his head, and, as he did so, his child's arm was round his neck; and leaning back his head against her, as she stood beside him, the tears rolled down his face. For awhile he continued weeping. Persis had never seen her father weep before; and it was only by a strong and determined effort, a wrestling with the anguish that wrung her very heart, and by a silent cry to God for help, that she was enabled to still the tumult of her own feelings, and to choke and silence the groan which rose almost to her lips; but her strong mind collected itself, and the energy of her character rose with the demand upon it. With her usual calm and gentle voice, she said: "Father! there is a message from God to you at this time. Is any afflicted, let him pray.' Father, in my childish troubles; when my spirit has been dull, and I have felt that I could not love God, or trust in Him, or serve him as I wished to do; or when I had done wrong, or been tempted to do so, how often have I come to this dear study to ask you to tell me what was the message of God to your poor sinful child. You made me promise to do this, and I soon learnt to love to keep my promise. How kind and good you were to train me in such happy, godly ways! and how can I love and thank you sufficiently for teaching me to give you all my confidence, as a child ought to do! Dear father, you sometimes tell me now that I am your friend as well as your child, and I am sure you treat me as your friend. Will you let me share your burden now? will you let me feel that I am indeed your friend? Will you pray, father, and when you have poured out your heart to God, will you then open your heart to your child? I have been asking myself-Is it possible that I can be of any use, of any comfort to you, that I can think of anything or do anything, to prove far better than I have yet been enabled to do my deep devoted love, my inexpressible

gratitude to you? You have been everything to me; can I be anything to you-do anything to help you? If I can, why that alone will make a happiness for me." Mr. Clareton had sat looking at the sweet, earnest countenance of his child: it was eloquent with love; his tears had ceased to flow. He was now calm and composed, more so even than Persis; his face was lighted up with an expression more grave, more peaceful than a smile, but quite as expressive of inward content. "The burden weighed heavily for a little while, my Persis,” he said; "but I can thank God it is nearly taken off. Those foolish tears relieved me; and your love, my darling child, is in itself so great a comfort that, while that is left me, I can deem no earthly trial hard to bear. But first let me say, I receive the message you have brought me. We will kneel and

pray together: for surely He who sends that message, 'Is any afflicted, let him pray,' will enable us, when we have prayed, to rise up to praise him. Yes, and I will take another message along with it, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.' Kneel down, my Persis." She did so; but before her father knelt, he placed his hands upon his daughter's head, and looking up, and lifting up his voice, he blessed her in the name of the Lord. Then, kneeling down, he did indeed pour out his very soul in prayer to God; and as the father and the daughter afterwards sat conversing together, it might have been said of them that their faces were "lightened."

The morning had been dark with clouds, and a heavy rain had been falling; but now the sun was again shining, and the fresh balmy air, as Persis opened the window, and drew her father's chair and her own towards it, brought a delightful refreshment with it.

Mr. Clareton had that morning received the notice

G

of the passing of the Act of Uniformity, which was the means of ejecting from the established church, for conscience' sake, about two thousand of the most efficient and devoted of her ministers. They felt that there was but one alternative before them, if they were faithful and true to their own convictions as to what was their duty before God. The Act had been made so stringent that it seemed purposely framed to leave them no choice, and it was afterwards well known that such had been the intentions of that narrowminded party among the Episcopalians, who had the chief voice in the matter. "It is a pity," said Dr. Allen to Sheldon, Archbishop of Canterbury, "the door is so strait." "It is no pity at all," he answered; "if we had thought so many of them would have conformed, we would have made it straiter."

"I cannot say," said Mr. Clareton to his daughter, "that the passing of this Act of Uniformity has altogether taken me by surprise. All my friends, and you among them, Persis," and he smiled as he spoke," have endeavoured to buoy me up with hopes that such a crisis as this could never come. And you have all, at times, thought me, as indeed I am, unwilling to trust to the counsels of any men, whose standard is not the word of truth. We are commanded, my child, to 'cease from man, whose breath is in his nostrils.' But if this applies, in the most general sense, to the impotence of every child of man, does it not apply with double force to those who 'have not set the Lord always before them ;' and who do not seek to be guided by His counsel in everything they undertake? I have been long striving to look to the One first cause, and not to second causes; and, God helping me, I will do so now. I cannot think that God has approved this Act; but I know that He has ordered it, or it could not have come to pass; and therefore, how trying

soever the circumstances may be, I will not suffer myself to be embarrassed by them or entangled in them, but will go forward on my way pressing on towards the mark, looking unto Jesus. And when I feel discouraged, or distressed, I will think upon His heavy cross, and, instead of repining, I will count it my joy, and my privilege, as his disciple, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for His sake.

I

"You are no doubt well aware that my decision is made. I must give up my charge; I must preach the glorious gospel to my beloved people no more. must quit this house. Are you quite prepared for this, my Persis?" "I am quite prepared, my father : you would, you could, do nothing else." "Then, dear child, you would have me go?" "No," said Persis, with a trembling voice, which gathered strength as she proceeded, "I cannot, and I must not say that. I could wish from my very soul that you could see it your duty not to go." "Persis," he said, with a grave and astonished look, "I did not expect this from you. Can you think for a moment that I would weigh the loss of what I give up and leave for ever, with the solemn sense of what is right, yes, simply right before God?" No, sir," said Persis meekly, but very firmly, "do not think that I weighed for a moment the loss of house, or land, or income. All such things are I may weep to leave this dear old house. I may grieve to know that we have no longer the power and the means to give to the necessities of the poor and needy; and yet that grief is light, and will soon pass away. But I do deeply grieve, even to agony, with a sorrow that will not pass away, when I think of your flock left desolate, as sheep without a shepherd, or given over to the charge of a hireling; when I think of the darkness that may come down

but as dust in the balance.

and settle over your whole parish, when the candlestick is removed out of its place." He looked her sadly gravely in the face; and then his look became keen and searching—so searching, that the colour flushed her fair cheek, and the tears rose to her eyes, but not a tear escaped, and those eyes met his with the same mild but open look he had always seen there; only the faintest expression of a tender reproach was seen in their mild steadfast gaze. Persis saw that some sudden suspicion had come over her father's mind-some thought which did her wrong.

"Persis," he said, solemnly, "I would ask you a question, and I know that you will tell me the truth. A suspicion has just crossed my mind-I should not give it entrance there, I should not give it utterance now-but it is not now for the first time that this suspicion has troubled me. Answer me without a reserve, are you of the same mind with your father? are your views, your principles the same as mine?" It was a crisis of sharpest trial to Persis. At any other time it would have been comparatively easy to her to have laid bare her inmost mind to her father. She had never hidden anything from him. Why had she not told him before, that which she was now about to tell him?-Because, till within the last few days she had scarcely known her own mind on the subject, though the conviction had been for some time unconsciously taking form, and gathering strength within her. Yes! at any other time she could have spoken fearlessly; but now, at the very crisis of the one chief trial of her father's life, to have to tell him that, which she knew would deeply trouble him, was almost insupportable to her. Should she evade his question! No! nothing but the truth, the plain simple truth must be told and yet she hesitated-how could she do otherwise? and while she did so, he said, with a