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OVER THE WATER.

BY EVELYN R. GARRATT,

Author of "Free to Serve," "Lottie's Silver Burden," "Mother's Nell," &c.

CHAPTER I.-AN UNCOMFORTABLE QUESTION.

F only I had something definite to do, I believe I should be much happier," thought Sasie Ogilvie, as she stood leaning her elbows on the stile before crossing it into the peaceful little churchyard of Inglesby.

Her eyes were fixed absently on the woods beyond, forming as they did a pretty background to the grey church tower. The birds were twittering in the trees close by, and the sunlight "lay sleeping" on the many green graves and white tombstones.

It was a lovely peaceful scene, but the face of the young girl, who was looking absently at its beauty, did not correspond with it in calmness.

Sasie Ogilvie was small and slight, but the picture of strong, healthy girlhood. The light wavy hair, which however much she brushed it would not keep smooth or tidy, formed a pretty contrast to her dark eyes; but the face wore neither a very happy nor peaceful expression this summer afternoon, and dissatisfaction was plainly written there. The scene before her was very lovely, but Sasie was not thinking of its beauty. Those green graves and white tombstones had set her thinking.

“Twenty-one, and yet I've done nothing," she said within herself, as she wondered how long it would be before she should be lying side by side with her mother, who was buried in the family vault only a few steps beyond. "My life has been of no good to any one as yet, and I don't see a chance of it ever being any different, though I know Nona would scold me for saying this. I believe she is right after all, and if only I had something definite to do I should be much happier."

Now if any one had told Sasie's friends that she sometimes felt sad and dissatisfied and unhappy, they would not have believed it. They would have said, "Sasie unhappy! Nonsense; she could not be anything but merry and full of fun. If she were otherwise she would not be Sasie." And certainly it was a very unusual thing to catch her dreaming, with that sad expression in her eyes and on her face.

The love of life and all its pleasures was very strong in her, and she liked to get as much merriment and fun out of it as possible. But notwithstanding, even in the midst of her merriment, sad thoughts and longings would cross her mind, unknown to any save One, Who can read all hearts. It was the same old story-a great longing for something to do, and yet a disinclination to do the small duties of life, which lay close at hand. Something great and grand was what Sasie craved to do, but even if an opportunity had been afforded her of fulfilling her wish, I doubt if she would have had the energy and perseverance to take advantage of it. Quiet home duties Sasie felt to be utterly "against the grain." "Besides," reasoned the girl to herself, "Netta is fond of those kind of things, so I can't see any harm in leaving them to her, and she does not care for pleasure as I do, so what would be the use of giving it up in order to relieve her of what she really likes?"

And yet these thoughts left an uncomfortable sensation behind as they crossed her mind. Supposing after all it was mere unselfishness on her sister's part that led her to appear as if housekeeping, entertaining visitors, and paying calls with her aunt, were a greater pleasure to her than tennis, reading, and boating, and going long country walks in search of flowers. But no. Feeling how utterly impossible it would be for her, in her present state, to practise such unselfishness in her life, Sasie could not believe it of her sister. It must be that Netta really enjoyed those duties, utterly unaccountable as the taste was to Sasie's mind.

Sasie had been spending a thoroughly idle day, and having been reprimanded for it by her aunt she had lost her temper, and gone off for a walk by herself to cool down, intending to drop in to afternoon tea with a friend before returning home.

But arrived at the stile she lingered; the sight of the green graves and white tombstones had the effect of cooling her ruffled temper and of setting her thinking, while the consciousness of wasting her life, and the longing for some definite work to do, arose again in the girl's heart. Sasie did not know how long she had stood by that stile. She was given to dreaming, and many an hour had been passed before now in that

occupation. How long she would have stayed there I don't know, if she had not suddenly thought she heard a voice coming from a distant corner of the churchyard, which was hidden from her sight. Was it her fancy? No; there it was again. A man's voice, but trembling and weak. Holding her breath, Sasie distinctly heard spoken in a slow, solemn, but quavering voice, the words

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Shall I offer unto the Lord my God of that which doth cost me nothing?' Aye, but dear Lord, Thou knowest my sin. I kept her. I would not give her to Thee-to Thy work. I only gave Thee that which cost me nothing-nothing."

