IN the mean time, in the spacious chamber assigned to the clergyman, a terrible conflict was raging. Possessed of the keenest susceptibilities, with a morbid sense of his own unworthiness, he was, alas, too well aware of the impression left upon his hearers by his morning's discourse. "God forgive me!" he ejaculated, his hands pressed to his head. "Deliver me from this terrible burden. Make known to me thy will. Thou knowest my heart. I thought I heard thy voice. Show me the way in which I should walk. How can I, laden with sorrow, stand in God's stead and preach the gospel of salvation? Make haste to help me, O Lord! All my trust is in thee." A light tap at his door disturbed his meditations. He presented to Annie a face so pallid and suffering that she started back, exclaiming,— "You are ill, Mr. Angus: let me call mother." "Oh no! I am not ill,—I mean not much. Certainly, I have a headache." "I came to say that dinner is ready. Mother will give you something for your head." "Thank you. I will be down-stairs directly." He turned to his washstand and dashed cold water on his burning forehead, then, crushing back the wretched doubts and fears which had oppressed him, he presented himself in the parlor. His pallid countenance confirmed Annie's statement of his illness. Mrs. Asbury, with true motherly kindness, ordered a cup of coffee with out milk or sugar, but postponed an examination of the case until a more fitting opportunity. Seated opposite Mr. Angus at the table was fairy little figure, introduced to him as "Our baby Ethel." She had large gray eyes shaded and deepened by long, black lashes. Raising her eyes timidly at first, she glanced at the stranger, gave a little start at the expression which beamed in his face, then her whole countenance—eyes, cheeks, and lips—grew radiant and, to the utter astonishment of all present, the shy, timid little one, whose caresses were so daintily given, so highly prized, exclaimed,— "I love you!" "Why, Ethel!" began her father. "Why, Baby!" repeated the mother; but Annie, catching a glimpse of intense, yearning love in the face of the clergyman, wondered in silence. After dinner, one look of entreaty brought the little miss to the clergyman,—no longer a stranger,—when, to the undisguised astonishment of her parents, she allowed herself to be folded in his arms, her long flaxen curls floating over his breast. Nestling close to his side, with her eyes uplifted to his, she remained, quietly listening to the conversation which followed, rewarded occasionally by a smile so sweet, so full of tender yearning, that not only the child's but the mother's heart was wholly won. Mr. Asbury had asked some questions concerning Mr. Angus's mission work in the city, and then said to his wife,— "Marion will like to hear about this: she loves such work." "She is a real missionary herself," urged Annie. "I love Marion," lisped the child. "She is my Marion." "Is she your daughter, Mr. Asbury?"