[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER VOL. XX.—NO. 1022.] JULY 29, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.] THE ANGEL OF PROMISE! BY EDWARD OXENFORD. Wildly she wailed by the tiny cot, And knew not the words she said, As she Death reviled, for her darling child Therein lay cold and dead! All in the world she loved was lost, From her in its sweetness swept; She would no more trust in a Heaven unjust— Then the mourning mother slept! Hovered the Angel of Promise nigh, Empowered by the King above, And he o’er her bent with the tidings sent Of everlasting love! “Trust thou in Him; He knoweth best; Nought ordereth He in vain; Past the Golden Gates now thy babe awaits, And ye there shall meet again!” Tranquil and solaced the mother woke, Soul-filled with the Angel-dream; And she blessed each word, in her slumber heard, Sent down in love supreme. “Trust? yes, I trust! He knoweth best, And guardeth my babe who waits In the Realms of Bliss for a mother’s kiss, Till I pass the Golden Gates!” [Illustration: “ALL IN THE WORLD SHE LOVED WAS LOST.” [_Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich._] _All rights reserved._] THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc. CHAPTER XVIII. CLEMENTINA GILLESPIE. Lucy could not honestly say to Miss Latimer that she had enjoyed herself at the Brands’ dinner, but she could frankly say that Miss Latimer had been right, and that her visit had “done her good.” For though she had not returned refreshed and re-invigorated, yet she felt a wonderful thankfulness to be once more enfolded in her own home-life. Somehow, too, she could see her own trials in a truer and brighter light. She herself might indeed be worn and nervous, but there was good reason, and a grand purpose to be fulfilled by the labours and endurance which made her so. Florence seemed not less worn and nervous, and why? For no end but vanity and irritating emulation. There floated through Lucy’s mind some lines she had learned in childhood:— “Idler, why lie down to die? Better rub than rust!”