But as I spoke a sharp pang shot through and through my soul, and I held my little fair daughter closely in my arms, as if I could always keep her there. It may be my conceit, but it really does seem as if poor father was getting a little fond of me. Ever since my own sickness I have felt great sympathy for him, and he feels, no doubt, that I give him something that neither Ernest nor Martha can do, since they were never sick one day in their lives. I do wish he could look more at Christ and at what He has done and is doing for us. The way of salvation is to me a wide path, absolutely radiant with the glory of Him who shines upon it; I see my shortcomings; I see my sins, but I feel myself bathed, as it were, in the effulgent glow that proceeds directly from the throne of God and the Lamb. It seems as if I ought to have some misgivings about my salvation, but I can hardly say that I have one. How strange, how mysterious that is! And here is father, so much older, so much better than I am, creeping along in the dark! I spoke to Ernest about it. He says I owe it to my training, in a great measure, and that my mother is fifty years in advance of her age. But it can't be all that. It was only after years of struggle and prayer that God gave me this joy. NOVEMBER 24.-Ernest asked me yesterday if I knew that Amelia and her husband had come here to live, and that she was very ill. "I wish you would go to see her, dear," he added. "She is a stranger here, and in great need of a friend." I felt extremely disturbed. I have lost my old affection for her, and the idea of meeting her husband was unpleasant. "Is she very sick?" I asked. "Yes. She is completely broken down. I promised her that you should go to see her." "Are you attending her?" "Yes; her husband came for me himself." "I don't want to go," I said. "It will be very disagreeable." "Yes, dear, I know it. But she needs a friend, as I said before." I put on my things very reluctantly, and went. I found Amelia in a richly-furnished house, but looking untidy and ill-cared-for. She was lying on a couch in her bedroom; three delicate-looking children were playing about, and their nurse sat sewing at the window. A terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for her to speak for some moments. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to welcome me, by throwing her arms around me and bursting into tears. "Oh, Katy!" she cried, "should you have known me if we had met in the street? Don't you find me sadly altered?" "You are changed," I said, "but so am I." "Yes, you do not look strong. But then you never did. And you are as pretty as ever, while I--oh, Kate! do you remember what round, white arms I used to have? Look at them now!" And she drew up her sleeve, poor child. Just then I heard a step in the passage, and her husband sauntered into the room, smoking. "Do go away, Charles," she said impatiently. "You know how your cigar sets me coughing."