Miranda slightly inclined her graceful head in assent. “And yet how coldly you seem to regard the greatest sacrifice that ever was made! Many who thank God for rain, which descends at His simple command, never thank Him for the unspeakably greater gift of His only Son. There are those who read, or hear without interest, without love, that Christ tasted death for every man. Do you understand what that means?” “I suppose that it was like drinking poison,” said the girl. “Yes, like drinking poison, the deadliest poison, for every believer. I should think that for each individual there was a separate pang to be borne. I believe that when Christ hung on the cross He was drinking the deadly cup instead of me, instead of you, till the whole terrible draught of poison was finished, the cup drained of the last deadly drop.” “And I have never loved Him, never thanked Him,” murmured Miranda, the soft tears rising to her eyes. “Do you love Him, do you thank Him now?” exclaimed Robin. The brimming eyes overflowed; Miranda covered her face with both her hands, and Robin, with delight, caught the whispered words, “I do! I do!” Oh, blessed rain that comes at last! Thank God for the blessed rain—that which maketh the heart to blossom and bud, that which brings life to the dead in sin! Thank God for the rain which drops from heaven—the dew of His Holy Spirit! Robin was too full of joyful hopes not to hurry into “Paradise” to let Alicia share them. Harold’s young wife was still a prisoner to her sofa after an attack of fever, but she was rejoicing, like every one else, in the beginning of the season of rain. “Robin, is not this change delightful?” said Alicia. “Most delightful!” echoed her brother; but he was not thinking of the weather. Robin was beginning to tell his deeply-sympathizing listener of the impression which at last had been made on the heart of Miranda, when Harold entered, with a packet of letters in his hand which he had just taken from the dripping postman. “Two English letters for me, one Indian one for my wife, and a registered despatch for you, Robin,” said Harold, distributing his little budget. “The postman is waiting in the veranda for your signature to the paper.” Robin sprang forward, in his eagerness almost snatched the letter from the hand of his brother, and was out of the room in a moment. “A registered letter is a novelty to Robin,” observed Alicia, smiling, as she broke open the envelope in her hand; “I never knew him to receive one before.” “Nor dart away in such a hurry when the English mail was about to be opened,” said Harold. “This is Clarence’s handwriting, this Ida’s neat little hand; their letters will be interesting, as telling us what success they have had in collecting money for the purchase of the fort.” Harold and Alicia were engaged in reading their letters, when Robin returned to the room, his face radiant with pleasure. “I hope, Robin, that your despatch has been as cheering as ours,” said Harold.