ill be taken away from
the ransomed spirit.

Amy listened, and seemed satisfied,--at least she never recurred to
the subject; and, so far as Lucy knew, it was the last time that any
perplexing doubts clouded the sunshine of her happy, childlike faith.

Pleasant as were the days of their stay at Oakvale, they came at last,
like all earthly things, to an end. The warm August weather had passed
away, and the September breezes blew cool and fresh, permitting them
to ramble about with comfort even during the hours which they had
before been obliged to spend entirely in the shade. The seaside party
had already been settled at home for a week or two, before it was
thought advisable that Amy should be brought back to the city. At
last, however, the summons came, and Lucy spent the last two or three
days in revisiting for the last time all the favourite haunts where
she had spent so many happy hours. She and her friend did not,
however, permit themselves to repine at the ending of what had been to
them both such a very delightful resting-place in their life-journey;
since

"Not enjoyment and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way;
But to live, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day."

Mary, who had delayed her own return to school on her friend's
account, was to accompany them to town, to begin her last year at Mrs.
Wilmot's.

Amy had seemed so well during their stay at Oakvale, that Lucy had
become hopeful of her complete recovery. But Dr. Eastwood warned her
that the improvement might be merely temporary, and that in any case
it was, in his judgment, impossible that Amy could ever be quite
strong and well. "And I don't know," he said kindly to Lucy, who felt
a sharp pang at the thought of losing her dear little cousin, "that it
is well to set your heart on the prolongation of a life which can
scarcely be anything but one of weakness and suffering."

So with many mingled feelings of hope, and fear, and regret, and many
kind farewells from all their Oakvale friends, the young party took
their departure, and found themselves soon again among city sights and
sounds.

XIV.

_An Unexpected Recognition._

"For love's a flower that will not die
For lack of leafy screen;
And Christian hope can cheer the eye
That ne'er saw vernal green.
Then be ye sure that love can bless
Even in this crowded loneliness,
Where ever-moving myriads seem to s