ord Jesus Christ, I
belong to Thee, I am Thy lamb; gather me in Thine arms, and carry me in
Thy bosom."

It was in this way that little, lonely Arthur Vivyan poured his heart out
before the Lord. He went and told Him exactly what was in it, and then he
lay at His feet; and he felt as he had not felt before, what it was to be
in His keeping, and to hear His voice saying, "Thou art mine," to feel the
everlasting arms enfolding him, and to know that One so strong, and kind,
and true, loved him with an everlasting love. The Lord Jesus Christ was a
real person to Arthur Vivyan. He had known Him before as his Saviour; he
was knowing Him now as the lover of his soul.

And that night, as he lay in his white-curtained bed, he felt the sweet
rest that the Lord gives when "He giveth His beloved sleep."

The stars shone in their melting blue depths, and their trembling light
fell on two who loved each other, and who were both loved by the blessed
God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps; and though such time and space were
separating them, they were both in His hand who "measures the water in the
hollow of His hand."

Is it not a happy thing to belong to the Lord Jesus Christ?

CHAPTER VIII.

EDGAR NORTH; OR, A HEART WITHOUT A RESTING-PLACE.

About two weeks after his arrival in his new home, when Arthur came down
one morning to breakfast, something in his aunt's face made him think of
pleasant things; so that his "Good morning, auntie," seemed rather like a
question.

"I think you had better have breakfast," said Mrs. Estcourt, smiling, but
holding something in her hand towards him, at the same time.

"A letter!" Arthur exclaimed, or rather shouted, as he seized the
envelope. "A letter for me! It could be only from one person. But, oh,
surely they are not in India yet! Mamma said they would be weeks and weeks
going."

"They must have passed some vessel returning to England. You see what a
mother you have, to write to you the very first opportunity."

"I should think I knew that, auntie. I don't believe there ever was, or
will be, any one like my mother in the whole world." Then he began to read
his mother's letter:

"MY OWN CHILD,--For this is the sweetest name I can call you. You are my
own, my Arthur, my darling little child--just as much mine now, as when we
used to sit together by the fireside in the old home, and your head was on
my lap, and my arms were around you. And although miles and miles of deep
blue