Sasie fancied she heard a sob end the words. Quietly she climbed the stile, and there sitting on a tombstone, his head bowed in his hands, was an old man. That he was a gentleman Sasie saw at once, even though his face was hidden; and that he was old-very old-was shown, not only by his bent figure and silvery hair, but by the weak and trembling tone of voice. Was he in trouble, poor old man ? Sasie made a movement towards him, but hesitated as again he broke the silence. The voice was weaker

now and broken with soba.

"Lord, my Lord, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest I love Thee now; but I couldn't have loved Thee then, or I would have let her go. O Lord, have mercy on my sin."

Sasie's bright eyes were filled with tears. She was a girl easily influenced, very impressible and impulsive, and the sight of this poor lonely old man touched her heart. In a minute she was by his side, and had laid her little white hand on his arm.

The old man looked up suddenly with a start, and as his eyes fell on the girl beside him his hands and lips trembled.

"I am afraid you are ill, and in trouble," said Sasie, sorry for the moment that she had disturbed him.

"My dear!" said the old man, raising his hand to his ear, 'I'm deaf, and can't hear what you say. But I'll listen to you in a minute or two when I feel better, for the sight of you has unstrung me," and burying his face again in his hands he murmured, apparently quite unconscious that he was speaking aloud

"So like her, good Lord, so like! Just the one for Thy work, and yet I would not give her to it. Just because it cost too much, Lord, too much."

Then after a moment's pause he looked up at Sasie.

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'My dear, I'm a stranger in this place, and I don't know your name, or who you are. But I know one thing," he repeated solemnly, "that you are a bit of sunshine, come to me straight from my God."

"What a dear queer old man," thought Sasie to herself, as a pleased colour spread over her face.

"I should like to know your name, my child," continued the old man. "It does not happen to be Gracie, I suppose?" a sudden eager expression crossing his face, as he put his hand to his ear, and waited for the answer. "No, my name is not Grace," said Sasie, with a half pitiful smile. "I am Sara Ogilvie, but every one calls me Sasie."

"Not her name, but her voice, Lord," murmured the old man, softly. Then, in a louder tone, "Sasie; that is a pretty name, my dear. Tender and sweet, as a young girl's name ought to be. It is a new name to me, quite a new name."

Then suddenly his face became eager and animated again. "My child,” he said, raising his voice in his earnestness, " tell me, do you care much about God's work among the heathen? Are you doing what you can for those who have heard nothing of our God? I hope you are. I think you are," with a touch of eagerness in his voice.

It was with difficulty that Sasie controlled the smile that rose to her lips. This old gentleman need not have told her that he was a stranger to Inglesby, for had he lived there he would have known better than to have asked such a question of her. Of all things in the world, Sasie thought a missionary meeting the driest and slowest. She had been to one some years ago, and not having taken the trouble to listen to the speaker, the afternoon sun streaming full into her face, she was soon asleep, and, the meeting over, left saying that nothing should induce her to go to another. But here was this queer old man waiting for an answer, with that strange eager expression on his face. What could she say to him? She felt intuitively that her answer would disappoint him,

but did not know how to avoid it.

"I'm afraid I don't care for that kind of thing," said the girl, a faint flush spreading over her face. "I'm not very fond of meetings, you see, and so I don't know much about it."

Sasie was unprepared for the effect her words produced.

"O Lord," he said, dropping his head in his hands again, "this young girl doesn't care for those perishing souls, and she who did care for them, and loved them, and craved to help them, I would not spare, because it cost me too much-too much, Lord."

