The Quiver 1/1900

By Our Special Commissioner.

MR. GOODMAN WITH TEACHERS AND CHILDREN OF DAY SCHOOL, TIKONKO.

(Photo: The Rev. W. Vivian, F.R.G.S.)

A terrible adventure befell the Rev. C. H. Goodman, missionary in the Mendi country, West Africa, in the summer of 1898. It is really surprising that he is alive to tell the tale, and, indeed, the marks of great suffering were still visible on his face when, a few months afterwards, he kindly told me the story.

THE REV. C. H. GOODMAN.

(Photo: Mr. Stephens, Harrogate.)

The peril came on him with startling suddenness. No bolt from the blue could dash from the heavens more unexpectedly. He was stationed at Tikonko, about two hundred miles inland from Freetown, Sierra Leone, and had been in charge of the United Methodist Free Church Mission there for about six years. Suddenly, one morning, he heard by chance that his life and the lives of his Mission-workers had been demanded by a neighbouring tribe.

"Is it really true," he asked his friends, the Tikonko Mendis, "that the Bompeh people wish me to be killed?"

"Yes, it is true."

"And you can give me no protection?"

"We fear not any."

"Then I must go back to the coast—to the English?"

"Yes."

"Can you give me carriers to accompany me and my helpers, and to take food for the journey?"

"Yes, we promise that."

But Mr. Goodman could not get the promise fulfilled—whether from insincerity or inability on the part of the Mendis to keep it he could not discover.

What was to be done? He was the only white man there: some coloured people, chiefly from Free Town, and associated with the Mission, were with him; but the tribes all round were in a state of terrible unrest and were ripe for war, while, indeed, hostilities had actually commenced in some districts.

MR. ROBERTS' RESIDENCE.

(Mr. Goodman's house is to be seen in the distance.)

(Photo: The Rev. W. Vivian. F.R.G.S.)

SITE OF MURDER OF MR. ROBERTS, MR. PRATT, AND OTHERS.

(The mark X indicates the well into which their bodies were thrown.)

Mr. Goodman had hoped that the Tikonkos would have been strong enough to keep out of the war, but he was disappointed; and it was now clear to him that he could not rely upon their protection, or upon any assistance to reach the coast. The children and several of the workers had left the Mission and had taken refuge in Tikonko town, which consists of a collection of mud-huts surrounded by a fence, while he remained quietly at the Mission premises and watched.

On Monday, May 2nd, he saw many strange men loitering about the farm in a suspicious manner. It was evident a crisis was impending, and he steeled himself to prepare for the worst.

Suddenly, in the afternoon, he heard a great noise. Rushing out, he found that a lad, named Johnson, who was carrying a box belonging to some of the Mission people, was surrounded by strange men, who were seizing the box and ill-treating the boy.

Johnson and his wife hurried to the rescue, but they were set upon by the "war-boys" and beaten; their clothes were torn off their backs, and Mr. Johnson received such a frightful gash across the face that his nose was nearly severed from his body and fell off next day.

Seizing his gun and calling to others, Mr. Goodman hurried out of the house, and with a yell the "war-boys" rushed to the Mission. Mr. Goodman's little party were hopelessly outnumbered; and Mr. Campbell, the native school teacher and Mr. Goodman, seeing that discretion was the better part of valour, turned to the bush and escaped in different directions.

Mr. Goodman did not proceed very far. Hurrying along, he was soon able to hide in the dense bush, his object being to work his way to the town and enter by the Bompeh road. If he could reach the town, he thought the nominal chief, Sandy, might secretly prove his friend.

Gradually, therefore, he made his way to the road, and then hurried to the gate, but it was shut in his face.

THEO. ROBERTS.

(Industrial Trainer.)

THE REV. J. C. JOHNSON.

(Mission Worker.)

T. T. CAMPBELL

(School Teacher.)

ISHMAEL PRATT.

(Carpenter.)

FOUR OF THE MARTYRS.

(From Photographs by the Rev. W. Vivian, F.R.G.S.)

Back, then, to the friendly shelter of the bush he turned, and now even the elements seemed against him, for a terrible tornado burst, and in a minute he was drenched to the skin.

Alone, wet, weary, and foodless, with savage enemies around him seeking to kill him, his position might well have appalled the stoutest heart. But an Englishman, whether missionary or soldier, must never know when he is beaten; and so at night he made his way again to the town, and entered it through a hole in the fence and hurried up to the king's compound.

Now the old chief of Tikonko had died shortly before, and the "cry for the dead"—that is, the time of mourning—was not yet over, consequently the new chief or king—whom the missionary called Sandy—had not been fully invested with his new powers.

THE MISSION HOUSE BEFORE ITS DESTRUCTION.

(From a Drawing by Mrs. Vivian.)

"Oh, you have escaped," he cried, when Mr. Goodman came to him. "I am glad indeed. Yes, I will help you, but it is not safe for you to remain in the town. The 'war-boys' are eager to kill you. Where will you go? Ah! you shall appear as one of my wives."

Thus the palaver was short but decisive. Disguised as a woman—an expedient forced on him by urgent necessity—the missionary was conveyed that night out of the town to a hut in the bush belonging to Sandy. Silently through the darksome night the little party crept along, and the missionary was left there alone. He was supposed to be one of the chief's wives, who was ill. In the morning the imaginary wife sought once more the friendly protection of the dense bush, and at night he returned again to the hut.

Stealthily, one of his friendly boys brought him now and again a little food. The lad had secured one of the Mission boxes and procured from it a tin of cocoa, and this cocoa he brought to the missionary, with rice, and occasionally a little fish and meat.

MR. GOODMAN AND HIS MENDI "BOYS."

(Photo: The Rev. W. Vivian, F.R.G.S.)

Hiding thus, while the yells of the "war-boys" sounded far and near, the missionary lived through those terrible days. Tuesday came and went, also the Wednesday and the Thursday. But Friday morning heralded a change. A message was brought to him that Sandy desired to see him, and to this day Mr. Goodman does not know whether the message was treacherous or not. But, trusting to its honesty, he left the hut to visit the chief, and then, before he had gone far, he suddenly found himself surrounded by the yelling Bompeh "war-boys."

They caught him and shouted round him, but did not then hurt him. Resistance was useless, and with war-whoops and yells of triumph they led him forward as though to Tikonko. But when near the fence they altered their cry: "To Bompeh" they shouted, and to Bompeh he was turned.

For three and a half weary hours the missionary marched on in the blazing sun, and without his white helmet. He was fully surrounded by the yelling savages, and the leader of the party marched beside him with drawn sword. The shouts and excitement of his captors gradually calmed down as they walked along; but, presently, as they neared Bompeh town, his clothes were pulled off his back, and clad only in pants and vest, and without even shoes or stockings, he crept along the burning path with naked and bleeding feet.

But at length the weary march was over. Bompeh town was reached, and then the war-horns were blown, and amid much excitement Mr. Goodman was taken to an open space before the king's hut, where also the people assembled.

THE TRIAL.

The trial was to be held at once; the white man's fate was to be decided.

The chief, whose name was Gruburu, sat on a rude kind of chair in the middle of the people, his prime minister near, and men and women and "war-boys" grouped all round, chiefly according to families. Mr. Goodman, tired with his long journey, sat himself down on a log.

First, one of his captors spoke. The man came out from the group, and as he talked he walked up and down in the open space before the king. An account was being given of the missionary's capture. "And," said Mr. Goodman, "while this was going on, I prayed that God would bring about a division in their counsels."

When the man had finished, up rose an old man, and by his gestures and the anxiety he displayed, Mr. Goodman saw with pleasure that he was pleading for him.

This gleam of friendliness—the first that day, and met with in the stronghold of his enemies—fell like genial warmth upon his spirits and encouraged him to hope.

Then a woman arose. She was a relative of the king; and, advancing before him, she bent before him and took his foot in her hand as a sign of submission. "Do not let this man die," she said. "My son at Tikonko has sent me a message pleading for his life. 'Do not let the white man die,' says my son; 'he is a good man.'"

Indeed, many messages had come to the king in the missionary's favour. "When we were sick," said the messages, "he has mended us; he has done us good; we like the way he has walked"—i.e. they liked his manner of life.

It was the old story—conduct and character had impressed the natives after all, and they were not wholly ungrateful.

But, see! The king is about to give his judgment. The final decision is to be made. Is it to be death or life?

(From a Water-Colour Drawing by Mrs. Vivian.)

THE DEVIL HOUSE AT TIKONKO.

(Where the town fetish or devil is consulted and propitiated.)

The king said: "This white man is our friend. He has come to do us good, and to give our picken (children) sense. He has nothing to do with the Government. He shall not die in my town."

Bravo, King of Bompeh! Thou hast more common-sense and right feeling beneath thy sable skin than some people would have supposed.

"I was surprised," said Mr. Goodman modestly, "to find how the influence of the Mission had spread."

At once his clothes were returned to him—all save his waistcoat, which was given to the leader of his captors; he was sheltered in a hut and allowed a measure of freedom—more freedom, indeed, than some of the natives who were prisoners. But, alas! he had escaped one great danger only to fall into another. The hardships he had undergone, and the malaria from which he had suffered, induced severe illness. Dysentery and black-water fever seized him; they shook him in their fell grasp until, from their power and poor food, he became so weak that he could scarcely stand.

His bed was a sort of raised platform of beaten mud, about six inches above the floor, with a mat upon it. Sometimes he slept in his clothes. But he became so sore from lying so long on such a hard resting-place that wounds were formed which troubled him for long afterwards. Such requisites as soap and towel were wholly wanting. The prospect, indeed, became very dark, and it seemed as though he had only escaped the savages to fall a victim to fever.

At first a boy waited on him, then an English-speaking Mendi; but unfortunately the king wanted this man, and his place was taken by another.

The news of Mr. Goodman's illness and imprisonment travelled abroad. It came to Tikonko, and his Mission boy Boyma sent him some quinine, which proved very beneficial. Then one day, though he knew it not, a friendly chief looked in upon him as he lay there so ill, and sent word to the English that one of their countrymen was a captive up there at Bompeh town, and Colonel Cunninghame promptly sent a demand that he should be given up alive. A great force, said the Colonel, was coming, with plenty of guns, to rescue him. Curiously enough, a native declared that he had dreamed the same thing; he had seen in his dream a great English army with "plenty guns" coming for the captive Englishman. Let him, therefore, be sent to his countrymen.

But another cause was working in his favour. While Mr. Goodman had been ill a battle had been fought, and the Mendis had been disastrously beaten by those terrible English with their "plenty guns." The "war-boys" were sick of the war. "Send the white man down," they also said to the king, "to plead that the fighting may cease."

So it was decided that he should be sent. He was given boys to assist him in his journey, and by their help he made his way, though he could scarcely walk, down to the English camp. He arrived there on June 26th, eight weeks from that fateful day when he had seen the strange men loitering so suspiciously about his Mission farm.

Alas! he found that the Mission premises had been totally destroyed, and, worse still, that Mr. Campbell had been killed. Mr. Johnson, after being kept a prisoner, was also slain, as were some other members of the Mission, who were Sierra Leone men.

It was therefore with a chastened joy, and gratitude for his own escape, that Mr. Goodman slowly made his way to the coast. He remained at the camp but a short time, and was then sent on to Bonthe, Sherbro', where he recovered a measure of strength under the care of Commandant Alldridge. Finally, he reached Freetown on July 21st, and presently took ship for England.

When he returned home some of his friends scarcely knew him. His beard was marked with grey, his cheeks were hollow, and his bodily weakness very great. He looked like an old man. He has recovered wonderfully since then, and appears more like his natural age; but when I saw him he was still far from well. He suffered from the effects of malaria even yet, and from the evil results of the poison in his system. Four times in his nine years of missionary life has he suffered from the fell "black-water" scourge.

But since his return he has been manfully doing his duty in speaking to many audiences of his mission work; and, if the Committee should so decide, he is fully prepared to return to Africa and reinstate the Methodist Free Churches Mission in the heart of Mendiland.

SAMPLES OF WRITING BY TIKONKO SCHOOL CHILDREN.

(Arranged by Mrs. Vivian.)

By the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling Hospital.

THE MARQUIS OF SALISBURY.

(Photo: J. Phillips, Belfast.)

In this democratic age the birthday of Sir Edward Coke (February 1st, 1551-2) can hardly be passed over. We remember him, not so much as the rival of Bacon and the prosecutor of Raleigh, as for his share in drawing up the Petition of Rights. Of his works, one part of his "Institutes of the Laws of England," long known as "Coke upon Littleton," has a place amongst the few classical law books which are familiar by name to the general public. Coke married for his second wife a daughter of Lord Burghley and grand-daughter of the great Cecil, who, in this same month, was raised to the peerage by Elizabeth on the suppression of the northern rebellion. His descendant, the present Marquis of Salisbury, belongs also to this month, for he was born on February 3rd, 1830. This is not the place in which to discuss a living statesman: let us pass to other names.

SIR ROBERT PEEL

(After the Portrait by sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.)

"Bob, you dog, if you're not Prime Minister, I'll disinherit you." That, we are told, was the way in which the father of Sir Robert Peel stimulated the political ambitions of his son. He became Prime Minister, and is not likely soon to be forgotten. His Corn Importation Bill is one of the pieces of legislation which mark an epoch. In London, too, he will be remembered for his creation of the present police system. Possibly there are many now who, hearing a police constable called a "peeler," forget that the name carries us back to the remodelling of the London police by Mr. Peel in the year 1829.

BISHOP HOOPER'S MONUMENT.

(Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd.)

The same month may speak to us of a statesman who helped to bring the nation through a crisis of another kind. On the last day of February, 1856, Lord Canning disembarked at Calcutta, and within five minutes after touching land proceeded to take the customary oaths as Governor-General of India. It fell upon him to deal with so appalling a crisis as the Indian Mutiny; he met it, as one of his biographers reminds us, in a way that "places him high on the list of those great officers of State whose services to their country entitle them to the esteem and gratitude of every loyal Englishman."

February is not a great month in ecclesiastical anniversaries. But it was on February 9th, 1555, that John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester, was burnt just outside his cathedral, where a monument to his memory now stands. It was in this month that Robert Leighton, sometime Archbishop of Glasgow, died in London in the year 1684. His commentary on the Epistles of St. Peter is still numbered amongst standard homiletical and expository works.

BISHOP PATTESON.

(From the Portrait in the British Museum.)

February has some pathetic associations with the foreign missionary work of the English Church. It was on February 24th, 1861, that J. C. Patteson was consecrated at Auckland first Bishop for Melanesia. The story of his martyrdom is one of the most moving incidents in the history of modern missions. His successor, J. R. Selwyn, was consecrated in the same month in 1877.

On February 8th, 1890, there died at Usambiro, at the south end of the Victoria Nyanza, Alexander Mackay, the simple layman whose work and early death did so much to rivet attention, not only on the Uganda Mission, but also on missionary enterprise in general. No modern example seems to have been more fruitful; but he saw nothing of the wonderful development of Uganda. The pioneer often does not live to look on the results of his own enterprise.

ALEXANDER MACKAY.

(The Pioneer Missionary of Uganda.)

THOMAS CARLYLE.

(From a Pencil Drawing by George Howard, Esq., M.P.)

There are some who tell us that people do not read Dickens now. More is the pity! Yet the flat stone over the grave of Dickens in Westminster Abbey so often has a flower upon it, while others of no less famous men are bare, that the man must still be remembered as well as his books. He was born in this month in the year 1812, and died in June, 1870. Much of his character might be summed up in the benediction he put into the mouth of Tiny Tim, "God bless us every one." In the same month of February, in the year 1881, there died an author and philosopher of another type—Thomas Carlyle, one of the most striking figures in English literature, and one of those whose reputation was world-wide. "When the devil's advocate has said his worst against Carlyle, he leaves a figure still of unblemished integrity, purity, loftiness of purpose, and inflexible resolution to do the right, as of a man living consciously under his Maker's eye, and with his thoughts fixed on the account which he would have to render of his talents."

On February 23rd, 1807, Wilberforce's Bill for the abolition of the foreign slave trade was carried by a majority of 283 to 16. Sir Samuel Romilly contrasted the feelings of Napoleon with that of the man who would that night "lay his head upon his pillow and remember that the slave trade was no more." There was still, however, much to do; but Wilberforce lived to hear the news that the nation was willing to pay twenty millions for the abolition of slavery.

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

(After the Portrait by Joseph Slater.)

By E. S. Curry, Author of "One of the Greatest," "Closely Veiled," Etc.

I t was Mr. Warde who, before the police arrived, organised and dispatched search parties. The visitors and servants from the Deanery, with his own and the Palace household, were scattered through the immediate neighbourhood, in less than half an hour from the first summons.

Marjorie was with her mother. Mr. Pelham—after a distracted visit to his own house, hoping against hope that he might still find the toddling child safe and rosy, sleeping in her cot—had brought servants back with him, whom he put under Mr. Warde's instructions. For Mr. Warde knew every inch of ground about, every possible danger into which the little feet might have strayed.

In the precincts of the cathedral, in the gardens throughout the neighbourhood, in every nook and secluded place, lights were soon flashing and voices calling.

All that anybody knew was little enough. Soon after eight—the hour at which Mr. Bethune and Marjorie had gone to the Deanery—nurse had gone to the garden to call the children in. She found it empty, and, pursuing her search into the cave, found reason to be alarmed. But she did not then alarm Mrs. Bethune. Returning to the house, which was strangely still, she had looked into the drawing-room.

"They have taken Barbara home," Mrs. Bethune explained. "They will soon be back, nurse. But it is getting late for the little ones."

