“Send her to bed, send her to bed,” said the doctor kindly, “and keep her there till I come to-morrow. I can’t stay now. I am wanted in all directions at once. It has been a bad bit of business, but thank God things are wonderfully better than we might have looked to see.” And the doctor went off in haste, being wanted, as he said, in half a dozen different directions, whilst Mrs. Cossart took Sheila in her arms, in an almost motherly embrace, for her tears over Effie’s illness had touched a chord of sympathy. “Is dear Effie better?” sobbed Sheila. “Yes, just a little; she’s come to herself, but he would not let her talk, and gave her an injection of morphia which sent her off to sleep. Perhaps she will wake up much better. And now, my dear, you must come to bed and tell me all about it, for I have not been able to hear anything, and I am all in a tremble still to think of you all—and my precious child—in the midst of such terrible danger.” “And I don’t feel as though I could do anything,” cried Sheila, “till I have thanked God for saving us and for making Effie better.” (_To be continued._) VARIETIES. THE DISHONEST SERVANT. A well-known firm in Edinburgh consisted of two partners, and to provide against dangers from fire and burglary it was made a stipulation in the deed of partnership that one or other of the heads of the firm should always sleep on the premises. In the course of years this became rather an irksome restriction on their liberty, and in order to free themselves from it they agreed to take into partnership their manager, an old servant of the house, on condition that he should occupy the bedroom and so fulfil the requirements of the deed. The old servant was naturally very much moved by this recognition of his services, but pleaded that he had not the necessary capital to qualify him for partnership. As to that it was only £500 that was required, and that the firm had decided to give him. And so the matter was settled. The trusty servant became a partner and took possession of the room, and in it he was found dead next morning, having committed suicide. He left behind him a letter in which he explained that all those years during which he had been so trusted by his employers, he had been robbing them, and their great kindness had so filled him with remorse that he could not live under it. THE POWER OF MUSIC. The late Dean Stanley was very fond of Jenny Lind, but when she stayed at his father’s palace at Norwich, he always left the room when she sang. One evening Jenny Lind had been singing Handel’s “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” Stanley, as usual, had left the room, but he came back after the music was over, and went shyly up to the great singer.