Mr. St. John was a man full of faith. He was also full of love, or his faith could not have been so tried; and he was a man of prayer: that disquieting letter from Pekin had been spread before the Lord, and he got up very early so as to spend the morning hours in communion with Him. He had made great drafts on God’s Bank, and his face had regained its usual serenity of expression. His heart, so torn and trembling overnight, was now calm with "the peace of God which passeth all understanding"—the peace which the Lord has promised to those who are stayed on him. There was a slight sound. He looked up quickly; it was Cecilia—St. Cecilia the children called her—coming over the grass to meet him. "Father, darling," she said, as she twined her arms about his neck, "I do wish I could do something for you." "But you do, dear child," he answered, tenderly. "Mother’s right hand: what more can we ask?" "Yes, but father, _you_—you seemed so troubled last night." "If I did, my darling, it was very wrong," he replied, gravely, "and showed a great want of trust in our Heavenly Father." "I could not sleep for thinking of you, and wishing I were older, that I might really be able to help you." "Poor little Cicely," he said, tenderly taking the sweet, earnest face between his hands. "Poor little right hand—old before her time. You must not take up our cares, darling. Indeed, if we older people had more faith we should never fret or worry either, but, instead, cast all our cares upon the Lord who cares for us." "What are you and father talking about? You are both so grave," said Rachel, as she came running up to them. "Cicely looks just like that picture we have up in our room—St. somebody or other—I can’t remember the name. Not anybody in the Bible, you know," said Rachel, garrulously, "but it’s just like Cicely, when she is in white and grave, isn’t it, father? Only she’s got no halo round her head." "You little chatterbox!" said her father, laughing, "it’s a pity someone else has not a little more gravity herself." "Oh, I can look very grave if I like, father. I practise sometimes in front of the glass, and I make such a long face—really, yards long." "Did you measure it with your yard measure, Rachel?" "Oh, no. But you know what I mean—as long as yours, and mother’s, and Cicely’s." "Well, I am sure we all feel very flattered," said her father, smiling. "What a little pickle you are." "A pickle! what is that? I thought it was something to eat. Is it nice?" "Well, that is a matter of opinion," smiling. "Some people are very fond of pickles; others find them just a little bit too hot and strong." Rachel was silent for a moment, then she dismissed the subject with a toss of her dark curls. "Father," she said, "do you know I am so glad no one is coming to be healed to-day, so we shall have you all to ourselves, and we can have some round games like Cicely says you had in England."