tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you,” then Emilie could not rest.  She did not forgive her aunt; she felt that she did not; but Emilie was human, and human nature is proud.  “I did nothing to offend her,” reasoned pride, “it was only because I was out a little late, and I said I was sorry and I tried to bring her round.  Ah well, it will all be right to-morrow; it is no use to think of it now,” and she prepared to kneel down to pray.  Just then her eye rested on her father’s likeness; she remembered how he used to say, when she was a child and lisped her little prayer at his knee, “Emilie, have you any unkind thoughts to any one?  Do you feel at peace with all? for God says, ’When thou bringest thy gift before the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, first be reconciled to thy brother, and then go and offer thy gift.’” On one or two occasions had Emilie arisen, her tender conscience thus appealed to, and thrown her arms round her nurse’s or her aunt’s neck, to beg their forgiveness for some little offence committed by her and forgotten perhaps by them, and would then kneel down and offer up her evening prayer.  So Emilie hushed pride’s voice, and opening her door, crossed the little passage to her aunt’s sleeping room, and putting her arm round her neck fondly said, “Dear aunt!” It was enough, the good old lady hugged her lovingly.  “Ah, Emilie dear, I am a cross old woman, and thou art a dear good child.  Bless thee!” In half an hour after the inmates of the little lodging in High Street were sound asleep, at peace with one another, and at peace with God.

CHAPTER THIRD.

THE LESSON AT THE COTTAGE.

Edith was very busily searching for corallines and sea weeds, a few days after the evening walk recorded in our first chapter.  She was alone, for her two sisters had appeared more than usually confidential and unwilling for her company, and her dear teacher was engaged that afternoon at the Young Ladies’ Seminary, so she tried to make herself happy in her solitary ramble.  A boat came in at this moment, and the pleasant shout of the boatmen’s voices, and the grating of the little craft as it landed on the pebbly shore, attracted the young lady’s notice, and she stood for a few moments to watch the proceedings.  Amongst those on shore, who had come to lend a hand in pulling the boat in, Edith thought that she recognised a face, and on a little closer inspection she saw it was old Joe Murray, who had stopped her course to the beach a few evenings before.  She did not wish to encounter Joe, so slipping behind the blue jacketed crowd, she walked quickly forwards, but Joe followed her.