"Not music?" said her father.

"No, thank you," answered Frances. Her father was surprised, but soon forgot the matter.

The choir at St. Stephen's Church was a fine one, and to listen to it on Sundays was her weekly treat; yet it was not unmixed with bitterness, for it was her music-master whose playing filled the church with glorious noise, and sometimes she caught a glimpse of his grim familiar face. Her father, following the

service with the docile attention and simple devoutness characteristic of soldiers and sailors, never dreamed of the feelings with which the music filled the heart of the girl at his side, often rising up so high that they sent the tears into her eyes. Yet it never repented her that she had not chosen to continue her lessons, for they would be of no use to her without a piano at home, and she would not let her father know that she would like one, because she knew that he would buy it for her. She was quite aware-though he would have been as astonished as other fathers are, on like occasions, to find she knew anything about it-that he had a drain on his income, sufficient to cripple him very considerably, in the shape of his sister's family.

Dr. Russell, though a hard-working, was not a prosperous man. His practice lay principally among the poor; and to educate eleven children, and to start the boys suitably, was a business in which Captain Rae had had a very large share.

So Frances went without a piano, and contented herself with a recreation within her reach-namely, reading.

He

She was not, of course, aware of the machinations of her elders concerning her; yet for the last fortnight she had had an uneasy sense of something in the air. Her father was not quite himself. would often betray preoccupation, and did not hear when he was spoken to; and she would catch him looking at her in what she called, very inappropriately, a “funny” way. And then he had done one very unkind thing-so unlike him. He had come into the drawing-room one afternoon, where she sat curled up with a book, and had said, "Frances, I want you to go out with me." She had jumped up with alacrity; but then he said, "Put on your best frock;" and, looking at him, she observed his best coat, and a generally brushed-up appearance. Her suspicions were roused, and the following dialogue ensued

Where are you going to take me?"

"To a delightful place, where you'll enjoy yourself immensely."

"You are going to the Verneys'!" with a sudden illumination. "Well, as you are going there, I shall put on my oldest frock, and spend the afternoon with Aunt Russell."

"Now, Frances, don't be silly. Run and change your frock like a good girl."

“No, indeed, it would kill me. Good-bye, papa. I hope you'll enjoy yourself," and Frances buried herself in her book, yet kept one corner of her eye for

the observation of her father. He was standing with his back to the chimney-piece looking blankly before him with an oddly disconsolate air. "What can be the matter with him?" she wondered, "why does he take it like this? why cannot he go without me?" But he did not appear to be intending to go, and by-and-by she began to feel uneasy.

"You don't really wish me to go?" she asked coaxingly.

"Yes, I do," said he, brightening. "What! if it will kill me?"

"You little goose! Yes, I very seriously wish you to go."

Frances threw down her book, and prepared for her martyrdom. She put on her best dark-blue suit, and set off with her father. Having made up her mind to the sacrifice, she did not take the grace from it by any but playful murmurings; indeed, she very rarely displayed temper, and never to her father. Her habit was to take her own way with perfect good humour, and on the exceptional occasions when she agreed to take somebody else's way, it was not with her a necessity to do it any less pleasantly. So her father did not at all realise that she was posi tively suffering from her nervousness, though when he looked at her critically after he had rung the bell at Lawn Court, he did observe that she was paler than usual. But he was more than satisfied with her appearance, and though inclined from his very anxiety to be, for the first time in his life, difficult to please, he could not but be content with the way in which she conducted herself when they were ushered into the presence of the ladies. It was true that all her sparkle and vivacity were gone as completely as if they had never been. Miss Ford might think her quiet and demure, but she could not think her awkward, and it was possible that the sweet pale face and timid manners of this transformed Frances might find their way to her heart sooner than the gaiety of the unabashed one. When they came away the Cap. tain asked her, with inward trepidation, how she had liked the two ladies. "Oh, I am sure I don't know," she answered; "I had enough to do to hold myself together. They frightened me so I felt as if I should fall to pieces." And this was all the comfort the poor Captain had been able to get.

Frances this morning stood whisking her possessions here and there, according to her notions of arrangement, and had almost forgotten her father's announcement when she heard his step on the stairs. Presently he appeared at the door. "Halloa," he cried, "you 're here, are you? You might have an invitation to dinner every day of your life, to see how coolly you take it."

"Oh, I know," she said; "you can't take me in. It's only aunt."

Her father laughed. His face was radiant, and his voice had in it a tone of cheerfulness almost exultant.

