replied Mrs. Ward; and she locked the house-door
and put the key in her pocket resolutely.
"Mary'll not come home to-mght; she's stayed
at her aunt's, or Miss Timble's got a press o'
work an' has kept her."

Alice did not seem satisfied. "It's very
queer, mother, the longing I have to go back
and seek her; she's stayed away many's the
night before, an' I never i'elt like this."

"What's come ower thee, bairn! longings an'
feelings, such a fash! What can ail thee?"

'' That's just what I don't know, mother."

"Nor nobody else either. Get thee to bed,
and thee'll soon forget all about it."

Alice felt herself very foolish, but very
uncomfortable, as she obeyed her mother's
mandate, and went up the narrow cottage stairs to
the room which she and Mary were accustomed
to occupy together. The little lattice had not
been closed, and, looking out, there were the
fields and the white road stretching away to
Ash-pool. She stood gazing on them without
any design, until her mother's movements in
the adjoining room ceased, and then putting a
plaid shawl over her head she crept down stairs,
unlocked the back door, and was away across
the first field before the aimlessness of this new
journey struck her. Then she laughed to
herself, and said, " It is fond; what has Ash-pool to
do with Mary, or Mary to do with Ash-pool?
But as I have got out I'll go on." And reasoning
with herself thus, she quickened her pace,
avid in a quarter of an hour had reached the
stile where she and her mother rested before.

All was just as still, just as beautiful, just as
softly mysterious as when she left it; the water
dimpling in the moonlight, and the great ash-
boughs swaying slowly to and fro. She stood
looking across it, and blaming herself for her
folly, and hoping her mother would not discover
her absence for ever so long. Indeed, she made
no attempt to go home, but presently sat down,
exactly as if she had come out in the deliberate
intention of waiting for somebody. And as she
sat there flowed irresistibly over her mind vivid
recollections of certain things she had read in
her few books, especially of Christian towing to
the shores of the waters of Death, and then
taking leave of wife and children before going
over the flood alone; but suddenly she was
startled from her dreams by the sight of a figure
rushing across the field where there was no
pathway, straight towards Ash-pool. In an
instant she knew that it was little Mary, and,
springing forward, caught her in her arms.
Then a struggle ensued; the younger sister was
slight and weak in comparison with Alice, but
she had the frenzied strength of the despair that
is covetous of death.

"Let me go let me go, Alice," she panted,
and twisted herself, and struck with all her little
might; but Alice had clasped her firmly round
the body, and trailed her by main force along the
hedge-side, out of sight of the water; then she
purposely dropped to the ground herself, pulling
Mary with her, and there held her with a more
gentle restraint.

Mary's efforts to escape ceased gradually, and
she fell into a quivering, moaning, sobbing agony,
with her head resting on her sister's knees, and
her pretty long yellow hair all loose about her
face and neck. Alice put it away, and, bending
down, kissed her soft cheek, and then lifted her
up, and made her rest against her breast with
the fondest tenderness.

"You have got into trouble, Mary darling;
but all's not over yet," said she. "I've been
sent here to save you from doing a great sin."

"Who sent yon?"

"It was God himself, Mary. I've had it |
borne in upon my mind all night to come and
seek you by Ash-pool."

Mary said nothing for several minutes, but at
last, in a gush of tears, she broke out: " Oh,
Alice! what shall I do what shall I do? You'd
better have let me go. I'd have been lying like
a stone at the bottom now!"

"Nay, Mary; your poor body would, but you
would ha' been standing afore the throne o'
God's justice."

"I don't think he'd be as hard as Miss
Timble, Alice, if I was."

Alice was silent for a little while, and then
thinking Mary somewhat quietened, she began to
say, " You'll go home now, Mary?"

"No, no; I daren't, Alice 1 daren't!" And
then the circumstances, or the consequences, of
her calamity overpowered her reason again, and,
with vehement cries, she renewed her efforts to
escape. Alice was so excited that she did not
see her mother until she was close upon them.
The old woman had heard her stealthy departure,
had dressed herself, and followed her out into
the fields. Some way off she had heard Mary's
agonised voice. Now she loved Alice, but little
Mary was the idol and darling of her mother's
heart; and when she saw the strange, unnatural
strife, she stood for a moment paralysed; but
Mary had seen her, and was still.

"We will take her home, mother," said Alice,
quietly.

"Ay, yes, we'll take her home, to be sure
take her home. Come, Mary dear, come now
an' be good." And Mrs. Ward put her arm round
her waist and lifted her up.

"Oh, mother, mother! I'm not worth it I'm
not worth it," sobbed Mary, drawing herself
away.

"We are none on us worth much, but thou art
our Mary, an' thee must come wi' thy mother
an' thy sister, let what will ha' happened thee.
I say nought, only thee must come home."

"Oh, mother, that it should be me to break
thy heart and shame Alice afore everybody! I
wish I were dead I wish I were dead."

"Hearts take a deal o' breaking, Mary, that
has their help i' the Lord Almighty," was Mrs.
Ward's answer; and then she said to Alice, with
an involuntary sigh, "Take hold of her, and let
us get her home."

It was a miserable walk. Mary cried hysterically,
and twice again made her insane efforts to
get back to Ash-pool. It was something, indeed,
to thank God for aloud, as Mrs. Ward did, when