She looked so quiet and calm on her sofa, resting, with the sense of her husband's love folding her round, that the nurse forbore to disturb her with her own sudden forebodings. But she put on her bonnet, and ran up to The Ridges, to satisfy herself against her fears. No Barbara was there; neither she nor the boys had been seen since the afternoon. Barbara's nurse—forgetting for a time her airs—accompanied her to the Canons' Court. Together they again searched the garden; the cathedral yard, where the darkness was settling down over the numerous graves and tombs; the shady Canons' Walk—calling anxiously the names of their respective charges. No signs were to be found of the children. Then nurse, without troubling her mistress, went to the Deanery, and asked for Mr. Bethune; and from him, when he reached his wife's side, had come the summons to Mr. Pelham and Marjorie.

A thorough examination of the cave, at nurse's suggestion, revealed the passage and its exit into the Palace grounds; resulting in Mr. Warde's systematic search throughout the parks and neighbourhood.

Marjorie recollected Sandy's visit to her room; and the discovery of the abstraction of the blanket from her bed seemed to prove that some larger scheme than merely running away must have been in the boys' heads.

Then a new fear was started. A visit to the little station at the bottom of the Green had seemed for a time to furnish a clue. The station-master reported that within the last week the two boys had been inquiring the price of tickets to Baskerton for a party of five. He had been struck with the answer to his question—"All under twelve." But the children had not travelled by the only train that evening. The Dean, who had made this inquiry, thereupon went home, and ordered his carriage, and had himself driven over to Baskerton. It was five miles away, famous for its picturesque scenery and fishing, and was the scene of all the picnic parties about. Across the parks and by-lanes, filled with roses and honeysuckle, it was only about three miles off. David and Sandy, he knew, were well acquainted with its delights; they had often been included in his own parties there.

The route of the little brook for several miles was explored by a party of men from the Palace and The Ridges. The boys were known to frequent it, and a day or two before Sandy had been seen up to his waist in the water, trying to entice a lively water-rat.

It was wonderful how many people helped in the search. To all, the boys were well known, and, now that trouble had come upon them, well beloved. Their fearlessness and bonhomie were remembered, and their mischief only with indulgent excuses. And Mr. Pelham was taken to all hearts that sorrowful night, for the sake of the pretty baby who was lost.

No one was more energetic and suggestive than Mrs. Lytchett, no one kinder, no one more tearful. It was she who headed a search party through the cathedral, recalling to mind how Marjorie had once got herself locked up there nearly all night through a fit of obstinacy. But no children were discovered.

"If only the Bishop were here—he would know what to do," she sighed frequently, as news kept coming in that nothing had been found of the missing ones. They seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. No one had seen them—nothing had been heard of them after Sandy's visit to his sister's room.

"But what could he want the blanket for?"

Mr. Warde, after two or three fruitless journeys, had again come back to the Court for news, hoping that somebody else might have been more fortunate. It was just on the edge of dawn, in that stillness when the first faint twitter of the birds is just beginning.

As he came down the broad pavement to the Court gate, the eastern sky was growing clear above the chimney stacks of the Deanery. Lights were still shining in the windows round, and, as he neared the gate, Marjorie came forward quickly.

The sight of her wan face was a shock to him; she was still in the pretty evening dress, above which, in the twilight of the dawn, her neck and throat shone white. She had the air of some broken lily—desolate, woeful.

Mr. Warde's heart went out to her with a great compassion. His eyes grew dim as her wistful glance met his.

The sight of her wan face was a shock to him.

"No, dear, I can hear nothing," he said softly, putting his arm round her. Marjorie rested against him, letting her tired young limbs collapse against his strength. Inspired by some instinct she did not understand, she had left her mother's sofa, where Mr. Pelham was now sitting, waiting for the return of a messenger. They two, it seemed to Marjorie, with a mutual sorrow could understand each other. She felt somehow restless, uneasy, unworthy, as she coldly responded to Mr. Pelham's sympathy and care. At his suggestion she had come away to prepare some tea for her mother, and in passing through the hall had been lured to the open door by the sound of Mr. Warde's footsteps on the flagstones. The quick, firm tread encouraged hope. She could rest on him. The very sight of his kind, familiar face seemed to renew her strength and courage.

"See! on that little tower on the chapel."

After a minute's silence, during which his hand had caressed the soft waves of her hair, he asked, "What could Sandy want the blanket for? I have been trying to think."

"So have we—mother and I. Poor mother!" Marjorie sighed.

"Is she alone?" he asked.

"No. Mr. Pelham is with her; he understands, he is tender and careful; and she is full of hope now—she comforts him. Father has gone to the river."

Marjorie gave a little shudder.

"You are cold," Mr. Warde said briskly. "Let me advise you, dear. Go and change your dress; put on something warm. By that time I shall have got some food and shall bring it in. I expect you have no servants left."

"No. They are all—somewhere."

She allowed herself to be led back to the house, and as he stood watching her ascend the stairs, the man's heart gave a bound of rejoicing. She had come to him willingly, of her own accord. What though it were sorrow that had brought her? She was his now for ever, of her own free will. He stood looking after her, with face upraised, a thanksgiving in his heart. And thus for the last time he looked on Marjorie, rejoicing. Never again without pain was he to hear the soft swish of her dress, the soft fall of her foot. But in those few seconds he lived through an æon of joy.

He could not guess the force of the feeling which had driven her from Mr. Pelham's side. The same sorrow that had sent her to Mr. Warde had also taught her that she must shun the man who could now be nothing to her. Marjorie's was a very simple nature. When she realised a fact, she did not play with it. Matter-of-fact duty was a real power with her. So she had responded to the strong training which the calm approval or disapproval shining in her father's quiet eyes had sufficiently imposed.

As the different search parties came back, all with the same "no news," Mr. Warde had a table of provisions brought out into the Court. He was too busy caring for the needs of the many weary volunteers to go again into Mr. Bethune's house; but nurse had by this time returned, and was tearfully waiting on her mistress.

"Nothing could have happened to them all," the Dean said briskly, "or we must have found some trace. It is the most mysterious thing I ever knew in my life. They are all together in some safe place, I feel convinced."

"My mistress thinks now that they are kept," nurse, overhearing, said; "she is sure the boys would understand that she would be anxious, and they are always careful about Miss Barbie. But if only we could know!" and nurse departed sobbing.

The dawn had broadened into morning, the tips of the cathedral spires were red in the sunlight, and many of the unavailing searchers were at last going slowly to their homes. Nothing more could be done than had been done. Mr. Warde's servants were clearing away the débris of the meal; whilst he himself was again hurrying along the flagged path to the cathedral, with the intention of again thoroughly searching its many nooks and crannies in the daylight. He feared he knew not what, recollecting Sandy's adventurous spirit.

Mr. Bethune was sitting beside his wife, her hand in his, as once before that night, looking out upon the still garden. Marjorie, seeing them thus, noting the far-away look in her father's eyes (as though visions were being vouchsafed to the weary man, unseen by other eyes), noting, too, that his calmness was bringing a look of peace and trust to the wan face of her mother—turned involuntarily to the other bereaved and, as she remembered, so desperately lonely man.

"Come into the garden," she said, her eyes full of pity. "Now that it is light we have a better chance; we may find something."

He followed her across the dewy lawn, as she led the way quickly to the untidy corner so eloquent of the little workers. Spades and baskets lay scattered about; a cap of Sandy's hung on a currant-bush, where it had been put to dry after the washing in the bath; a large fragment of bread and butter, dropped in the hasty departure, lay in the path. The tears at last welled into Marjorie's eyes, as she saw Mr. Pelham stoop and pick up a little shoe.

"It is my baby's," he said softly. "God keep her!"

They paused together on the garden path, and Marjorie's eyes turned to the rose-tinged pinnacles of the beautiful cathedral. To all the dwellers in its precincts it was almost like a living presence, dominating all their lives and thoughts.

The length of the choir, terminating in the big central tower, was before them, whilst in the distance rose the twin spires. The morning mist was fleeing before the sun, now lighting each finial. Shadows still lay under the flying buttresses, and along the lower plane of the south aisle roof and chapel.

Mr. Pelham, after a moment's look at the girl's rapt face, turned also to gaze at the scene on which her eyes were resting.

Suddenly Marjorie gave a little cry, instantly suppressed.

"What is that?" she said rapidly. "See! on that little tower on the chapel?"

"I see," he answered, "something fluttering, you mean—something blue."

Both pairs of eyes were concentrated in a fixed and painful gaze.

"It is a ribbon," Marjorie said hoarsely. "Barbie was wearing——" She paused, turning her dilated eyes to her companion's face.

"My baby's sash—it is tied there," he said quickly; "it is a signal."

He turned to her, and for a second their encountering eyes were eloquent. Under the shock of sudden hope, the joy, the emotion, the agitation of the moment, the man's self-control vanished. His eyes spoke their message—hers replied—both of them taken unawares.

"Hush!" said Marjorie, putting up her hands as if answering speech. "I know the way," she faltered. "Father has keys; wait, don't tell them yet, till we are sure. It is the chapel roof, where they were mending. Sandy knew."

She turned swiftly, the man following with eager strides.

A big yew-tree hid the corner of the wall, where the adventurers, on their enterprise, dropped down into the cathedral yard. Numerous square tombstones and old monuments made splendid hiding-places. There was only one little bit of open space to cross, where the evening sunshine cast long shadows, and where for a few moments the strange little truant procession looked a procession of giants.

David and Sandy each held a hand of Barbara, she having declined to be carried. Ross and Orme followed solemnly. If anybody had met them, the boys would have turned down the path to their home, and their presence there would have seemed quite natural. But no one passed—no one was in sight. David had chosen the time for his move well. The Court households were busy preparing for dinner. And though windows commanded the cathedral yard, from none, as it turned out, was the start of the little party into the world observed. Once across the grass, they were soon hidden by the many projections and buttresses and corners of the walls.

In the angle of the south aisle and its chapel was the tiny room whence the spiral staircase started, in the thickness of the wall, up to the clerestory of the choir. It also led through a narrow door lower down, on to the roof of the south aisle. Sandy knew all the keys of the cathedral, and the place in Mr. Galton's house where each hung. The door of the little room was, however, open; Mr. Galton therefore was somewhere about, though he often lingered on his last look round. They must be quick.

In a few minutes the excited children were mounting the spiral staircase. David went first, helping Barbara's unaccustomed feet; Sandy came last, having closed the little door of communication at the foot of the stairs. They were embarked on their "climb up the mountain." Issuing through the narrow door which came first in sight, the delighted children found themselves in the wide gutter at the base of the roof. Guarded by its low parapet, it was as safe as their own garden, provided they did not attempt to climb. David gave strict orders that they were to keep under the "shelter of the forts," and on no account to show their faces to the enemy.

Up here, they were in another world—a delightful, wide, spacious world, whence they could look down on the earth they had left. The Palace grounds lay below them; beyond were the parks, intersected by their hedges, like the sections of a map. From the flat chapel roof they could see their own garden and Mr. Warde's, with the Deanery trees beyond.

"Ross, and Orme, and Barbie, remember you're our family now, and you must do what you are bid," was David's solemn reminder to them of the altered condition of things.

Up and down the children ran, with a pitter-patter of clamouring feet on the leads. Barbara was a little unhappy because she could not make as much noise as the boys, owing to the make of her shoes, and to her misfortune in having lost one in transit. Sandy set this right.

"Stop the march!" he ordered. "You'll give notice to the enemy, you duffers"—this to the wide-eyed boys—"where we are." So they stopped. Ross then proceeded to clamber on hands and knees up the incline of the roof, and, turning, to slide down on his other side. This amusement lasted all three some time. When their clothes looked pretty well spoilt, the fun palled. Then came supper, the crowning act of the evening's proceedings. After this, they intended to return to ordinary life and the earth they had left; abandoning their fortress till another opportunity arrived. They intended to be at home before they would be much missed.

But all this had taken longer than they thought, and when the "family" was called to its repast the little boys refused to be hurried. With much self-denial, this meal had been saved. They meant to enjoy it. By the time they were satisfied, the darkness and cold were beginning to be appreciably perceived.

Then Sandy hugged himself for his pioneering knowledge.

"No settlers goes wivout blankets," he announced. "Knew we should want it."

"Hurry up," David urged, beginning to be a little alarmed at the aspect of things in their aërial world. "We've got to get Barbie home. It's time to go."

Ten minutes later the boy turned a white face to the expectant babes behind him. He and Sandy had pushed with all their might at the little iron door, which had so easily admitted them to the roof. It was fast and firm—locked up securely for the night—and they were prisoners. Probably they would not be released until the workmen arrived in the morning.

"I wouldn't mind, if we could let mother know, not to be frightened," the boy said, "and Barbie's father. Think, Sandy; couldn't we let 'em know?"

Sandy desisted from fruitless bangings on the door, propped his elbows on the parapet, and put his head between his hands in the most approved attitude of thinking. Possibly, this attitude was useful for another purpose than thinking. Sandy was only seven, but he had a fervent belief in his mother's fragility, and in the power of himself and his brothers to keep her laughing presence on her sofa or to banish her elsewhere. He had heard things said which made him realise that a very little thing might transfer her to a narrower couch—in a sunny, railed-off corner just under the cathedral walls. Already a little white stone marked the resting-place of "Archibald, aged one year." Sandy sometimes pitied Archibald for being all by himself there. He had one day suggested to his mother that "P'r'aps one of us ought to go and mind him—as he was so little." For answer, the mother had gathered the bright head on to her breast, fervently breathing, "No, Sandy, mother can't let one go, not the very littlest bit of any of you. God is minding little Archie better than we can."

So up there in the air, within sight of the familiar garden—within sound almost of the mother who as yet was not concerned about him—her little son may be excused if, in process of his thinking, he blinked away a tear. The responsibility was so great. This had been his scheme more than David's. And there was Barbie's father, too. But he wasted no sentiment on him.

"My finks is all in a mess," he said at last, lifting his face. "On'y we must signal. It's like a desert island up here. P'r'aps we might frow down something."

The gathering darkness, alas! hid the fluttering signal which, after some protestations from Barbara, they tied to a carved projection. It was the longest thing they had about them. How tiny it looked up there, they did not realise.

The little feet were growing weary, the "family" by this time were showing signs of restive discontent.

"Ain't we got no beds in this home?" asked Ross, his hands in his pockets, his legs wide apart, surveying the leads, of whose hardness he had made ample trial.

"Not yet," said Sandy cheerily. Whatever he felt himself, he was not going to let the babes be unhappy, if he could help it. "On'y pioneers to-night. Beds have to be made."

"Nur' did maked Ross's bed—see'd her—mornin'," announced Ross in a dissatisfied tone; and he brought his brows together, and signified generally that he was disgusted.

"No barf?" inquired Orme, planting himself by his elder brother in a similar revolutionary attitude.

"Bar?" echoed Barbara, unwilling to be kept out of whatever anarchy might be going. "Barbedie's bar?" she inquired of Sandy; and it said much for Sandy's ability in translating languages that he quite understood what she was demanding.

David turned out his pockets, in the hope of finding enough string to let down a basket, or a letter describing their distressed condition. But the utmost length they could attain, when every pocket had been ransacked, and all their ties, and hat ribbons, and pocket-handkerchiefs tied together, was about midway down the long windows. No hope that way, even if the darkness of the summer night had not by this time settled down upon the land. David gave it up at last.

David and Sandy pushed with all their might.

"Somebody'll p'r'aps remember us," he said with a catch in his voice. "Mother——"; and then, for the sake of his manhood, he stopped short. No one remembered having ever seen a tear from David.

"We'd best put the fam'ly to bed," suggested Sandy at this period.

"They'll be awful cold," responded David.

"Not in the blanket, an' us sittin' close round outside to keep out the cold. Hens sit on their little ones, so do cats—curl round 'em, that is—and there's our jackets," said Sandy lightly.

But first there were remonstrances from the babies to combat, when it was explained to them what they were expected to do.

"Orme kicks an' frows off all the clothes," objected Ross.

"So do Ross," eagerly excused Orme. But the novelty of Barbara as a bed-fellow was some consolation.

"Barbedie no go bed—in f'ock," remarked Barbara indignantly.

Sandy plumped down upon the leads, and took her on his insufficient knees.

When she was quite settled there, with her arm round his neck to keep herself from slipping, Sandy explained matters.

"It's 'stead of your nightie-gown, Barbie," with an entreaty in his tone, in itself a sufficient betrayal of weakness to the baby's feminine intelligence. "We forgot to bring your nightie-gown."

"Fesh it," she ordered, looking up at David, who stood by.

"Can't, Barbie—very sorry," David said apologetically.

"Fesh Barbedie's nightie-gown," she said majestically to the two revolutionaries.

But not all the boys' chivalric devotion, unstinted through that troublous night, could produce the desired garment. At last, arrayed in David's coat as a substitute, over her own dainty garments, little Barbedie Pelham fell to repose.

By this time the two little boys, huddled together like kittens or young-puppies on the outspread blanket, had fallen fast asleep. Barbara was snuggled in beside them, and the blanket carefully wrapped round the three. Sandy and David, with their backs against the parapet—the latter with Barbara's head upon his knees, whilst Sandy's performed the same office of pillow for his little brothers—prepared to win through the hours of darkness as patiently as they might. No word of reproof or bitterness had been said by either boy. Each bore his share manfully of the difficulty, for which both were perhaps equally responsible.

Down below, the lanterns flashed in and out of the ruins, and across the Palace grounds. Voices called, which, if the boys heard at all, seemed to them only the distant sounds of the day, to which they were accustomed. Their own frantic shouts some time ago, even Sandy's whistle, had been unheard and unheeded.

When the midnight chimes rang out softly over their heads, Sandy, rousing, said sleepily, "We forgot somefing, Dave. I've been dreamin' 'bout it."

