reached, it wants to be kept fixed at the right focus. I cannot but hope that we may be able to come near to that adjustment to-morrow." Amos returned to his cottage much comforted. His brother and sister had not yet come back from their visit to the neighbouring watering-place; but at last they appeared, but not in the best of spirits. Something had gone wrong with them, but Amos was too anxious to talk over the morrow's effort to ask them many questions about their excursion. And now the critical day arrived. The sun rose gloriously, lighting up the heavens as he emerged from his eastern bed with a fan-shaped outpouring of his rays which streamed up over one hemisphere of the heavens, painting the edges of myriads of small fleecy clouds with a transient crimson splendour. The sea was almost glass-like in its calmness, only heaving up and down sluggishly, as though reluctant to be moved in its mighty depths. But, further out, a gentle breeze was filling the snowy sail of some graceful cutter as it stole across the bay, or steadily swelled out the canvas of some stately ship as she sped on with all sail crowded on her towards the desired harbour. Just a few minutes before noon, Amos, with beating heart, saw his friend the physician conducting two ladies to a sunny bench on the edge of the shingles, facing the open sea. "Let us go," he said to his brother and sister, "and walk near them, but take no notice at first." So they all repaired to the beach, and with deeply anxious hearts drew near the little group. Which of the two ladies was their mother? One of them would probably be the physician's wife. They neared the sitters, and passed on in front of them slowly, arm in arm. Who would have thought that mother and children, who had not met for years, were now so close to one another, and yet must for a while remain severed still? As the three on foot were passing the bench, Amos just bowed his head to the physician, and then looked at his two lady companions; and so did his brother and sister. There could not be a moment's doubt--the children knew their mother at once. The dear familiar face was there, and not materially changed. And did the mother know her children? Something told her that they were beings in whom she had an interest; she saw in them something familiar. Yet she had not at all as yet grasped their relation to her with a realising consciousness.