(she had caught up this word from him), and their poverty, and with six babies, as they might be called for any use they were, to look after, and it would soon be seen whether there was much difference between one woman and another, after all.

"Well, Sarah," said my patient grandfather, after the last outburst of this kind, "I will not speak to you on this subject again till you ask me. Until then I will be silent; the words 'religion,' 'gospel,' 'salvation,' or 'prayer' shall never intentionally escape my lips in speaking to you. You know something of these matters, as you say; and probably you do not like to be spoken to as though you were ignorant of them, So let it be, then." Saying this, the aged man sorrowfully left the cottage.

Nor did he repeat his visits for many weeks, and even months. He was not weary in well-doing; no one could have thought that of him. But to what good purpose could he call at Sarah Adams' cottage after the engagements he had made? Whether it was wise in him to make such an engagement, it is not for me to say. He thought it right, however; and he had generally some good reason for all he said and did.

"Poor Mrs. Adams is in great trouble, sir," said a compassionate neighbour one day to my grandfather.

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Ah, indeed! What is her trouble now?" he asked. "Her husband has been caught poaching again, and is locked up in jail; and she, poor woman, hasn't a bit of bread, nor sixpence to buy a loaf, to feed her hungry children with. She has been to the parish officer for relief, but he tells her he can do nothing for her without an order, and he doesn't know whether or not he can get that.”

"Poor Sarah!" sighed my grandfather. "And you are sure she is in want, are you?"

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Quite sure, sir."

My grandfather put his hand in his pocket. "No bread, did you say, Mrs. Stevenson ?"

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Yes, sir, I said so. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that, either; for when I saw how things were, I took in all the bread I had in my cupboard, and glad enough she was of it. But it wasn't much, and it is all gone long before now, I'll be bound."

"It was kind of you, and neighbourly," said my grandfather. "Will you do a little commission for me?" Mrs. Stevenson was quite willing, and said so.

"Will you oblige me, then, by making a few purchases as you go home, and leaving what you buy with Sarah Adams?" My grandfather took his hand out of his pocket now and transferred what it held to the neighbourly advocate, giving at the same time some directions.

Mrs. Stevenson was pleased with her commission, and promised to execute it faithfully, and at once.

"But will you not go yourself and see the poor woman, sir ?" she pleaded.

"I am not sure that it would be of any use. I am not a very welcome visitor at her cottage," said my grandfather.

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Oh, but do go, sir. There's no telling what good you might do the poor body now she is in such trouble."

"The question is whether or not I can do good to her soul," said my grandfather, musingly. "Well, I'll see."

My grandfather did not call on Mrs. Adams that day, nor the next. He was not unmindful of her, however; for he waited on the guardian of the parish and obtained his promise that the poor woman's wants should be attended to while her husband was in prison. On the following day he took his way to the cottage.

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It was by no means an inviting_place to visit; this my grandfather knew beforehand. Emptiness, rags, untidiness and noise were its principal features. When I say emptiness," I mean that there was hardly any furniture in the room, for in the ten or twelve years of Sarah's married life the few household comforts with which she began it had disappeared, and left but the barest necessities.

The poor woman received her visitor gratefully, however, for she knew to whom she was indebted for the meals she and her children had eaten the last two days; and this knowledge had a little softened her.

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I am sorry to see you in such distress, Sarah," said my grandfather, when he had cautiously taken a seat-cautiously, for the chair which was offered him looked suspiciously frail.

"It is a long time since you called last, sir," said Mrs. Adams, evasively.

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Yes; you remember what passed then, I dare say: but, not to remind you of that, what is it that I hear about your husband? Is it true?"

Yes, John had been taken up again for poaching, if that was what my grandfather had heard. A stupid, foolish

man, as he always had been. He hadn't had any work for a while, though he might have got it if he had tried; and so he must needs go out o' nights again, never thinking about her and the children; and he had got caught, just according to what she had foretold; and served him right too. All this Sarah Adams said bitterly, while her speech was broken by sobs.

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C

Well, we won't speak about your husband's folly. I am only sorry that it seems a rather bad case, and that he may have a lengthened imprisonment. This being so, it is scarcely the time to reproach him." So my grandfather said.

Mrs. Adams did not want to reproach her husband, she was sure, but yet it was hard to bear. To think how she had worked and slaved all her married life, and all to no purpose. It was only to look round and see the misery she was in to let anybody into the secret. She little thought, when she was married, what it was all coming to. If she had taken good advice, it never would have been; but as she had brewed, so she must bake. She supposed that was it.

