yards beyond her father's door. She had reaped a rich reward for her exertions as she knelt by Millicent's bed. There on the eve of the great Festival of the Nativity of the Word made Flesh, Phoebe and Millicent met for the last time on earth; their last mutual earthly act being the partaking of His Body and Blood "Who was wounded for their transgressions." Earth's scenes were fading from their gaze, the veil which shrouded the unseen world from them was slowly being withdrawn, their trembling feet touched the very brink of the dark river of death—soon, very soon, the deep waterfloods must overwhelm them. To whom, then, should they turn? Happy for them that they had learnt to follow the guidance of the Hand which had been pierced for them, and which, revealed in the ministries of the Church, had guided their steps from Baptism to this, the last Communion they shared together.

The aged clergyman who had held both Phoebe and Millicent in his arms at the font, stood by Millicent's bed, offering to them the Body which was broken and the Blood which was shed for them. And as they gazed upwards, they saw by faith the Hands and Feet fastened to the Cross with nails, and the crimson tide which flowed from His wounds; they looked on the side pierced by the cruel spear; and they knew that it was their sin which had caused all this. Oh the mingled sorrow and bliss of that thought! Vain at such a moment is

"other hope or trust

Than the atonement of His Blood,"

Who made on the Cross "a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice for the sins of the whole world. When the solemn Feast was over Phoebe and Millicent parted for ever in this world.

Not many days after the Feast of the Purification Millicent sank calmly to her rest; shortly before Ascension Day a sharper summons called Phoebe home. They lie side by side in the pretty new churchyard of Claymere. A simple cross marks the head and foot of each grave, and there is a short inscription and a text on each headstone, and at the foot the words, "In peace." The text on the cross at the head of Millicent's grave is, "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day;" on Phoebe's there are the words, "There remaineth therefore a rest for the people of GOD:" the one text speaking to us of the peace of Paradise, the other raising our thoughts to the Resurrection morn, when the "Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in His wings."

GOD grant us all so to live that when we shall stand on the borders of

the valley of the shadow of death we may "fear no evil,” but cling to "His rod and His staff" for comfort; so shall He "give strength and power unto His people," and even in the very hour of death our risen LORD shall "give unto His people the blessing of peace."

A SKETCH.

WHILST rambling about the North of Wales last autumn, good fortune led us to the little village of Llan Clwyd, situated underneath a range of grey Welsh hills, but whose chief charm lay in its utter simplicity and rural beauty.

We bent our steps to the little inn; and having ordered some refreshment to be ready for us on our return, proceeded to explore the ruins of the old castle, and the park, or rather what had once been the park, but now, alas, with the march of time, a ruthless hand had turned the beautiful green sward into uninteresting cornfields, and turnips.

The castle, an old feudal building, half in ruins, stands on the crest of a hill, overlooking the valley of the Clwyd, and protected on all sides by vast woods: it looks stern and dark enough to have been the scene of many tales of sin and sorrow.

We entered the old banqueting hall, now laid bare, its walls stripped, and the roof falling in, with stains of damp and rain on its ancient floor. It was all the same here, and we sighed to think of the time and labour it must have cost, to build up such a pile, and how quickly it was crumbling to decay. But it was not all thus, for the little chapel on the side of the castle though apparently built at the same time and looking old and weather beaten, was still in excellent preservation; and we hailed with delight an old man sitting on a piece of loose stone, who evidently belonged to the place, as he looked nearly as old and timeworn as the ruin itself, and almost as if he were part of the same.

My brother and I paused before we would address him, for his eyes were fixed on the east window, where the last rays of the setting sun were casting their shadows, and clinging lovingly to the bright mosses and coloured lichens which covered the walls.

"Good evening, father," I said, approaching the spot where he sat ; "it is a beautiful sunset, is it not ?"

"Ay, that it is indeed," replied the old man; many are the sunsets that I have watched from this stone; but it isn't many more that I shall see, for my sun is almost set: threescore years and ten," he continued to himself, "and the sand is almost run out."

My brother, willing to pursue the subject, said,

"Threescore years and ten, did you say? why you must have seen many changes, and doubtless can tell us the history of the chapel which has been so well preserved in the midst of the ruin around?”

“Ah,” said the old man, "it is indeed many a sad change that even I have witnessed here, but it is a long story, and you would tire in the hearing of it."

We hastened to reassure the old man on this subject, and he continued,

"But perhaps, lady, you would like to see the interior of the chapel; it is always kept open, thank GOD; and you can go in when you have a mind. I can always say my prayers there better than at home; I will rest here while you go inside."

