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in the street," and she sank down on a chair, and went so white Lucy thought she was going to faint. Just then a fretful cry came from a cradle in one corner of the little room, and Amy tried to rise and go to it.

"You bide quiet a bit," said Lucy; "I'll take up baby; our sudden coming's upset you, and woke him."

She set her own baby down on the floor, with a rattle to amuse her, and took up Amy's.

"Poor little man, he's not very heavy; there, go and look at little cousin," and she set him clown opposite her own baby, where both children remained quietly staring at each other;

"When does your husband come in, Amy ?" asked Charles.

"I'm expecting him to his tea every minute," she answered; "he gets half an hour for tea."

"Does he go back, then?" asked Lucy.

"Oh, yes, he goes back till ten; sometimes later."

"Where does he work ?" asked Charles.

"He's a clerk at the station, in the ticket-office," said Amy, rather proudly.

Involuntarily Lucy and Charles glanced at each other, and Charlie flushed, even through his sunburnt skin. He had not the courage to ask at what station, but Lucy asked, and Charles gave a faint sigh of relief as Amy answered, "Stepney." Charles and Lucy agreed to stay to tea, on condition that Amy should sit still and let Lucy get everything ready. Amy was so thin and white, and evidently so very feeble, that they could not bear to see her trying to move about.

"You want a little holiday in the country to set you up, Amy," said Lucy, as she bustled actively about, setting out the table, whilst Amy watched her brisk movements with wistful eyes. "We've only had three days, and I feel up to anything. It's done both me and baby a wonderful lot of good."

"Yes, I was to have taken baby to mother's for a week or two, only—only I wasn't able to," and the tears swam in Amy's eyes; but she whisked them rapidly away, and smiled brightly as she added, "Here's Ernest."

A quick step sounded on the stairs, and a young man entered, who seemed almost too big for the little room, and whose tall figure and dark hair formed a striking contrast to his slight fragile-looking wife.

He received his new cousins cordially, and they were soon sitting talking like old friends over the homely meal.

"Amy wants a breath of country air," said Charles presently, as he noticed that she ate nothing, and drank her tea with feverish thirst. "Look at Lucy's fine appetite."

Ernest Green looked sadly at his young wife, as he answered, "Yes, 'twould be the saving of her, and baby too, to get away out of this terrible heat; and she was to have gone to her mother's to-day, but I was fool enough to lose a sovereign last week, and she had to give it up. I could choke myself."

"How did you lose it?" asked Lucy. "Gave wrong change to some one, I suppose," he answered. "I was sent up to Fenchurch Street on Saturday, to help through with the holiday crush, and I was a pound out in the evening; that meant more than half my week's screw, and poor Amy had to give up her country trip. I shall never forgive myself."

"I wish you'd think no more about it, Ernest," said his wife; "you've nearly worried yourself ill as it is. I shall be better when the weather cools a bit, and after all I would rather be you who lost the money than the person who kept it wrongfully."

"Perhaps he didn't find it out," said her husband. "That's not very likely," she answered; "you were at a third-class window, and sovereigns are not so very plentiful with third-class travellers. However, it's all done with now, and I wish you would put it out of your mind."

"I can't, dear, when I see you so pale and weak. But I must be off; time's up."

Lucy and Charles had not said a word during this little dialogue. Lucy had flushed hotly when Ernest first mentioned his loss, and had stooped down to the babies to hide it . Charlie was on the point of exclaiming that the missing pound had been given to him, when Amy expressed her opinion about the person who had kept it wrongfully, and he held his tongue. But he felt very uncomfortable. The spirits of the young couple were effectually quenched. After Ernest was gone, Lucy washed up the tea-things and put everything neatly away, but not with the gay manner in which she had set them out; indeed, glancing covertly at her once, as he sat talking to Amy, Charlie was pretty sure he saw tears on her cheeks, but she brushed them quickly away. When everything that could save Amy trouble for that evening was done, Lucy put on her hat and dressed baby, and they all started for home. The gay holiday mood was gone; they scarcely spoke all the way to Fulham. Both were thinking of Amy's pale thin face, of her frail little baby, of Ernest's anxiety about her, and of their own extra holiday, which had been enjoyed at poor Amy's expense.

It was late in the evening, after baby was in bed, that Charlie at last spoke on the subject. Lucy was afraid to begin.

"What shall we do, little woman?" he said, sitting down by her.

"Oh, Charlie, I never felt so ashamed in all my life," she said, beginning to cry.

"I felt horrid and mean, too," he said; "but how was we to guess as it was any one we knew!"

"Whether 'twas any one we knew or not wouldn't make wrong right; 'twould have been just as bad for any one else as for Amy."

"So it would," he said; "only one feels it more like for a person one knows."

"Well, I don't think that ought to make any difference," she answered. "Wrong's wrong, and right's right, and no good or happiness can come of doing wrong, whether to a stranger or a friend. Oh, it makes my heart ache to think of that poor weak girl in that stifling room, whilst we was in the beautiful country with her money."

"Well, I haven't courage to tell her," said Charles; ** I really haven't, but we'll send it back."

"Have you got enough?" asked Lucy, her whole face beaming with delight.

"Yes, I've got enough, and we'll send it in a registered letter, without any name; and Lucy, if you didn't mind pinching a bit, we might send two pounds, and I'll work overtime till we're straight."

"Oh, Charlie, I don't mind how I pinch, so as our minds can feel clear, and poor Amy can have her holiday," and Lucy put her arms about his neck and kissed him.

"I shall never forget it, though," said Charlie; "I could ha' gone through the floor with shame at tea. I'll paint up a motto to remind us, and hang it on the wall, 'Wrong's wrong, and right's right.'"

Charlie ought to have had the courage to confess his fault to those whom he had so foully wronged, and to have asked forgiveness, taking all the risks of that course; but we may hope that he did come at last to see that the best way is to throw off all concealment, and not only to make secret restitution, but frank confession. Whether it relates to God or man, it will be found in the long run to be true: "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper, but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have



HAVE thou faith in what is holy,
Put thy trust in what is true,
For the false is ever folly,
And destruction is its due.

1 Prov. xxviii. 13.

By His word God us assureth

Strength can ne'er inhere in wrong;

Nought of falsehood e'er endureth,
Nothing save the true is strong.

Fret not, then, though evil flourish,
And the godless prosperous seem;

Soon the gains of sin shall perish,
Perish as at morn a dream.

Soon shall wickedness have vanished,
Wait, the time will not be long;

Soon shall sin and woe be banished,
Soon shall cease the reign of wrong.


Cjre Jfairmg Vision.

Jot easily shall I forget the dream told me by a hard-worked shopkeeper. As she stood behind the little counter in the little shop (once a private house), this is what she said to me:—"It was such a dream I had! I dreamt that I was on a beach; it was wide and large, and covered with jewels and gold and precious things. And as I stood and looked around, a great light shone from above. The clouds opened; I could see into Heaven. Oh, the glorious vision I had, of Jesus standing at the right hand of God! But the people all around were busy gathering the jewels that covered the shore. I joined them; I seldom looked up. When I did, I found the vision growing fainter and fainter; and by-and-bye, when my apron was quite full of the precious things, I looked up, and—the heavens were dark, the vision of glory had faded away."

"What do you understand by the dream?" I asked her. "Ah," she said, "I am here day after day, toiling and moiling for the things that perish; so busy, so busy, and the vision of Jesus is dying, dying from my eyes."

What, reader, of the heavenly vision that has come to

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