f of the text I had in my mind, and
that I give you to keep from me--'Whose I am, and whom I serve,' I want
you to know the sweetness of the first, my darling, and then I think you
will want the last to be true of you, and He will show you the way."

"Yes, I know," said Arthur meditatively, "I ought to be patient, and
gentle, and thoughtful; and, you know, mamma, it is just my nature to be
the opposite, and I don't know how on earth I can be all that to that
aunt."

"Oh, hush, dear! Of course you could not be expected to love her much at
first; but that ought not to make any difference; for it is to please the
Lord Jesus that you are to be all this, and the harder it is for you the
more He will know that you really do try to please Him. Then, are there
not other ways? I mean things that you could do to bring honour to Him.
Think of your being the means of bringing God's salvation to anybody, or
of making the heart of any of His people glad."

"Yes," Arthur said, "and I think I could try. I could give away tracts, or
I could visit sick old women."

"Yes, and you might speak for Him."

"If He will help me," said Arthur reverently; "but that is a great deal
more difficult, mother."

They did not talk much more that night, for it was getting late, and
Arthur sat looking at the lights and shadows in the burning coals. Out of
doors the fair spring evening had darkened into a gusty night; and the
wind was sighing in the trees, and blowing the rose-bushes against the
windows. It was very comfortable sitting there on the hearth-rug with his
head on his mother's lap. Arthur felt so very safe, and it seemed to him
that he could not be very unhappy, whatever happened to him, so long as he
could be there. And he did not dare think of what it would be, when miles
and miles of land and sea would stretch between him and this sweet,
well-known resting-place. He would enjoy it for this last time without
thinking of the dark, dreary to-morrow that was coming.

CHAPTER V.

THE PARTING.

It had to come at length. Arthur awoke that morning with a great, dreary
burden pressing on his heart, and a feeling of half horror, and half
unbelieving, that it could really be true.

He hardly knew how he dressed, and he did not notice that the daylight had
not changed the dreariness of last night's weather; for a chill mist was
falling outside, and if he had looked for the fields and hills near he
would have found them all hidden in