too fatigued for the afternoon service?"

"Oh no, I should like it very much. And, nurse, I do so want to see Mr.
Cardross's children; and Helen--who is Helen?"

"My daughter. Come here, Helen, and speak to the earl."

She came forward--the tall girl who had sat at the end of the pew, in
charge of the six boys--came forward in her serious, gentle, motherly
way--alas! She was the only mother at the Manse now--and put out
her hand, but instinctively drew it back again; for oh! what poor,
helpless, unnatural-looking fingers were feebly advanced an inch or so
to meet hers! They actually shocked her--gave her a sick sense of
physical repulsion; but she conquered it. Then, by a sudden impulse of
conscience, quite forgetting the rank of the earl, and only thinking of
the poor, crippled, orphaned baby--for he seemed no more than a baby
--Helen did what her warm, loving heart was in the habit of doing, as
silent consolation for every thing, to her own tribe of "motherless
bairns"--she stooped forward and kissed him.

The little earl was so astonished that he blushed up to the very brow.
But from that minute he loved Helen Cardross, and never ceased loving
her to the end of his days.

She led the way to the Manse, which was so close behind the kirk that
the back windows of it looked on the grave-yard. But in front there was
a beautiful lawn and garden--the prettiest Manse garden that ever was
seen. Helen stepped through it with her light, quick step, a child
clinging to each hand, often turning round to speak to Malcolm or to the
earl. He followed her with his eyes and thought she was like a picture