Sasie stood by looking at him wonderingly, feeling, it must be confessed, somewhat uncomfortable. She did not like the description this old gentleman had just given of her. "This young girl does not care for those perishing souls," he had said. How heartless it made her out to be. She never thought of them, that was why she did not care for them, she reasoned with herself; but what was the use of making herself miserable about the "perishing souls" of those she could not save? There were lots of sad things and sad people in the world, whom it would do no good for her to think about. Besides, Sasie sometimes felt rather uncomfortable about her own soul, so had not much time or inclination to think about the souls of others, and yet how wretchedly hard-hearted this old man had made her out to be.

Sasie's lips were just beginning to pout with a sense of being misjudged, when the face, so old and worn with furrows, but refined and sweet to look upon, surmounted as it was by the white hair which is a crown of glory, looked up again with an almost piteous expression in the eyes.

"My dear," he said, in an unsteady voice, "don't wait to serve the Lord, and to take an interest in His work till you have only the rags of your life to give Him-days which are not worth giving, feeble and weak as they are." Then raising his voice into a tone of solemn indignation, and fixing his eyes upon the girl's face, with such a stern expression in them that Sasie trembled, he added, "Will you indeed offer unto the Lord your God of that which doth cost you nothing, and wait for the days when you will say, 'I have no pleasure in them'?"

But hardly had the words passed his lips before his face was again hidden in his hands, as with a sob he murmured, " Nay, but who am I, Lord, that I should reprove this poor child? Thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from Thee." "

Sasie stood silent, not knowing what to think or say. She had seldom, if ever, been addressed in such a tone before, and she scarcely knew how to take it. She was not fond of being told her faults (as who indeed is ?), and if any one else had spoken to her in this way she would have angrily rebelled. But somehow she could not be angry with this weak trembling old man; and he was so very queer too, he must be childish, she thought to herself. Besides, his tears and prayers had touched her, and she felt she could take from him what she could not have borne from another. "And," thought Sasie, "I am quite sure he is good. He speaks to God as if he knew He was close beside him, so he has a right to speak to one who is so far off God as I am."

"My dear," he said, rising slowly from his seat, "I must be going home now, but I should like to see you again some day. I am Mr. North, and have taken rooms at Mrs. Caston's, the baker. Do you think you could come and see me?"

"I don't quite know if I can," said Sasie slowly, for though she did not feel vexed or angry at what Mr. North had been saying to her, she did not exactly relish the idea of another tête-à-tête, and inwardly resolved that anyhow some weeks should pass before she would venture on another.

A look of keen disappointment passed over Mr. North's face at her doubtful reply. "My dear," he said, in a tone of voice which made Sasie feel somewhat ashamed of her answer, "I'm a lonely old man, and should like to see you sometimes. I have pretty things in my room to show you," he added eagerly; "things from India and China, and different parts of the world, that you would like to see."

"Well-I'll come, Mr. North," said Sasie, hesitatingly, "if," she added with a blush, and a half mischievous look in her eyes, "if you don't scold me, and tell me again that I'm careless and selfish."

"Nay, my child, don't be afraid," said the old man, tenderly stroking the hand which Sasie had held' out to him, "I won't scold you, pretty one, so I hope you'll come. I once had a little girl like you-so like you -and you remind me of her."

"Then I'll come," said Sasie, and with a smile she tripped away, leaving old Mr. North shading his eyes with his hand as he watched her disappear.

"God bless her," he murmured. "A little bit of sunshine sent by God into an old man's heart. She'll come and see me-she said she would. I must make the room pretty, or she won't be happy in it, and I'll ask Mrs. Caston to lend me her grey parrot, it will amuse the child-bless her!" (To be continued.)

