Anxious parents and a careful doctor kept her in bed for a
week, while Harry occupied his usual place at the bank.

It was during that week that the change in Gladys took place. She had
plenty of time for thought. Recollections of her nearness to death, of
her horror while under the ice, of her terror when saved, of seeing her
brave rescuer sink, all these scenes made a deep and lasting impression
on her, and she realised that life can never be made up of pleasures
only.

When she met the rest of the "Bunch," her quietness puzzled them, her
determination to go no more on the ice distressed them. But in her own
heart Gladys felt that she had gained by her approach to death, for in
the deadly struggle she had been brought near to God. As for Harry
Elliott, need I forecast the trend of the two lives that were so nearly
taken away together?

[Sidenote: Mike, the old Raven, is the central figure of this story for
younger girls.]

The Pearl-rimmed Locket

BY

M. B. MANWELL

March came in with a roar that year. The elms of Old Studley creaked and
groaned loudly as the wild wind tossed them about like toys.

"I'm frighted to go to bed," wailed little Jinty Ransom, burying her
face in Mrs. Barbara's lap, when she had finished saying her prayers.

"Ah, dear, 'taint for we to be frightened at anything God sends! Do'ent
He hold the storms in the hollow of His hand? And thou, dear maid,
what's wind and tempest that's only 'fulfilling His word' compared wi'
life's storms that will gather over thy sunny head one day, sure as
sure?" Mrs. Barbara, the professor's ancient housekeeper, laid her
knotted hand on the golden curls on her lap.

But "thou, dear maid" could not look ahead so far. It was more than
enough for Jinty that Nature's waves and storms were passing over her at
the moment.

"Sit beside my bed, and talk me to sleep, please, Mrs. Barbara, dear!"
entreated the little girl, clutching tightly at the old lady's skirts.

So Mrs. Barbara seated herself, knitting in hand, by the little white
bed, and Jinty listened to the stories she loved best of all, those of
the days when her father was a little boy and played under the great
elms of Old Studley with Mike, the ancient raven, that some people
declared was a hundred years old at least. He was little more than a
dream-father, for he had been for most of Jinty's little life away in
far-off China in the diplomatic service. Her sweet, young, gentle mother
Jin