terrible last page was read, I should never find her at all; but have to go wandering alone all my life through those dreary galleries and corridors, with one hope only left—that I might yet before I died find the “palace-chamber far apart,” and see the read and forsaken volume lying on the floor where she had left it, and the chair beside it upon which she had sat so long waiting for some one in vain. And perhaps to words spoken under these impressions may partly be attributed the fact, which I knew nothing of till long afterwards, that the people of the village began to couple my name with that of Miss Oldcastle. When all this vanished from me in the returning wave of health that spread through my weary brain, I was yet left anxious and thoughtful. There was no one from whom I could ask any information about the family at the Hall, so that I was just driven to the best thing—to try to cast my care upon Him who cared for my care. How often do we look upon God as our last and feeblest resource! We go to Him because we have nowhere else to go. And then we learn that the storms of life have driven us, not upon the rocks, but into the desired haven; that we have been compelled, as to the last remaining, so to the best, the only, the central help, the causing cause of all the helps to which we had turned aside as nearer and better. One day when, having considerably recovered from my second attack, I was sitting reading in my study, who should be announced but my friend Judy! “Oh, dear Mr Walton, I am so sorry you have been so ill!” exclaimed the impulsive girl, taking my hand in both of hers, and sitting down beside me. “I haven’t had a chance of coming to see you before; though we’ve always managed—I mean auntie and I—to hear about you. I would have come to nurse you, but it was no use thinking of it.” I smiled as I thanked her. “Ah! you think because I’m such a tom-boy, that I couldn’t nurse you. I only wish I had had a chance of letting you see. I am so sorry for you!” “But I’m nearly well now, Judy, and I have been taken good care of.” “By that frumpy old thing, Mrs Pearson, and—” “Mrs Pearson is a very kind woman, and an excellent nurse,” I said; but she would not heed me. “And that awful old witch, Mother Goose. She was enough to give you bad dreams all night she sat by you.” “I didn’t dream about Mother Goose, as you call her, Judy. I assure you. But now I want to hear how everybody is at the Hall.” “What, grannie, and the white wolf, and all?” “As many as you please to tell me about.” “Well, grannie is gracious to everybody but auntie.” “Why isn’t she gracious to auntie?” “I don’t know. I only guess.” “Is your visitor gone?”