The whole family assembled in the dining-room as the bells of the church rang out the old year. In the pause--that solemn pause before the clock strikes twelve, and the knell for the dying year is followed by a great rejoicing peal for that which is new born--Gilbert Arundel read, in slow, clear tones, that wonderful Psalm which ever seems to be so fraught with wisdom, and to express so well the yearning of the human soul for something, which as the generations roll by, and pass like a tale that is told, remains steadfast and immoveable. Lord, _thou_ hast been our Refuge; and, notwithstanding the storms and the troubles of this short and mutable life, faithful hearts like Joyce's can add, in trusting confidence, "and _wilt_ be to the end." * * * * * An hour later, when the last chimes had rung out from every belfry tower from far and near, and the fair young year lay calm and beautiful beneath the stars, husband and wife went together to the long, low nursery, where the three elder children lay in profound slumber. The kiss and blessing did not disturb Lettice or Lota, but the "Happy new year, darling," brought Falcon to a state of half consciousness. "Happy new year, mother--father," he murmured, with an added word which sounded like "my trumpet." "That beloved trumpet," said Joyce, laughing. "I let him take it out into the garden after dinner, and give one great blow; but he was so loyal, he came and hid it again, out of sight, saying, 'If father heard that, it was only just _once_.'" "Dear old boy!" Gilbert said. "I shall not forget his self-denial learned from his mother." "Nay," she said, playfully, "I do not quite wish to blow trumpets." "Not your own, certainly," was the quiet rejoinder. They did not forget baby Joy. Her cradle was in their own room; and Joyce called her husband to look at her, and wish her the "happy new year," as he had wished the others. "A happy new year to my little Joy," he said. The baby moved a little, and, throwing one fat arm behind her head, a flickering smile played over her face, a light rather than a smile, such as comes over the faces of the little ones sometimes when in sleep, their angels draw near. It was one of those supreme moments in life, which do not find expression in many words:-- "A happy new year to you, my little Joy," Joyce repeated, and then there was silence, while-- "Two faces o'er the cradle bent, Two hands above the head were locked, These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that Love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power!" THE END WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS. BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE, LONDON. * * * * * BY MRS. MARSHALL. UNDER SALISBURY SPIRE. A Tale of the Times of George Herbert. With Illustrations. Third Thousand. 5s., cloth. "One of the best works which have ever come from Mrs. Marshall's pen."--_Athenaeum._