"You must have a new dress, Frances. Put on your hat, and we 'll go and choose it."

Entreaties were of no avail. Her father represented that an invitation could not be refused; and the dress was an unconfessed alleviation. About this there was much discussion. Her father favoured muslin, but was promptly snubbed. Muslin was out of date, Frances averred. But he was firm on the subject of colour: it must be white. A creamcoloured cashmere was eventually chosen, to be set off with a crimson flower, which her father undertook to procure for her.

The dreaded evening came at last, having its arrival delayed, as it seemed to Frances, by intervening days of unnatural length. Dreaded it certainly was, yet anticipated too, for it was hardly possible to regard her first dinner-party, and the wearing of so lovely a dress, with unmixed horror.

"Papa, be sure you sit by me all the time," were her last words before they entered the gate; "don't leave me a minute."

"My dear child, that's impossible," laughed her father. 'Some gentleman will take you in to dinner, and will make himself mighty agreeable to you, I daresay."

"Oh !" groaned Frances, "then you must look at me all the time, father, so that I can catch your eye when I want to. Be sure you don't forget."

The time in the drawing-room before dinner realised Frances' worst apprehensions. Up-stairs, when she had looked into the glass, she could not avoid a glow of pleasure. She had never seen herself from head to foot in a long glass before. It had, in truth, been a lovely sight-a slim well-poised figure, crowned with a sunny head that turned itself to catch all the effects with a saucy grace, like a bird's. But Frances reserved all her admiration for the soft sweep and perfect fit of her cashmere, and the deep rich crimson of her rose, for which she was sure her father had paid a great deal more than he ought. If she thought of herself at all, it was to notice with surprise that she looked quite grown-up in this attire. She supposed she must really consider herself a young lady now. But all the pleasure fled when she reached the drawing-room. When she collected her senses sufficiently to notice anything, she found herself stranded on the sofa by the terrible Mrs. Verney, and a very long way off from her father, who stood on the hearthrug with the other gentlemen. But when they were seated at dinner, she began gradually to recover herself, and to look about her with interest. Mr. Verney had taken her in, and she did not feel very frightened at him, for he called her "my dear," and, beyond seeing after her wine, did not take much notice of her. There was only one other visitorMr. Fortescue-and he sat on her left hand. On the other side of the table were her father and Miss Ford. Her father's face was hidden by the flowers

in the centre, and Miss Ford was opposite to her, and, she was sure, often looked at her. Miss Ford was by far the most dreadful person of them all, so cold and dignified-the kind of person, she said to herself, that she could never feel at home with. She began to listen to the talk that was going on. Mr. Verney confined his attention principally to his dinner, contenting himself with putting in a word now and then. Mrs. Verney was telling Mr. Fortescue the unfortunate history of some lady friend of hers, and Mr. Fortescue was giving her a not undivided attention, being in reality listening for Magdalen's voice with even more anxiety than that with which Frances was listening for her father's.

"Oh," the Captain was saying, "you talk about reading out of doors! if you want to appreciate Shakespeare, Miss Ford, you should read him as I used to do, with the wind and the sea making a roar round you. There's no quietness like that. The noise wraps you round like a better kind of silence. When I hear of orchestral music to Macbeth,' I think I know of a finer."

"When there is a question of the sea, Captain Rae," said Miss Ford, with a smile, "I have observed long since that you cannot talk prose. Am I beginning to find that Shakespeare gives you the same difficulty?"

"Well, you see, a sailor's library gets well thumbed. He can't get the new books, so the old ones have to see the more service; and I think it's not a bad thing. But we don't expect to keep abreast of the age."

"By-the-bye, Captain," interposed Mr. Verney, "have you seen this new fellow play Macbeth?' I've not seen him myself, but I'm inclined to think, from what I hear, that he makes a dreadful mess of it, which is always the way with these fellows who overturn precedent for the sake of sending up their own rocket."

"I can't judge," answered Captain Rae. "I never go to the theatre."

"Bless me!" ejaculated Mr. Verney, "how's that?"

"It's a whim," was the answer. "My mother didn't approve of it, and I kept out of it at first to please her. I've never had any strong inclination to forego."

.

All eyes round the table were upon her father, as he said this, and Frances coloured on his behalf, while he looked entirely at ease.

"That is an honourable whim," said Mr. Fortescue, "and deserves a better name." Magdalen did not speak.

