e lonely hills, and calling to it. Lady, will the
sheep answer His voice? will it bleat again and again, until He find it?
or will it refuse to hear, and run further into the morass, and be
engulfed and fully lost in the dark waters, or snatched and carried into
the wolf's den? God is not punishing you now; He is loving you; He is
waiting to see if you will take His way of escape from punishment. But
the punishment of your sins must be laid upon some one, and it is for
you to choose whether you will bear it yourself, or will lay it upon Him
who came down from Heaven that He might bear it for you. It must be
either upon you or Him."

The face lighted up suddenly, and the thin weak hands were stretched
out.

"If God love me," she said, "let Him give me back my children! He
would, if He did. Let them come back to me, and I shall believe it.
Without this I cannot. Father, I mean none ill; I would fain think as
you say. But my heart is weak, and my life ebbs low, and I cannot bleat
back again. O God, for my children!--for only one of them! I would be
content with one. If Thou lovest me--if I have sinned, and Thou wouldst
spare me, give me back my child! `Thou madest far from me friend and
neighbour'--give me back _one_, O God!"

"Daughter, we may not dictate to our King," said the Archbishop, gently.
"Yet I doubt not there be times when He stoops mercifully to weakness
and misery, and helps our unbelief. May He grant your petition! And
now, I think you lack rest, and have had converse enough. I will see
you again ere I depart. _Benedicite_!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

POSTING A LETTER.

"Whose fancy was his only oracle;
Who could buy lands and pleasure at his will,
Yet slighted that which silver could not win."

Rev Horatius Bonar, D.D.

The Archbishop rapped softly on the door of the chamber, and Amphillis
sprang to let him out. She had to let herself in, so he passed her with
only a smile and a blessing, and going straight to his own chamber,
spent the next hour in fervent prayer. At the end of that time he went
down to the hall, and asked for writing materials.

This was a rather large request to make in a mediaeval manor house.
Father Jordan was appealed to, as the only person likely to know the
whereabouts of such scarce articles.

"Well, of a surety!" exclaimed the old priest, much fluttered by the
inquiry. "Methinks I may find the inkhorn,--and there _was_ some ink in
it,--but as