of ringing blows.

Tap-a-tap! Tap-a-tap! Ting-Ting! Thus goes the music of the forge.

I stood by, the while, listening and looking. Looking at the figures as they moved about in the glow, watching the workmanlike manner in which the handsome stranger did his business.

After father had finished, he watched him too; and when, in less time than I could have believed it possible, Farmer Robson's horse was shod, father came forward, and brought his big, broad hand with a sounding clap on to the stranger lad's shoulder. "Thou's a good hand at thy trade, lad,' he said heartily; 'thou canst tell folks Dan Kindred said so.'

The other looked pleased, but said nothing; only, as he leaped on to the horse's back and gathered up the reins in his hand, he took a long look at us as we stood watching him in the now paling light of the forge-fire. And long after his horse's hoofs (each iron-shod this time) had carried him out of sight, I seemed to feel the flush which the parting gaze of those bright brown eyes had called up in my face. Yes, that was the first time I saw Dick Nicholson. (To be continued.)

Emigration Lotices.

By HON. MRS. JOYCE, St. John's Croft, Winchester. HE next protected G. F. S. party for Canada will leave Liverpool on August 16th, in the Parisian, under the charge of the Rev. A. G. Joyce and Mrs. Knight, the matron who took out the party in the Sarmatian. Mrs. Joyce will accompany the travellers, and hopes to see most of these young women in their new homes. She will take for any girls who have gone out with G. F. S. parties small parcels, not to exceed one foot long and four inches deep. Photographs or pictures of the mother-country are much valued, and keep up old home ties. These parcels must be sent to Winchester, carriage paid, very plainly directed, before August 4th.

The Natal party going in the Tartar will leave Southampton on July 31st, under a matron. The next party for that colony will start the end of October. Archdeacon Barker and Mrs. Barker are taking great interest in our emigrants, and have sent home names of ladies who will befriend them in different parts.

After August 4th all letters about Emigration are to be addressed to the G. F. S. Central Office, 3 Victoria Mansions, 'G. F. S. Emigration' to be marked on the covers. Arrangements are made for every part of the work to be carried on during the absence of the Correspondent for Emigration, but Associates are warned that it is not desirable for persons to arrive in southern latitudes just as the hottest weather is beginning.