MARTIN RATTLER. 285

careworn countenance sufficed to convince him that
his old aunt lay before him. His first impulse was
to seize her in his strong arms, but another look at
the frail and attenuated form caused him to shrink
back in fear.

“Leave me,” he said, rising hastily and slipping
half a sovereign into the policeman’s hand; “ this is
she. I wish to be alone with her.”

The man touched his hat and retired, closing the
door behind him; while Martin, sitting down on the
bed, took one of his aunt’s thin hands in his. The
action was tenderly performed, but it awoke her.
For the first time it flashed across Martin’s mind that
the sudden joy of seeing him might be too much for
one so feeble as Aunt Dorothy seemed to be. He
turned his back hastily to the light, and with a
violent effort suppressed his feelings while he asked
how she did.

“ Well, very well,” said Aunt Dorothy, in a faint
voice. “Are you the missionary that was here lone
ago? Qh! I’ve been longing for you. Why did
you not come to read to me oftener about Jesus?
But I have had him here although you did not
come. He has been saying, ‘Come unto me, ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’

Yes, I have found rest in him.” She ceased and