money in seeing shows, and putting into lotteries, and buying refreshments. When, on emerging from the little play-house, she found that rain had begun to fall, she at once thought of her children. Perhaps Ellen would have taken Charlie into the fields, and he would get wet in coming home, and the girl would not have the sense to put him warm, dry clothes on, and so he would catch cold. Her heart reproached her for having left them, and she hastened to find the neighbour who had borne her company, and beg her to return with her. But Mrs. Jones was exceedingly unwilling to adopt this measure. "Don't be so timid about the children, neighbour; they will take no harm. Ellen is a very steady, thoughtful girl, and she will take good care of Charlie. Mrs. Thompson, the grocer, has invited us to take a cup of tea with her, and I am sure I feel the need of it." Mrs. Dickson consented to stay for this; and as they sat at their cheerful meal, they heard the heavy rain beating against the windows, and the darkness stole over the earth. About seven o'clock, Mrs. Dickson, still failing in persuading Mrs. Jones to leave the fair, set off on her homeward route alone. Her best gown would be spoilt, and the ribbon of her bonnet was already so, and the children would be crying for their tea. These reflections did not tend to make Mrs. Dickson feel very happy. She reached the bridge, and the swollen waters rushed through the piers with a wailing sound. An indefinite fear seized on the mother's heart, and she hurried forward more rapidly.

"Neighbour Dickson, is that you?" said a familiar voice, in a very sad tone.

"Yes, Mrs. Ingleby, it's me," she replied, vexed that she of all people should have seen how late she "It is late to be going away from home," she

was.

added, "but may be, after all, you've a mind to see some of the stirrings at the fair ?”

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No, Mary Dickson, honey, I was coming to seek you."

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Oh, neighbour, what's wrong! Has Charlie got the croup? or has he met with an accident?"

"Not so bad as either, I hope, honey," replied Mrs. Ingleby, "but the child's strayed, and none of us can find him. His father has gone along the path by the river side, where the children often play; but he was late in coming home, having stopped at the public-house a bit; and we had looked, as ever we could look, all about the village. Poor little Nelly is almost beside herself: her father was sore angered against her for losing sight of the bairn; and she has wandered about and got wet, and cried her eyes almost out; so I just gave her some warm tea, and made her lie down on the settle in my house, while I comed to seek you, for we was all in hopes that the child had followed you to the fair."

"Maybe he did follow me, neighbour, but certain it is that he didn't find me. I'll away back to the town and search there, and get the bellman to go round-if so be that you can lend me a sixpence, neighbour, to pay him, for I have no money left in my pocket."

She blushed to own this to Mrs. Ingleby, knowing that she would disapprove of her having squandered her earnings at the fair. But the good woman had no censure for her neighbour, now that she was in affliction, but readily agreed not only to lend the money, but to accompany her to the town to help in

the search.

Alas! searching and inquiring were alike in vain. In the bustle of the fair the distressed child had attracted the attention of very few persons, and those

had already returned by various paths to their country homes.

The curfew bell was ringing from the old church tower, and mothers and nurses were laying the little ones to rest in many a household, poor and rich, in the now hushed town. The church-bell ceased, and immediately another sounded sharp and clear in the streets. It was a strange hour for the bellman's voice to be heard, and people listened with startled mien. "Lost, a little boy of four years old, answering to the name of Charlie Dickson."

The rain pattered heavily against the windows, and the wind howled in the chimneys; and the little children in the snug nurseries huddled closely together, scared and terror-struck at the thought of a poor child being out alone on such a night!

Many a prayer arose for the wanderer from hall and cottage, and happy mothers hugged their little ones the closer as they sent pitying thoughts towards the parents of the lost one.

It was midnight before poor Mrs. Dickson could be persuaded to leave the town; nor would she have gone then, but that Mrs. Ingleby suggested that the child might by this time have wandered homewards. She found her house empty. Her husband, with some of the men of the village, had gone out with lanterns to search afresh each haunt of the missing darling, and little Ellen still slept away her sorrow on Mrs. Ingleby's settle.

Mrs. Dickson made up the fire, and got out clean clothes for her pet, hanging them to the fire to warm; and she put on the kettle to be ready to give him some hot tea. While performing these loving services, her heart's wild sorrow was lulled; but when nothing else remained to be done, it broke out afresh.

“Oh, neighbour Ingleby," she cried, as she rocked

herself backwards and forwards on her chair, "all this comes of my lightness and folly in going to the fair! If only I had listened to your words, and stopped quietly at home, my bonny bairn would have been now asleep in his bed. Hark, was that a step! No, it is only the wind. Oh, Charlie, my bonny honey, art thou out on this wild night! It will be the death of thee, my lamb, and all along of thy sinful mother!"

At this moment the door opened slowly, and poor little Ellen, pale and trembling, crept in. She began to cry very much when she saw her mother, and seemed afraid to approach her. "Come here, honey," cried the broken-spirited woman, "if thou hast done wrong, thy mother has done far worse, and she has no word to say against thee. Maybe thou's all the bairn I have this night!"

"Oh, mother, mother, let's pray to God. He knows where Charlie is, and He will comfort him and keep him safe, if we ask Him!"

They all fell on their knees, and their cry arose to God mingled with sobs and groans. A human ear could hardly have understood those broken petitions; but God understood them, His ear is open to the cry of distress, some degree of calm entered the heart of the wretched mother. She could sit quietly now with Ellen on her lap, the poor child's aching head pillowed on her breast.

Thus they were when the morning dawned, and the wearied father returned with no tidings of his son. Coldly the grey dawn stole over hill and valley, and the light crept into the shady woods, and showed the dripping branches clothed with rain-drops instead of leaves.

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There was a busy scene in Squire Hodgson's hall.

Men-servants hurried to and fro, horses were brought out, and dogs bayed loudly. A party of gentlemen in red coats issued from the dining-room, laughing and joking.

"To horse, to horse, my brave boys away!" sang the squire cheerily, as he vaulted into the saddle; and a younger man caught up the strain as they rode leisurely away. "'Tis a beautiful scent-lying morning." The hounds were to "throw off" in a wood on the river's bank, and thither the whole party of men and dogs repaired at once. For a time the intelligent animals beat about, venting their doubts in uncertain and impatient baying; but suddenly this ceased, and the most eager of the huntsmen pushed forward, expecting that they had found the fox.

But no.

There stood the dogs, mute and transfixed; but the object of their attention was not a fox, but a little child lying as if asleep, drenched in the night rain, and quite dead!

Some of the gentlemen, as they rode to their early rendezvous, had heard of the child missing from the neighbouring hamlet; so they at once directed the poor little corpse to be borne thither. Some labourers took the little creature in their arms and carried it away; and after spending a few minutes in compassionate thoughts on the bereaved parents, the search for the fox recommenced.

Dickson had been up all night, and he had no heart to go to his work in the morning. He had come home angry with his wife, but her grief an1 self-reproach had at once disarmed him. Early in the morning the kind minister called to offer his sympathy in their sorrow, and his friendly words and earnest prayer fell as balm on their aching hearts. They were thus engaged when the labourers entered to restore the lost one.