ildren, obey your parents in the Lord, for
this is right,' is quite out of date with too many of them now."

"I fear it is so, mamma. I don't like the girls much at `The Firs,' but
I cannot help liking Mark; I mean," she added, colouring, "as a light-
hearted, generous, pleasant boy." A silence of a few moments, and then
she looks up and says, timidly and lovingly, "If you think it better,
dearest mamma, I won't go to the party to-night."

"No, Mary, I would not advise that; _I_ shall be with you, and I should
like you to see and judge for yourself. I have every confidence in you.
I do believe that you love your Saviour, and loving Him, I feel sure
that you will not knowingly enter into any very intimate acquaintance
with any one who has not the same hope; without which hope, my precious
child, there may be much amiability and attractiveness, but can be no
solid and abiding happiness or peace."

Mary's reply is a child's earnest embrace and a whispered assurance of
unchanging love to her mother, and trust in her judgment.

Six o'clock.--Both drawing-rooms at "The Firs" were thrown into one, and
brilliantly lighted up. Mysterious sounds in the dining-room below told
of preparations for that part of the evening's proceedings, by no means
the least gratifying to the members of a juvenile party. Friends began
to assemble: young boys and girls in shoals, the former dazzling in
neckties and pins, the latter in brooches and earrings: with a
sprinkling of seniors. The host, hostess, and her daughters were all
smiles; the last-named especially, unable, indeed, to give expression to
their satisfaction at having the happiness of receiving their dear young
friends. Mark was there, of course, full of fun, and really enjoying
himself, the life and soul of everything.

And now, when Mrs Franklin and Mary had just taken their seats and had
begun to look around them, the door was thrown widely open, and the
servant announced in a loud voice, "Mr Esau Tankardew!"

Every sound was instantly hushed, every head bent forward, every mouth
parted in breathless expectation. Mark crept close up to Mary and
squeezed his white gloves into ropes; the next moment Mr Tankardew
entered.

Marvellous transformation! The faded garments had entirely disappeared.
Was this the man of dilapidation? Yes, it was Mr Tankardew. He was
habited in a suit of black, which, though not new, had evidently not
seen much service; his trousers ceased at