"What?" David asked. He had not yet slept, and his mind had been busy, thinking, wondering, sorrowing, chiefly about his mother. In difficulties, hers was the personality which always presented itself to her children.

"We've forgot all our prayers."

"Say them now," suggested David after a pause.

"It'll wake 'em!"

"Not if we don't move."

"Will it be proper prayers sittin' here?"

"Old Mrs. Jones always sits in church," suggested David.

"I b'lieve her legs won't bend."

"Mother can't kneel down," David said in a low voice.

"More she can." Sandy was hopeful again at this thought. "There's two apiece," he went on thoughtfully, "and one over. You say yours an' Ross's—I'll say mine an' Orme's. How 'bout Barbie's? We couldn't say half each, could we?" doubtfully.

"No; we will both say Barbie's prayers for her," decided David.

The low voices stopped. For a space there was silence. Then Sandy spoke—

"Have you nearly done, Dave? I've got as far's Barbie's."

There was no response, and Sandy, respecting the silence which he took for the hush of devotion, held his peace, and essayed for the third time his evening prayer.

In a few moments, whilst below was desolation and the anguish of bereavement—up above, under the stars, all the children slept.

Meeting no one, Marjorie and Mr. Pelham hastily ascended the spiral stairs.

Issuing on to the leads, Marjorie glanced hastily round. Together they hurried, till, under the little turret, they stood beside the, as yet, unawakened group. It looked very pathetic in the morning greyness, the little huddled-up party, which the sun had not yet reached.

The man's frame trembled as he stooped—doubting, fearing, his keen eyes noting the care which had been bestowed upon his little child. Not much of her was visible—only a rosy cheek, under the tangle of hair which lay across David's knee. The boy's body had sunk slightly as the muscles relaxed in sleep; and he and Sandy were now propped together. Both of them were jacketless: Sandy's little body was covered only by his vest.

David's hand lay protectingly across Barbara, over whom his jacket lay outspread. She was warm and rosy; so were the two babies curled up under the little coat—a scanty covering—of which Sandy had divested himself.

Marjorie sank down beside Sandy. He looked white and wan, and there was a look of disturbance and unrest on his sleeping face. His head rested uncomfortably against David's shoulder. Solicitously, she gathered his unprotected little body into her warm arms; and at her movement he opened startled blue eyes upon her.

"Is it mornin'?" he asked; then quickly, "Is the fam'ly safe?"

"How could you, Sandy?" Marjorie asked, tenderly kissing the impertinent little nose turned up to her. And that was all the reproach Sandy ever heard.

"THE LITTLE HUDDLED-UP PARTY."

"Didn't mean to, Margie," eagerly. "The door got locked 'fore we got down. How did you guess we were here?" he went on, the fascination of the "game," now that he again felt safe and irresponsible, filling his imagination. "Was it the signal?"

He listened much gratified, as Marjorie described how the fluttering sash had caught her sight.

The children woke one by one, Barbara climbing into her father's arms to be divested of her strange night-clothes. She returned the coat to its owner, with a gracious "Barbedie's done."

Sandy and David listened amazed to the warmth of Mr. Pelham's thanks.

"You have been good to my baby. I shall never forget it, never. You are two little men."

With hurrying, trembling fingers, Marjorie tidied up the children—some impulse making her wish her mother's first sight of them to be wholly without alarm. Barbara refused to leave her father's arms, so her rescued sash was tied on under his eloquent eyes. Now that they had once delivered their message, they were masterful and compelling. Marjorie's fell before them; but something in the quiver of her lip, and the wanness of her face in the sunlight, under his closer scrutiny, made him hasten to speak. He caught her fingers, and they lay for a moment pressed close against his breast.

"Mine, Marjorie! Mine now," he said. "Dearest, do not shrink," he whispered, turning hurriedly to see what was producing the startled change in the kindling face before him. Mr. Warde stood in the doorway surveying the little scene.

With just a glance at the two, who for the moment had forgotten everyone but themselves, he stooped and picked up Orme—a disconsolate, woe-begone baby, whose ideas would need much readjusting after this eventful night.

The others followed, pitter-patter down the stairs, and along the gravelled path. But it was Marjorie who entered first through the open door into her mother's presence.

Mr. Bethune still sat beside his wife's couch. He put up a hand to hush the intruder, but Marjorie saw beyond him the wide, questioning eyes and the wave of colour rushing into her mother's face. She did not know that she herself—radiant, sparkling, with a look upon her face only to be seen on a maiden's face in presence of her beloved—was sufficient herald of good news. It scarcely needed her words.

"All quite safe, mother," even if Sandy's rush past her restraining hand had not told the tale.

The children entered like a conquering army. Mr. Warde slid Orme, murmuring satisfaction, down on to the sofa beside his mother, and watched with an unaccountable pang at his heart as she gathered them all into her arms. The parents accepted David's rapid "Didn't mean to, father," and his explanation of the mishap which they had never counted on—too glad to see them safe, too accustomed to their enterprise, too certain that what they said was true, to give the scolding they perhaps deserved.

As the news of their safety spread, sympathisers flocked in. Like a young turkey-cock lifting up its crest, Sandy stood a captive at Mrs. Lytchett's knee, his jacket held tightly in her firm grasp.

"I hope your father's going to whip you," she said severely.

"Ain't," said Sandy.

"Then he ought. Do you know you've nearly killed your mother?"

Sandy's glance crossed the room, his conscience giving a repentant twinge.

His mother's laughing, merry eyes met his, and repentance fled.

"Let me go, please," giving his jacket a tug. "I want to go to my mother." Sandy always said "My mother" when he wished to be impressive.

Mrs. Lytchett watched him insinuate his small body to his mother's side, where he stood defiant, only the mother guessing all that the clinging clasp of his fingers round her arm was meant to say.

Marjorie came down to say that the little ones were safe in bed; and David and Sandy walked off beside her with uplifted heads.

With the house still, and the children of which it had been bereaved once more within its walls, with the need for exertion and control giving place to a languor which would not permit sleep, Marjorie felt a load like lead descend upon her. In spite of visions that came to her wakeful senses, of ardent eyes and a tender tone, although her fingers tingled still with the warm clasp of those stronger ones, she was very unhappy. On her bed, alone with rushing thoughts, staring with wakeful eyes on to the green bravery outside her window, she thought over all that had happened, and knew that she had played a sorry part. An engaged girl—she had let another man make love to her. Marjorie shrank as she realised her action.

"What have I done? It came to me upon the roof! Oh! why didn't I find out before? What can I tell Mr. Warde? How can I tell him that I never cared for him a bit? Is it I—can it be I, who have behaved so badly? But I must tell him, straight away. Not a minute longer than I can help will I be so double-faced."

At her usual hour she dressed and went downstairs. The empty breakfast-room added strength to her resolve. Pausing but for a moment on the doorstep, to catch at her slipping courage, she ran down the flagged path of the Court, and knocked at Mr. Warde's door.

Mr. Warde, like herself, had been wakeful. Marjorie's face on the roof had been a startling revelation. And yet he had to confess to himself that in his inmost heart he had gauged rightly her love. Even in the dawn, whilst he had rejoiced at its expression, a cold hand had seemed to pluck it away. And now—he had seen her kindling face—he had seen the mounting flush, he had seen the love-light in her dark eyes, in that glance when he had surprised the lovers. It was a very different girl who had borne his caresses, when for a few moments she had leant her tired body against his strength.

He realised it all. She loved Antony Pelham; she only bore with him.

Entering Mr. Warde's house, the door at the end of the hall leading into the garden stood open before her. Many a time in her childish life, Marjorie had sought her friend by way of the study window. Some impulse now made her seek that mode of approach. It was a French window, not quite open to the ground. She had to mount two steps, and step over a low framework, which in former days her small feet had found a sufficient barrier.

The window was wide open. Marjorie tapped upon the pane. Mr. Warde was sitting at his bureau, and she could not see his face.

"May I come in?"

As the loved voice fell upon his ear, the man rose, and pushed the letter he was writing aside.

"Like old days, Marjorie," he smiled, coming forward to meet her, but his face looked pale and drawn.

Something in hers, something to him admirable in the courage which had prompted her visit—for he knew why she had come—some desire to save her pain made him say:

"I was writing to you, Marjorie."

"Yes?" Her troubled eyes sought some comfort from his.

"But now you have come—it was good of you to come, Marjorie—I did not like to disturb you, or I would have saved you. Sit there in the old place—your chair has never been moved."

But instead, Marjorie moved restlessly to the window, and looked out upon the trim luxuriance of the rose-filled garden. Her courage was oozing fast in face of his kindness and the old associations.

"I came to tell you," she said slowly, "that what I said the other day was wrong. I have found out—that I cannot——"

"I know, Marjorie. No need to say it," he said softly.

"I have behaved very badly," she went on. "I let you think I cared for you. I did not know—then. I never did care. I never can—I know now." Unconsciously her tone took a note of triumph, which made her hearer wince. He forced himself to reply:

"It was a mistake, dear. I realised that it was only a chance—that you were but a child whom I have loved very dearly. That is it, Marjorie. That is how it is between us."

She lifted her foot over the threshold of the window, and the straying rose-branches fell about her. She looked very slight and young, as she stood there for a moment, the sun burnishing the bright tendrils of her hair into a halo round her face. The man's soul went out in a sigh of longing as he saw the beauty of the picture—saw her standing as he had dreamt she would stand, his own loved possession, in her home.

"I think you will be happy," he forced himself to say; "I think Mr. Pelham——"

She put up her hands to ward off his speech.

She put up her hands to ward off his speech, and her face grew scarlet.

"Good-bye," she said softly.

There was a rustle of soft drapery, a hasty footfall, a blank. The window was vacant. The man stared at it, still for a moment possessed with the vision of her presence. Then he turned, and looked painfully round the luxurious room.

All was there that man could want—every expression of a cultivated taste. As he looked, his loneliness—the loneliness that would never now be satisfied—fell in desolation round him.

The adventurers were gathered on the lawn on a rug and cushions Marjorie had found for them. After a long sleep, as school was out of the question for that day, they had spent some hours in shovelling the earth back into their hole.

"Never knew such a funny fing in all my life!" Sandy had exclaimed during this process. "It all came out, and on'y 'bout half will go in. How do you splain that, Dave?"

"Don't want to explain," said David, jumping in and stamping vigorously. "It's got to go, whether it will or no."

"It's like a grave," Sandy said, observing him. "On'y there's nothing buried. You'll get buried in a minute, Orme, if you don't look out."

"Me s'ant."

"You will. There!" as a clatter of earth fell over and around the busy baby. "Didn't I tell you so?"

Orme looked round, his chubby moon-face a surprised interrogation. Then as fast as he could trot, he went off to his mother. To her he imparted the information that the "'ky had fell, an' it was a dirty 'ky."

It was after they had tired themselves with digging that the four had sought Marjorie and a fairy story. In the middle of this, when the prince and the heroine were engaged in a customary understanding, Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative and relapsed into thought.

Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative.

"Seems, Margie, as if you felt dreffle 'bout something," said David.

Marjorie did not reply. Her thoughts had ascended the hill, and there was a dreamy, unseeing look in her eyes.

Almost every day Ross and Orme go and stamp upon the mound of earth in the corner of the garden, the monument of the boys' enterprise. Ross does it out of hatred, and Orme in the hope of bringing down the "ky."

But to Marjorie that mound tells a tale of love, found and won—and mistakes buried, happily before it was too late. Sometimes her young brothers wonder at some unlooked-for expression of affection, and look at her reproachfully, resenting the sudden kiss. Sandy one day said to her—

"Why did you kiss Orme—sudden—like that? He ain't gooder than usual—an' he's dirty."

"Yes, I like him dirty. He reminded me——"

She stopped at the sound of a step.

"'Minded you? Your cheeks get redder an' redder the nearer Mr. Pelham comes. 'Minded you—what?"

"Of that dreadful night," she whispered.

But it was no "dreadful" reminiscence that shone in the welcome of her uplifted eye.

THE END.

"None of these things move me."—Acts xx. 24.

The "things" of which St. Paul spoke were very definite things indeed. They were the things which befell him as he continued to fulfill his ministry and to proclaim the Gospel in Jerusalem and elsewhere. It is true he says that he did not know the things that would befall him when he reached Jerusalem. He meant that he could not exactly describe beforehand all that would happen to him. But his experience of the past could have left him in no doubt as to the sort of experience that awaited him in the future. Bonds and imprisonment, persecution in its many different forms, opposition to the great message which he had to deliver, contempt and ridicule, hardship and toil, pain and the risk of death—these were the things with which, his experience had been filled since he became an apostle of Christ. They were the things which, as he well knew, he should have to encounter whithersoever he might go. They were the things which he had clearly before his mind when he declared "None of these things move me."

As he speaks the words, we are at once placed in the presence of that life which is one of the great treasures of the Church of Christ—that life, the record of which has animated tens of thousands of the soldiers of Christ, and has encouraged myriads of sufferers in their times of need, and has, over and over again, made men heroes and martyrs. Delicate health, unceasing toil, bodily suffering, constant privations, long journeys by sea and land, long imprisonments, cruel scourgings, vexations and disappointments, and the ever-present danger of death—such were the experiences of that life. We, as we read the record, wonder at the steadfastness and endurance which made such a life possible. And while we admire the set purpose and the unflinching courage of the man, we pity him for the things which made up the experiences of his life. But he does not for a moment pity himself. On the contrary, he says of it all, "None of these things move me."

What did St. Paul really mean by saying that the sufferings of his life did not move him?

Is he speaking the language of mere bravado? Have we before us a man who is merely giving utterance to great swelling words? Is this some proud and foolish boaster who does not mean what he says? Men of this sort are not by any means uncommon. We have not to go far to come across those who, to judge by their fine words and their swaggering boastfulness, are brave and good, and superior to others, but who are, in reality, cowardly and mean and contemptible. Such men are to be met with in all departments of human life—in the family circle, in society, in politics, in the church. But no one that ever lived on this earth has been farther from the character of an empty boaster than the Apostle Paul. There were two reasons why it was impossible that he could ever have been a mere boaster. One reason is that he was absolutely true to his very heart's core. The other reason is that all his thoughts of himself were thoughts of the very deepest humility. The man who could feel himself to be the "chief of sinners," and whose whole life was manifestly sincere and true, was quite incapable of a windy boast. It is plain that mere bravado could have had nothing whatever to do with the words "None of these things move me."

Then, are his words those of a Stoic? Are we listening to the language of one whose philosophy has taught him that human virtue could have no more conspicuous triumph than to be able to suppress every emotion of the soul, and to petrify into a marble death that warm, living thing which God has given to every man, and which we call his "heart"? There were those in St. Paul's days who were philosophers after this sort. They were the men who succeeded in killing all feeling. They practised their philosophy so well, and were so obedient to its principles, that they were never conscious of a real transport of joy, and refused to acknowledge any pangs of sorrow. They turned themselves from men into marble statues. A Stoic could move about the world with a cold, contemptuous smile upon his lips; and as he passed through scenes of joy and happiness, as he listened to the happy laughter of an innocent maiden, or watched the bounding joyousness of a young man in the heyday of his youth, as he looked upon the agonies of bodily suffering, or witnessed the bitter tears of some bereaved one, or stood in the presence of the terrible realities of death, he could say—and say it with truth—"None of these things move me."

Is it with this stoical indifference that St. Paul speaks? We might as well imagine that the sun could become cold and dark, as that the warm, tender heart of the apostle could become stoical. A very cursory glance at that life, so full of love and tenderness, is enough to tell us that there could have been nothing of the Stoic about the apostle. A single moment's recollection will bring to our memories words that he spoke or wrote, which could only have come from a nature that was sensitive, tender, and emotional. St. Paul was one who loved strongly and felt deeply. He was easily lifted up with joy, and cut to the quick by pain and suffering. His love and sympathy flowed out to all around him. He welcomed the love and sympathy of others. The warm heart that was in him spoke to and influenced the hearts of others; for, as Goethe says,

Assuredly he was far from being anything approaching to a Stoic. On the contrary, he was a man who daily grew more and more into the likeness of Him Who suffered, and felt, and loved more than any other man, Who, in his wonderful tenderness and boundless sympathy, is the Great Model for us to copy.

When, therefore, St. Paul said, "None of these things move me," he could not possibly have said it out of the cold, passionless heart of a Stoic.

What, then, did he really mean by what he said? He himself has made plain to us what he meant. He says that he must finish his course with joy, and the ministry, which he has received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God. Nothing must interfere with the fulfilment of his ministry. That ministry was his life's work, to which he had been specially called. There could be no possibility of mistake about it. From the time of his conversion no shadow of a misgiving or doubt concerning it had ever for a moment crossed his mind. He was absolutely certain that he was commissioned by God to testify the gospel of His grace. His mission was to go whithersoever the providence of God might lead him—over land or sea, in sunshine or in storm—in order that he might proclaim the great message of the love of God. The thought of that mission so entirely possessed him, so penetrated his whole being, that nothing in the world could turn him aside from it, even for a moment. And the steadfast purpose of his heart to fulfil his ministry at all costs is breathed out in his words, "None of these things move me." He meant that nothing, however vexatious or disappointing or painful, could hold him back from his great work. The Holy Ghost had witnessed to him that bonds and imprisonment awaited him. It made no difference. Nothing could move him. He had received his charge to preach the gospel, and preach it he must.

We cannot but admire this courageous steadfastness of purpose, this unswerving faithfulness. But behind it all, and inspiring it all, there was the clear, bright, living faith—the open eye of his soul—which looked full on the great reality of the love of God. His faith was absolutely convinced of the love of God to him and to all mankind. The great certainty lighted up an answering love in his heart towards God and towards all men; and therefore, come what might, he must preach Christ. No doubt steadfastness and courage lie in the words, "None of these things move me." Yet even more are they the words of faith. He who speaks them is one who knows in Whom he has believed.