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As nearly as may be our Antipodes-that is, if a giant skewer could be run through the earth in England, it would come out the other end in New Zealand,-they are as like us in some points as they are unlike in others. The north, the middle, and the small southern isle, may be compared to our Great Britain, Ireland, and Isle of Wight; like us, they enjoy a temperate climate, and our plants and animals thrive there as if they were at home. But in others, they are exactly different to us. Our summer months, with their wealth of flowers and fruit, bring the depths of winter to them; our silent hours of midnight find them in the height of noonday activities; our snowy Christmas is to them the prime of the summer. The more northerly, the warmer it is, in their experience; the farther south, the colder. The British Isles were rich in species of native deer and oxen, in wild boars, and many other races of quadrupeds; New Zealand could not boast of one, until ships from foreign lands transported first some emigrant rats, and by degrees dogs, cats, sheep, and larger animals; and so extraordinary were these in the eyes of its human inhabitants, that they turned sick with terror on first beholding them. We must go back many centuries to find the time when grains of some sort or another were not known and used as food in England. In New Zealand, spite of the rich abundance of noble trees and lovely flowers with which it is adorned, there was no wholesome fruit or grain of any kind suitable for food to be met with of natural growth; nor even any eatable root, except that of a species of fern, which was roasted and beaten into a sort of cake most unpalatable to European appetites. But, with fish to be had at certain seasons of the year, it formed for ages the sole food of the inhabitants, with the horrid exception of human flesh, which was the staple of their choicest banquets. Potatoes, corn of all sorts, and the varied and delicious fruit-trees of our climate, were all unknown until brought to them from the other side of the globe.

Yet we must not for a moment think of New Zealand scenery as barren of natural beauty. On the contrary, its landscapes are many of them eminently lovely. Its deeply-indented shores are clothed to the very edge with myrtles and fuchsias, violas and primulas of various kinds, shaded by the mighty branches of the pohutakama, whose stem resembles an English oak, but its rich tufts of blossom rival those of the scarlet geranium in brilliance and in colour. The largest of all the pine-trees grows there luxuriantly, often attaining a hundred feet before it throws out the clustering head of branches that tower far above the other lords of the forest. The graceful tree-fern grows to the height of thirty feet; the ratu, forty feet in circumference, is splendid

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with its dazzling scarlet blossoms, and a perfect forest of convolvuli, clematis, and other creepers festoon the branches and stems of plants of larger growth. The wild bramble, covered with little roses, climbs to their very summit, and descends again on the other side, a very cascade of fragrant bloom.

These glorious forests are vocal with an endless variety of singing birds; the mako-mako is compared to our nightingale, the warbling of the tui rivals that of the English thrush, and these mingle with the plaintive coo of the wood-pigeon, and less agreeably with the scream of the parrot. The birds are the only denizens of these lovely scenes; not an insect or a fourfooted creature of any kind is to be seen. The islands are remarkable for their grand mountain groups and volcanic group, in which there is an active volcano 7,000 feet in height, of which marvellous tales are related. Towards the north-east a remarkable chain of lakes stretches to the coast, and descriptions are endless of the beauty and wonders of the scenery of these shores. A first visit fifty years ago was thus

described:

ranges.

In the centre of the northern isle rises a

The view of the lake itself was very fine as we approached; on the nearer side a noble wood stretched down to the water's edge; the islands in the lake, the steam of hot springs rising towards the north, and the richly wooded hills of Tarawera in the background, formed a lovely scene. The whole country was full of nature's wonders; here were boiling cauldrons of mud, black, blue, grey, green, yellow, and red, giving out their lazy steam; close to these, and as if purposely in contrast, were clear pools of bright azure-coloured boiling water, enclosed in natural walls of sulphurous formation. But the most beautiful objects were the jets. These boiling fountains, thrown out from the top of irregularly

shaped cones of a pinkish colour formed from the deposit of the water, rose many feet into the air, descending again in silvery foam, and sparkling in the sunshine. Some of these hot springs are guided by the natives into natural or artificial hollows in the rocks, where their temperature being regulated by a stream of cold water that flows among them, they serve as baths; and when we paid our first visit, we found the chiefs sitting in these, as novel chairs of state!

