And has he left you quite alone?' tenderly asked the woman, bending down and kissing her cheek, with all the rich affection one sorrowing woman shews to another, as though they had known each other all their lives, when they have only met for the first time.

'Who?' Emily asked with an almost imperceptible flush. 'What did you say? My father leave me ? Never, never!'

And then the poor girl remembered what she had previously said, gave a rapid startled glance around her, and at once becoming conscious of her position, burst into a flood of tears, covering her face with the uninjured hand. It was some little time before she could restrain herself, or before her kind friends ventured to address her again. She then told them, briefly and clearly, where she was going, and how the accident happened, adding with a girls' frankness, I dare say you don't know me, but my name is Emily Newbury; I am but a girl you know, although mother sometimes tells me that I sit on my stool like an old woman.'

There was now a loud knock at the door, and Emily's heart beat fast in an agony half of hope and half of fear. Were they coming back for her? or, was it a further alarm of fire? It proved to be the latter, a summons, in fact, to fly for dear life, and already half the neighbours were equipped for their hurried flight, and rushing along in mad disorder and alarm, the thin cadaverous man flying with the rest, and more terrified than anyone. A number of men were zealously at work stripping off the roof of an adjoining house to break the progress of the flames, and there was busy talk of blowing up the house with gunpowder as soon as that was done. There was no time to be lost. A mattress was procured, several neighbours volunteered their help, and the wounded girl was borne away where she might obtain surgi

She caught the name of some surgeon, as the men chatted amongst themselves.

'Will you take me to Dr. Caffyn's?' she asked piteously. Oh, pray do, pray do! He knows me well, and I should so like to see him. He lives in St. Paul's Street.'

"That's a long step from here, Miss,' said one of the men, bluntly but kindly. But we'll take you if you can bear up so long-never fear.'

'Don't fear that, good man. I feel much better now I'm in the open air.'

The way was a long one, but the wounded girl bore her journey bravely, only suffering a slight moan to escape her now and then, when her shattered arm was chafed.

Fortunately Dr. Caffyn was at home, and attended to his patient at once, not recognising her at first but doing so immediately she said, with simplicity.

'You see, I'm the patient now, doctor.'

The doctor listened to her little narrative with interest, forbidding her to talk more than was absolutely necessary, and doing his best to ease and comfort her.

Yet the time passed wearily. Now and then she dozed awhile, and dreamed again of that terrible separation in the fire, and then her arm and side would throb and she wandered in broken speech. Half the load of her distress was now removed, and yet she could not help surmising, doubting, questioning, and wondering, opening her eyes and gazing upon the ceiling like one wrapt in profound thought. Where was little Nathaniel? Had he perished in the fire? O that she had but kept fast hold of his hand! Where, too, were the rest? Was the fire about them still? And then she pictured to herself the sadness of the little ones—' I'm sure dear little Richard will cry for me, poor boy!'

she said aloud, trying next to think how her parents would be distressed, and how Ephraim would blame himself for running forward. And again she thought it was all her own fault, and the tears forced themselves into her eyes, and thoughts of self-reproach startled her into trembling and gave fresh force to her grief. But the doctor would not let her murmur, and endeavour to assuage her sorrow, determined not to leave her for a moment until some of her relatives should have found her. Thanking the unknown man who had been so kind to his charge, he had at once sent with him his serving-man in the direction of the coach-office, so far as it could be gathered from a comparison of the different statements given to him, and he was now momentarily expecting his return.

'Will you tell me what time it is?' she asked quietly, in one of her calmer words.

It is nearly half-past ten,' he answered. 'Why do you ask.' 'Some one will be here soon,' she returned, dreamily.

Hark! they are here now. Don't

you hear them?'

The doctor heard nothing. but knowing well the acute hearing and exalted sensibilities of the sick, he listened intently and believingly, but still could catch nothing.

• Didn't I tell you!' Emily broke out again, trying to rise. It is he I know it is."

Nay, you must not rise-you really must be quiet. I hear nothing.' It is Ephraim. Ephraim, I'm here!' she shouted with all the power she could muster.

Another moment, the door opened, and Ephraim entered. He approached her bed, and looked compassionately upon her, but said not And even had he been able, what could he have said more than an over-gushing heart can look?

a word.

409

'Come nearer, Ephraim, nearer ! I'm safe now thank God. I am not lonely, now you're here. Are they all safe? All?' Father will

'Yes, Emily-All.

be here directly, and the rest are gone away in the coach, and are well, never fear.'

The doctor now withdrew to meet his friends, and Ephraim took her uninjured hand and kissed it, saying in soft tones, Emily, dear Emily,' which she well understood, closing her weary eyes, and smiling a heavenly smile that thrilled the youth's heart with unutterable emotion, and flashed along the future the light of a radiant dawn and the life of a holy love.

Presently Giles himself entered, calm, but evidently having passed through deep excitement, and once more the feeble wounded girl gushed out her heart of love, and wept but not in grief.

Immediately after the explosion, he and Ephraim had decided what to do. Giles himself had gone round several streets to avoid the fire, and if possible, get to his separated child, whilst Ephraim had gone on with Maggie and her children to the coach. But to get round was not so easy as Giles had expected, and he had wandered away he scarcely knew whither in the blinding smoke and stifling air, until he found himself far away and hopelessly shut in by the raging fire, which made all progress in the direction he was taking impossible. Weary and hardly knowing what to do, questioning every one he met, but gleaning nothing from any, everyone intent upon his own salvation, he at length made his way back whence he had started, and thence to the coach-office, where he found the coach had started safely, and information had been received concerning his child, and Ephraim had gone away with Dr. Caffyn's serving-man.

word.