Why is it that we are not able to do greater things for God? Why do we so easily lose heart? Why does our energy so quickly flag? Why are our sacrifices so poor and small? Why does our courage so soon ebb away? Why do we so cry out when we are hurt? Why is our endurance so short-lived? Surely the reason is plain. If we had the strong faith of St. Paul, instead of a faith that is so often feeble and halting and irresolute, we should be better able to pass through the varied experiences of human life and say, "None of these things move me. Nothing can move me from my trust in God and from the work which He has given me to do."

But there is a further meaning in the apostle's words. They express the living faith which inspired the steadfastness of purpose with which he clung to his life's work. Yet they express more than this. As he speaks there is a scene before his eyes which, no doubt, he had often witnessed. He sees the runners in a race striving together for victory. He sees the one who, when the race is run, receives the prize. He sees the joy of victory that beams in his eyes as the chaplet is placed on his brow.

It is a picture of himself. He is running in a race. He is still in the midst of the course. And he expects to finish his course with the joy of victory. That is the hope set before him, and from that hope nothing could move him. It is out of the assuredness of that hope, which he knew would not be disappointed, that he can say of all his troubles and anxieties, "None of these things move me." He meant that nothing could shake his hope of finishing his course with joy. For was not that hope founded upon the promises of God? Was it not bound up with the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead? Had he not received ten thousand tokens of the faithfulness of God? His hope was no delusion—no baseless fabric of a dream. It was a certainty of which nothing could rob him.

It is a joy to us to remember that what was St. Paul's hope is ours also. For it is the hope of the Christian. It is the hope of glory set before all the followers of Christ. Let our faith only grasp the love of God, and win our lives from sin to the service to God, and then this blessed hope will become the golden treasure of the lives that have been renewed.

We live in a strange and sad world. Dark clouds of mystery are around us on every side. Vexation, disappointment, suffering, pain, death, confront us, and we cannot escape them. We are, more or less, sufferers all and mourners all. Oh, that we might be able to say, not with the boastfulness of fools, nor yet with the icy indifference of Stoics, but with humble faith and ever-brightening hope, "None of these things move me"! Blessed is the steadfastness which nothing can move either from the conviction of the love of God which the cross of Christ reveals, or from the path of duty which lies before us, or from the Christian hope of the life to come.

Those travellers who have noticed how turbaned or fezzed native merchants will gladly wait for half a dozen hours under the colonnade of some hotel at Tangiers or Cairo on the doubtful chance of concluding a bargain with the errant Englishman, which does not involve half a dozen francs, may have some idea of the small value which the modern Oriental sets upon his time. The sun is his only clock, and even that suits him rather to bask in than to scrutinise. The thoughts and habits of men change even less in the East than the features of Nature, and we are confronted with just the same easy elasticity as regards anything to do with definite hours when we restore for ourselves the sacred scenes of the earlier Bible history, and put back the timepiece of our own contemplation for two or three thousand years. To the Hebrew or Canaanite of Joshua's day the phenomenon of the "sun standing still," conveyed into Holy Writ from the highly wrought poetic imagery of the lost Book of Jasher, would be little of a miracle—that luminary was often stationary for the popular convenience.

Exact notes of time are very hard to discover in the Old Testament. We have for the most part to depend on such expressions as "dawn," "morning," "noon," "heat of day," "cool of day," "evening," "twilight," "night," and no attempt that Hebrew scholars have made to set those terms in their correct chronological order has met with more than very partial success. The word "hour" is itself mentioned only once: Dan. iv. 19. It seems difficult to suppose that some simple method of measuring the hours was not in use, such as the trickling of sand or water from a vessel, but our knowledge on the subject is scanty. We must even resign ourselves to the prosaic probability that the famous sun-dial of Ahaz was a very different contrivance from the lichened stone pillar, with weather-beaten brass face, which we associate in the Western world with the odorous lawn of some sequestered manor garden. It is more likely that Ahaz had upon his terrace a slanting tower, upon a certain number of the steps of which the shadow fell. Such towers were known in ancient India. The only formal computation of time that we can discover in the Old Testament is by three watches. There was the "beginning of watches" (Lam. ii. 19), from sunset to 10 p.m.; the middle watch, Judges vii. 19 (we speak of this incident later), from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m.; the morning watch, from 2 a.m. to sunrise (Exodus xiv. 24), when the Lord looked on the Egyptians, and discomfited them in the midst of the Red Sea.

THE BIBLE CLOCK.

But the rough and ready indications of hours, supplied by the progress of the day from dawn to darkness, were quite enough for the men and women of the earlier Hebrew centuries, and if we are willing to shake off our Occidental precision and the tyranny of Greenwich, many a Bible scene would take a place upon the clock with moderate exactitude. It is in the glow of the rising sun that Abraham gazes upon the destruction of Sodom, that Jacob beholds the face of the Unknown who has wrestled with him at Peniel, that Achan is marked out before the congregation for the doom of his theft, that Hannah asks God so earnestly for the son for whom she longs; that poor, over-persuaded Darius hastens to the den of lions, to see whether his faithful favourite Daniel is alive. It is in the very early hours that Giant Goliath struts out to defy the armies of the living God, and that fair Rebekah rides away, with the day-spring on her face, to meet the love which has been predestined for her, beyond the plains of Padan-aram. It is in the heat of the day that the three mysterious Visitors greet Abraham at his tent door, and that Saul completes the slaughter of the Ammonites and wins the hearts of his people. It is at high noon that Joseph provides Benjamin with a dinner five times as large as that of his other brothers, in the sunny courts of Pharaoh, and that Ishbosheth's siesta leads to his assassination at the hands of the sons of Rimmon. It is towards evening that the weary dove returns to the ark's refuge, that Joshua takes down the bodies of the five kings from their gibbet, that Ezekiel's wife dies, and that the haunted life of King Ahab ebbs painfully away. The night scenes are numerous. It is in the darkness that the hosts of Sennacherib are destroyed, that the awful cry is heard in Egypt on the death of the first-born, and that, while Belshazzar banquets, the Angel of Death "is whetting his sword upon the stones of Babylon." We survey these pictures, so far as their exact hour is concerned, through the haze of Oriental indefiniteness, but they have been limned for ever by the genius of inspiration upon the retina of universal humanity.

When we come to New Testament times we are, at least by comparison, on more reliable ground. It was certainly Roman influence which brought the system of hours into Palestine. That this system existed in our Lord's day is undoubted. "Are there not twelve hours in the day?" said Jesus Christ Himself.

There were two modes of reckoning, one used by St. John and the other by the rest of the New Testament writers. St. John counts his hours just as we do, from midnight to noon and from noon to midnight. His fellow-evangelists reckon from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. and from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., according to the ordinary Jewish fashion. We may add in passing that the Romans divided the night not into three but into four watches. These watches lasted three hours each. Thus, when Christ appeared to His disciples walking on the sea "in the fourth watch of the night," it must have been some time between 3 and 6 a.m.

Let us now say a few things about the big, bald clock face, with no hands, with which we have furnished those who are jogging along with us on our chronological quest. Our clock makes a bold attempt (the first, so far as we know) to fix a Scripture event on to each hour of the twenty-four. We do not profess that the proofs which we can offer for the time of each event are equally sound, but we have made it a rule that sheer guess-work should never be employed. Consequently, there is a partial failure. We have succeeded in discovering no reasonably probable event for 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. May we console ourselves with the reflection that in Eastern countries most people during those hours are asleep? Except as regards the particular incidents we are about to consider, we will leave our big clock to tick his own tale. Whatever his faults, he is not half as much of a story-teller as another of his kind would be, who had been neglected in a lumber room for over twenty centuries. Let us, however, just defend one or two selections which might seem groundless or arbitrary. What authority have we for alleging that our Lord's friends endeavoured to arrest Him, as being "beside Himself," at 11 a.m.? This. St. Mark shows us in his minute and vivid way that owing to the insistency of the crowd the Master and His disciples could not take their meal. The usual hour for this would be about eleven in the morning. Then we have ventured to place the feeding of the five thousand about 4 p.m.; for the month was April, and St. Luke tells us that "the day began to wear away." We cannot, therefore, be very far out. Again, Jairus would hardly have come to our Lord before late in the afternoon, for Christ had had a long day and a voyage over the lake; the people also were waiting as though they expected Him earlier. And since the two Maries and Salome would be all eagerness to procure their spices for the anointing of Christ's body, and could not buy them till the Sabbath ended at six, they would not accomplish their shopping later than 7 p.m.

Now let us take out our watches and check them by our big clock. We will picture for ourselves some scenes in Old and New Testament history at the hour in which they happened. For such hours the evidence is in most of our instances good, and in the rest more than tolerable. Our selections shall start from 2 a.m. and go on in due order up to midnight.

2 A.M.

At this hour, when the stay-at-home often awakes for a little after his "first sleep," and the modern roysterer is thinking about his pillow, St. Peter stood in the glare of the coal fire, while darkness still shrouded the most dreadful night in history. St. Luke (xxii. 59) clearly tells us that there was an hour's interval between the denials. We may well believe that the nerves of the sturdy but emotional apostle were all on edge from the surprises and horrors through which he had already passed. Scared or nettled by the inquiry of a sharp maid-servant, he takes the primary step in a sin of which the very blackness is a beacon for aftertime of the far-reaching power of divine forgiveness.

4 A.M.

"The musky daughter of the Nile, with plaited hair and almond eyes." This is how Oliver Wendell Holmes prettily, if too fancifully, describes Hagar. The pathetic dismissal by the patriarch of this ill-starred Egyptian and her son Ishmael, has always been a theme dear to poetry and art. We are not astray in shedding over the picture the grey tints of earliest dawn. "Abraham," we are told, "rose up early in the morning," and it seems probable, from the narrative, that the unhappy business was concluded before Sarah was about. The wife of an Arab sheik would rise betimes.

5 A.M.

We are fairly secure in fixing this for the hour on that memorable Sabbath when, after the six days' single investiture, Joshua ordered the seven priests, with the seven trumpets of rams' horns, to bear the Ark seven times round the walls of Jericho. "They rose early, about the dawning of the day." The date, calculating from the previous Passover, was about April 23rd. The dawn at this season would bring us roughly to 5 a.m. Jericho was a city of considerable extent, and allowing that it took the procession an hour and a half or more to finish each of the seven circuits, it is not likely that the leader would be able to exclaim, "Shout, for the Lord hath given you the city," and to command the massacre, till 6 p.m., when the Sabbath would be over.

The old method of the commentators, which made St. John reckon his hours like the other three evangelists, would place the call of himself and St. Andrew at 4 p.m. The theory that St. John counted his hours as we do is supported by the high authority of Bishops Wordsworth and Westcott, and many others. It surely gives a more natural sense to this passage: The two apostles abode with their Master, after their call, "that day." It would be a short day which began at four in the afternoon, instead of ten in the morning, and St. Andrew's search for his brother, together with St. Peter's subsequent call, are recorded in "that day" besides.

10 A.M.

It was at noon, upon the knees of his mother, that the son of the Shunammite lady died. We remember how the little boy, the cherished child of many prayers, toddled out to meet his aged father in one of those rich harvest fields which nestled round the base of Mount Carmel; and how, smitten by the fierce Syrian sun, he called out to his father, "My head, my head!" and a lad carried him home to his mother. The picture is none the less fresh because we look upon it blurred by the tears of many generations, and the simple story ends in smiles, for God, through Elisha, graciously gave back the treasured life.

12 NOON.

3 P.M.

The hour of prayer at the Temple. Here we are chronologically as secure as if we had heard three o'clock struck by the clock at Westminster Abbey, where the week-day service is held at the same hour. When we read this account of the miraculous healing, at the Beautiful Gate, of the cripple who was over forty years old, we may recall the story of Pope Innocent III. and St. Thomas of Aquinum. "You see, son," said the Pontiff, as they surveyed the massive ingots being carried into the Vatican, "the day has gone by when the Church need say, 'Silver and gold have I none.'" "Yes, holy father," responded the honest saint, "and the day has gone by, too, when the Church could say to the paralytic, 'Arise, take up thy bed and walk.'"

6 P.M.

"God is a Spirit" was the sublime revelation made by Christ to the woman of Samaria by Jacob's well at Sychar. If St. John counted his hours according to the Jewish habit, the sixth would, of course, be noon, but a woman would be more likely to come to draw water, according to Eastern custom, ancient and modern, in the cool of the day, than during the burning heat.

9 P.M.

Nine o'clock at night was a judicious hour for the dispatch of St. Paul, under an armed escort, from Jerusalem to Cæsarea. The apostle's young nephew had bravely divulged to the Roman captain, Lysias, a plot on the part of some Jews to assassinate his uncle. In this matter, Lysias acted as a man of wisdom and honour.

11 P.M.

With the exception of noon and midnight, there is no hour so exactly marked as this in the whole of the Old Testament. The noble and heroic Gideon and his three companies blew their three hundred trumpets, and crashed their pitchers, and flashed their firebrands, "in the beginning of the middle watch, and they had but newly set the watch." The middle watch, as we have said before, lasted from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. This terrific signal for the attack on the Midianites must have been given, therefore, about 11 p.m.

Of the many midnight scenes that are available, we will choose one that is remarkable, not for its profound ethical teaching, its tenderness, its tragedy, but, if we may say so with reverence, its humour. Samson lifting the gates of Gaza upon his back, and carrying them up "to the top of the mountain that is before Hebron" (R.V.), is one of those stories which delighted our childhood, and which will never be displaced by any recital of the glories of latter-day athleticism. The gist of this incident is to be found in the cleverness with which the Philistines, proverbial then as now for their stupidity, are outwitted by the prisoner, whom they fancied they had trapped so securely.

12 MIDNIGHT.

It may be that, as we lay our big clock aside, and return our watches to our pockets, some scenes of the sacred Long Ago will shape themselves more clearly and definitely for the future in our remembrance, because we shall associate them with the hour at which they occurred. We have not sought to disguise the fact that, so far as time goes, a mist of incertitude must always cling round events, however momentous, which took place in any Oriental country, and at a remote age. But we shall understand our Bible all the better, and its unchangeable and imperishable essence will be the more vital to our souls, as we realise that the Almighty was pleased to reveal Himself to a people whose modes of thought and whose ways of life were widely different from our own.

As might be expected, the languorous and unpractical Orient soon lost the impress of Roman preciseness in the matter of hours. The average native of Palestine to-day is as careless about time as he was when Abraham completed his pilgrimage from Ur of the Chaldees. Nor is this truth without its curious analogy in that life immortal into which we believe those holy men of old are entered, with whose earthly deeds we have been concerned. There is no time where they have gone. In the sight of the King before Whose presence they stand, "a thousand years are but as yesterday, seeing that is past as a watch in the night." And we think, too, of that Dial, hidden somewhere in the archives of the Eternal, whose awful Hand points to the Hour, unknown even to the angels in heaven, "when the Son of Man cometh."

By Evelyn Everett-Green.

The Auguste-Victoria was steaming with dignified deliberation into the harbour of Gibraltar. The exquisite lights of a clear February morning were shining over land and sea; and Dulcie, at her port-hole window, was gazing with eager eyes over the smooth, shining ripples of the sea, and longing for a run on deck and a good look about her.

But Dulcie's cabin-companion, a frail invalid, who had been wintering in Madeira, and was on her way to the Riviera, where the spring months were to be spent, was still lying prostrate and wan in her berth. She had suffered severely during the thirty hours' passage from Funchal to Gibraltar; and Dulcie would not leave her till she had had some breakfast and had been made comfortable for a quiet sleep.

She crossed the cabin and bent over her.

"We are in now, Aunt Mary. There, do you hear? That is the rattle of the anchor chain going down. I have sent for your tea and toast. They will be here directly. Let me make you comfortable; and after you have had something to eat you will get off to sleep, and wake up quite brisk. We have no more Atlantic to face now. Only the blue, blue Mediterranean. Oh, it does look so calm and beautiful!"

Dulcie fairly danced about the floor as she waited on the invalid. This cabin was in itself a luxury—not just a gangway, with berths on one side and lounge on the other; but a small room with space to walk about, and a fixed wardrobe in which to hang clothes—as different as possible from the accommodation on the mail-boat which had taken them from Southampton to Madeira in October. This was a great pleasure steamer, which had left New York ten days or so ago, touched at Madeira, and was bound on a cruise through the Mediterranean to the Orient.

Dulcie had come out with a party of rich relations, mainly to take charge of Miss Martin, the semi-invalid "Aunt Mary." The Meredith party had wearied of Madeira by this time, and Miss Martin unspeakably dreaded the return journey in the mail, with the horrors of the Bay of Biscay and the perils of Ushant to face. They had eagerly availed themselves of the chance of returning by this splendid German-American pleasure steamer; and Dulcie's heart was all in a flutter at the prospect of what she was to see. To-day Gibraltar, to-morrow Malaga; and thence a trip up to Granada, the place, of all others in the world, that she longed to see! Then Algiers, then Genoa; and so to the Riviera, whence she was to be sent home; as, when once in Europe, and with no more sea voyage to face, her company could be dispensed with. But what a lot of the world she would have seen by that time! Certainly there were compensations sometimes in being a poor relation whose services could always be commanded.

Just as Miss Martin was sipping her tea, and finding relief at last in the steadiness of the great vessel at anchor, handsome Arabella Meredith came bustling in, in travelling trim, with a light cloak over her arm.

"Oh, Dulcie," she said, "we find that we leave for Granada at once. We do not do it from Malaga; but only join the boat again there. It is an affair of three nights. I'm sorry you will miss it; but, of course, Aunt Mary cannot be left all that time, and before she has got over her sea-sickness. Good-bye; we'll tell you all about it when we meet. I daresay you'll manage to join a shore-going party here and at Malaga, and you'll have the boat nice and quiet. Everybody's off on shore for Granada."