We gladly followed his advice, and were much pleased with its interior. It is, or rather was, the family chapel, and when the rest of the castle was allowed to fall into ruins some hand had stayed the destroyer's power, and it was preserved in its pristine state. The chapel was small, but very perfect, with an east window quite entire; the altar also was cared for, and the piscina and credence in their former condition. The sun had just set behind the dark woods, leaving the chapel in a "dim religious light," which harmonised well with the quiet stillness of the evening, and made us more than ever realise the truth of the old man's words, " It is now never used for service, but is kept up by some member of the family as a kind of link between the past and future."

It was evidently a mortuary chapel, for numerous were the stones on which the name of Wynne was engraved; and just inside the door was a tomb, on which reclined a knight in complete armour, who we afterwards heard was the first Sir Hugh Wynne, who fell in the cause of his country.

We had carefully examined this interesting little chapel, and were preparing to leave it, when my eye was struck by a kneeling figure, in a niche of the wall, of evidently ancient date. The hands were clasped as if in prayer, and the eyes upturned as if to implore pardon of the great GOD. Underneath I read :

MARY ELEANOR WYNNE,

Who fell asleep, June 1st, 1700.

Her body is buried in peace, but her soul liveth for evermore.

And on a brass tablet below was written :

She prayed for her son upon earth, and thus still pleads for him in heaven.

Besides this, evidently added long afterwards, were the words:

HUGH WYNNE. January, 1730.

LORD, have mercy.

Here without doubt was the story of this old castle and ruin; a sad and terrible history could those walls doubtless reveal.

We were both silent awhile, and then my brother said—

"Can this be the solution of the old man's words?-does he allude to this, I wonder ?"

I replied by leading the way to where the old man sat; and taking the hand which rested on his knee, I said, "Father, we have been into the chapel, and seen all that has been done-it seems to be well cared for."

"Ay, indeed; it was all he could do-and did you see my Lady's figure?" he inquired eagerly.

Knowing he must allude to the one which had so much interested us, I replied, "Yes, indeed, and we are curious to understand its meaning."

"Shall I tell you then ?" he rejoined ; "I can remember only what I have heard my grandfather tell; for my Lady died even before I was born; but his father knew them all, and worked for them many a year, and blessed her with his dying breath; but they are all gone now," and he sighed deeply.

"But what of the Lady Eleanor?" I inquired—" and why is the history so sad ?"

The old man's eyes were filled with tears, and he said, “ If ever an angel walked on earth it was the Lady Eleanor !—and she died of a broken heart, I have heard, and it was her son who broke it. I will tell you all, lady, as well as I can remember; but my mind wanders sometimes, and I feel all lost like."

THE OLD MAN'S NARRATIVE.

It was nigh a hundred and fifty years ago that my great grandfather lived in that old cottage under the hill, where I live now, and used to

look after the cattle and sheep belonging to Sir Hugh Wynne, who was a young man then, and had a most beautiful lady for his wife; and she was not only beautiful, but good-she would visit the sick and poor and set a good example to every one, rich and poor, around her.

The old man's vernacular was at times so indistinct that I think it would be easier understood if I put into my own words the following sad story which by degrees we drew from him.

Sir Hugh was a kind man, but more fond of his horses and dogs than he was of his wife, who did all in her power to be a good wife to him, though at times it was very difficult. Her great sorrow, however, was that she had no children, but after five years had passed away she ceased to repine, and devoted herself more than ever to the poor around and her own household.

All the last verses of the book of Proverbs seemed to have been applicable to her; but it was never her lot on earth that her children should rise up and call her blessed.

At length, when all hope had passed away, a son was born, and then indeed devoutly she thanked GOD for all His mercies to her, bringing the precious infant as soon as it was possible to holy baptism, that he might be made "A member of CHRIST, a child of GOD, and an inheritor of the Kingdom of Heaven.”

It was in this chapel he was baptised, said the old man, by Lady Eleanor's chaplain-one who of course has long since been taken to his rest.

It was not many months after his birth that Sir Hugh Wynne, coming home from hunting, was killed by a fall from his horse. He died on the spot; and this land and castle descended to his little son and heir.

After that sad event Lady Eleanor but seldom left her home, and devoted much of her time to her son's education, praying for him night and day, that he might grow up a good and holy man. From infancy he was very wilful, and nothing would prevent him from doing what he had set his heart on. This lawlessness greatly increased, and remonstrate with him as she would, Lady Eleanor could not prevail on him to give up his will to hers. Tutors and preceptors alike were engaged, but to no purpose. Among his faults was the love of gambling; this his mother had forbidden, so he did it underhand, and when the inclination to do wrong is strong, opportunities are never lacking for the