to believe you, you look so innocent like. If you'll do this I'll be a kinder father to you from this day; but if you disobey me, why, mark ye, girl, I shall go off to America out of harm's way, but I won't leave this room till I've struck you down dead. Now make up your mind, and be quick about it."

As Thomas Upton said these last words his voice grew loud and fierce, while with his strong right hand he waved his heavy stick before his daughter's eyes. She was weak and cowardly by nature, and a feeling of deadly sickness, of mortal terror, passed through her heart. Then came other thoughts-of St. Stephen, who, amidst the shower of sharp stones, saw heaven opened unto him-of our Blessed Lord, who bore the torments of the Cross for our sakes. "By Thine agony and bloody sweat, by Thy Cross and Passion, Good Lord deliver me." This was Ellen's secret hearty prayer as she raised her white face and said, "I would go to prison; I think I could die to please you, father, but I cannot do this wickedness at your bidding, indeed I cannot!"

"Then take that, and never let me see your false face again," shouted the savage man, as with one blow of his great knobbed cudgel, he struck her down; again his hand was raised against his child, when a loud noise on the staircase made him forget his anger in his fears. He tried to escape by a back door, but before he had gone many steps the police met him, and he was quickly carried off to prison. When the tumult consequent on his arrest had some

what passed off, the woman of the house went to Ellen's room, and there found the poor girl lying insensible on the floor. She was taken to

the hospital, and carefully nursed and attended to, so that in a few days the wound inflicted by her father's stick, and which was happily more painful than dangerous, was almost well again.

"Not

In the meantime, the man whom Upton had attacked was beginning to recover, and as there was some difficulty in proving that he had struck the blow, the jury who tried the case (for it was assize time, and the trial came on directly) said that Thomas Upton was guilty." Thus he was free to go where he pleased. He did not stay in Bristol, but left directly; some said for America, some for Glasgow or Liverpool. Ellen heard of his departure, and felt that she might now make her home where she pleased. "Dear mother Simpson knows nothing of my trouble; how surprised she will be to see me," she said to herself, on the day she left the hospital, and seated herself in the one-horse van which passes daily between busy smoky Bristol and the quiet village of Newtown.

She was still weak, and the shaking of the van soon tired her, yet she did not mind the fatigue. She was as happy as a bird let out of a cage. The trees, the hedges, the distant hills, all seemed most beautiful to the town-bred girl; still she was glad enough when the driver told her that they were passing Newtown Common, and she could almost have cried for joy when

the van stopped before a small whitewashed house, over the door of which was painted in fine blue letters, " M. Simpson, licensed dealer in tea and coffee." In a minute, smoothing her apron, and looking very well and strong, out came mother Simpson herself, to ask if there were any parcels for her.

"Aye, and a good big parcel too," said the good-natured driver, as he handed out Ellen and her little bundle after her, and then drove on, leaving her to explain her sudden appearance to her wondering friend.

As a daughter Mrs. Simpson had loved Ellen, and with all a mother's love did she now welcome her to a kind and most happy home. Never did two people get on better together; the good widow minded the shop, while Ellen did the accounts, cleaned the house, or took lessons in needlework from a neighbouring dressmaker, whose heart she had won by her kindness, during a severe attack of illness.

Sometimes they heard from John, who was cruising about in different parts of the world, well, steady, and happy. But of Thomas Upton no tidings ever reached Newtown; day by day he was remembered in the prayers of his young daughter, but she knew not where he was or what he was doing, until more than two years after the time at which she first made Newtown her home. At last news came of him; one of Mrs. Simpson's nearest neighbours, a good, honest collier, went to seek for work in the north of England. He was away for several months, and on his return told Ellen that he had

chanced to meet her father at Leeds; he had been in regular work on the railway, and there, the day before the collier left the town, Upton had fallen from a wagon and broken his leg in two places. "They took him to his lodgings hard by," said the man, "for he wouldn't go to the hospital for fear of his leg being cut off. I heard he was very bad, and so outrageous no one liked waiting on him."

The words

"No one likes waiting on him!" sunk into Ellen's heart, and when the collier had left the shop she turned to Mrs. Simpson and said, "This is sad news about poor father, and I fear that owing to it I must leave you as suddenly as I came to you. Nay, don't shake your head, dear Mother Simpson, for indeed my heart tells me that I had best start at once for Leeds. No one will be so kind to him as I could be now that he's so bad, and though 'tis a long journey, and I shall feel very lonesome, you need not fear for me. God has taken care of me before, and He will surely do so again."

Mrs. Simpson knew that Ellen was right, and she did not try to oppose her, but she felt very sad and fearful when she saw her dear child actually leave the little shop-door on the following morning. Mr. Vale, the old rector of Newtown, with whom Ellen was a great favourite, very kindly drove her into Bristol, and saw her and her band-box safely into the train. She could not travel very far by railway on account of the expense; sometimes she journeyed for a short distance on the top of a coach, or inside a wagon, but more frequently she walked

along the high road from one town to another. Wherever she went her neat, plain dress, and quiet manners, won her kindness and civility. At last, safe and well, but very tired, she reached Leeds, and with some difficulty found her way to Thomas Upton's lodgings. The landlady expressed great surprise at seeing her. "You're far too tidy and respectable-looking," she said, "to belong to such as he; however, if you like, you can step up at once and see him; there's a nurse with him, but she won't stop, he abuses and swears at her so." Something like the old dread of her father came over Ellen as she slowly climbed the stairs which led to the sick room. He was lying groaning bitterly, and did not notice his daughter's presence till he heard her gentle voice asking him how he felt. He turned towards her with a half-angry, half-frightened stare, and then hid his face beneath the counterpane, muttering, "Go away, go away, child; I thought you were hundreds of miles away, and now you're here to torment me and reproach me."

Ellen's heart sank at these hard words, but with a silent prayer for strength in her difficult duty, she began making all preparations for taking the hired nurse's place by her father's side. She felt that he was watching her as she moved lightly about the room; but he would not speak until late in the night, when she took some medicine to him. He drank it without remon

strance; she took back the cup, and smoothed his pillow, and asked him if she could do anything to ease the great pain which he was evi