.

been nought but grief. What a paradox is this! Who can understand a mother's love?-a love embracing those who cause her pangs of sorrow,—a love existing long after the grave has closed with its cold, cold sods over the object of that love; and yet the SAVIOUR'S love exceeds a mother's love. Exceeds, did I say?—I should rather say transcends. But hark! the bell tolls-the time approaches for the funeral, and many an anxious eye is now directed to a jutting point, hiding as yet the little band from view. Now the first punt shoots along, propelled by four sturdy rowers, and filled with friends; to this is tied a second, in which also are four rowers and a party of mourning kindred friends; and now comes a third, towed by the other two. The white pall flutters in the breeze, and with the white hat-bands and weepers contrasts strongly with the sable garments of the parents and immediate mourners seated in the stern of the little boat.

"The sun is bright, and the day fine and clear, the cool air refreshing; but as each stroke of the oar causes the boat to dart forward, and the white foam to dash against their bows, a kind of awe steals over all who are watching their approach. They seem to feel that death is coming near, and with a dread they cannot control they await his coming. The bell tolls on, and the missionary hastens to put on his sacred vestments. Soon they come with solemn steps approaching the sacred precincts of the little church,-first a band of friends, and then six little girls clothed in white, bearing the earthly remains of their little friend; and then the parents and mourners, exhibiting every indication of heartfelt sorrow. But every voice is hushed, and every head uncovered, as they turn the gate; for the voice of the minister is heard commencing the beautiful service for the burial of the dead. The Church is crowded, the little coffin placed in the centre of the aisle, and under a most impressive silence the service proceeds. Now and then a sob is heard, perhaps from some poor mother who has lost her little one,— perhaps from a heart touched with a sense of sin, awakened, it may be, by its near contiguity to death. But soon the earth rattles, with that thrilling sound which strikes home to the

hardest heart, upon the coffin in the grave,-the awful words, 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' have fallen upon every ear, and the cold sods have covered from our view the narrow tenement of our little brother; and the missionary is gone, and the people are gone, and the churchyard is quiet once more."

The Children's Corner.

THE STEP-FATHER: OR, "CAN I BE A MARTYR?"

:

CHAPTER IX.

As they drew near to the first of the three cottages, the door opened and a man issued forth armed with a thick club, and followed by a dog which he had some difficulty in keeping back. As soon as he got sight of Annie he called out, "Come on, friends, whoever ye be there is no evil, at any rate, in the girl's face; here, wife, is a poor tired and famished maiden, asking shelter and food." This was said, as they entered, to an interesting and rather young-looking woman, who sat in the warm ingle rocking a cradle and hushing her baby to sleep. When Swayne, in few words, told the story of his past life, his intention to deliver himself up at Beaulieu, and the wonderful escape of himself and Annie, the man and his wife exchanged looks of half amazement, half doubt; when suddenly the latter raised her finger, and cried "hush! my boy overhead is saying his night prayer; you will disturb him." Swayne, covering his face with his hands, cried, "O my mother, my motherso she taught me!" and burst into tears. "Enough, enough," cried the honest cottager, heartily

grasping the robber's hand as though he had been a brother; "that's natural feeling, if ever I saw any. Thy tale, friend, is true, and the maiden's looks say enough for her. Here is food, the half of our supper, if ye be hungry; there is a cask of cider in the corner, if ye be thirsty. But time presses; wait till I get my firearms and call up another log, and Giles Hinton shall be your guide to Beaulieu Abbey. There are no Benedictine monks now; but the Lord of Beaulieu, Sir Ernest de Montague, is as good and kind a man as ever breathed. Tell him plainly how it is with you, and you will not be denied either a shelter from danger or a helping out of trouble. And," he added slyly to Annie, "do thou, my pretty meek-eyed one, only win the Lady of Beaulieu, and thy fortune is made. I am one of the rangers of the estate; so I can make you both sure of hearing, no easy business in these excited times of forest lawlessness."

Ere Annie had scarce time to exchange a word with the young mother, or to stoop down and kiss the sleeping baby, the stout Giles Hinton had returned fully armed, and followed by two fierce-looking dogs, who, however, took no further heed of the two strangers than to look from them to their master, as if inquiring upon what terms they stood.

"Now, then, my friends," said Giles, "thus armed and attended, we shall be, I hope, a match for four assailants on the way. As for thee, sweet wife, keep the door fast, nor open to man or woman till my return. There are four stout-hearted neighbours within call."

They had not gone far before every eye was turned towards a bright light, as of a distant fire, lighting up the sky in the south-west.

"From the top of this hill," exclaimed Giles, pressing

we

on, shall command a view of the country for many miles, and the whole of the channel besides. It must be somewhere in the neighbourhood you have come from. Let me help you on, my pretty maiden."

"Look! look!" cried Swayne, who had reached the hill's top first. "There! all the channel from Yarmouth to Cowes is shown in the light. It is the Pirate barque and the Queen's ship-close together-not fighting-that is over. There! do you see? She, that is our-I mean there the Pirate's ship is beaten-GOD be thanked! she is taken: she is on fire! Look! you can see the Queen's servants haling their prisoners-cutting them down-throwing them over-beating them back into the floods! GOD have mercy on their souls! Pray for them, my friend! Annie! Annie! pray for them! There again! do you see, through the parting smoke, those two boats, quickly making towards shore! Those are a few of our men-I mean the red-hands-escaping. Quick! quick! in GoD's Name let us hasten on, or they will be upon us."

Nay, friend," replied the honest yeoman, with a laugh: "fear makes short distances, you know. They have six good miles before they would be near us. Nevertheless, my wife and little ones will need every protection with these fellows, half mad with defeat, about the woods. So lend the girl a helping hand, and make for yonder lights as quick as you can trip it."

Ten minutes' rapid walking brought them to the outer gate of Beaulieu Abbey, which, under Giles' conduct, they were permitted to pass without question. Not so, however, when they came to the Lord of Beaulieu's, formerly the Lord Abbot's, house. No less than five different voices from within questioned the strangers on different points of their character and history, before

the draw-bridge was lowered and they were admitted. Even then poor Annie shrieked with terror to behold half-a-dozen stern-looking guards with bent bows on either side as they passed in.

"You say, Giles Hinton, you have urgent business with the Lord Warden ?" inquired a young man, with his drawn sword in his hand, suddenly appearing and earnestly scrutinizing the new comers. "Can I not hear and do all that is needed? Warden's nephew and esquire.

I am Archibald Scott, the
You know me, I think ?"

"Grant me then a minute's talk with you aside, Sir Esquire," replied Hinton. And he repeated in his ears, as near in a whisper as he could, what he had heard from Swayne and Annie and had seen since.

"You had better hasten home then, Hinton," said the young man concernedly. "Leave your friends to me."

And, whispering to the guards in the hall, he withdrew. After some time he returned, formally announcing that the Lord Warden awaited the strangers in his reception-room whither they were to attend him.

Sir Ernest de Montague was one of those rare characters who can at once command the profoundest reverence and the most candid confidence. His personal appearance was what every one would have agreed to be strikingly handsome: with a penetrating dark eye and noble bearing. At the same time his voice was soft and gentle, and his manner, except to those who had justly offended him, mild and conciliatory. Annie felt in a moment all fear pass away, and that she could speak to him, and trust to him as a father: while Swayne consoled himself with the assurance that he would obtain as much mercy as justice.

"Friend," said the Lord Warden, in a kind tone to Swayne, as they entered: "I have heard your history,