Gently, my Saviour, let me down
To slumber in the arms of death;
I rest my soul on thee alone,

E'en in my last expiring breath.

Death's direful sting has lost its power:
A ransomed sinner saved by grace
Lives but to die, and die no more,
But see unveiled thy blissful face.

Soon shall the storm of life be o'er,
And I shall enter endless rest;
Then I shall live to sin no more,
And bless thy name, for ever blest.

O Saviour! let thy will be done.
Like yielding clay I humbly lie:
May every murmuring thought be gone,
Most peacefully resigned to die!"

"Dear Ethel, thank you; this seems hard!" murmured the dying woman, in a faint voice.

"It will soon be over, dear, dear Miss Hackett ; and then, oh! how blessed to wake in heaven! To be at rest for ever! Christ will be with you, and he has tasted death," said Ethel, in a choking voice.

Just then Mr. Bevan entered: he was much agitated, and his emotion almost overpowered him when he looked on her who had been like a mother to him so long. He knelt down by the bedside and prayed fervently that, if possible, this trial might be shortened, and that a peaceful entrance might be vouchsafed into glory.

"Thank you both-God bless you !—All is well!" came in so feeble a voice, that they had to bend close to her to catch the words. She spoke no more. Stronger grew the struggles and feebler the effort to resist them, until the exhausted frame could endure no longer. The head sank heavily on Ethel's shoulder,

and all was at rest. The spirit had fled to the bosom of that loving Saviour, in whose sight the death of his saints is precious.

Ethel had been half kneeling in a most painful position, so that her friend might breathe with greater comfort. She now, with Mr. Bevan's assistance, laid the dead form of her they loved down on the bed, and then for some time the grief of each was too deep for utterance. Ethel sat by the bedside, and her overcharged heart found vent in a quiet, though unrestrained flow of tears; while the clergyman stood near, his face shaded by his hand, in deep manly grief. But bitter as was this sorrow to Ethel, and suddenly as it had come, it was not like the overwhelming shock her mother's death had been. She now experienced the relief of tears, and enjoyed the presence of one who loved with equal affection the departed one. Mr. Bevan's soothing sympathy was thoughtful and unobtrusive, and Ethel in return was able to speak freely to him of the grief which mutually oppressed them. But soon the beloved form was laid in the dust, hidden from sight; and Ethel returned to her home once more, a sadder, but a still more chastened woman. And here, for the present, we leave her, and return to Raymond.

CHAPTER VIII.

"The sunshine round seems dim and cold,
And flowers are pale and life is old,
And words fall soulless on my ear:
Oh, I am still a stranger here!

I wander on in thoughtful care,

For ever asking, sighing - Where?

And spirit sounds come answering this,

'There, where thou art not, there is bliss.""

"Not the labour of my hands

From the German.

Can fulfil the law's demands.
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,

All for sin could not atone:

Thou must save, and thou alone."-TOPLADY.

THREE months had now passed over Raymond — months of intense mental, and often bodily suffering, from the mortifications which he practised, in the vain attempt to propitiate his offended Maker. He had prayed to the Virgin, to saints, to angels, far oftener than he had mingled the name of "Jesus" in his supplications, vainly hoping his humility in believing himself unworthy to approach him, unassisted, would be acceptable to a holy God. But all had been unavailing. Although Raymond was now living what would be termed a holy life among Ro

manists, and performing additional services and penances, his conscience smarted under the burden of sins unforgiven.

Alas, for the brilliant offers made by Romanism ! Its insufficiency to heal the heart broken with sin has been, indeed, proved thousands of times, often when too late to retract; when her iron grasp has chained the victim so fast that there is no chance of escape.

But it was not thus with Raymond. His clear sight enabled him to penetrate the veil by which things were glossed over, and to burst the trammels ere they bound him for ever. One day he sat in deep despondency, many hours of fasting having been past, in the hope of having his prayers and meditations more unfettered by carnal gratification. A crucifix lay on the table, on which one hand rested, while a beautifully carved figure of the Virgin and Child was placed near him, before which he had been kneeling for some time. Oh, how changed was his appearance! His raven-black hair was thickly sprinkled with grey; his face thin and pale; the fire of his eye was quenched; his lips compressed and bloodless; and lines of deep care and sorrow marked his noble forehead. His tall, stalwart figure, was painfully thin; and he had acquired a stoop, from the habit of excessive thought and the attitude of devotion.

Oh, could Ethel have seen him then, how would she have grieved over the wreck which scepticism and false religion had made! how would she have been able to point upwards to the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world! But Ethel knew not his struggles, knew not then that he even believed in God; yet prayers were often ascending on his behalf from her sorrowing heart, and who

shall say that it was not in direct answer to those prayers that conviction of the truth was sent?

Raymond had risen from his knees, unrefreshed, uncomforted by his prayer to her who is idolatrously termed "the Queen of Heaven." He was preparing for confession, and had been performing a penance for the pardon of some particular sins, for which Father Clement had promised absolution.

His repugnance to confession had only continued to increase each time he went to Father Clement; his repulsive questions, his stern, unflinching severity towards him, were totally incompatible with the gentleness and meekness which become an ambassador of Christ.

Raymond rested his head on his hand, in deep thought. What a bondage he was in! Sins unforgiven ! And a man, who endeavoured to hold him with the grasp of a tyrant, for a confessor! Was this the only way to obtain peace? Must it ever be thus? There surely was a forgiveness of sins, to be obtained from God alone! And why should he be excluded from it?

Beauchamp's life had been a sinful one, though not so bad as his.

Raymond knew his friend had committed most heinous sins, and yet he had told him that he felt in his heart God had forgiven him!

How was this obtained? Then the thought flashed upon him, where had he ever read in the Bible that penance was necessary for the pardon of sin? He knew he had not seen it! If the Bible really did not sanction mortifications, no wonder he had no peace. No wonder the very sins absolved returned in dread array before him, staring him in the face both deeper and darker than before!