y fountain of belief. Without that, could
a man dive into the infinite until he became as an angel in power
and wisdom--could he 'by searching find out God '--still he could not
believe."

"_Do you_ believe in God?"

"I love Him!" She said no more; but her countenance spoke the rest; and
her companion saw it He stood as silently gazing as a man who in the
desert comes face to face with an angel.

Olive recollecting herself blushed deeply. "I ought to apologise for
speaking so freely of these things to a stranger and a clergyman--in
this place too."

"Can there be a fitter place, or one that so sanctifies, and at the
same time justifies this conversation?" was the answer, as the speaker
glanced round the quiet domain of the dead. Then Olive remembered where
they stood--that she was talking to the husband over his lost wife's
tomb. The thought touched her with sympathy for this man, whose words,
though so earnest, were yet so piercing. He seemed as though it were
his habit to tear away every flimsy veil, in order to behold the shining
image of Truth.

They were silent for a moment, and then he resumed, with a smile,--the
first that had yet lightened his face, and which now cast on it an
inexpressible sweetness--

"Let me thank you for talking so kindly to my little daughter. I trust I
have sufficiently explained why I interrupted your lessons."

"Still, it seems strange," said Olive. And strong interest conquering
her diffidence, she asked how he, a clergyman, had possibly contrived to
keep the child in such utter ignorance?

"She has not lived much with me," he answered; "my little Ailie has been
brought up in complete solitude. It was best for a child, whose birth
was soon followed by her mother's death."

Olive trembled lest she had opened a wound; but his words and manner had
the grave composure of one who speaks of any ordinary event. Whatever
grief he had felt, it evidently was healed. An awkward pause, during
which Miss Rothesay tried to think in what way she could best end the
conversation. It was broken at last by little Ailie, who crept timidly
across the churchyard to her father.

"Please, papa, grandmamma wants to see you before she goes out. She is
going to John Dent's, and to Farnwood, and"----

"Hush, little chatterbox! this lady cannot be interested in our family
revelations. Bid her 'good-afternoon' and come!"

He tried to speak playfully, but it was a rigid playfulness. Though a
father, i