She was gone. There was trampling and calling overhead. The agent who arranged the shore excursions was marshalling his recruits. People were rushing down for wraps and hand-bags; all was hurry and confusion. Mrs. Meredith just ran in to kiss her sister and warn Dulcie to look well after her. Then she, too, disappeared, and Dulcie was left biting her lips to keep back the tears. She realised that Miss Martin could not be left for so long, and that before she had recovered the tossing in the Atlantic. But to miss Granada! Oh! it did seem hard when she was so near, and Aunt Mary had promised to pay the expenses of the trip for her.

Miss Martin settled to sleep, the sleep of exhausted nature. Dulcie went on deck to find the huge boat almost empty. Even those passengers who had not cared for the fatigues of the Granada expedition had gone to spend the day ashore. The steamer was not to leave the anchorage till seven o'clock that night, and then only steam gently under lee of the shore to Malaga.

Dulcie's was a happy nature; despite the keenness of her disappointment, the beauty of the scene before her eyes did much to chase sorrow away. Was she not looking upon one of the grand sights of the world? Was not that the lion-faced rock she had longed to see? And oh, how glorious were those solemn African mountains! and what an exquisite view she had of the wonderful harbour, the town climbing up the steep heights, and the white Moorish city crowning one of the low hills! There was Algeciras; she recognised it from its position, but she longed to know more of her surroundings. Oh, if Mr. Carlyon were but here, what interesting things he would tell her!

Dulcie felt her cheek suddenly glow, and she leaned over the rail, looking down into the water and growing dreamy. How was it that it was always that face which came between her and the page of her book when she read, or intruded itself into her visions, waking and sleeping, at night? Why was it that the thought of missing that companionship on the Granada trip was the real trouble to her, though she scarcely dared admit it? What was Mr. Carlyon to her?

He had only been three weeks in the hotel with them at Funchal; he had come from the Cape, and it was rumoured that he had made a fortune there. He was evidently a great traveller. He seemed acquainted with every land under the sun. His thin face was very brown; and the dark hair was silvered at the temples, though the fine silky moustache was still quite black. He was tall and well-knit in figure, with regular features and very penetrating eyes of a rather dark blue; a handsome and distinguished-looking man, said to belong to a good old family. But he had lived a life of travel and adventure, and had known hard times. If he had made his fortune now, at the age of forty or under, he had known plenty of buffeting about in his earlier life.

"I wonder if he will come back engaged to Arabella?" mused Dulcie; "I know the people, at the hotel talked about it. He was so much with us. Does Arabella care for him? He attracts her. That very gentle chivalrous way he has with all women is so different from what one meets with generally in these days. Oh, I do hope, if it is to be, that she really cares. I think he is a man who would give everything without reserve, if once he loved. And she? Oh, it is not for me to judge; perhaps I am a little jealous. Sometimes she seems to have so much—more than she can use. But I must not let myself think unworthy thoughts. I have had a lovely time. A winter of sunshine and happiness, and now this wonderful trip home. To let things be spoiled for me, just because he has gone with them and I am left behind! Oh, that would be ridiculous! ungrateful! horrid!"

That day was like a dream to Dulcie.—p. 322.

With a brave effort Dulcie flung away disappointment. After her sleep and dinner Miss Martin was well enough to come and lie out on deck, wrapped up in rugs, and enjoy the sunshine; and, hearing of a party of American ladies going for an hour or two ashore in the afternoon, she sent Dulcie off with them; so that, if she did not see what others did, at least she wandered up the narrow, busy main street of the town, saw the jostling crowds of semi-Moorish and mixed European nationality; drove out to Catalan Bay and Europa Point, and sipped delicious chocolate in a delightfully Moorish-looking restaurant before getting back to the ship.

"We have had a perfectly charming afternoon," she told Miss Martin when she got back. "We had not time or energy for the fortifications; but I don't think I mind that. That great lion rock is enough for me. I have seen Gib'; and made a few little sketches. I am quite, quite happy and content."

II.

"How perfectly exquisite!" exclaimed Dulcie.

The great vessel was lying at her anchorage in the beautiful harbour of Malaga. The smooth water lay almost without a ripple, dreaming beneath the misty glories of the spring sunrise, the delicate opals melting into the deeper green and blue of the ocean away towards the horizon, but nearer at hand so tender and pearly in tint that Dulcie held her breath to watch; and seemed as though she would never move again.

"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Grey!"

Dulcie wheeled round with a great start, the colour flushing her face from brow to chin.

"Mr. Carlyon!" she almost gasped.

"Well, not his ghost certainly, though you seem to think so."

"But—but—I thought you had gone to Granada?"

"I started off yesterday, certainly, with that intention; but I found I could not stand being one of three hundred tourists! I had not realised that sort of travelling before. It has wonderful advantages for untravelled folk, but somehow it did not suit me. I went with them to Ronda; I wanted to see that. But Granada is an old friend of mine. I did not want its memories desecrated. I think I am not exactly a gregarious animal. I made my way to Malaga by night, and found the Auguste-Victoria had already arrived. So, you see, I have turned up like a bad halfpenny, and, if Miss Martin is well enough, I should like very much to be allowed the pleasure of showing her and you what there is to see in Malaga. It is not a great deal—not enough to be fatiguing; but, if you have not been in Spain before, it will give you an idea of a pleasant Spanish town."

Dulcie's face was all in a glow; her heart seemed dancing with joy. The sunshine took a new brightness, the flocks of white sea-gulls circling round the vessel and about the harbour seemed to be crying joyously one to the other. The soft breeze blew the loosened tendrils of hair about her happy face and sparkling eyes.

The thin face of the traveller brightened as he watched.

"Let us see if we cannot get some breakfast first. We will make love to the head steward and ask if they will not let us have it in that little boudoir, as they call it, on the top deck. I hate going below on a morning like this, and I am just starving after my night's travel."

Mr. Carlyon was one of those men who always get things done in their own way. The beauty of the morning and the news of Mr. Carlyon's plan quite roused Miss Martin, who had now recovered from the effects of the Atlantic, and after her day's rest was disposed to bestir herself. She was quite ready even at that early hour to let Dulcie dress her, and help her up the many stairs to the upper deck; and there in the pleasant little "boudoir" was an appetising breakfast awaiting them.

That day was always like a dream to Dulcie, and, indeed, so were those that followed, for Mr. Carlyon proved himself the most charming and entertaining of companions. They had a boat ashore, and then a carriage, and they drove through the white town, and over the wide stony bed of the almost empty river to some exquisite gardens, belonging to Spanish grandees, now absent in Madrid, and wandered about them, whilst Miss Martin rested in the many arbours, seeing beautiful views and delighting in the flowers, which, if not so plentiful now as they would be later on, were fair and sweet and abundant.

On the day following they visited the grand cathedral and examined its many pictures, some of which were of no small interest, and drove out to the red buildings of the great bull-ring, and saw the curious structure and the weapons and saddles of the riders. Everything was empty and deserted at that time of year, for the bull-fights only begin in April. But Dulcie could picture the scene in all its splendour and horror, under the golden Southern sunshine, and gave a little shudder, feeling glad when her companion told her that he had never seen a bull-fight, though he had lived for a time in Spain.

"They are always on Sunday, for one thing," he said, "and I—well, I have had a rough-and-tumble life, and there have been times when Sundays have been strange days with me. But I could never bring my mind deliberately to go to such a scene on such a day; even if I could have made up my mind to witness the brutal spectacle as a matter of curiosity, or from the feeling that it was one of the sights of the country."

And Dulcie liked and respected him the more for this confession. It seemed to make a fresh link between them.

Miss Martin watched them as they paced to and fro upon the long deck at such times as they were not ashore; and sometimes a sparkle would come into her eyes as she observed the way in which Mr. Carlyon's glance would dwell upon Dulcie's bright face.

"It looks to me very much like——And really I should not be sorry. Poor child! she is so much alone in the world; and I can do nothing for her. All my money goes to Arabella and her brothers—that's the worst of being an unmarried woman; one has no control over one's money; if I had, I would have made a little provision for the child. She is a good little thing. But I don't think Janet will be best pleased. Arabella, with all her good looks, does not go off. As I tell Janet, it is her temper—she has been so spoiled. Everybody can see it; she is absolutely selfish. I did begin to think that Mr. Carlyon was attracted; but I suspect now the attraction was in another direction. Well, I only hope there won't be a terrible rumpus when they get back. They were reckoning, I know, on this trip. They meant to make him their special escort; and when they learn what has really happened! Well, they can't bully him, that is one comfort; and I'll try to protect Dulcie. But Arabella is a minx when her blood is up; and Janet knows how to make me afraid. It's ridiculous to be afraid of one's sister; but sometimes I am."

Just about sunset that evening the shore became black with hurrying forms, and the harbour was crowded with boats. The Granada party was returning to the Auguste-Victoria, to the strains of "Home, Sweet Home" played by the band; and Mr. Carlyon with Dulcie stood laughingly watching the embarkation of the weary, travel-stained tourists.

"I expect they have only enjoyed it very moderately; Granada would be bitterly cold at this season, April or May is the time to see it. Ah! here comes your party! They don't look very happy in their minds. I'm not sure, after all, Miss Dulcie, that we unenterprising people haven't had the best of it!"

"I have had a perfectly lovely time!" cried Dulcie with one of her sweet, direct glances; "you have been so kind to me!"

Arabella swept fiercely past, carrying Dulcie with her.—p. 324.

His face lighted; it was such a kind one when it did, though it could be stern, too, on occasion.

"And you must see Granada another time—at the right season."

"Ah me! I fear not!" answered Dulcie, with a little laugh. "But never mind; one can't be more than perfectly happy!"

"Dulcie, is that you? Do take my bag; I'm so tired I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mr. Carlyon, there you are! I wonder you have the face to speak to me again, after your base desertion in our hour of need!"

She tried to speak archly; but temper and spite were in her tone, and the gleam in the eyes that rested first on Dulcie and then on him was not at all pretty to see.

"I left you under most capable guardianship; but I found my own enthusiasm unequal to the demand made upon it. There is such a thing as making a labour of a pleasure. Old fellows like me get beyond that in time."

Arabella swept fiercely past him, carrying Dulcie with her.

"When did he join the ship again?" she asked fiercely.

"On Tuesday morning," answered Dulcie quietly.

Arabella, red and pale by turns, cross-questioned her as to every event of the past days, which Dulcie gave truthfully, though with a sense of coming trouble.

Then the storm burst. She had seen Arabella angry before; but this was a unique outburst, and before it she stood dumb.

III.

"Oh, Dulcie, my dear, we are in sad disgrace," cried Miss Martin, half laughing, but distinctly agitated as well; "really, Janet is unreasonable. As if we had anything to do with Mr. Carlyon's change of plan! As if a man like that would not have gone with Arabella if he had wanted her! But Janet can never see things fairly, and, oh! the scolding I have had! And now, my dear, there is only one thing for us to do, if we don't want our heads snapped off. We shall weigh anchor almost at once, and they say it will be rather rough when we lose the shelter of the Spanish coast. I am just going to bed quietly at once, and you are to stop down and take care of me, and not show yourself above deck at all until to-morrow midday, when everybody has got off at Algiers, and Janet has made sure of Mr. Carlyon's escort."

Dulcie's cheeks were burning; her eyes were indignant.

"What have I done that I should be mewed up like this? Of course, as long as you are ill and want me, auntie, I don't mind anything, but you are not ill yet, and I do love seeing the ship move off, and all Malaga is collecting upon the two great breakwaters to see us steam away!"

"Oh, my dear child, don't begin to argue. My nerves won't stand another scene with Janet. If we do as she says we shall have peace, and 'Peace at any price' is my motto. We shall be at Algiers to-morrow midday; they will go ashore with Mr. Carlyon. He will take them to Mustapha Supérieur, and they will all stay the night there. We can do our little sight-seeing quietly by ourselves, and be back on board and out of sight before the rest get back. The crossing to Genoa takes from Saturday evening to early Monday morning, and I shall be glad enough to lie down all that time. I am afraid it will be dull for you, poor child! but it's no good crossing your Aunt Janet. You had better keep quietly here with me, and then at Genoa, as you know, you are to take the train back to England, and we go on to the Riviera. I should have liked to keep you all the while. I shall miss you sadly; but Janet——"

Dulcie was busying herself over her aunt's belongings, to hide the tears that would come welling up. She had so looked forward to seeing something of the life on board the big boat during the days at sea in the peaceful Mediterranean; but here she was compelled to remain a prisoner in the cabin, dependent upon the port-hole for light and air; and all because——But that would scarcely bear thinking of: it was humiliating, unbearable.

Pride, however, and a sort of maidenly shame kept Dulcie below, and, as the passage to Algiers was really rather rough, she had her time taken up by attendance on her aunt. Miss Martin was not well enough to get up till they had been two hours or more at anchor, and then did not feel equal to going ashore that day.

But, at least, Dulcie could pace the almost deserted deck from end to end, and gaze her fill at the beautiful town built up and up against the side of the hill. She could see the Arab dresses of the motley crowd upon the quay and along the handsome boulevard in full view, and distinguish between the fine houses and towers and spires of the French town, and the white walls and minarets of the Arab quarter away on the right. She longed for the next day to come, when they would go ashore and explore the wonders of the place.

Miss Martin was quite recovered by the morrow, and anxious to see something of the town. They procured a carriage and a guide, and drove for many hours, and, though the elder lady did not feel equal to the exertion of walking through the native quarter, whose streets were far too steep and narrow for the carriage, she sent Dulcie with the guide, who showed it to her very well, and she gazed about her with breathless interest at the strange veiled women, and brown turbaned men, and the little dark-eyed children playing in the gutters.

Yet throughout the day Dulcie was conscious of a heaviness at heart, a sense of unsatisfied longing which she was afraid to analyse or think about. All that she saw was wonderful, much more so than what she had seen in Malaga, but to compare her pleasure in the two was impossible. One day seemed all sunshine; this other was overcast and dull by comparison. She was conscious of being always on the watch for one face—a face of which she caught no glimpse the whole day. She found herself constantly wondering what the rest were doing, and whether Arabella was finding out what a delightful guide and cicerone Mr. Carlyon could be.

They went back to the Auguste-Victoria before the bulk of the passengers; for Miss Martin was really tired, and Dulcie agreed with her that it might be well for her to go to her berth before the vessel started, since there was the prospect of a mild tossing when they were once outside the harbour.

Mrs. Meredith came in presently, a good deal more gracious than before, but still a little tart in her manner towards Dulcie.

"We shall meet a head-wind when we get out of harbour," she observed. "You must take care of your aunt, Dulcie, and remain with her. With her weak heart, she should not be left alone when there is any fear of sickness coming on. When we reach Genoa, I will put you and your baggage into the hands of some competent guide or porter, who will take you to the train, and you will book yourself straight through to England."

Dulcie understood perfectly. Arabella had thought her in the way. It was a planned thing that she should not see Mr. Carlyon again, even to say good-bye. And she was quite helpless. She could not seek him out—her girlish pride and modesty alike prevented that; nor could he try to see her. He would be told that she was either laid low herself or attending upon one who was in such case. Upon that crowded boat, when its complement of passengers was on board, there would be only a remote chance of encountering him even were she to steal up for a mouthful of air. At meals she might have met him; for he was certain to sit in the same saloon with her relations, even though the pleasant "boudoir" might not now be available; but to meals she was practically forbidden to come. And, indeed, Miss Martin was sufficiently ill during the whole of the next day to keep Dulcie in pretty constant attendance upon her.

Nearly all that night Dulcie lay awake in her berth, thinking strange yearning thoughts; and wondering whether she would ever cease to feel that weary sense of heartache. Miss Martin slept soundly at last—so soundly that she heard none of the noises of the vessel's slow approach to its moorings in the magnificent harbour of Genoa; was not aware when Dulcie slipped out of her berth and dressed herself with dainty precision in her neat blue travelling costume. She slept on and on so peacefully that the girl felt no scruple in leaving her. She must get a little fresh air and have her breakfast above deck. She must watch the entrance of the stately vessel into the wonderful historic harbour. The hour was very early yet. Nobody else would be astir. It was her last chance of seeing the world. She slipped out of the cabin, ran up the many flights of steps to the promenade deck, and looked about her with wide, wondering eyes at the forest of shipping by which they were surrounded, and the buildings of the town stretching away in all directions.

"Dulcie!" She started and faced about, the colour flooding her face; he was close beside her, holding out both his hands. In his eyes there was a look of purpose she had never seen there before; her own fell before it, her heart was beating so fast she could find no voice in which to answer.

He came and took her hands in his; he bent over her and spoke in quick, vibrating tones that thrilled her through and through.

"Dear me—how things do turn out!"

"Dulcie, forgive me if I am too hasty—too bold; but what am I to do? They have kept you away from me, child; and I have tried in vain to get speech with you. There is so little time to say what I would. I would have spoken it all so differently if I could. But yet I can say it all in a few little words. I love you, Dulcie—I love you. I cannot live my life without you. You are young, child, and I am getting old; but I think, with you beside me, I could learn to be young again. Dulcie, will you give me something to hope for? Do you think you could let me come and try to win your love?"

She looked up at him for one dazzling moment, and in that moment read the half-discovered secret of her own heart.

"I—I—love you already," she answered very simply; and then she felt herself being drawn, close, close to his side.

Was it minutes or hours later that she heard a sharp voice calling her name.

"Dulcie, Dulcie, where are you? Is your luggage ready? Have you had your breakfast? Be quick. Oh——"

Mr. Carlyon stepped forward, smiling.

