or," said the mother, as her husband brushed his thin gray hair in
front of his chiffonier, while the merry sound of their children's
voices came floating down to them through open doors, "thank the dear
Lord for me in my stead when you sit in the pew to-day. I'll be with you
in my thoughts. It's such a blessed thing that our little middle girl is
at home with us."

The doctor sighed. That bill in his pocket was burning like fire in his
soul. He was not a cent nearer meeting it than he had been on Friday,
and to-morrow was but twenty-four hours off. Yesterday he had tried to
borrow from a cousin, but in vain.

"I fail to see a blessing anywhere, Charlotte," he said. "Things
couldn't well be worse. This is a dark bit of the road." He checked
himself. Why had he saddened her? It was not his custom.

"When things are at the very worst, Jack, I've always noticed that they
take a turn for the better. 'It may not be my way; it may not be thy
way; but yet in His own way the Lord will provide.'" Mrs. Wainwright
spoke steadily and cheerfully. Her thin cheeks flushed with feeling. Her
tones were strong. Her smile was like a sunbeam. Doctor Wainwright's
courage rose.

"Anyway, darling wife, you are the best blessing a man ever had." He
stooped and kissed her like a lover.

Presently the whole family, Grace walking proudly at her father's side,
took their way across the fields to church.

Perhaps you may have seen lovely Sunday mornings, but I don't think
there is a place in the whole world where Sunday sunshine is as clear,
Sunday stillness as full of rest, Sunday flowers as fragrant, as in our
hamlet among the hills, our own dear Highland. Far and near the roads
wind past farms and fields, with simple, happy homes nestling under the
shadow of the mountains. You hear the church bells, and their sound is
soft and clear as they break the golden silence. Groups of people,
rosy-cheeked children, and sturdy boys and pleasant looking men and
women pass you walking to church, exchanging greetings. Carriage loads
of old and young drive on, all going the same way. It makes me think of
a verse in the Psalm which my old Scottish mother loved:

"I joyed when to the house of God
'Go up,' they said to me,
'Jerusalem, within thy gates
Our feet shall standing be.'"

"Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!" hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday
morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and
sisters. The sto