olved to turn over a
new leaf. Tried--and failed. He was perplexed, for he had tried
honestly.

"Tipps," he said, one day, "you are the only man I ever could make a
confidant of. To say truth I'm not given to being very communicative as
to personal matters at any time, but I _must_ tell you that the remark
you made about my soul the other day has stuck to me, and I have tried
to lead a Christian life, but without much success."

"Perhaps," said Tipps, timidly, "it is because you have not yet become a
Christian."

"My _dear_ fellow!" exclaimed Edwin, "is not leading a Christian life
becoming a Christian?"

"Don't you think," said Tipps, in an apologetic tone, "that leading a
Christian life is rather the result of having become a Christian? It
seems to me that you have been taking the plan of putting yourself and
your doings first, and our Saviour last."

We need not prolong a conversation referring to the "old, old story,"
which ran very much in the usual groove. Suffice it to say that Edwin
at last carefully consulted the Bible as to the plan of redemption; and,
in believing, found that rest of spirit which he had failed to work out.
Thenceforward he had a higher motive for labouring at his daily toil,
yet the old motive did not lose but rather gained in power by the
change--whereby he realised the truth that, "godliness is profitable for
the life that now is as well as that which is to come."

At last the painting became so successful that Edwin resolved to trust
to it alone--said good-bye to the Clearing-House with regret--for he
left many a pleasant companion and several intimate friends behind him--
and went to Clatterby, in the suburbs of which he took and furnished a
small villa.

Then it was that he came to the conclusion that the time had arrived to
make a pointed appeal to the nut-brown hair and lustrous eyes. He went
off and called at Captain Lee's house accordingly. The captain was
out--Miss Lee was at home. Edwin entered the house, but he left all his
native courage and self-possession on the doorstep outside!

Being ushered into the drawing-room he found Emma reading. From that
moment--to his own surprise, and according to his own statement--he
became an ass! The metamorphosis was complete. Ovid, had he been
alive, would have rejoiced in it! He blushed more than a poor boy
caught in his first grievous offence. The very straightforwardness of
his character helped to make him worse. He