H! but it seemed such a heavy one! Agnes almost thought that it would never lift itself again so long as her life lasted. So we often think, forgetting that God can lift the darkest cloud any day, at any moment, and cause it to roll entirely away, while upon us shines down gratefully the bright light that was all the while behind it.

"I am so sorrowful," murmured Agnes, "and so lonely. I know it is cowardly to complain; but it is such a relief to talk over all these troubles with you, Eleanor-though I do not see how you can sympathise with me much; your prospects are happy enough."

"Poor girl!" returned Eleanor, in a tone of true tender pity, and not choosing to notice what had been said concerning herself. "But bear up, dear, and try to take it patiently. Who knows what blessing may lie behind it all? And then, it cannot last for ever, and perhaps a change for the better may come just when you are least expecting it."

She paused, and for a few minutes the silence was only broken by the soft sad sound of the drizzling February rain against the window, or by a cinder falling now and then from the fire, which was fast dying out.

"Only a few short weeks at most," Agnes went on,

presently, in the fretful voice that was not at all natural to her, "and then I shall have to go out into the wide world alone, and get my own living. I dread it, Eleanor. Dear, dear, auntie! Oh, why was she taken from me? We were so happy together, and loved each other so dearly. She was always like the kindest mother to me. Oh, I can never get over her sad, sad loss! And then, she being such an invalid, I had always something to do for her; and now-the time hangs heavy on my hands-every. thing reminds me of her-and-and everything looks so desolate!" And Agnes broke off, and wept bitterly.

And Eleanor gently caressed and comforted her. Some people, lately, had called Agnes weak. She did not. She knew that it was simply the suddenness of the blow that had fallen upon her that had changed her for the time so entirely. She had been a bright, brave, loving girl; now she was a weary repining woman. But Eleanor was a true friend, and had all patience with her; in her own happiness she could surely afford so much. And she thought of the lines

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much, or more, we should ourselves complain.

Eleanor had a happy home, being the eldest of a large and loving family of brothers and sisters; and she was also engaged to be married very shortly to a man whom she truly loved.

What a contrast did Agnes' sorrowful lot present! Her aunt, her sole protector, for she was an orphan, had lately died, and her dependence having been solely upon a very small life-annuity, nothing whatever was left for Agnes, who must now do, what she had never till very lately thought of doing-face the rough world unaided, and obtain a position and a foothold as best she might.

"Agnes, dear," said Eleanor's soft voice again, "you believe that every circumstance of our lives is shaped by a Providence that cannot err, do you not? -and that, if the very hairs of our heads are numbered, not the smallest event of our lives can possibly pass unnoticed?"

Agnes had dried her eyes, sadly enough, and was now slowly stirring the fire.

"Yes, yes, dear-that is my one comfort-my hourly comfort. But while I watch for God's hand, I can but weep as yet. It is wrong, I know, and faithless, but my Maker is a God of love, and remembers that I am but dust, and I rely upon Him to make me better and stronger soon."

They talked on a little longer, and then Eleanor said

"And now I must be going, Aggie, dear. I am

grieved to leave you, but I promised Albert that I would be at home this evening." And she looked down with a happy blush.

The light in Agnes' blue eyes became softer and gentler in a moment. No particle of envy was there in her generous nature, and her own sorrows grew always lighter at the sight of another's happiness.

"Go, dear-never mind me-and may God bless you, and your Albert too."

"And you, too, darling Aggie, and give you soon a heart for your very own, as true and good as my Albert's."

There was just a little bitterness in Agnes' sigh as she watched her friend depart. She felt her loneliness as yet so keenly. She could not help thinking, also, that it must be more than pleasant always to have a friend to go to in whose regards you stood first and foremost-ay, and from whom you need not look to be parted. And for an instant her thoughts went back to two happy months, which she remembered spending, six long years before, at the seaside, with some young cousins, and a young man, whom one of the cousins had afterwards married. But sorrowful as well as happy remembrances belonged to that time. The young wife had died soon after her marriage, and the bereaved husband had long been in a foreign land. He had been her friend, but there was no reason now why he should ever think of Agnes again.

The next day was Sunday; and Agnes was in her place at church, waiting for a message of comfort and guidance, for which she had prayed before leaving home-a message from that good God in whom was now her only hope and consolation.

