knowing how it would speak
to her.

Fear not, for behold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy,
that shall be unto you and to all people.

Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for hardship,
privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad tidings are to all
people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye have your portion in
the great joy--ye have freely cast in your lot with those, whose feet
are beautiful on the mountains, who bear the good tidings. Fear not, for
He is with you, who will never forsake.

Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked at his
son's clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when he made his
Confirmation vow--his natural nervous excitability quelled by a spirit
not his own, and chastened into strong purpose; and the bride, her young
face the more lovely for the depth of enthusiasm restrained by awe and
humility, as she stood without trembling or faltering, the strength of
innocence expressed in the whole bearing of her slight figure in her
white drapery. Around were the four sisterly bride's-maids, their black
dresses showing that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and
that none would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour
of love.

When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband's arm, turned for a last look
at the altar of her own church, "Fear not," in evergreen letters, was
the greeting she bore away.

Ethel was left at the Grange for the ensuing fortnight--a time of
unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized highly,
for it taught them to know each other as they had never done before.
Flora's confidence to her aunt had been a good thing for her, though
so partial; it opened the way for further unreserve to one who knew
the circumstances better, and, as to dread of Ethel, that could seldom
prevail in her presence, partly from long habit, partly from her
deficiency of manner, and still more from her true humility and
affection. Gradually she arrived at the perception of the history of her
sister's mind; understood what gloom had once overshadowed it; and how,
since light had once shone upon her, she shrank not merely from the
tasks that had become wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing
among them her present peace.

"They are your duty," argued Ethel. "Duty brings peace."

"They were not," said Flora.

"They are now," said Ethel.

"Dinners and parties, empty ta