locks, surely belong to the gallant old Cavalier, but there is something of the stern Puritan too. The resoluteness of the firm though mobile mouth betokens a strength of moral purpose, which does not belong to the caste of the mere court gentleman; about those delicately-cut nostrils there dwells a possibility of quivering indignation, and in the eyes that are looking broodingly down on the congregation true pathos and keen humour are strangely blended.

Presently the deep, flexible voice, which had the soul of music in its tones, re-echoed through the church as he called the people to worship God, and read some verses of an old psalm. Familiar as the words were to Grace, they seemed as he read them to have a new meaning, to be no longer seven verses with queer, out-of-the-way expressions, that had cost her trouble to learn as a Sunday evening's task, but a beautiful, real prayer to a God that was listening, and would hear, as the "strange minister's" voice pealed out,—

"Lord, bless and pity us,
Shine on us with Thy face;
That the earth Thy way, and nations all
May know Thy saving grace."

And when the sermon came, and the preacher began to talk in thrilling words of that saving health which the Great Healer of souls had died to bring to all nations, Grace felt the reality of those unseen, eternal things of which he spoke as she had never done before. Then there were interspersed with those faithful, burning words for God beautiful illustrations from nature, which fascinated the little girl's imagination, as she sat gazing, not at the gilded cherubs to-night, but on the benignant, earnest face of the speaker. He surely must have been a sailor, or he could never have known so well what a storm at sea was like, she thought, as she listened, spell-bound, feeling as if she was looking out on the angry sea, with the helpless wrecking ships tossing upon the waves; but then in another moment he took them into the thick of some ancient battle, where the brave-hearted "nobly conquering lived or conquering died;" or it was to some fair, pastoral scene, and then the preacher seemed to know so well all the delights of heathery hills and pleasant mossy glades, that Grace thought he certainly must have been at Kirklands and wandered among its woods and braes. And into each of his wonderful photographs he wove many holy, stirring thoughts of God, and of those "ways" of his that may be known upon the earth, of which they had been singing.

Presently the preacher began to talk of what the worthy tinsmith had called the "new-fangled scheme," for which, he said, he stood there to plead that evening. He had come to ask help for the little outcast city children. It was before the days when School Boards were born or thought of that this gallant-hearted man sought to move the feelings and rouse the consciences of men on behalf of those who seemed to have no helper. It was for aid to establish schools for those destitute children, where they might be clothed and fed as well as educated, that he went on to plead. Grace sat entranced, listening to the preacher, as with the "flaming swords of living words, he fought for the poor and weak." Never before in the course of her narrow, sheltered child-life had she, even in imagination, been brought face to face with the manifold wants and woes of her poorer brothers and sisters, or understood the service to which the Son of Man summons all his faithful followers: "Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?"

It seemed to Grace, when the preacher had ceased, as if a new world of loving work and of duty stretched before her; for could she not become one of that band whom the preacher called in such thrilling words to enroll themselves in this service of love?

When the eloquent voice paused, and the congregation began to sing again, Grace still felt the words sounding like trumpet-notes in her heart. How she longed to ask the minister to take her to those courts and alleys, and to tell her in what way she might best help those neglected ones. How many plans coursed through her eager little brain for their succour. But the preacher had said he wanted money for their help; a collection was to be made before they left the church.

Grace's store of pocket-money was slender, and, moreover, was not in her pocket now. How gladly would she have emptied her little silken purse, if she had only had it with her; but, alas! it lay uselessly in her drawer at home. Her conventional penny had been put into the plate at the door, as she came into church, and Grace thought ruefully that she had nothing—nothing to give to help these poor forsaken ones, whose hard lot had so touched her heart. Just then, however, she happened to raise her hand to her neck, and was reminded of an ornament which she always wore, the only precious thing she possessed. It was an old-fashioned locket, with rows of pearls round it, and in the centre a baby lock of her own hair, which her mother used to wear. Her Aunt Hume had some time ago taken it out of the old jewel-case which awaited her when Grace was old enough to be trusted with its contents, and given it to her to wear, so it was her very own. But was not this a worthy occasion for bringing of one's best and most precious things? Might not this pearl locket help to bring some little outcast waif into paths of pleasantness and peace? Yes, the locket should be given to the special collection, Grace resolved; but it might not be wise, to divulge the intention to Margery, who had already replied, when she was asked by Grace if she could lend her any money, that nobody would expect a collection from such a young lady.

When the crowd moved away from the passage, and began to scatter, Margery and her charge left the old pew in the highest gallery and prepared to go down the great staircase which led to the entrance door. Near the door there stood two elders of the church, with metal plates in their hands, waiting for the offerings of the congregation. Grace had been holding hers tightly in her hand, having untied it from her neck and slipped the ribbon in her pocket, and now she laid it gently among the silver, and the pennies, and the Scotch bank-notes, hoping that it might slip unobserved between one of the crumpled notes, and so escape the detective glance of Margery's quick eyes. But her hope was vain. Nurse caught sight of the pearls gleaming pure and white among the other offerings: "Missy, what have you done? Your locket! your mamma's beautiful pearl locket! Did I ever see the like? It's a mistake, sir. Miss Campbell could not have meant it," she said, turning to the elder, with her hand raised to recapture it.

"Stop, Margery, it is not a mistake; I meant to put it there," replied Grace in an eager whisper, as she pulled her nurse's shawl, glancing timidly at the elder, as if she feared he was going to conspire with Margery, and that, after all, her offering would be rejected.

"Missy! are you mad? What will your aunt say? Really, sir, will you be so kind?"—and Margery did not finish her sentence, but looked piteously at the elder, who was glancing at the little girl with a kindly, though questioning expression in his eyes, saying presently:

"You may have your locket back, if you wish it, my child. Perhaps you have given it hastily, and may regret it afterwards, and we would not like to have your jewel in these circumstances."

"Oh, thank you, sir," Margery was beginning to say, in a grateful tone, when Grace interrupted her.

"No, please don't, sir, I will not take it back. It was my very own, and I have given it to God, to use for these poor, sad boys and girls," Grace added, in a tremulous tone.

Then the old elder looked at Margery, and said, "My friend, I cannot help you further. Neither you nor I have anything to do with this gift; it is between the giver and the Receiver."

There was something solemn in his tone which