And it came; not perhaps in the form she had expected-when do things happen as we expect?but it was a message which she never forgot, notwithstanding.

"The faith which honours God," said the preacher, "is that which trusts Him in dark days. True faith takes hold of the promises, and sings for joy, even in the midst of trial. Not a single hour of sorrow but has its use. Trust, then; trust more and more; and remember that 'they that trust in Him shall never be ashamed.'"

And Agnes, on her lonely homeward way, prayed in her heart for forgiveness for all her doubts and fears, and felt greatly cheered, and as though the edges of the dark cloud were beginning to brighten already.

Next came the sale of her aunt's furniture and effects. The proceeds belonged to Agnes. She would, after all, have a small sum wherewith to begin life in earnest. And now she began to pack. And whenever the tears started to her eyes, and that painful feeling of soreness and utter desolation threatened to overcome her again, she would call to mind the preacher's words—“ True faith takes hold of the promises, and sings for joy, even in the midst of trial." And then she felt comforted. And sometimes she would murmur to herself, "The way is dark-oh, so dark! but, thank God, who has shown me that it may lead to light, even in this world!"

It was a bright spring morning. The birds were singing gaily; primroses were blossoming in all the hedgerows, and blue and white violets peeped from under their green leaves in all the garden borders. Agnes had just completed her packing; and now, in sombre black dress, there she stood at the open window of her room, looking out, but very absently, at all the brightness and all the beauty around.

There was a quick step on the gravel. It was the afternoon postman. And soon the maid brought up a letter. Agnes took it curiously. Yes, it was for herself; but who could have written to her? Why, it was from India! And a rush of colour covered her pale face, and her hands trembled visibly as she opened it.

"It is from Willie!" she murmured then. "He has heard of poor auntie's death. Oh, it was very kind of him to write !"

But as she read the flush on her cheek deepened,

she drew breath quickly, and her eyes dilated in surprise. At length the letter fell from her hands, while her face showed a sort of disturbed incredulity.

So he had remembered her! Five years before he had gone out to India, a poor man. Now he was comparatively independent, and he had written, asking Agnes to be his wife, and knowing nothing whatever, apparently, of her aunt's death.

66

Something tells me that Agnes will be free to listen," he wrote; "but if not, I must bear the disappointment as I may. I should have spoken before leaving England, but my prospects were so entirely uncertain."

A little more he said, begging her not to keep him in suspense, giving her all necessary information as to a passage out, and hinting that he should begin to prepare for her at once.

For a long time Agnes sat there beside her trunks, as one in a dream. He had known, then, of her girlish fancy for him, which, in fact, had never been effaced. Oh, how good was God, who had thus so soon turned her darkness into light.

She picked up her letter now, pressing it softly to her lips.

"Dearest

"I will write this very day," she said. auntie too! I shall leave her at rest. Living, how could I ever have gone away from her?"

A little later Eleanor arrived. She had seen Agnes early that morning; but now, as she entered the room where she, Agnes, still sat, striving to realise her new-found happiness, Eleanor gave a little start of surprise at beholding the wonderful life and brightness of her friend's face.

"Dear Aggie, what has happened?" And Agnes told her friend all.

"Such a little while ago, Eleanor," she concluded, "and do you know what you said? 'It is only a cloud; it cannot hang over you for ever, and a change for the better may come just when you are least expecting it.'

337

Agnes had all her packing to do over again, but she did not mind that; and she wrote not one, but three letters to Willie; and then, only staying to officiate as bridesmaid at Eleanor's wedding, she set out on her voyage, and was received at the end of it by one who held her as one holds a long-lost treasure, and whose true heart she had for her very own, as Eleanor had said.

And often after that, when passing troubles came to her, she would say to herself

"It is only a cloud. It has its use; but it will pass away, please God, and I, if I will but trust in the dark, may be even the happier for it."

CHARLOTTE HAGAN.

THE

HERE are few spots of commanding loveliness on this globe of ours that have not also their story to tell a story fabulous or true, of tragedy or comedy, as the case may be. In Scotland, even more than in some other districts, beauty and grandeur of scene seem indissolubly wedded to wealth of association.