"Congratulate me, Mrs. Meredith. Your niece has done me the honour to promise to be my wife. Would it be possible under the circumstances for her to remain with you at Mentone? I know Miss Martin favours that plan."

Mrs. Meredith was woman of the world enough to know when she was beaten; and, after all, was it not better to have such a man as her niece's husband than as a mere acquaintance? Besides, her hopes of securing him for a son-in-law had materially diminished during the past eight-and-forty hours.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, "how very interesting and romantic! Dulcie, my dear, I congratulate you. Yes, certainly, you shall remain with us. I will go and speak to Mary about it. I am sure she will be pleased. Dear me—how things do turn out!"

By Elizabeth L. Banks.

"The parson's coming!"

I remember well the pleasurable excitement that announcement used to cause in our farming neighbourhood. We children, sometimes swinging upon the topmost railing of the wicket gates, from which height we could espy the parson's "buggy" afar off, were often proud to be the first bearers of the tidings of his approach. But it was not always we who saw him first. There were times when, obeying the commands of our elders that we must never swing on the "front yard gate because it loosened the hinges," we felt chagrined over the fact that, though we were good, obedient children, we were denied the privilege of first noting the parson's horse round the hedge, in his slow, safe, jog-trot style—a style, by the way, that we all thought the proper equipment of a minister's horse. There were days when our fathers and our brothers and the "hired men," ploughing in the farm fields, hastily dropped their work, tying their horses to the fence-posts, and strode hurriedly to the house with the bit of always welcome news that the parson was making his quarterly round of country visits and might shortly be expected at that particular house, which must forthwith be "tidied up" most especially in his honour. Orders were straightway given that the manufacture of mud-pies in the back yard must be at once abandoned. There was a scurrying to the garden pump or the wash-basin, hands and faces were scrubbed, straying locks were plastered back from our foreheads; soiled, dark gingham aprons were exchanged for clean, stiffly starched, light print ones; and then we were led into the "parlour" and bidden to "sit still and quiet and nice and tidy" in readiness for the parson's visit. If, when the parson was espied, it was near the noon dinner-hour or the night supper-time, extra preparations were made for the approaching meal. Slices of highly valued "pound cake" were brought from the larder, the cellar was ransacked for the choicest jar of home-made jam, and, if time allowed, an unlucky chicken was chased into a corner of the barn-yard and assassinated, to help provide a feast deemed worthy to set before the parson.

There was a scurrying to the garden pump.

The parson lived in the village, some five miles distant. He preached every Sunday morning and evening in the village church to a congregation of perhaps fifty souls, and received from them a salary of five hundred dollars a year. Once in two weeks he drove out to our school-house on the Sunday afternoon to preach to the farmers and their families, who did not attend the village church because they considered it a cruelty to horses that had worked all the week to be obliged to carry the family to church on Sunday. We in our district added one hundred dollars "and a donation party" to the minister's salary. The inhabitants of another farming district, six miles on the other side of the village, rewarded the parson in the same way for preaching to them on the alternate Sundays when he did not come to us; so the minister had, all told, seven hundred dollars a year (£140), and two "donation parties"—not a large sum on which to support a family of five, yet considerably more than Goldsmith's village preacher, who was "passing rich on forty pounds a year."

A WEDDING FEE!

Four times a year the minister visited all his country parishioners. It generally took him two or three days to go the rounds in one neighbourhood—a neighbourhood, I may say, extended over several miles. He would leave "town" (there were six hundred inhabitants in the place where he presided over the only steepled meeting-house of his three charges!) early in the morning, and reach the first house where he was to call at about ten o'clock. At noon he would have his dinner with some one of the farmer folk, being careful to select for his noon call a family with whom he had not partaken bread on his previous visit of three or six months back; for to have the parson to dinner or supper or to "put him up for the night" was an honour for which there was great rivalry, and he tried to be impartial in his distribution of such favours. During the meal hours, the minister's horse fared as sumptuously as did his good master. Apples and sugar and turnips and carrots and all the luxuries that the farm produced were given to the animal by the children of the place, while the farmer or his hired help brought out their choicest corn and bran and oats and fragrant hay. Nothing was too good for the minister and his horse. Indeed, even the "buggy" would be washed up and made "fit" during the interval of the meal hour.

Happy was that house and its dwellers with whom the minister elected to call late in the evening. The "spare bedroom," which adjoined the parlour and was only opened and aired on great occasions, was given over to him, and he slept upon the softest feather bed, amid the snowiest linen, and beneath a white-fringed canopy. In the morning the usual six o'clock breakfast would be delayed on his account until 6.30, and an hour later the minister was jogging along in his buggy to the next farmhouse.

I have written this much about the country parson with whom my own childhood was associated, because he was a typical American country parson then, and he is typical now. His round of duties and pleasures during his country visits are identical with that of hundreds of others of our country parsons. The practice of taking charge of a village church and then preaching on Sunday afternoons in the neighbouring country schoolhouses, is followed to a very great extent throughout the United States. The salary received is sometimes more, sometimes less, than what I have mentioned. What these men and their wonderful wives are able to do for themselves and their children on salaries ranging from six hundred to a thousand dollars a year is little less than miraculous. I have spoken of the "wonderful wives" of our country parsons. Here is a description of the wife of the country parson who preached in our school-house. She was not and is not unique. There are very many like her.

When she married the parson, she was a graduate of one of our best "mixed colleges." She took her diploma on the day that the man whom she afterwards married took his. She had taken the course in Greek and Latin, the higher mathematics, French, and German. When I knew her as the parson's wife, she gave lessons in French, music, and painting. The young mother of three children, she not only had no nursemaid to look after them, but she had no servants in her kitchen. She did all the housework, including the family washing and ironing, and the baking of the bread and cakes and pies. She made her children's dresses and her own. The parson's shirt front and his spotless white lawn ties were "laundered" by her. At ten o'clock in the morning she presided over the wash-tub, and at three in the afternoon she read Cicero, perhaps in the same kitchen while waiting for the bread to bake in the oven. She never looked untidy, our parson's wife! Even when hanging over the wash-tub or the bread-tray, she wore a smart-looking stuff dress, kept always clean by the donning of an immense bibbed apron. She had not an "at home" day, nor even an "at home" hour. She was always at home when she was in the house, at whatever hour of the day or night a visitor might knock at her front door. If, while in the kitchen, she heard the knocking that announced callers, the bibbed apron was thrown off, and in less than a minute later she appeared at the door, well-dressed and smiling. She was the confidante of all those in trouble; she gave advice to those married and those about to marry; she was president of the Ladies' Aid Society; she led the sewing circle, she played the church organ every Sunday morning and led the singing of the choir as well; she taught a class in the Sunday-school, and then went home and got dinner in time for her husband to start for his school-house preaching. Sunday night she presided over the young people's prayer meeting which preceded the regular preaching service. Twice a year she gave her own children a "party," to which all the other village children were invited. She formed "Bands of Mercy" in all the country round, and wrote little stories for the children to read at their meetings on the subject of kindness to dumb animals.

OUR PARSON'S WIFE.

Her house was often the scene of weddings, for those young women who could not be married at home (church weddings were a rarity), went to the parsonage to be married. There was always cake in the parsonage, and on these occasions the lady of the house would bring forth a bit of it from the larder for the bride and groom, for whom it served as the "wedding cake."

Country parsons—indeed, I think I may say nearly all American clergymen in both city and country—give the fees they receive at weddings to their wives. It is understood that the wedding fee is the perquisite of the minister's wife. Five dollars (£1) is looked upon by the ordinary country parson as a liberal fee. The very rich village grocer or country farmer occasionally astonishes the officiating clergyman with ten dollars, but such a happening is an event that could not be expected to occur oftener than once in a country parson's lifetime. The young man for whom the parson performs the all-important ceremony usually gives what he thinks he can afford. He may give two dollars. He would scarcely give less than that amount in money.

Then there is "payment in kind." A young couple frequently drive up to the parsonage in a "lumber waggon" filled with potatoes, or turnips, or firewood, or flour, beans, pickled pork—in fact, anything of an edible nature that grows on the farm. I have a schoolgirl friend married to a village clergyman, who recently regaled me with a story of a young countryman, who, with his bride, drove up to the parsonage with a large chicken coop, full of cackling hens, which he proudly delivered over to her husband as his fee for performing the marriage ceremony, with the information that "them was as good layin' hens as ever lived, and calc'lated to pervide eggs for a year an' more!"

There are numerous instances of enthusiastic and grateful bridegrooms who have presented the officiating clergyman with live pigs as wedding fees.

But it is not only as a reward for performing the marriage ceremony that the country parson is "paid in kind." Sometimes he receives a large part of his salary in this way. The members of his congregation each subscribe a certain amount of money towards the salary that is guaranteed the minister. Farmer Brown will, he says, contribute four dollars as his share. In the winter, when Farmer Brown should hand over his four dollars to the church treasurer, he finds himself short of ready cash, but with an abundant supply of wood on hand, having in the autumn felled many trees in his forest. Nothing can be more certain than that the minister needs fuel in the winter; therefore, Farmer Brown loads his waggon with logs of wood, drives to the parsonage, and deposits it in the minister's back yard, announcing to the minister that he "reckons thar 's mor'n four dollars wirth of wood in that thar load!"

The minister can, perhaps, make use of that one load of wood very conveniently; but when, as is frequently the case, a dozen frugal farmers among his parishioners are struck with the same sort of notion—that of paying their subscriptions in wood instead of money—the unfortunate parson has more wood than he can burn for many winters to come, and his back yard is entirely taken up with it. He needs sugar, and paraffin, and rice, and butter, as well as a cheerful fireside. Did I say butter? Well, sometimes he gets more butter than he wants, too. Says the farmer to his wife: "Jane, I promised to pay three dollars towards the parson's salary. Bein' as you're makin' fine butter this summer, you jes' take him a couple o' pounds a week till you've made three dollars' worth." Two pounds of fresh yellow butter weekly from the dairy of a parishioner would be appreciated by the parson's family. They would rather have it than the stale butter from the village shop; but since butter is made on all farms, and many farmers' wives send the parson butter to pay off their subscriptions, the parson's larder overflows with butter, while many other necessaries are scarce. It is the same with potatoes and cabbages and beetroots, with eggs, and with hay for the minister's horse, which, by the way, is not forgotten when the time for paying subscriptions comes round. The minister loves his horse, and is glad to have plenty of hay and oats for it to eat; but to have in his barn enough of these articles to last a horse through several lifetimes, while the children are needing boots and coats for the present winter, is not a state of affairs that appeals to his sense of the fitness of things. Some of our country parsons, with an instinct for business, not inborn, but thrust upon them by a stern necessity, have been known to become dealers in wood, potatoes, hay, and other things of which they have an over-supply, selling their surplus stock off to their neighbours. In this way they are able to get a little ready cash with which to purchase such necessary commodities as do not "grow on the farm."

In the beginning of my article I have referred to "donation parties," and have said that some ministers are guaranteed a certain number of dollars and a "donation" as a yearly salary. The donation party is, I believe, a strictly American institution, which originated about a century ago in the very thinly settled regions of the United States among the pioneers. It is still extremely popular in country towns and farming neighbourhoods. Say that a clergyman receives eight hundred dollars a year and a "donation," or it may be that he is promised two donations. That means that besides his money, he will be surprised one night or two nights in the year by fifty or a hundred, or perhaps two or three hundred, people marching into his house with bundles of every size and description. His visitors will bring with them pounds of sugar, barrels of flour, jars of pickles, bags of salt, tinned meats and vegetables, remnants of calicoes, muslins, cloths, and silks, from the village "general store," white lawn neckties, cooking utensils, bed-clothing, pictures to hang upon the wall, patent medicines (including soothing syrups for the babies), shoes and stockings, a few live chickens—in fact, everything that the minds of his parishioners can conceive of his needing. Besides all these things, a "proper" donation party is expected to carry along its own supper, during which, sometimes, a collection is taken up and a purse of money presented to the parson. A good donation party, given by a generous lot of church people, is a thing not to be despised by the recipient. Store-cupboards, cellars, and wardrobes are frequently stocked for a whole year to come, and the minister is thus able to put by, for the education of his children, a goodly sum of money out of his cash salary.

A DONATION PARTY.

(Bringing the parson's "stipend.")

But there is another kind of donation party that is by no means welcome at the parson's house. There are country churches who promise the pastor seven hundred dollars a year, without saying anything about a donation party. But in midwinter the donation party makes its appearance, the members of it bringing along anything they happen to have on hand which they do not want for themselves. Sometimes the things are useful, sometimes not. They do not bring along their own supper; instead, they eat up everything the minister has in the house, often necessitating his sending out to shops for a sufficiency of provisions. When they have enjoyed their suppers, a man who is designated as the "donation spokesman" stands on a kitchen chair, and in a loud voice "appraises the value" of each article that has been "donated": a pair of boots so much, a few yards of calico so much, a jar of jam so much, a bale of hay so much; and thus the list of things is gone through. Then the appraised values are added up and the sum deducted from the ministers salary. If the appraiser considers that one hundred dollars' worth of things have been "donated," he then and there declares that sum to have been paid on account of the salary. Perhaps an etching, handsomely framed, has been among the articles. The poor parson does not stand in particular need of an etching, yet nevertheless the picture is counted as fifteen or twenty dollars towards his salary! A clergyman's wife who, during the first years of her married life, had been the victim of such donation parties, once told me this pathetic story. A young woman invalid, a member of her husband's church, hearing that a donation party was to be given to her pastor, and not knowing of the existence of such a personage as a donation "appraiser," wove a watch-guard from her own black hair that had been cut off during her illness; the guard was mounted in gold, and sent to the minister on the evening of the donation party. It was placed among the other articles, and at the end of the evening its value was appraised at ten dollars!

A DONATION SPOKESMAN.

(Appraising the value of each article.)

One of the things about our small-salaried country parsons that has always excited my surprise and admiration is the way they contrive to give their children the benefits of a college education. No matter what their own struggles, no matter that the parson's wife must be her own cook and housemaid and washerwoman, no matter that her husband wears a shiny coat and a frayed shirt-front, a little sum of money is always laid by—an "education fund"—to be devoted to the education of the boys and girls of the family. In a great many of our colleges, especially those which are known as "denominational schools," a minister's daughter is charged only half the usual yearly college fee, which, of course, greatly facilitates matters. Then, at the colleges where the domestic system prevails—that of allowing the students to pay a part of their expenses by working in the domestic department, the minister's daughter, along with the farmer's daughter and the mechanic's daughter, helps to wash and wipe dishes and thus pays a part of her own expenses.

By the Rev. R. F. Horton, M.A., D.D., Chairman of the London Congregational Union.

I n the original Law of Moses it would seem that the most favoured tribe, the tribe of Levi, had no landed property. Even in that code of the law which came into operation at the end of the seventh century B.C. still ran: "The priests, the Levites, even all the tribe of Levi, shall have no portion nor inheritance with Israel: they shall eat the offerings of the Lord made by fire, and his inheritance. And they shall have no inheritance among their brethren: the Lord is their inheritance, and He hath spoken unto them." (Deut. xviii. 1-2). The Lord was their inheritance. Better than cities, and fields, and the gratifying sense of landed proprietorship, here was the notion of real property, the possession of the Eternal God, a personal part in the One Person, who is the Author and Giver of all possessions temporal and eternal. In the book of the Law this really magnificent idea is not developed. It seems rather to be a hint, a type, a suggestion for more spiritual times. The only application of it actually made, that certain parts of the sacrifices should belong to the priests (Deut. xviii. 3), a portion gradually in the process of time increased (see Lev. vii. 34, and Num. xviii. 12-24), gives but a poor and starved idea of what might be implied by "The Lord is their inheritance." As between a solid portion of the land, yielding its regular dues of corn and wine and oil, and the joints of meat, and first fruits of the crops and of the fleece, appointed for the priests, they might be pardoned for choosing the more substantial and permanent provision. But under the phrase "The Lord is their inheritance" lay hidden a mystical truth, which possibly priests and Levites as such never appropriated. It requires the Psalmist, or inspired poet, to liberate the promise from its merely official reference, and in liberating it to deepen it into a universal religious truth. In the sixteenth Psalm a far richer meaning is given to the notion that God Himself may be a portion preferable to broad acres and secured rents. This poet, some landless saint, we may surmise, in the time when the land of Israel was taken away from the people that they might learn to find a more inalienable property elsewhere, turns to his God in unreserved confidence: "I have said unto the Lord, Thou art my Lord"—that is the note of personal possession—"I have no good beyond Thee"—that is the note of a sufficient and satisfying possession. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance and of my cup; thou maintainest my lot"—that is the renunciation of outward possessions and sacraments in favour of the inward personal relation with God which suffices. This spiritual heritage is all that heart could wish; it is a prompter of blessing and thanksgiving even in the night season. Nay, more than this, in times of tumult when others are moved, and in the hour of death, when prosperity is stripped away, the saint is rejoicing with joy unspeakable, because the path of life is plain through the grave; the presence of God who is his portion cannot be taken from him, and that is joyful, and for ever (Psalm xvi. 5-11).

Here we enter upon a truth which well repays a careful study. First, we have to seek a definite meaning to the idea that the Lord is the portion of those who trust in Him. Then we have to observe how and by whom this portion is secured.

