ased to make their appearance, and nothing was
heard of him for many months.

During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visits
were to her soul like gleams of sunshine on a cloudy day--Miss Tippet,
Emma Ward, and a poor artificial-flower maker named Ziza Cattley.

Those three, so different yet so like, were almost equally agreeable to
the poor invalid. Miss Tippet was "_so_ funny but so good," and Emma's
sprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave,
gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left a
sensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equally
untiring in talking with her about the "old, old story"--the Love of
Jesus Christ.

Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Even
the professed infidel, laugh as he may in the spring-tide of life,
usually listens to that "old, old story" when life's tide is very low,
if not with faith at least with seriousness, and with a hope that it may
be true. _May_ be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one tithe
of the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of that
same old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the study
of the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there is
no historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anything
like the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, that
exists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, and
Resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord.

When Loo died the stateliness and stiffness of James Auberly gave way,
and the stern man, leaning his head upon the coffin, as he sat alone in
the darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child.

There was yet another change brought about by that great overturner
Time. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet to
take a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak for
themselves.

One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to which
reference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at her
own fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June),
was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation of
darning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his cap
on the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himself
on the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groaned
und