Mrs. Verney presently making a move, Frances found herself once more in the drawing-room, this time separated from her father by walls instead of a few yards of carpet, and shut up with these two ladies without any hope of rescue. But it was not very awful, after all. Mrs. Verney took her in charge at once, and made her sit on a low chair before the fire, and began to talk to her, and as that lady did

not appear to very much notice what she said in reply, she soon felt re-assured. Miss Ford went to the piano, and while paying due attention to Mrs. Verney's talk Frances found herself quite enough at liberty to listen with mingled envy and delight to her fine playing.

66

"I suppose you go out a great deal, Miss Rae?" Mrs. Verney was saying. No? that's a pity; but perhaps you have not been long at Castleport. I must introduce you to some of the Thurfrestone people; there are some charming girls who would, I am sure, be pleased to know you. You must be very dull. No? Well, you have your father, as you say, and he is a very striking-looking man, certainly. I don't wonder you are proud of him."

She

Thus Mrs. Verney amiably continued to do her duty in entertaining the young stranger. Coffee was brought, and soon after Frances heard a door open, and the sound of voices, and then the gentlemen appeared. Her heart welcomes her father as eagerly as though they had been parted for a month. feels sure he will come and speak to her. No! He has not caught her eye, or even looked her way. He goes straight to the piano, where Miss Ford is standing. She has turned round, and instead of a view of the heavy plaits at the back of her head, Frances can see her face. A beautiful smile flashes over it as her father comes up, and they sit down at once and begin to talk. She is not the only interested and envious observer of this little scene. Mr. Fortescue is looking on, and he cannot avoid a pang, although he calls himself foolish for it, and reasonably attributes Miss Ford's favours to the Captain to the feminine reserve which will prevent a woman from

extending her favours where she knows they will be most prized. But the evening is at an end for him, as far as any enjoyment is concerned. He has not had the chance of talking to Miss Ford since before dinner. She and the Captain do not tire of each other. Mr. Verney, with great good humour, overwhelms Frances with photographs, convinced that he is entertaining capitally this shy pretty maiden, while she, poor child, is longing for the evening to be over. How her father enjoys himself among these people ! How much at home he seems with the clever Miss Ford ! And she had thought he cared only for home.

At last that haven of safety is reached. She can become herself again, and she does not hesitate over the process. She begins by ruffling up her father's hair, to make him feel that he is at home, and then dances a jig in her long white dress, in order to convince herself, she says, that she is not really a grand lady. Her father watches her, and smiles, but he is silent, and takes no share in the fun. When she says good night, she kisses him a great many times, and says, in a coaxing voice

"Father, are you sure you are contented with me? Don't you want me to be like that grand Miss Ford? Are you quite, quite sure you love me, and don't want any one else?"

Her father's eyes meet hers in a confused fashion, and a redness is plainly visible through the brown of his cheeks. But there can be nothing wrong, she feels, for he takes her in his arms, and kisses her tenderly, saying, earnestly—

"I do indeed love thee, my child." (To be continued.)

HERE is almost always some difficulty in discovering who was the actual founder of any great institution.

The first Young Men's Association may have been originated in some upper chamber in Jerusalem, and branch associations may have held their meetings in the Catacombs of Rome and Alexandria - wherever persecuted Christians dwelt, and wherever the need of mutual help was felt.

Most great philanthropic movements have originated in the labours of individuals, and not from the efforts of committees and societies. Thus it is generally agreed that Robert Raikes inaugurated the present system of Sunday-schools, that John Pounds founded ragged schools, and that David Nasmith founded city missions and Young Men's Christian Associations.

In a little room in Canning Terrace, on the bank of the Regent's Canal, two gentlemen met David Nasmith by appointment on May 16th, 1835. Here

are the minutes of the meeting:-" After prayer we three founded the London City Mission, adopted our constitution, assigned offices to each other, and after laying the infant mission before the Lord, desiring that He would nurse and bless it and make it a blessing to tens of thousands, we adjourned."

On the evening of that same day David Nasmith went to the house of Mr. George Seeley in Fleet Street, and met a party of young men who then and there formed themselves into the Metropolitan Young Men's Society, of which the Hon. and Rev. Baptist Noel became the president. That society was the parent of the Young Men's Christian Association, as the Young Men's Christian Association has become the parent of other societies in this country, in America, and on the Continent of Europe.

David Nasmith's societies flourished both in this country and in America, where, in the course of a visit, he planted them right and left. While they were growing up and developing, important changes were taking place in the constitution of English society.