f her pieces of silver; but she found it
again, and what you have lost Jesus will find and restore to you.'

'But theer's th' past, Mr. Penrose, as well as th' lost. It's all
theer afore me. Aw see it as plain as aw see yon moors through th'
window, only it's noan green and breet wi' sunshine--it's dark.'

'If God forgets the past, Amanda, why should you recall it? Look
out through that window again. There's a cloud just dying away on
the horizon yonder. Do you see it? It is changing its colour and
losing its shape, and in a moment it will be gone. Watch it! It is
almost gone. See! now it _is_ gone--gone where? Gone into the
light of that sun which is making the moors so green and bright.
Now that is what God is doing with your past--with what you call
your sins--blotting them out like a cloud. It is God's mercy that
stands like the everlasting hills, and it is our sinfulness and
our past that pass away like clouds. As you look at those hills
you must think of His mercy, and as you watch those vanishing
clouds you must think of your past.'

Once more there was silence in the sick-chamber, and the little
watch ran its race with the beating, flickering pulse of Amanda.
The girl turned her face towards the window that overlooked the
moors, and begged her mother to open it so that she might again
feel the cool airs that swept across their heathery wastes.

Mrs. Stott at once unhasped the casement, and a tide of life came
stealing in, noiselessly lifting the curtains, and cooling the
hectic flame that glowed on Amanda's wasted cheeks, and bearing,
too, on its waves fragrances that recalled a long-lost paradise,
and sounds--the echo of days when no discordant note marred the
music of her life. These moorland breezes--how redolent, how
murmurous of what had been! In a few moments Amanda closed her
eyes, the wind caressing her into peacefulness and singing her to
slumber.

* * * * *

It was the hour before dawn--the dark hour when minutes walk with
leaden feet and the departing vapours of night lay chilliest
finger on the sick and dying, and on those who watch at their
side. From the mantelshelf the lamp emitted its feeble rays, dimly
lighting the lonely chamber, and holding, as with uncertain hand,
the shadows which crowded and cowered in the distant corners and
recesses of the room, and throwing into Rembrandtesque the pallid
face of the wakeful mother, and the flushed and fevered face o