No idea is at the first blush so definite as that of property, or at least of real property. Here is a stretch of country, accurately delimited on the ordnance map; I say of it, it is mine. I may build on it or I may till it; I may grow what I will, or what the soil allows, or I may turn it into pasture. I may sell it or give it or leave it to my heirs. So definite is the idea, that a nobleman is called after his estate—he is So-and-so of So-and-so. He belongs to the land in something of the same sense that the land belongs to him, a small human entity so identified with the big estate that he becomes great; the lord, but also the product of these thousands of acres; a man with a stake in the country, a personality realising himself in this territorial way. You look at him and you see the vast and solid domain latent in him. You find it difficult or impossible to think that he and his landless valet are in any sense equal. The valet stands for six feet of flesh and blood, and his monthly wage. The lord stands for a considerable slice of the earth's surface in fee-simple, with royalty rights over what underlies of mineral or other wealth down to the centre. It is not my desire to cast any suspicion on the value or reality of this kind of property. I do not dwell on the fact that it cannot become part of the man, nor he a part of it until he is buried in the family vault at the centre of it. I do not wish even to remember that a trifling accident to his sensitive organism puts him out of possession for ever. Rather I desire to enlarge on this perfectly definite and distinct idea, which is nowhere so absolute and unquestionable as in England. We can have no difficulty in fixing the thought of a man's estate, his property, his possessions. Now we have to transfer this clear idea to God as the inheritance or portion of the soul. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance."

Possibly we may all have known a person, rich or poor, who has given us much the same impression of the estate in God which lies behind him as the landed proprietor gives us of his unseen spreading acres. The person may be like the poor woman who held up to Bishop Burnet the crust, exclaiming with gratitude, "All this and Christ!" Or think of David Elginbrod, or of that more real Scottish saint, the father of David Livingstone, bequeathing to his children on his deathbed no property, but the fact that in the generations of the family preserved in memory there was no dishonourable man. Such a person as I am speaking of is far more secure and serene than the owner of large estates, seems to find far more enjoyment in the beauty and interest of even this passing world, and dwells in the perpetual contemplation of an unseen domain which cannot by any possibility be taken from him. This is the person who has made the Lord his portion, and we want to realise what it is that has happened to him, the lines which have fallen to him in pleasant places. God is real to him, as landed property is to the landowner, not limited as the estate is, suggesting always a land-hunger for the fields beyond, but definite and certain. So definite and certain, that it is possible to say, "This is my God," very much as the landowner says of his estate, "This is my land."

But God presents to him also a security of salvation and of life, of progress and of joy. He finds in God a subject of endless contemplation, and a source from which he derives all things that are necessary for this world and for a world to come. God is his occupation. The will of God is his delight. The universe presents itself to him as the works of God, history as the development of a Divine thought, man as the shadow or image of God, religion as the relation between God and man, heaven as the goal of the knowledge and love which relate God to man.

If he is a thinker, like Spinoza, all things are seen in God. If he is a poet, God Himself appears the best poet, and the real is His song. If he is a man of science, he studies everything in nature, as thinking the thoughts of God after Him.

But if he is a plain man, innocent of abstract thought, none the less his business and his pleasure, his family and his friends, all present themselves as material furnished by God in which he is to work out the Divine will, and win the Divine approval. Nothing is dissociated from God, whom he recognises everywhere, and at all times. But as God who is thus all in all to him is Light and Life and Love, the problem of his own and of the world's existence is implicitly solved for him. God is all he wants, more than all in God he finds. Every question is brought up into the presence of God; in His light he sees light. Death disappears; for God is seen, the possessor of immortality, imparting life to him who possesses God. And as God is absolute love, there can be no question that all things are working together for good to those who love Him.

This sovereign presence and power of the Divine will make earthly possessions and station and success quite indifferent. They do not lose their value; but they find their value only in relation to God and His will, so that, if only a man's ways please God, and he lives in the reconciliation and obedience to the will of God, he must be sure that he has as much earthly property, as good a station, and as great a degree of success, as God thinks good for him. If all things seem taken from him, he reflects, God is my portion, and with Him I have all things. And if all things are his, he does not feel that he possesses any more than God; the things are temporary appearances within the bounds of his inheritance, which is God; they lie latent there always, appearing or disappearing as the wisdom and love of God determine.

As this portion is distinct and tangible enough, so it is obviously both larger and more satisfying than any earthly inheritance. It leaves none of the aching hunger for things beyond. It brings all things at once, and leaves to the soul the plain and endless task of developing the inexhaustible treasures that are contained in it.

But how and by whom is this portion to be obtained? In the typical arrangement of the Jewish law it fell to an order, the tribe of Levi. In the psalm it fell to one who trusted in the Lord. That furnishes the key to the new covenant, in which all that once fell to a privileged nation, or order, or office, falls to those who believe. By faith a man becomes a child of Abraham. By faith the believer becomes a priest and a king unto God. By faith the portion of this Divine inheritance is appropriated, and may be appropriated by whosoever will!

By faith, however, we are not to understand a vague and general act of the mind, which simply assumes that it has what it desires. The faith which appropriates the Divine inheritance is specific, it is faith which is in Jesus, a recognition and a reception of Christ as the Son of God entering into the sphere of human life in order to give to men God as their portion. "He that heareth My word, and believeth in Him that sent Me," said Jesus, "hath everlasting life." By faith in Jesus each of us inherits what was promised to Abraham, to Israel, to David, to Levi. Jesus has said that He will not cast out any that come to Him; and that who comes to Him comes to God. Now it is certainly remarkable—considering the universal desire for property, for real property, for lasting and inalienable property, and considering the definiteness and certainty of the possession of God, and the universality of the offer to every human being—that comparatively few persons exert themselves to become possessed of God, or bestow anything like the same energy and eagerness of endeavour on securing God as their portion which men show in the acquisition of a great earthly property. It is this remarkable fact to which Jesus alludes when He says that many are called but few are chosen, or that many walk in the broad way which leads to destruction, but few will come to Him that He may give them life.

(Photo: F. Hollyer, Pembroke Square, W.)

R F Horton

But the Divine method of thus putting the great possession within the choice and reach of all, but forcing it on none, is in strict analogy with God's way of offering all other boons to men. The kingdom of Nature lies in the same way open for all who will exert themselves and take possession. The endless interest of the almost infinite variety of species is an open door which any investigator may enter. The bewitching beauty of sun and stars, of drifting cloud and summer skies, of all the changes of the earth and of the sea, is accessible to all, but it must be owned that only a few avail themselves of the opportunity. It seems to be the same with all the gifts of God, Who makes the sun to shine on the good and the evil alike. And thus His own being as the portion and inheritance of the soul is proffered—like the wonder and beauty of His creation—to all who will take and go in to possess it. It stretches away like the land of promise, a pleasant land flowing with milk and honey, a land of broad views and of fruitful fields, of vineyards and oliveyards, and of far distances, luminous in the fresh glory of sunrise, hazy with softened charm in the hot noon, transformed under the evening sky of crimson and gold at sunset, a land which one would have thought all might desire to possess; but, like the promised land, it is treated with scorn by those who will not believe (Ps. cvi. 24). To them the flesh-pots of Egypt are pleasanter; the very dearth and dreariness of the desert are preferred before it. A thousand excuses, imaginary fears, and obstinate depreciations are cited to evade the efforts of conquest. And this great inheritance, the portion of the human soul, God, remains unpossessed except by a handful of enterprising souls.

It should, however, be frankly acknowledged that entering into possession of this inheritance is by no means the matter of a single moment. We annex our property field by field and province by province. By searching we do not find out God unto perfection, though every further search gives us a greater joy and hope in the prosecution of it.

It is for want of this vigorous entrance into the possession that many have professed themselves disappointed with God as their portion. They have left their property unexplored and unrealised. They have neglected to pray—and prayer is the onward march into the promised land, the exercise by which the being and fulness of God are appropriated. They have forgotten to worship, and worship is the relish of possession, the discovery by gratitude and praise of what is given and what God still has to give. They have omitted the self-discipline by which the will is kept in harmony with God, and the thoughts and purposes of God take possession of the soul; and yet it is only by this kind of sustained discipline that one can have any feeling of apprehension, and progressive discovery, of God. They have forsaken the assembling of themselves together for worship, which is the forming of the host of invasion. They have ceased to study the Word, which is the chart of the land, showing all the approaches, the fastnesses to be taken, and the heights to be won. Or they have given up those good works of charity and helpfulness, the love of men, the love of souls, which are the very footsteps by which we come into the possession of God. It is this which explains the common discontent about that rich portion—God Himself—offered to the soul. The good land has only been surveyed for a moment from Pisgah; faith has flashed out as an intuition, or as a vision; but the actual and determined conquest of piece by piece, to which faith is intended to lead, has been overlooked. There are multitudes of persons who seemed to choose God as their portion in moments of religious excitement and apparent decision, but never arose to enter into possession; and they remain, in consequence, disinherited.

But this leads us to a last point which has to be observed. For one cause or another—the one just named is probably the most common—men conceive a discontent with their inheritance in God, and seek to supplement it with possessions which are regarded as more tangible and immediate. This was apparently what occurred with the priests, the Levites. Originally, as we saw in the Deuteronomic code, they were content with the Lord as their inheritance, and were fed with the meat which came from the offerings of the altar. But in a later code we find the Levites claiming cities to dwell in. There were to be forty-eight cities in all, given by the other tribes, cities of considerable size, with their corn lands and meadows (the suburbs) extending 2,000 cubits, or between a half and three-quarters of a mile, on all sides of the city; these were to be the possession of the Levites. And though six of the cities were to serve a certain religious purpose as asylums of refuge for the shedders of blood, the whole forty-eight were to be the landed property of the priests, the Levites. These forty-eight domains constituted a territory scattered throughout the tribes, as solid, and almost as bulky, as the possessions of Dan, or Asher, or Naphtali. But when we come to the book of Ezekiel, this real property of the disinherited tribe is found to be increased and consolidated; a vast district, 25,000 reeds long by 25,000 reeds broad, was to form the oblation assigned to the priests; this would be quite as large as the territory of any except the largest tribes (Ezek. xlviii. 8-30). And thus gradually, they who were to have no inheritance in the land, because the Lord Himself was their inheritance, laid claim to as large an inheritance as the rest of their brethren had.

That is a process to which the whole history of Christianity presents a series of parallels. We begin in God, in faith, in heavenly realities; we decline upon the world, and sight, and the fleeting shows of the earth.

When we have got God for our portion and inheritance, we insensibly slip away, and fix our attention on things below. We would make the security of God doubly sure, by having earthly property as well; we would depend upon God, and yet lean on an arm of flesh; we would have our treasures in heaven—for heaven when we get there; but our hoard on earth—for earth while we are here.

Poor human nature! This is our delusion. The two portions cannot be ours. If God is our inheritance, He must be all in all to us. If He gives us Christ, He freely with Him gives us all things. "All this and Christ!"—yes, but in the sense that God in Christ is everything. Never can it mean that our inheritance is partly God and partly this world, that we lean, one arm on Him and the other on uncertain earthly riches.

Therefore the choice lies before us all. Can we choose Him as our portion, can we pray and trust Him to maintain our lot? Can we renounce the arm of flesh as weakness and vanity, can we disregard the alluring securities of what is considered here real property? If so we may have real property indeed: God will be ours, an inexhaustible mine of life and love, of interest and beauty, of peace and joy.

Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.

Miss Crane lived in No. 13, King's Parade. Doubtless at some remote period King's Parade was a street of fashion and celebrity, but at the time we speak of its chief characteristic was that air of shabby gentility inseparable from houses in whose windows at intervals appear cards announcing "Furnished Apartments."

Miss Crane was teacher of music by profession, and had what is termed "a good connection." By turns, music was her chief pleasure and pain. During the day she patiently listened to endless varieties of mistakes in the same exercises and scales; in the evening, seated at her own piano, she forgot all the cares and worries of her daily round of duty.

Everyone has a sacred ambition, as well as a secret romance, hidden in his heart. Miss Crane's ambition was to save up enough money to ensure independence, and she believed that to possess an income of £100 per annum would be the realisation of her dreams. For many years she had steadily saved and worked for this purpose, and now, at the age of forty-five, was not very far from having her desire fulfilled.

Miss Crane was a little woman, with very pretty hands, small and white. Years of patient drudgery had left some lines on her forehead and had taken the colour from her cheeks, but had not been able to spoil the sweet kindliness of her eyes and smile. She usually wore black gowns, made simply of soft, fine materials, her lace frill fastened by a small silver brooch, which she always pinned in with loving care.

One day, towards the end of the summer term, she came in more than usually tired, and sat leaning back wearily in her chair, waiting for the maid to bring in her supper. She heard below stairs the scolding voice of the landlady and the querulous crying of children. Through the open window came the strains of a barrel-organ playing with irritating liveliness. She closed her eyes wearily as the servant came clattering up the stairs and burst open her door with noisy familiarity.

"Please, miss," began the servant, laying down the tray, "there were a gentleman t'see you when you was out."

"Indeed!" cried Miss Crane, opening her eyes with a start and sitting upright. "A gentleman to see me! Did he leave his card?"

"No, miss," answered the girl. "He seemed disappointed like when I told 'im you was hout, and 'e said e'd call back again in th' evenin', as 'e wanted to see you particular."

"Very strange," cried Miss Crane. "Well! that will do now. Will you please come up in about ten minutes to clear away the tea-things, as I shouldn't like the room to look untidy if the gentleman calls again?"

Miss Crane drank her tea in great perplexity. A gentleman to see her! Such a thing had not happened for more than twenty years. Who could it be? Miss Crane's hand instinctively touched her silver brooch, as her thoughts turned to days long past.

A knock, a loud and impressive knock, at the hall-door roused her from her reverie. She stood up, listening eagerly, expecting she knew not what. The maid came slowly upstairs from the kitchen and opened the hall-door. There was an indistinct sound of a gruff voice, and then the footsteps of two people coming up the stairs.

The servant opened the door, saying—

"Mr. Spinner, miss."

A tall, imposingly rotund man walked in, hat in hand, his fat and rosy face all smiling affability.

"So sorry to disturb you, madam," he began, bowing.

"Not at all," murmured Miss Crane, wondering greatly who he could be. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you. I think I will."

He took a chair, sat down, carefully spreading out the skirts of his frock-coat, and, crossing his legs, looked condescendingly round the room.

Miss Crane, with heightened colour, waited expectantly.

"I am well aware," began Mr. Spinner presently, "that the name of business has to ladies a very unpleasant sound; but I venture to say that Miss Crane will find the little matter which has brought me here this evening far from being a disagreeable subject."

"Indeed!" murmured Miss Crane.

"But before I proceed further, allow me to consult my notes." Mr. Spinner took out a spectacle case, placed his glasses carefully on the bridge of his nose, glanced at Miss Crane through them, then taking a note-book from his breast pocket, opened it, and taking out a paper, cleared his throat and continued: "You are, I believe, Miss Letitia J. Crane, eldest daughter of the late Rev. Joshua Crane, M.A., formerly curate of St. Mary, in the parish of Tulberry."

"Yes, certainly, I am," cried Miss Crane.

"Then, madam, without troubling you about details, partly because business details are unwelcome to ladies, and partly because I am obliged to catch the 7.25 train up to town, I shall briefly tell you what I am certain, from my previous knowledge of human nature, will be welcome news to you, and that is——"

"What?" demanded Miss Crane with some impatience.

"It is that your uncle, the late John Crane, of No. 8, Harbourne Street, Liverpool, who died on the 27th of last month, has left you a sum which, invested as it is at present, brings in an income of £700 per annum—of," reiterated Mr. Spinner with impressive solemnity, "£700 per annum."

Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.

"It is a fact, I assure you, madam," continued Mr. Spinner, rising from his chair and placing a card on the table. "Allow me to give you my card with the address of my place of business. Perhaps you could find time to call to see me some time to-morrow, when I shall be most happy to show you your uncle's will, and, in short, make myself useful in helping you in any way in my power."

"I cannot believe it," cried Miss Crane. "Are you quite sure there is no mistake?"

Mr. Spinner smiled indulgently.

"None whatever, and if it should be a convenience to you," he said, with a glance round the neat poverty of the room, "I shall be happy to advance you any reasonable sum as a proof of the truth of my statement."

"No, thank you," replied Miss Crane, flushing somewhat proudly. "I do not require it."

"Quite right! Quite proper!" said Mr. Spinner, taking up his hat. "Then I may expect to have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow at, let us say, 11.30 a.m."

"Yes," said Miss Crane, "I shall certainly call at that hour."

"Then I may say good-bye, and," he added, shaking her hand with impressive fervour, "pray accept my heartiest congratulations on your good fortune."

The bang of the hall-door as Mr. Spinner closed it after him awoke Miss Crane from her stupor of astonishment.

For a few moments she sat motionless. Then she burst into a fit of violent weeping. Good fortune had come at last, but had come too late to bring happiness. All her youth had been crushed beneath the weight of poverty, and, bitterest remembrance of all! she had seen those dearest to her die before their time, fading uncomplainingly away, for want of a little of the sunshine of prosperity. During all these years she had thought of them as happy to be at rest from toil and misery. In her poverty she had never felt as lonely as she did now, in time of her prosperity. Especially, a passionate longing seized her for her mother. What delight to have been able to gratify those simple wishes so often repressed! How happy they could have been together! She had wanted so little, but that little had been ever denied her.

And Frank Whitman! The force of poverty had swept him far apart. He had not been strong enough to battle against the stream. She heard of him sometimes as a man rising in his profession, prosperous and respected. His marriage with the daughter of a rich shipowner had been, everyone said, "the making of him." And yet Miss Crane remembered the evening he had given her that silver brooch, and the words he had then spoken.

"Instead of thanking God for His goodness to me," sobbed Miss Crane, "I am wickedly ungrateful, but I do wish I had mother with me now."

Next morning, Miss Crane took a more cheerful view of things. She sent word to her pupils that she could not see them that day, but she had not yet sufficient belief in her good fortune to feel justified in telling them of it. It was so near the end of term that she did not like putting them to the disadvantage and inconvenience of changing to another teacher, and besides, she had not courage to cut herself adrift from her usual routine. Custom is a very strong rope indeed.

