Vicarage; and the letters which Mr. Clareton received from time to time, from his young friend, Mr. Philip Henry, and from Mr. Howe, and Dr. Manton, and other beloved friends in London, confirmed his fears, and told him that he would do well to be prepared for the days of darkness.

But just at that time his attention and that of his household were drawn away from the threatening aspect of the future, to the present sorrows which had come down upon their beloved friends at Cleveden Rectory. Mr. Harley's eldest daughter had been seized with a sudden and dangerous illness, and she lay at the point of death. The first medical skill in the county had been sought, and all that watchfulness and care, and the most tender nursing could do, had been done, but all was of no avail. The time was come when Marcella must die. With breaking hearts her parents and her sister said to one another, that of all their little party, no one was more prepared to go. She had excited in them, from her childhood, a peculiar affection and a most tender interest. They would scarcely have supposed it possible, had they not known her, that any one could be at the same time so free from sin, and yet so fearful of sinning; so exquisitely sensitive to the slightest imperfection in herself, so closely watchful over her every word and action, and yet so severe in the judgment she passed upon herself. Her sense of her own unworthiness, her deep lowliness and poverty of spirit, would have been even painful to those around her, had there not been a lovely gentleness about her, a sweetness of disposition, and an affectionate clinging to those who loved her, which gave an inexpressible charm to her character. Persis, who was her dearest friend, often likened her to some delicate and exotic convolvolus, which only raises itself from the ground when it can clasp its slight tendrils round some stronger plant-so

fragile, that one rude touch might crush its silken petals, or break its slender stalk. Marcella had sought such support, especially from Persis. The strength of her friend's mind had insensibly drawn Marcella towards her, and no one, not even her own parents or sister, had entered so entirely into her feelings, and obtained so clear an insight into the peculiarities of her character. The fine perceptions and calm sound sense of Persis had made her of great use to the sensitive girl; and Persis had used her influence in gently leading her not to lean upon her friend, or any earthly stay, but upon Him whose strength is made perfect in the very weakness of his creatures. It was, however, when on the borders of the grave, that Marcella was enabled, for the first time, to evidence that strong and realising faith which gives to the pilgrim on earth a foretaste of the happiness of heaven. At her repeated request, her anxious parents and her sister had left her for awhile to seek rest, and Persis alone was sitting by her bed-side. It was the night before she died, but they knew not that her time was so short. "Yes, my Persis, I see it all now," she said ; "I see that I am His, and He is mine. You thought, perhaps, that I had been sleeping,-no, I have only been lying in the stillness of such peace as I never knew till now; and, Persis, I have been thinking, as I lay in the darkness, that my life has been in one sense like a night-not a dark night, not darker than this soft sweet summer night, which is rather one long twilight, than a black deep, fearful darkness; but even that soft gloom is passing away. I have been watching for the morning light, and it has come; it breaks upon me, just like the light of dawning day, that clear and beautiful light which had spread over the sky. Look, Persis, look!—the night no longer hangs like a heavy curtain before the casement: it is all light now! it grows brighter

and brighter. But there is a clearer, brighter light in my heart. The darkness is past there, and the true light now shineth. Is not my divine Redeemer 'the light of life?' 'Does He not arise as the sun with healing in His wings?"" She did not ask as one who looked for the answer to the question; her own calmed and thankful spirit supplied, and her look and tone were the best reply. But the soft sweet voice of Persis gave also its response: "God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ."

With a smile so radiant-such a smile had never been seen till then on the face of Marcella-she looked up when her mother came to take the place of Persis by her side. "You will not wish to keep me longer now, mother: there is no darkness now; I have no fear now: it is all light, all hope, all love within me now. The light has chased the darkness, and I know now what that beloved disciple felt, when he said, 'There is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear;' you will not grieve for me, mother, when I am gone; you see how my Father loves His child, and you see how I love Him! Do I not love Him, for He gave His own son for me. Mother, my spirit longs to depart, and to leave this body of death, and to be with Christ, which is far better."

Before another night had spread its shadows over the chamber of Marcella, her redeemed and rejoicing spirit had passed away into that place, of which it is written: "there shall be no night there."

Persis brought her sweetest flowers to strew them over the corpse of the friend she had loved so tenderly. She went up alone to the silent chamber, and Dora, who was the first to enter that room afterwards, found lying in the midst of the flowers,

a folded paper, on which the lines that follow were written. They were in the handwriting of Persis.

"MARCELLA.

"Early taken to thy rest,

In the world a passing guest,
Weeping, we surround thy bier,

But would not have kept thee here.
"Let no selfish tears be shed,

From all sorrow thou art fled,
Sweet Marcella! death would be
Glorious liberty to thee.
"Prison walls are overthrown,

Fetters broken-thou art gone!
Angels bore thee to thy rest,

In the mansions of the blest.
"Born in sin, but, while on earth,
Mourning still thy sinful birth,
Breathing forth thy meek complaint,
O'er that deep and inward taint.
"Till thy faltering feet were led

To the cross where Jesus bled,
And thy bruised spirit found

Healing from each streaming wound.

"Till the Light of Life was given

To thy darkened soul, from heaven,
And the Holy Spirit shed

Peace around thy dying bed.

"Heavy chastening was thy lot,

But thy spirit murmured not;
'See,' thou said'st, in accents mild,
'How my Father loves His child!'
"Sweetest rose! by ruthless death,
Rifled of thy balmy breath,
All thy bloom hath passed away,
Into darkness and decay.

"Earth to earth! Thou silent tomb,
Hide the pale corpse in thy gloom!
Once that casket held a gem,

Of the Saviour's diadem."

CHAPTER VI.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY.

"COME in, my child!" Persis had been standing at the door of her father's study. Uneasy at the unusual length of time he had been shut up there, she had knocked more than once, gently, not loudly. She thought her father knew her knock; he had heard it so often at that door, and yet he did not answer. For a while she had waited; but when he heard her voice-for at last she had spoken -he had bade her come in. Her anxious heart was relieved, for she had not known what to think of his continued silence. But when she had entered, and closed the door, he did not raise his head, or seem to notice her. He sat in his usual place, his Bible open before him, his elbow resting on the table, his hand supporting his head, and covering his eyes. The pulses of his temple were throbbing, a sign, as she knew, of his strong inward agitation. She did not speak, but went and stood beside him, as she had been accustomed to do, waiting till he spoke, when he was busily engaged over his books, and when she had feared to interrupt his thoughts. But now she wished to rouse him from the weight of deep and gloomy thought, which she saw too plainly oppressed him. Gently and lovingly she placed her hand upon his shoulder, and gently and lovingly she kissed the hand which covered his eyes. He raised