flowers intermingle in the distance; in the foreground lies a single poppy, withered and dying. Slowly, beside it a lily grows up; as it grows the fading poppy is stirred, touched by its leaves; and the tiny bells waving over it inspire new life and vigour, till at length, grown whole and fresh, it is loosened from the brown uptorn roots, and floats upwards, to bloom more beautiful in Paradise.

Again the mist passes over the light picture and changes it. A woodland scene is painted there now. Amid the fern and moss and twigs under the trees, wild flowers are blowing. A pathway intersects the little wood, and across it shadows of the trees fall, with sunlight between. In the foremost patch of sunshine, at the edge of the path, is a sprinkling of anemone leaves. And there amongst them a delicate blossom, half crushed by the superincumbent weight of moss, the fallen leaves of last year, and tiny, lichen-covered twigs. The white, transparent petals are soiled and deformed, thrust down to the earth. As Hazel looks, regretting that she has not the power to stretch forth her hand and clear away the destructive weight, the leaves and twigs tremble, and are uplifted, and fall away from the slender plant, for close beside it a hardy little fern frond slowly uncurls itself and arises. The frail blossom stirs slightly, released from the overwhelming pressure; but has no strength to do more. Oh, for water to revive it! And, lo! from the fair green fern drops of dew embosomed there are shed and scattered over the downcast head. They are drunk in, and by degrees the drooping cup is raised to the friendly fern. And then, the straight young frond, itself ever growing, waves aside in a natural, graceful sweep, and allows the sunshine in all its strong radiance and reviving force to fall full on the flower. And the half-closed bell joyously expanding, grows white and strong and beautiful.

And so the crystal pictures change and change, till Hazel's every helpful act has been set forth. Then, as the last fades, and the arch of storied light itself dissolves and melts, with one all-absorbing passion of eternal devotion flooding her whole being, Hazel turns to Him who has kept her beside Him throughout, her hand retained in His. For one moment she beholds Him, the Unutterable One; and in His Sacred Face she reads, amid ineffable love and infinite majesty, a look of gratitude. And once more the Divine accents fall on her ear, saying—

"'Inasmuch as thou didst it unto one of these My brethren, even these least, thou didst it unto Me.'

"Let not those, the queens of the earth, to whom I have given the priceless gifts of life and leisure, hold either lightly. Life, with its sorrows and its joys, is but the education time fitting them to live for ever with Me. The leisure I have bestowed may be used for Me, in doing work in My garden—work which I have prepared for them to do, and which I long to see done. Let them see to it that they waste not the opportunity in fretful discontent and idleness—'And whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones, a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, she shall in no wise lose her reward.'"

Hazel awoke. The moon was streaming in through the window. The grate was filled with shining blocks of coal, and a few half-burnt matches. Aching all over, and shivering with cold, she closed her eyes once more, and a period of insensibility followed.

Many days and nights of feverish illness ensued—days and nights in which Hazel had much to suffer, and was only from time to time conscious of the loving, unceasing care which watched over her. In those intervals when her mind was not dazed and confused, she saw a face, old and plain and wrinkled, which was to her as the face of an angel, for Miss Bright tended and watched her with all the self-sacrifice of a noble, true woman.

At length, after a weary, weary time of pain, Hazel fell asleep once more. Her dream came back to her, for she thought she was resting in the warm sunshine on a bed of lilies in the same beautiful garden. And when she opened her eyes she found her room was really bright and warm with a fire and sunshine, and fresh and sweet with the fragrance of lilies of the valley, a large bunch of them standing beside her, and more lying on the white coverlid of her bed. Her eyes filled and her heart swelled with gratitude. Softly she whispered, as though she spoke to someone close beside her, "Dear Lord, I am so thankful to Thee for making me better. I so longed to live a little while more to do some work for Thee in Thy garden. I bless Thee so!"

The door opened, and Brightie came in. The brave old woman broke down as she clasped Hazel in her joy at the improvement in her. The two cried together for a little while; there was so very much to be glad about that the gladness was too great for self-control.

A few days later, a girl with a white but radiantly happy face is resting in a cane armchair, her feet supported by a footstool, in the garden of a pretty country house at Fridorf. The sunshine is hot, but she is shaded from it by a trellis work of young-leaved creepers overhead. Lilacs and laburnum trees bloom abundantly around. The lawn before her is smooth and green, and beyond is the sea.

"How wonderful God's love is!" the girl says, presently, reaching out her hand to an old woman with a peaceful face who shortly joins her, and who clasps and retains the hand with an answering look more eloquent than speech.

THE END

HINTS ON MODELLING IN CLAY.

By FRED MILLER.

odelling in clay is a very agreeable change in one's artistic occupation, for it is quite unlike other branches of art, and calls into play a different set of faculties for its performance. It needs a greater amount of "hand cunning" than does painting, and is in that sense akin to wood carving, to which delightful craft it is, indeed, almost indispensable, and, I might add, part of the necessary training one has to undergo to become a carver in wood. And as on another occasion I am going to write a few hints on wood carving, the present article may be taken as a prelude to the one on that subject.

The materials necessary to try one's hand at modelling are very inexpensive. The clay is the most essential thing, and this can be purchased at one or two artists' colourmen, or, better still, at any pottery. I have had clay sent me from the potteries in Staffordshire, and those of my readers who live near a pottery would have no difficulty in supplying themselves with clay. The clay used for flower-pots does for coarse work, but is not sufficiently carefully prepared for fine work. It burns a rich red colour, and is, of course, terra-cotta. The clay used in making the terra-cotta plaques and vases is what you require for fine work. There are two or three firms who supply London shops with terra-cotta vases, etc., and I have no doubt that clay might be purchased of them.

The clay used in making tiles does for modelling, but perhaps the best is that which burns a cream colour. It is a dull grey colour, rather dark before it is fired, and it should be noticed that it is difficult to tell the colour clay will burn by its appearance when unbaked. Thus a grey clay may burn a rich red or pale cream. The qualities necessary in clay for modelling are plasticity,