Villages built, as some are, on the crust of earth which covers these boiling depths of mud are fearfully insecure; but there is much to tempt savages, reckless as the New Zealanders have been of life, to such a locality. The land is fertile, they use the tepid water as baths, and the steaming crevices serve to cook their

food, with a very simple arrangement. A layer of fern is placed across the steaming fissure; the food placed upon it, and covered again with fern, becomes dressed as in a regular English oven.

Mr. Taylor visited such a village in 1845, and was greatly impressed with the grandeur of the whole scene. The buildings themselves were extremely picturesque, with their strong palisades, carved posts, and native dwellings. A bright stream ran through the village enclosure, and in front lay the broad expanse of Taupo (a fine lake 36 miles long), with its islands, woods, and mountains. The noble figure of the chief, Te Heu Heu, was in harmony with the surroundings. He was advanced in years, his hair silvery-white, so white that his people could only compare it to the snowy summit of their sacred mountain, Tongariro; but his form, still erect, showed off his magnificent height of He was clothed in nearly seven feet to the utmost advantage.

his handsome native mat, and his manners, distinguished equally by dignity, frankness, and courtesy to his guests, made him a very

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FORTIFIED PA, TARANAKI, NEW ZEALAND (Sketched in 1860). model of Maori rulers. Long and earnestly did the messenger of the Gospel plead with him to give up the awful crimes that had stained his former life; and Te Heu Heu was softened. He promised to give up fighting, and pleaded that a missionary might be sent to dwell among and instruct him and his people. Alas! we know too well the difficulties which often beset our beloved Society with reference to these heart-moving requests; there were neither funds nor men then at its disposal, and a few months after it was too late. We have spoken of the treacherous nature of the soil. The pent-up subterranean gas gradually loosened the earth, which fell in large masses into the bed of the river already mentioned. The torrent, dammed up, swelled into a lake behind the opposing ridge, and at last, carrying all before it, swept the entire mass of stones and mud as an avalanche upon the native dwellings. The grand old chieftain had an opportunity of saving his own life, but he scorned to avail himself of it, leaving his people exposed to danger; he stood before his dwelling, his silvery hair floating on the wind, calling upon his god to stay the coming danger, and perished in the very act of his bootless prayer.

Reference to one or two of the rare instances in which, in the earlier history, the Maori chiefs gave a favourable reception to missionary visitors, must not, however, delude us with regard to the character of the people in their original state. They had their noble qualities: a deep and tender love to their children and relations, a generous hospitality and faithful affection to their friends, and a spirit of courage and daring that never flinched in

danger, or quailed before difficulty; but they were fierce, blood-
thirsty, and vindictive in the extreme. They showed a horrible
delight in cruelty, not only in massacring, but torturing their
victims. War was their favourite pursuit; they esteemed nothing
else really worth living for; and the custom of "utu," or de-
manding satisfaction by the sacrifice of human life for any injury,
real or supposed, of however remote a date, always supplied them
with a pretext for attacking those weaker than themselves.
Destruction and devastation followed every battle; the victors
laid waste the country, burnt the villages, destroyed the planta-
tions, and dragged the women and children into perpetual
slavery. The treatment of these unhappy victims was simply
barbarous. They were their master's property, to be dealt with
exactly as he pleased. Hard work, hunger, and cruel stripes
for the slightest offence, were their daily portion, while their
savage owners stood by, making their sufferings a matter of
merriment, actually mimicking their groans and contortions! If
the master's anger was aroused, the slave was the one upon
whom it was commonly visited. With a sudden blow from
his hatchet, his angry owner would strike down the man who,
perhaps, had long and faithfully served him, and then make
preparations for devouring him. A story is told of one young
girl who had to collect the wood and heat the oven, in which,
when prepared, she knew after death her own limbs were to be
roasted for the loathsome banquet of the rest of the household.
E. D.

(To be continued.)

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