The voyager to Leith, or to the smaller ports of Newhaven and Granton, can hardly fail to notice very particularly, as his vessel enters the noble Frith of Forth, one such haunt of memory.

Abrupt, lofty, and all but perpendicular in form, the Bass Rock rises before him. Seen at a distance, and under sunny skies, it shines like a jewel in setting of azure, and at closer quarters the similes that have been found for it, from a supposed resemblance to Gibraltar downwards, are numberless, and varied as the observer's own idiosyncrasies.

This "gallant Frith," like its fellow of Clyde, has always been famous for its rock islands, which, in all sorts of fantastic shapes

Break the blue crystal of the seas.

And of all their number this is undoubtedly the most striking. None can excel the Bass in its weird and picturesque charm, nor rival it in its ties of tender human interest. Quite recently-in the month of September last-it figured as the subject of a very impressive commemoration; and through the length and breadth of North Britain, in at least a hundred different towns and villages, its name was familiar on men's lips.

Before, however, we pass to its story, to the sad and heroic memories that hover around it, some few words of description will be of use. If for a theory of its origin the man of science be applied to, he will answer, as in so many other instances of earth's apparent waywardness-intense volcanic energy. However hard it may be on a bright summer day to stand on the shores of Fife and picture the whole opposite coast-line, even from Leith unto Dunbar, a range of fiery craters, it seems highly probable that at some time in the world's youth such was the fact. The Bass Rock has, indeed, been surmised to cover the mouth, and to reproduce the shape, of one such crater. It is a standing testimony to the majesty and power of the imprisoned forces within.

The Bass lies some two miles off Canty Bay, on the coast of Haddingtonshire, and three from the quaint old-world township of North Berwick, where centred, as in duty bound, the recent celebration. It has congenial surroundings. Directly opposite are the

MEMORIES.

ruins of Tantallan Castle, and the strange conical hill of North Berwick Law is its fellow sentinel to these low southern shores.

The island is barely a mile in circumference, and might pass unheeded, a mere dull speck on the broad surface of the waters, but for its stately and always imposing height. With its rounded boss of greenstone rising to an elevation of more than three hundred and fifty feet, it appeals, however, straight to the awe and admiration of every on-looker. None can go by it without feelings of inquiring wonder; and to all it returns the same answer of grand disdain and calm. Who is man that he should question Nature's memorials?

The casual visitor, who is not unwelcome, nor free from claims for backsheesh, needs to exercise some caution in effecting a landing, for the Rock is inaccessible on all sides save the south-west, and very risky even there when the slightest swell prevails. Precipices abound, reaching not infrequently the considerable height of a couple of hundred feet, which is certainly not a tempting jump. A cavern of great size runs north-west to south-east for the entire width of the island, and at certain seasons of low tide may be explored; needless to say it is a wild journey.

Sheep, in varying numbers, are pastured on the Bass year in, year out, but of human inhabitants there are very few. Probably the oldest, as well as at present the most noticeable dwellers thereon are

the Solon geese. The Bass Rock, together with Ailsa, St. Kilda, Suliskerry, on the Scotch coast, and Lundy and the Skellig Islands farther afield, is a famous summer resort of these birds. Indeed, they flock hither in such numbers as to give the cliffs quite a snowy appearance. From ten to fifteen thou sand annually is a moderate estimate.

The Solon goose, or common gannet, is rather a remarkable bird in many ways. All sorts of odd superstitions are to be found in early books concerning it. For example, one veracious chronicler of Scottish history, three centuries and a half ago, gravely informs his readers that the bird, beyond all question, was developed from a peculiar kind of worm, genera. ting in decayed trees and growing first head, then feet, then wings, in regular and successive stages. There is nothing new under the sun, and verily there were evolutionists before Darwin!

The bird, when arrived at maturity-which it takes four years to reach, being both long-lived and a slow grower-is of great size, milk-white in colour, with the crown and back of its head of a peculiar yellowy tint, and the quill-feathers of its wings black. The egg, which may generally be written in the singular, is of a chalky white, and the young birds when just hatched are queer little blue-andblack objects, quite naked. A thick soft down soon comes, however, to their relief, and transforms them into the likeness of good-sized cotton-puffs. Un