My grandfather thought of a Bible text which would have been at least as appropriate to poor Sarah's distressful circumstances as the proverb she had quoted, namely, "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. But he remembered his engagement, and he did not speak. Meanwhile the poor woman went on with her sad complaints, which I shall not attempt to set down, and which, indeed, were presently cut short by my grandfather saying

"It does not need for me to be told, Sarah, that you are unhappy

"And well I may be, sir," she interposed, hastily. "It is of no use trying any more; I may as well give up at once," she added, passionately.

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You have had a troubled life for some years past," continued my grandfather, "and it is not worth while to go into the reasons why. Let us try to forget your troubles for a minute or two. I have lately read of a curious incident that once happened, and I should like to repeat it." And without waiting for the poor woman's consent, he went on

"Some time ago-I cannot tell you how long-a vessel was sailing on one of the great American lakes, which,

you may have heard, are, in almost all respects, like seas. Well, a storm arose, and the vessel was wrecked. I believe she sprung a leak and sunk; but happily the sailors had time to let down a boat, and so they escaped drowning. But when morning came (for this happened in the night) they found themselves in bad case, for they were out of sight of land, and did not know which way to steer. They were short of provisions, too, for they had only a bag of biscuits, which one of the men had thrown into the boat. The worst of all was, however, that they had no water.

"They soon began to feel the effects of this want; for as soon as the sun rose and began to scorch them with its heat what with that and the fatigue of rowing-they became almost maddened with thirst. They were not hungry; and if they had been, their biscuits would probably have lasted them till they could reach land, which might be, as they hoped, in the course of a short time. But how could they do without water?

"Their great distress lasted all through that day and through the succeeding night, and into the next day. Thirst is a terrible sensation, Sarah," said my grandfather, appealing to the poor woman.

"Yes, sir," said she, listlessly.

So these poor sailors felt it to be. Like you, they said among themselves what you said to me five minutes ago, It is of no use trying any more; we may as well give up at once.' And so, ceasing rowing, they laid down their oars, and looked gloomily into each other's faces. All their thoughts were upon water-water; drink-drink."

"And why didn't they drink, when there was water all round them?" Mrs. Adams asked, with some little infusion of impatience as well as interest in her tone.

"Did you ever try to drink salt water, Sarah ?" my grandfather asked, gravely.

"Oh! salt water! that made the difference."

"It would have made all the difference if it had been salt water," continued my grandfather; "but the truth is, the waters of those lakes, large as they are, are beautifully fresh, as the poor shipwrecked sailors might have remembered, and would have remembered, if they had not been very forgetful. But they had been used to sailing on salt water all their lives, and it did not come into their minds that the lake water was sweet and drinkable, until one of

them, almost in despair, dipped his hand into it and put it to his lips. Then there was such a shout of wonder and gladness when each had drank to the full as those sailors had never before uttered. They drank and drank again, and then, taking up their oars, they pulled away with renewed vigour, and in due time reached the land in safety. There, Sarah, that is my story; and now I must go," said my grandfather. "You have nothing more to say to me, I suppose," he added.

"No, sir," replied Mrs. Adams, falteringly, "only to thank you again for your kindness

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'Oh, that's nothing. I shall do what I can for your husband, and for you in his absence."

"Thank you, sir," said the poor woman again. And my grandfather put on his hat.

Sarah," said he, as he reached the door, and turned sharply round upon Mrs. Adams, "do you happen to know any one very much like the sailors I have been speaking of?"

"In having a neglected treasure of abundant supply at hand, while they are almost dying of thirst."

"No, sir," she replied. And my grandfather walked away from the cottage door.

NAT CANTLE, THE ORACLE.

CHAPTER 11.

THE reader of the previous chapter has doubtless divined that Nat Cantle's home, however poor, would be both clean and scrupulously neat. And so it was. He and his wife Mary rented a good-sized old-fashioned house in a street which once laid claims to gentility, but for many years had gone out of fashion with the influential of this world. The Cantles reserved the kitchen and two upper rooms for themselves, the rest of the house being sub-let to various other families. The kitchen was the prettiest and brightest room in the house; for though below stairs and in the back, it looked out into a little garden into which Ned Cantle (Nat's son), notwithstanding the soot and smoke from the town chimneys, always managed to have something bright growing. He had his holly-bush and chrysanthemums in the autumn and winter, his crocuses and snowdrops in the