She went on, wondering. When we are told that in the mysterious future there “is to be no more sea,” we feel that the language is only used as a powerful image, to show us that there shall be no more danger, no more parting. But after all, what are danger and parting, but for their fear and pain? Is it not really those that “shall be no more”? It seemed to Lucy that haply in the highest ministries of life’s immortal service the paths of those who would be “about their Father’s business” must still sometimes swerve from one another. If “no more sea” was a symbol of no more danger, and no more parting, did not that in turn mean an abiding sense that all is secure, a present consciousness that all parting involves joyful reunion? Then if our souls, still clad in mortal weakness, can but attain to this “perfect love which casts out fear,” should we not be in Heaven’s peace already? Lucy resolved to go to Liverpool to meet the steamer which had Charlie on board. She resolved to go alone. For the first time since his father went away she would leave Hugh, assured now that he was surrounded by wise kindness. She longed for absolute silence and solitude on her journey to this reunion, well nigh as sacred and solemn as those generally guarded by the secrecy of death. She preferred to go without any “seeing off.” Those in her home, those who loved her best, probed her feeling on this head, and yielded to it. They parted from her on her own threshold. “We will come to meet you both when you return,” they said. * * * * * Husband and wife met. It was in a crowd of strangers, and nobody there took particular notice of the brown, lean, sinewy man, who clasped a silvery-haired young woman in his arms. Then they held each other apart for one moment, and gazed at each other, noting all that was gone—all that was changed, and all—ay, all!—that remained for ever! As for the conversation—the questions, the answers, the narrations—that interrupted the rapt silences of this single day reserved for themselves only, what was it but simply the story which has been already told? “They will be all at home to receive us,” Lucy said, as, her hand clasped in her husband’s, she told of the loyal friendships which had closed around her terrible waiting-time. “They are all still there, just as they have been. The house may be small for us all, yet I felt sure this would be your wish.” “You knew your husband,” said Charlie, “and if our friends will stay, they shall stay as we are—for another year. By that time we shall have got our lives into their regular grooves again—and then, maybe, we shall all move together into a larger house. As it is God’s will that the solitary shall be set in families, Lucy, surely it is never more so than when the solitary have upheld the family.” (_To be concluded._) “UPS AND DOWNS.” A TRUE STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE. BY N. O. LORIMER. CHAPTER IV.