God which passeth all understanding"—the peace which the Lord has promised to those who are stayed on him.

There was a slight sound. He looked up quickly; it was Cecilia—St. Cecilia the children called her—coming over the grass to meet him.

"Father, darling," she said, as she twined her arms about his neck, "I do wish I could do something for you."

"But you do, dear child," he answered, tenderly. "Mother's right hand: what more can we ask?"

"Yes, but father, you—you seemed so troubled last night."

"If I did, my darling, it was very wrong," he replied, gravely, "and showed a great want of trust in our Heavenly Father."

"I could not sleep for thinking of you, and wishing I were older, that I might really be able to help you."

"Poor little Cicely," he said, tenderly taking the sweet, earnest face between his hands. "Poor little right hand—old before her time. You must not take up our cares, darling. Indeed, if we older people had more faith we should never fret or worry either, but, instead, cast all our cares upon the Lord who cares for us."

"What are you and father talking about? You are both so grave," said Rachel, as she came running up to them. "Cicely looks just like that picture we have up in our room—St. somebody or other—I can't remember the name. Not anybody in the Bible, you know," said Rachel, garrulously, "but it's just like Cicely, when she is in white and grave, isn't it, father? Only she's got no halo round her head."

"You little chatterbox!" said her father, laughing, "it's a pity someone else has not a little more gravity herself."

"Oh, I can look very grave if I like, father. I practise sometimes in front of the glass, and I make such a long face—really, yards long."

"Did you measure it with your yard measure, Rachel?"

"Oh, no. But you know what I mean—as long as yours, and mother's, and Cicely's."

"Well, I am sure we all feel very flattered," said her father, smiling. "What a little pickle you are."

"A pickle! what is that? I thought it was something to eat. Is it nice?"

"Well, that is a matter of opinion," smiling. "Some people are very fond of pickles; others find them just a little bit too hot and strong."

Rachel was silent for a moment, then she dismissed the subject with a toss of her dark curls. "Father," she said, "do you know I am so glad no one is coming to be healed to-day, so we shall have you all to ourselves, and we can have some round games like Cicely says you had in England."

Mr. St. John's face changed. "Rachel," he inquired, gravely, "how do you know that no one is coming to be healed this morning?"

"Because Seng Mi said so, father. The people are angry about something, I don't know what, but I am so glad. Cicely, why don't you say you're glad, too, instead of looking like St. Cecilia at the piano?"

Cecilia flushed, and the tears came into her eyes. Her father took hold of her hand and pressed it between his own.

"Father, darling," she whispered, "has it come already?"

"God only knows," he replied, sadly, "but we shall be ready, at any rate, darling."

"Yes, father," she said, earnestly, lifting her sweet, grave eyes to his. "Do you know—I have often wished to tell you—Jesus is so precious to me that sometimes I long to suffer for His sake."

"My dearest child, God grant that He may be more exceedingly precious to each one of us every day. God be with you all in the time that is coming, and the dear native Christians. Ah, Cicely, my heart bleeds for them."

"Why, father?" asked Rachel, who had caught the last words.

"Because, Rachel, I am afraid there is a time of great trouble in store for them—terrible persecution. Indeed," he added, "it has begun already; in the letter which I received last night from Pekin, your uncle speaks of the dreadful suffering, not only of Europeans, but also of the native Christians—there have been hundreds of martyrs for Jesus already."

"Have there, father?" Rachel's gentian-blue eyes were very wide open indeed—"I haven't seen anybody being persecuted here yet."

"No; but my dear little Rachel, it has not reached us yet, God be praised for that; but it may come any day—it might even come to-day."

Rachel was silent for a moment, and then suddenly reverted to what had been uppermost in her mind—of paramount interest to her: "About the games, father," she said, coaxingly, "if mother will give us a holiday, will you come and have some games with us? I should like blind man's buff and hide and seek; Cicely and I will hide, and you shall find us."

"Rachel," said her father, gently, "I should like to do what you wish, but first I must tell you a story, and then you shall decide yourself about the games afterwards."

"Oh, a story, father, I shall like that; let's sit down here under this banyan tree, and then we can listen nicely," and Rachel flung off her big, shady hat, and settled herself down by her father's side, prepared to drink in every word. With the dark curls tossed back from her little, eager, upturned face, and her sparkling blue eyes, she made a pretty picture, and formed a pleasing contrast to her equally lovely sister—indeed, Cicely's was the lovelier face of the two, for God Himself had taken up the brush and been the Painter there.

"Rachel flung off her big shady hat, and settled herself down by her father's side."

"Once upon a time—that is the correct way to begin, Rachel, is it not?—there lived a very wicked and cruel Emperor, so cruel that his name has become a proverb."

"Nero," exclaimed the children in one breath.

"Yes, that is right," said Mr. St. John, continuing his story; "there were a great many Christians then; they were people who loved the Lord very dearly, for in confessing Him they ran the risk of the most awfully cruel death—Nero had his spies everywhere."

"What is a spy, father?"

"You will see, dear; they were people who pretended to be what they were not; they professed to be friendly with the Christians—even to be Christians themselves sometimes—and they would go to their secret meetings held in the catacombs."

"The what?" said Rachel, "what long words, father."

"The catacombs were vast dark passages underneath the city where the Christians used to meet and worship God; but you ask so many questions, Rachel," said her father, smiling, "that I lose the thread of my story."

"You were explaining about the spies, father," put