ame of penitence and joy. She died last night, sleeping
herself away, without more apparent suffering, and will be committed
to the earth on Sunday next, all her fellow-scholars attending; and, I
hope, profiting by the example she has left.

"I have only to add my most earnest congratulations to those whose
labour of love has borne such blessed fruit; and, hoping you will pardon
the liberty, etc."

Etheldred finished the letter through blinding tears, while rising sobs
almost choked her. She ran away to her own room, bolted the door, and
threw herself on her knees, beside her bed--now confusedly giving thanks
for such results--now weeping bitterly over her own unworthiness. Oh!
what was she in the sight of Heaven, compared with what this poor girl
had deemed her--with what this clergyman thought her? She, the teacher,
taught, trained, and guarded, from her infancy, by her wise mother, and
by such a father! She, to have given way all day to pride, jealousy,
anger, selfish love of her own will; when this poor girl had embraced,
and held fast, the blessed hope, from the very crumbs they had brought
her! Nothing could have so humbled the distrustful spirit that had been
working in Ethel, which had been scotched into silence--not killed--when
she endured the bazaar, and now had been indemnifying itself by repining
at every stumbling-block. Her own scholar's blessing was the rebuke that
went most home to her heart, for having doubted whether good could be
worked in any way, save her own.

She was interrupted by Mary trying to open the door, and, admitting
her, heard her wonder at the traces of her tears, and ask what there
was about Una. Ethel gave her the letter, and Mary's tears showered very
fast--they always came readily. "Oh, Ethel, how glad Richard will be!"

"Yes; it is all Richard's doing. So much more good, and wise, and
humble, as he is. No wonder his teaching--" and Ethel sat down and cried
again.

Mary pondered. "It makes me very glad," she said; "and yet I don't know
why one cries. Ethel, do you think"--she came near, and whispered--"that
Una has met dear mamma there?"

Ethel kissed her. It was almost the first time Mary had spoken of her
mother; and she answered, "Dear Mary, we cannot tell--we may think. It
is all one communion, you know."

Mary was silent, and, next time she spoke, it was to hope that Ethel
would tell the Cocksmoor children about Una.

Ethel was obliged to dress, and go downstairs to t