411

She was silent and hung down her head.

'He says he'll come again, sister; do you doubt him ?'

Again she was silent.

'I was 80 young then,' she thought. I did not know myself, and yet-'

Had her brother, then, divined her thoughts ? Was he, too, caught up in this same mysterious resurrection of feeling? He had often asked to go out before, but he had talked then, and was silent now. Yes, he must have read her thoughts, for even inarticulate nature seemed to guess them, to give her them back again.

They were going the old path by the garden wall, whither she had been for months, and whither she felt now as if being passively led, without the power to refuse or resist. Ah! there were the old lines. But how fresh and newly-written they seemed, as if she saw them now for the first time, and was only herself somewhat changed. Surely some one must have scratched them over, or they could not have been so distinct. The silence was getting painful, and rested upon her heart like a burden.

'Do you remember those lines, Keturah,' Giles began at length, somewhat timidly, for it had always been a tender subject, and although it were easy enough to surmise upon

Was it not here you said "It cannot be," and he grasped your hand and left you? Do you say so now?

Oh, no brother, no!' she burst out, half in tears, and scarcely daring to lift her gaze from the ground. You know I love him, only that I fear he loves me not, and I wait his coming, and still he comes not, until I sometimes think he cares for me no longer, and I grieve at my past foolishness.'

'Nay he will come again, sister.' • Will he ? When?"

'He is coming now.'

Oh, how her heart leaped at the words, and the gladness of her earlier youth, richer and mellower, came back in a tremulous tide. She had not seen Giles beckon, but she looked up hopefully.

There was a rustle in the trees before her, a strong man came forward, quietly and dubiously, with eyes fixed upon Keturah, and a warm smile melting his stern bronzed features, until the lines that weary years had left were gone, and the face of an earlier man gleamed out loving and true.

It was enough. Love had conquered doubt, and the old life was re-born in the new love. Keturah recognized him as he approached and held out his hand, and ran forward and fell upon his breast, crying Stephen, forgive me! forgive me!'

THOMAS SCOTT.

they

latter days were hearers, if not members, of the former place. They, and the ancestors of Mrs. Scott, were on terms of intimate friendship

with the family of the Deacons at Barton. This probably led them to place their son Thomas with Mr. John Deacon, who was at that time pastor of the Friar lane church, and was in business as a watchmaker. It was during his ap. prenticeship, that our deceased friend became the subject of a saving change, took an active part in the Sabbath-school, joined the church, and when about twenty-one years of age began to preach.

There existed between the master and his apprentice the most cordial friendship and esteem, which terminated only by the death of the former. Mr. Deacon rendered his young friend all the assistance in his power, with a view to prepare him for the ministry, to which he was anxious to devote himself. To the Association held at Spalding, in 1820, the Friar lane church reported, 'We have one young minister, who is well accepted, and who is now an admitted candidate for the Academy.' It was in the early part of 1821, that our esteemed friend entered that Institution, then | located at Wisbech, under the care of the late Rev. J. Jarrom, whose eminent piety and gentleness of disposition won the reverence and esteem of his students. It had been the wish of Mr. Scott to enter the Academy at an earlier period, but he had taken under his special care two orphan brothers, and for their sakes he continued his employment for more than three years, toiling hard, till he bad been the means of placing them in situations by which they could help themselves. Such an example of self-denial and generosity is surely worthy of the imitation of brothers. One brother writing to the other, since the decease of Mr. Scott, says, Who but those who have known him, as we have, know that loving heart of his. And who but we can estimate that selfsacrificing spirit that was in him, that truly Christ-like character.'

Mr. Scott commenced his studies under rather favourable circumstances, having received from Mr.

Deacon some elementary instruction. He had not much taste or aptitude for classical studies, but paid great attention to composition, logic, and whatever has a bearing on preaching. This, it must be admitted, is of prime importance to one who desires to be" an able minister of the New Testament.' The vivacity and earnestness of his manner of speaking arrested the attention of his hearers, so that both at Wisbech and other places his labours were well received and appreciated. His uniform kindness and correct deportment gained him the esteem of his associates. At the time to which reference is now made, the paucity of ministers was such that few of the young men remained three years; and much of their time was consumed in walking and preaching. Bearing these things in mind, those who know what time and application are required to gain a competent knowledge of the dead languages, will not be surprised that few of the students of that period attained distinction in that respect. friend, on leaving the Academy in 1823, was encouraged by the Committee of the Home Missionary Society to supply a church which they had adopted in the city of Cork, where it was thought there was a prospect of usefulness. His emotions on entering on his duties the first Sabbath will be best understood by a letter he addressed to the Secretary, dated August, 1823.

Our

Sunday, July 27th, I ascended the pulpit of Marlborough-street, Cork. I looked round on a building in excellent condition capable of seating 300 persons, or more. In this place, with these good accommodations, and an entire stranger to preach, reckoning young and old, were assembled only thirty persons. In my circumstances, at such a sight, an angel might have wept. To refrain from tears was impossible. After service, several cordially greeted the stranger, expressing their hope that he was come to raise the dead to life.' In a subsequent part of the same letter, he adds:-'Our congregations have