fellow to kidnap you. We are not going to have
you marry Joshua More. I cannot do with him
as my nephew. Let him marry Priscilla."

There was such a hearty tone in my uncle's
voice, that for a moment I felt comforted,
though I knew that he could not set aside my
lot. So he seated me beside him, while I still
looked with wonderment into his face.

"I am going to draw a lot for you," he said,
with an air of merriment; "what would my little
rosebud say to her fat suitor, if she knew that
her father was a freed man at this moment?"

I dared not look into his face or into Gabriel's.
For I remembered that I myself had sought for a
token; and that no earthly power could set aside
that, or the heavenly vision also, which Brother
More had seen.

"Uncle," I said, shuddering, "I have no
voice in this matter. I drew the lot fairly, and
I must abide by it. You cannot help me."

"We will see," he answered; "it is New
Year's-eve, you know, and time to draw again.
The lot will neither be to become Brother More's
wife, nor a Single Sister, I promise you. We
shall draw the blank this time!"

While I yet wondered at these words, I heard
a sound of footsteps in the hall, and the door
opened, and my beloved father stood upon the
threshold, stretching out his arms to me. How
he came there I knew not; but I flew to him
with a glad cry, and hid my face upon his
breast.

"You are welcome, Mr. Fielding," said my
uncle; "Phil!"—it did now appear that Gabriel's
name was Philip—"bring Mr. More this
way."

I started with fright and wonder, and my
father also looked troubled, and drew me nearer
to his side. Brother More entered with a
cowardly and downcast mien, which made him
appear a hundred-fold more repulsive in my
eyes, as he stood near the door, with his craven
face turned towards us.

"Mr. More," said my uncle, "I believe you
are to marry my niece, Eunice Fielding, tomorrow?"

"I did not know she was your niece," he
answered, in an abject tone. "I would not have
presumed——"

"But the heavenly vision, Mr. More?" interrupted
my uncle.

He looked round for a moment, with a spiritless
glance, and his eyes sank.

"It was a delusion," he muttered.

"It was a lie!" said Gabriel.

"Mr. More," continued my uncle, "if the
heavenly vision be true, it will cost you the sum
of five thousand five hundred pounds, the amount
in which you are indebted to me, with sundry
sums due to my nephew here. Yet if it be true,
you must abide by it, of course."

"It was not true," he answered; "the vision
was concerning Priscilla, to whom I was
betrothed. I was ensnared to change the name
to that of Eunice."

"Then go and marry Priscilla," said my uncle,
good humouredly. "Philip, take him away."

But Priscilla would have no more to do with
Brother More, and shortly afterwards she settled
among the Single Sisters in the same settlement
where I had lived my quiet and peaceful youth.
Her store of wedding garments, which had been
altered to fit me, came in at last for Susannah,
who was chosen to be the wife of Brother
Schmidt, according to her inward assurance;
and she went out to join him in the West Indies,
from whence she writes many happy letters. I
was troubled for a time about my lot, but certainly
if Brother More'a vision was concerning
Priscilla, I could not be required to abide by it.
Moreover, I never saw him again. My uncle
and father, who had never met before, formed a
close friendship, and my uncle would hear of nothing
but that we should dwell together in his
large mansion, where I might be as a daughter
unto both of them. People say we have left
the Church of the United Brethren; but it is
not so. Only, as I had found one evil man
within it, so also I have found some good men
without it.

Gabriel is not one of the Brethren.

                             V.
         TO BE TAKEN IN WATER.

Minnie, my blessed little wife, and I, had
been just one month married. We had returned
only two days from our honeymoon tour at
Killarney. I was a junior partner in the firm
of Schwarzmoor and Laddock, bankers,
Lombard-street (I must conceal real names), and I
had four days more of my leave of absence still
to enjoy. I was supremely happy in my bright
new cottage south-west of London, and was
revelling in delicious idleness on that bright
October morning, watching the great yellow
leaves fall in the sunshine. Minnie sat by me
under the hawthorn-tree; otherwise, I should
not have been supremely happy.

Little Betsy, Minnie's maid, came fluttering
down the garden with an ominous-looking letter
in her hand.

It was a telegram from Mr. Schwarzmoor. It
contained only these words:

"We want you to start to the Continent
directly with specie. Neapolitan loan. No delay.
Transactions of great importance since you left.
Sorry to break up holiday. Be at office by 6.30.
Start from London Bridge by 9.15, and catch
Dover night boat."

"Is the boy gone?"

"Boy did not leave it, sir. Elderly gentleman,
going to Dawson's, brought it. The
office boy was out, and the gentleman happened
to be coming past our house."

"Herbert dear, you won't go, you mustn't
go," said Minnie, leaning on my shoulder, and
bending down her face. "Don't go."

"I must, my dearest. The firm has no one to