ble home;
Stirred by deep devotion,
Hasting from afar,
Ever journeying onward,
Guided by a star."

CHAPTER IV.

FAR, FAR AWAY!

"The leaves were reddening to their fall,
'Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'
As they sunned themselves on the garden wall,
And the swallows round them flew.
'Whither away, sweet swallows?
Coo!' said the gray doves, 'coo!'
'Far from this land of ice and snow
To a sunny southern clime we go,
Where the sky is warm and bright and gay:
Come with us, away, away!'"

F. E. WEATHERLY.

Just as they paused on the last note Joan uttered a scream of delight.

"Look, Darby, look!" she cried, clutching at her brother's arm. "The
star! the star! God has sended it soon, hasn't He? He must have been
listenin' close by when we sang. Auntie Alice says He is every place at
once."

"Where?" eagerly asked Darby, peering anxiously into the darkness, but
looking in the wrong direction.

"There--right behind you," replied Joan, pointing with her finger. "It's
comin' nearer and nearer. Don't you see it?"

Yes, sure enough there was moving slowly towards them, out of the
shadows, a small bright light not unlike the twinkle of a tiny star. It
came steadily on, then stopped, wavered, and was gone.

"Holloa! who's there? Speak up!" called out a loud, hearty voice.

Heavy footsteps followed the voice--footsteps that halted and stumbled
among the gnarled tree-roots and spreading branches, yet kept straight
on--and in another instant the kind, ruddy face of Mr. Grey looked down
upon the children.

"The babes in the wood, by George!" he ejaculated, at the same time
stooping to peer into the small, eager faces which were so fearlessly
upturned to meet his gaze. Then, when he made out who the
forlorn-looking little objects really were, he gave expression to his
astonishment in a long whistle, which frightened the birds in the trees,
the rabbits within their burrows, and the wicked man and woman behind
the hazel bushes, so that they cowered closer beneath the branches,
wishing themselves well out of the way of Farmer Grey's stout blackthorn
staff.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Grey!" said Darby, with a curious catch in his voice
of glad relief to find that the face bending over them with such kindly,
quizzical scrutiny was not that of either gipsy, tramp, or poacher; for
in spite of his lofty scorn of unknown dange