times, and it is that which makes him such a good soldier of the Queen. She says the best soldier is the Christian soldier, and that very few people would contradict that now, because of Lord Roberts; and then there is General Havelock, and Sir Henry Lawrence, and a host of others. But Uncle does not look like father, and he does not speak much; you know what he is by his life more than by what he says. He has only one child, her name is Nina—Nina is three years older than I—she is my bosom friend. I never in my life saw anyone so wonderful as Nina, or anyone half so pretty; Nina is tall and dark, she has beautiful eyes, not at all like baby's, but more like wells of water, where the sunbeams lie; one can never be sad with Nina, she is so bright and sunshiny, like her laughing eyes; she loves me, too, dearly, and calls me St. Cecilia because I am so grave and old beyond my years.

Nina and Uncle Lawrence are always together, and she is the pet of the regiment—yet she is not spoilt. I have not known her long, only since the troubles began in China, and since they have been in Wei-hai-wei, which is about one hundred miles from this place; but our love for each other grew up mushroom-like in a few hours. She says she cares for me more than for any other girl. We write such long letters to each other, and when we meet she tells me stories about the officers, especially one, Uncle Lawrence's greatest friend.

We do not get the news here very fast, as we are quite in the country, but Nina wrote me a long letter yesterday from Pekin, where they are now, and told me what dreadfully cruel things the Chinese had done. She overheard a conversation between Uncle Lawrence and Colonel Taylor. Uncle Lawrence was talking of the risk of being captured, and of the awful peril which so many unprotected Europeans were in—it is far worse than death, for they torture people for days before they kill them.

"They should never capture anyone who belonged to me," said the Colonel, sternly, and he just touched his pistol with a meaning look.

Nina said her father went as white as death; she guessed what was passing through his mind. How could he kill Nina? Would it be right if it came to the worst, and to save her from a lingering death of agony? I told father, and asked him what he thought; for all the Europeans, so it seems, have resolved to kill their dearest and die, rather than fall into the hands of the Chinese. But father—well, father has such a strong, beautiful faith, he does not blame those who would do this, but for himself and for us—I know how he loves us—there were tears in his eyes as he spoke; still, he said he would not feel justified in doing this—he must leave it all with God, and He will take care of His own. I know what it cost father to say this, because I know what we are to him; but I also know that nothing, nothing would ever make him do what he would not think quite right: he does not blame others, but for himself it is different.

He and mother walked up and down for hours last evening, and part of the time I was with them, for they often take me into their confidence, and that is why I am so old for my years, I expect—the eldest in a large family generally is, they say; all father's thoughts were for mother.

"Oh, my dearest," he said—I think they had forgotten me—"I never loved you so well, and yet I am full of regret when I think of that quiet Rectory where you might have been now if it had not been for me. Do you remember it, the first time I saw you? I can see it all again: the Rectory garden, the old-fashioned grey stone house, shadows slanting over the lawn, and underneath the trees you were standing, the only young thing there, shading your eyes with your pretty hands; you were very much like our St. Cecilia, and I saw in a moment, beyond the mere beauty of your face, the Divine touch there, and I knew you were one of the Lord's dear children, and my heart went out to you, and I claimed you in my spirit then and there as my helpmeet, the woman whom God, in His love, had chosen for me. But if I had known what a future I was preparing for you, my beloved, I would never have spoken."

"A dear future," mother answered, gently clasping his arm with both her hands. "Would I have had it any different?"

"Yes, but, my darling—well, this news has unnerved me—Boxers are like devils possessed, and, if they should get hold of you and the children——"

And I saw father shudder; I had never seen him like this before: his faith had always been so strong, and now he seemed quite unnerved.

"They will not," said mother, calmly, and her eyes were soft with unshed tears, and yet had that patient, steadfast look the martyrs have. "But if there is trouble in store for us, oh! my dear husband, I would not have had it any different. God has been so good to us: we have been so happy, so happy together, there is nothing to regret; it was all ordered by a Divine love which never makes any mistakes; and it will be all ordered now," and she laughed a little to make him laugh, I think. "Oh! Paul, fancy my turning comforter!"

"Yes, darling," he replied, hurriedly, "I am ashamed of myself, and, more than all, ashamed of my lack of faith. What is our faith worth if it cannot stand this test? His strength is small indeed who faints in the day of adversity. God remains; He is over all, arranging every step of the way, and I can leave even you in peace now with this thought." And then I heard father say, and his face, which had been so wan and drawn before, was now radiant and bright: "'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee; because he trusteth in Thee.'"

But I crept up to bed and thought what dreadful news that must be to make father look and speak as he had done that evening.

CHAPTER II.

THE LETTER FROM PEKIN.

Mr. St. John might well look grave. "Upon the earth distress of nations, men's hearts failing them for fear." Yes, this text was being fulfilled. It was all very well for people in England to read of the awful things that were taking place in China, but to be on the spot—alone. Ah, there it was, therein lay the anguish—for he was not alone, if he had been he would not have cared. But his wife and children! it was the thought of them that caused him such unutterable pain.

Abraham knew something of this agony when he got up early that morning and saddled his ass. What a pathetic story! How difficult to read it without tears. It was just because Abraham felt it down to the very depth of his being, and yet never doubted God's love and God's power, that he was called faithful Abraham—God's friend.

It is easy to talk of faith to others—and to have it ourselves when everything goes well—but the faith which God approves is that which casts its burden on the Lord, that cries, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

Mr. St. John was a man full of faith. He was also full of love, or his faith could not have been so tried; and he was a man of prayer: that disquieting letter from Pekin had been spread before the Lord, and he got up very early so as to spend the morning hours in communion with Him. He had made great drafts on God's Bank, and his face had regained its usual serenity of expression. His heart, so torn and trembling overnight, was now calm with "the peace of