her. She spoke of her coming change no longer
with resignation; it was with rapture. "Oh!"
she cried, "to think that from this very day I
shall never sin again, shall never again offend
Him by unholy temper, by un-Christ-like
behaviour!"

The strong and healthy wept and groaned
aloud; but she they sorrowed for was all celestial
bliss. In her lifetime she had her ups and
downs of religious fervour; was not without
feverish heats, and cold misgivings and depression;
but all these fled at that dread hour when
the wicked are a prey to dark misgivings, or
escape into apathy. This timid girl, that would
have screamed at a scratch, met the King of
Terrors with smiles and triumph. For her the
grave was Jordan, and death was but the iron
gate of life everlasting. Mors janua vitæ. Yet
once or twice she took herself to task: but only
to show she knew what the All-Pure had
forgiven her. "I often was wanting in humility,"
she said. "I almost think that if I were to be
sent back again into this world of sin and sorrow
I am leaving behind, I should grow a little in
humility; for I know the ripe Christian is like
the ripe corn, holds his head lower than when he
was green; and the grave it seems to be ripening
me. But what does it matter? since He who
died for me is content to take me as I am. Come
quickly, Lord Jesus, oh, come quickly! Relieve
Thy servant of the burden of the flesh, and of
the sins and foibles that cling to it, and keep her
these many years from Thee."

This prayer was granted; the body failed
more and more; she could not swallow even a
drop of wine; she could not even praise Her
Redeemer: that is to say, she could not speak.
Yet she lay and triumphed. With hands put
together in prayer, and eyes full of praise and joy
unspeakable, she climbed fast to God. While
she so mounted in the spirit, her breath came at
intervals unusually long, and all were sent for
to see Death conquer the body and be conquered
by the soul.

At last, after an unnaturally long interval, she
drew a breath like a sigh. They waited for
another; waited, waited in vain.

She had calmly ceased to live.

The old doctor laid down her hand reverently,
and said, "She is with us no more." Then with
many tears, "Oh, may we all meet where she is
now, and may I go to her the first."

Richard Hardie was led from the room in a
stupor.

Immediately after death all the disfiguring effect
of pain retired, and the happy soul seemed to
have stamped its own celestial rapture on the
countenance at the moment of leaving it; a
rapture so wonderful, so divine, so more than mortal
calm, irradiated the dead face. The good Christians
she left behind her looked on and feared to
weep, lest they should offend Him, who had taken
her to Himself, and set a visible seal upon the
house of clay that had held her. "Oh, mamma,"
cried Julia with fervour, "look! look! Can we,
dare we, wish that angel back to this world
of misery and sin?" And it was some hours
before she cooled, and began to hang on Edward's
neck and weep his loss and hers, as weep we
mortals must, though the angels of Heaven are
rejoicing.

Thus died in the flower of her youth, and by
what we call a violent death, the one child Richard
Hardie loved; member of a religious party whose
diction now and then offends one to the soul:
but the root of the matter is in them; allowance
made for those passions, foibles, and infirmities
of the flesh, even you and I are not entirely free
from, they live fearing God; and die loving Him.

There was an inquest next day, followed in due
course by a public trial of James Maxley. But
these are matters which, though rather curious
and interesting, must be omitted, or touched
hereafter and briefly.

The effect of Jane's death on Richard Hardie
was deplorable. He saw the hand of Heaven;
but did not bow to it: so it filled him with rage,
rebellion, and despair. He got his daughter
away and hid himself in the room with her;
scarcely stirring out by night or day. He spoke
to no one; he shunned the Dodds: he hated
them. He said it was through visiting their
house she had met her death, and at their door.
He would not let himself see it was he who had
sent her there with his lie. He loathed Alfred,
calling him the cause of all.

He asked nobody to the funeral: and, when
Edward begged permission to come, he gave a
snarl like a wild beast and went raging from him.
But Edward would go: and at the graveside
pitying Heaven relieved the young fellow's choking
heart with tears: but no such dew came to
that parched old man, who stood on its other
side like the withered Archangel, his eyes gloomy
and wild, his white cheek ploughed deep with
care and crime and anguish, his lofty figure
bowed by his long warfare, his soul burning and
sickening by turns, with hatred and rebellion,
with desolation and despair.

He went home and made his will; for he felt
life hang on him like lead, and that any
moment he might kill himself to be rid of it.
Strange to say, he left a sum of money to Edward
Dodd. A moment before, he didn't know he was
going to do it: a moment after, he was half
surprised he had done it, and minded to undo it; but
would not take the trouble. He went up to
London, and dashed into speculation as some in
their despair take to drink. For this man had but
two passions; avarice, and his love for his daughter.
Bereaved of her, he must either die or live
for gain. He sought the very cave of Mammon;
he plunged into the Stock Exchange.

When Mr. Hardie said, "Alfred can't come, it