As she travelled up to town, she constructed castles in the air of all the delights now possible to her—the house in the country, the really good piano, a silk dress, a thing she had always secretly desired, for she had an instinctive love of dainty dress, and the sight of a beautiful thing gave her positive joy.

The further she went, the grander she became: until after her interview with Mr. Spinner, she actually felt bold enough to enter a fashionable shop, and, unawed by the magnificence of the attending maidens, she chose, paid for, and put on "the sweetest little French bonnet possible."

On leaving the shop, she met an old pupil, who, after a preliminary stare, greeted her warmly, declaring she had never seen Miss Crane looking so well, and asked her home to lunch.

Altogether, Miss Crane's day in town was a complete success. She had been more wildly extravagant than she could have believed it possible the day before: there was something positively intoxicating in the fact that there was now no need any more to count every penny.

She knew it was false charity to give money indiscriminately to beggars, and yet she could not resist brightening, even for the moment, the face of misery and want. "To-morrow, I shall be prudent again," she declared, as over and over again she stopped to slip a silver coin into some grimy hand.

In the evening, she sat, tired but very contented, considering where she ought to go for her holidays. The world was open to her now; it was difficult to decide which part to visit first. Entrancing visions of Italy especially bewildered her, but she felt still too timid to venture far from home, though that home was but two shabby little rooms in a cheap lodging-house. Like a bird caged for long, though the door stood open, she feared to fly away.

Presently a thought struck her, her cheeks glowed—she stood up and walked uneasily about the room. At length she muttered to herself, "I shall go there! I should like to see him once again!"

The place she had decided to go to was Stockton, the seaside town in which Doctor Frank Whitman lived. She had known his wife long ago, when a girl. She had heard there were a number of children. Perhaps the family would receive her kindly, and she would find in them the friendship and companionship without which her money was valueless.

Stockton was by the sea: to sit in the sunshine, on the sands, looking on the waves, would in itself be a delight. Miss Crane wished she could start on the morrow, but this, of course, was not possible. Ten days more of drudgery must be first endured, then liberty at last!

These last days passed rapidly enough, for they were fully occupied, and at length, on the 1st of August, Miss Crane found herself seated in the train, with a ticket to Stockton in her hand, a new portmanteau beside her, and her heart beating with excitement at being off at last.

When she reached Stockton and was driving from the station to her lodgings, she eagerly looked out of the window, half hoping, half fearing to recognise Frank Whitman in each passer-by.

She remained indoors that evening and the following morning, but in the afternoon she unpacked the contents of the portmanteau and dressed to go out.

"After all, how little dress can do!" she murmured to herself, as she stood critically examining her reflection in the looking-glass. "I wonder if he will remember me!"

The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face.

The day was brilliantly bright, with a fresh breeze blowing strongly from the sea. The shadows of the fleeting clouds passed swiftly by. The sunshine glittered on the dazzling waters rippling in one long white line along the margin of the bay. Along the horizon stood the ruddy sails of the fishing-smacks.

Miss Crane walked on slowly, enjoying the warmth, brightness, and freshness of the day. She had little difficulty in finding Victoria Villa, the residence of Doctor Frank Whitman. It was a large red-brick house, square, well-built and prosperous-looking, standing in its own grounds, with greenhouses, tennis-grounds, and all the usual belongings of provincial respectability and wealth.

Miss Crane's courage failed her as she came up to its entrance.

"What shall I do," she thought, "if Frank and Bessie have forgotten me, or if they should not like to know a poor little music teacher like me?"

She stood, hesitating, fearing to push open the massive iron gate.

"I cannot go in to-day," she said half aloud, and turned nervously away.

At this moment, a girl came quickly up the road, a pretty girl of some eighteen summers, wearing a white dress and shady hat, and carrying a tennis racket in her hand. As she passed, she glanced at Miss Crane, and the expression of her eyes was precisely like that of Frank Whitman's twenty years ago.

Miss Crane started. The thought, "It is his daughter!" flashed across her brain. She turned and hurried after her. The girl, hearing the footsteps behind, stopped, and looked inquiringly at Miss Crane, who hesitatingly began, "Might I trouble you to direct me to Doctor Whitman's house?"

"There it is," answered the girl smilingly. "And I am almost sure father is in at present. Will you come with me? I am just going home."

She spoke with a strangely familiar accent, she smiled with the same merry glance, quick and soft, which Miss Crane had remembered so long.

By the time they had reached the hall-door Miss Crane had confided how she had come hoping to find old friends, and then had felt too timid to enter their house. "And," she ended, "if I had not met you, my dear, I believe I should have gone straight home."

The girl laughed merrily, and then warmly assured Miss Crane that Mrs. Whitman would be sure to be delighted to see her. "And," she asked, "you said you used to know papa also a little, long ago, didn't you?"

"Yes," replied Miss Crane. "I knew him also."

"Here, mother," cried Miss Whitman, as she opened the drawing-room door; "here is an old friend to see you!"

Miss Crane advanced into the room. A tall, fashionably-dressed woman came to meet her with outstretched hand.

"What!" she exclaimed. "Letitia Crane! Well! I am glad to see you. What a time it is since we've met. But you've hardly changed at all. I should have known you anywhere. Sit down here and let us have a good long chat about the old days. Ida! go and tell your father that Miss Crane is here; I'm sure she'd like to see him."

Miss Crane sat down, grateful for being received with such cordiality. It was difficult to talk, her whole being seemed concentrated in listening. She heard Ida go downstairs, open the study door, and then came the sound of a voice she had not heard for twenty years.

"How silly I am!" she thought, as she tried to concentrate her attention on what Mrs. Whitman was saying.

Presently footsteps came up the stairs. The door opened, and Ida, followed by her father, came into the room. The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face, and for a second she could not see.

"So glad to see you again," said Doctor Whitman, in tones of bland cordiality.

Miss Crane could scarcely reply, her astonishment was so complete. Where was the man she remembered? The young fellow with the merry laughing eyes, the thick curling hair, the careless dress, the active step! The man who now stood before her was a portly, middle-aged figure, all immaculate linen and broadcloth; bald-headed, red-faced, with bland affability smilingly displaying an excellent set of false teeth. The ideal which Miss Crane had worshipped so long faded away for ever like some phantasm that had never had any being, save in her own mind. Only in Ida's eyes and Ida's smile lingered a mocking image of the past.

Miss Crane's time passed very pleasantly at Stockton. Most of the day she sat on the beach watching the children bathe and play about the sands.

Ida came down to bathe every morning, and afterwards used to sit talking to Miss Crane while drying and brushing her beautiful hair in the sunshine. One day, after sitting thoughtfully quiet for some time, Ida, in a somewhat embarrassed tone of voice, began—

"Are you fond of going to evening service, Miss Crane?"

"Well! my dear, you know that usually I have not time to do so on week-days. But why do you ask?" replied Miss Crane.

"Because," said Ida, "there is such a sweet little church not very far from here out in the country, and such a delightful service every evening, and," she added with heightened colour, "the curate, Mr. Archdale, preaches such beautiful sermons that I would like you to hear him!"

"I should like to hear him very much indeed," replied Miss Crane, smiling. "If you will not expect me to praise him too much!" Then, pitying Ida's confusion, she continued: "Perhaps, sometimes, he will allow me to play the organ in his church. It is the only thing I miss here. At home there is a little church quite close by, where the organist allows me to practise whenever I choose."

"Oh! I shall ask Cyril—I mean Mr. Archdale," cried Ida, blushing deeply. "I'm sure he will be delighted to allow you to practise whenever you like."

Thus it happened that almost every evening Miss Crane and Ida walked together to the little country church; and then, after service was over, Miss Crane sat down at the organ and played, while Ida and Mr. Archdale listened to her, as they sat in the porch or strolled about beneath the lime-trees; though it was curious, thought Miss Crane, how seldom it was, for people who professed to love music, that they remembered what she had played. Then in the increasing twilight the three walked back to Stockton together quietly, too happy to talk or laugh much.

The mornings on the beach were spent in talking of "Cyril," for the subject interested Miss Crane almost as much as it did Ida. She was touched by the young people's confidence in her, and their love revealed their characters in the most favourable light to her. Her love for Ida equalled her admiration of her, and she believed Mr. Archdale to be almost worthy of her.

The holidays were drawing to a close, and Miss Crane decided that she ought to delay no longer in telling her pupils of her change of circumstances; but, always reticent about her own concerns, she put off doing so from day to day. Even to Ida she had never spoken of her good fortune.

There was a charming house quite close to the church, which Miss Crane had determined to buy—quite an ideal old maid's cottage, she thought it, with its red-brick walls hidden by climbing roses, its garden sloping down to the riverside, and its cosy little rooms quaintly furnished with old oak. Its late owner had died and it was now to be sold, with all its belongings.

Miss Crane determined to buy it, and then, when everything was arranged, to astonish Ida, Mr. Archdale, and the Whitmans by inviting them to dinner in her new house, and then telling them the delightful news of her good fortune.

She felt very happy in anticipation of this coming pleasure.

She was never tired of imagining the joyful surprise Ida would be sure to show, and the merry days they would have together, arranging the new house.

On the day fixed for seeing the house-agent and finally deciding on the purchase, Miss Crane had asked Ida not to expect to see her, "for," she said gaily, "though but a humble little music teacher, I have some business matters to see about."

"Then," cried Ida, "I shall come and see you in the evening, for Cyril has determined to speak to father in the morning, and I must tell you how everything goes off, though I'm not in the least afraid, notwithstanding all Cyril's forebodings."

"Why? What is he afraid of?" asked Miss Crane.

"Well, you know," said Ida, in melancholy tones, "Cyril is not very rich. Clergymen never are, are they?"

"But," remonstrated Miss Crane, "surely he has some means or he wouldn't think of marrying?"

"He has," answered Ida; "he has £300 a year, which seems to me a great deal of money, but whether it will do so to papa is the question."

"Oh!" cried Miss Crane cheerfully. "Your father is a rich man, and very proud of his pretty little daughter; he will make it all right for you, never fear."

Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, called her "the dearest old thing in the world," and at last, promising to come the following evening, hurried away.

The next day was very stormy. The wind blew in great gusts from the east, rolling the waves in dashing breakers against the rocks. The rain descended in torrents. It was one of those days which sometimes come in autumn, precursor of the deadly tempests of the winter.

Miss Crane sat indoors, a shawl over her shoulders, writing letters round to her various employers and pupils, announcing the change in her circumstances. She had just closed the last envelope, and was putting the stamp on it, when the door burst open, and Ida rushed wildly into the room, her hair blown about her shoulders by the wind, and her waterproof cloak streaming with rain.

"Why, Ida, my dear!" exclaimed Miss Crane, aghast. "What is the matter?"

Ida threw herself on the sofa, sobbing violently.

"Oh! I don't know whatever I shall do," she began, as Miss Crane knelt down in alarm beside her. "Papa has been most dreadfully cross and angry with me, and he called Cyril a——" She stopped, her voice choked with sobs.

"A what?" demanded Miss Crane.

"He—he called him a——" said Ida, with another burst of indignant sobs, "a beggarly curate!"

"Then he does not personally object to Mr. Archdale?" said Miss Crane soothingly.

"How could anybody object to Cyril personally?" cried Ida, angrily rolling up her pocket-handkerchief into a tight, wet little ball and rubbing her eyes with it. "No; it is all on account of him not having enough money. He says he will never let me marry a man that has not at least £1,000 a year. And where is Cyril to get all that! Unless he is made a bishop, and he hasn't a chance of being made that until after years and years and years of waiting, when he is old and quite bald!"

At this mournful idea Ida's face again squeezed up into dismal lines and puckers, and her sobs broke forth with renewed strength.

Suddenly Miss Crane became so motionless, so quiet, that at last Ida's curiosity overcame her grief; she put down her pocket-handkerchief and looked at Miss Crane with pained astonishment at her want of sympathy.

Miss Crane came out of her reverie with a start.

"Don't cry any more, it will all come right," she said, with a forced smile.

"That's what everyone says!" cried Ida in the tone of injured friendship. "But I did think you would have sympathised with one."

She arranged her hair, put on her hat, and stood up as if to go away, expecting Miss Crane would make her stay; but Miss Crane sat motionless, staring fixedly out of the window.

"Good-bye, then!" said Ida stiffly.

"Good-bye, my dear," replied Miss Crane.

"I never saw anyone so horrid and unsympathising," muttered Ida, as she closed the door after her. "I wouldn't have believed it."

Miss Crane sat for more than an hour motionless, thinking. She sighed deeply now and again.

At length she stood up, and, taking the pile of letters she had written, tore them all up into fragments; then, putting on her bonnet and waterproof cloak, she went out and did not return home until late at night.

"Why, miss!" cried the landlady, as she came in white, tired, and wet; "you'll get your death stayin' out of doors such a day as this!"

"No," said Miss Crane gently. "It will do me no harm. I was obliged to go to town on business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I must leave you on Saturday."

"I'm sorry indeed to hear it," said the landlady. "Isn't that very suddint like?"

"Yes," agreed Miss Crane; "it is very sudden."

On Saturday, as Miss Crane was packing her trunk, suddenly Ida came bounding up the stairs into the room, all radiant with smiles and gaiety and flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, exclaiming—

"What do you think has happened I Oh! it's just too delightful. Somebody has given Cyril £700 a year—somebody who refuses to give his name. We're all dying with curiosity to find out who it can be. I'm certain it is somebody who has heard Cyril preach. Don't you think it is?"

"Yes," agreed Miss Crane. "Very likely it is."

"And now," continued Ida, "everything is settled so nicely, and we're to be married at once. I only wish we had room at home to ask you to stay with us for the wedding. You dear old thing! I believe I was cross and horrid to you the other day, but really I was so distracted that I didn't know what I was saying. And now, dear, I must be off, for Cyril is waiting for me."

She kissed Miss Crane and hurried off.

Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck.

Miss Crane stood in the window watching, with dim eyes, the young pair walking down the street. A kitten came and, mewing, rubbed its soft little head against her foot. She stooped, stroked it gently, saying—

"Pussy, are you lonely too? for I am—very."

A story is told of a late Bishop of Peterborough, to the effect that at a public dinner he said that he once bought a picture of a sunset on a river, which he hung in his study; it was a bad picture, but it had a beautiful influence over him, and he confessed that when he looked at the picture "a curate might play with him."

FAITH.

(By Alfred Drury.)

The Bishop without doubt knew a good work of art when he saw one, and his knowledge informed him that technically his "sunset on a river" was bad; but it appealed to his sentiment and occupied its place on the study wall in spite of its defects. In this respect, most people are with the Bishop; it is not so much the quality of a work of art that makes it popular, but the particular strain of sentiment it contains that touches a responsive chord in the hearts of those who look at it. The English public are sentimentalists first and foremost in art, and the artist who receives the greatest acclamation is he who is most skilful in this direction. And if this is so in respect to painting, how much more so is it with regard to sculpture. Public enthusiasm is rarely roused by the sculptor's art. Next to the architectural room at the Royal Academy, the sculpture hall is the least frequented, and we fear it must be said that the majority of those who do go there go because it is the coolest place in the exhibition.

This, of course, is matter for regret, for there are as ennobling and inspiriting works of art to be seen there as in the picture galleries. The sculptor has the power to appeal to our ideals and aspirations to as great an extent as the painter, limited though he be by his materials. (It can at once be realised that the worker in marble has not the same freedom as he who uses paint and canvas—he has greater difficulties to surmount, less subjects to choose from, and far narrower scope in which to express his thoughts.) We have had "sermons in stones" which have been quite as powerful as any preached by painter or poet.

The classical tradition has undoubtedly affected the sculptor more than it has his brother-artist of the brush; it has weighed him down, and made his work cold and lifeless; and men and women of to-day want art that is living, helpful in their daily straggles, responsive to those aspirations which every one of them possesses in a measure. As a distinguished member of the Royal Academy, now dead, once wrote, "We have aspirations, we reverence something more than the ordinary life of mortals; we have before our eyes an ideal of truthfulness, piety, honour, uprightness, love, and self-sacrifice greater than any which exists on earth." To appeal to these emotions by a beautiful and living art should be the object of our artists, and those who do can be sure of receiving the approval and the gratitude of the toilers of the world. This has been proved over and over again by the votes taken at Canon Barnett's picture exhibitions as to the most popular works shown, when men like Mr. G. F. Watts, R.A., and the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones have been first favourites. And this probably accounts in a measure for the public indifference to works of sculpture. The sculptor has for the most part neglected subjects which appeal to the hearts of the people of his day, and based his work on classic models and precepts.

In saying this we do not in any wise belittle the great works of the past. It is impossible to look on the mighty works of the ancient Egyptian workers in stone without feeling the sense of awe which the people of those days must have experienced—and were intended to experience—when gazing upon them. Mystery is the keynote of Egyptian sculpture, mystery deep and unfathomable. Look upon those inscrutable, gigantic faces in the British Museum; coldly inhuman; giants of stone, indifferent to the passions which pulsate in the human breast. Mighty works indeed—parables impossible of interpretation!

Look, too, at the works in the Assyrian galleries of the same collection. Marvellous of execution, they again draw forth admiration for the skill of their creators, for their dexterous records of the life of those far-off days, for the massive and imposing decorativeness of the semi-human lions and bulls. And then, coming down the ages, consider the beauty of form of the works of the sculptors of classic days; the wondrous productions of the Greeks, the perfection of line and grace of these representations in stone of the "human form divine." Masterpieces of the world which will never be excelled as works of art, they, nevertheless, do not appeal to the hearts of the people, and in adhering to the style of ancient Greece our sculptors have themselves to blame for the lack of popular sympathy.

MOTHERHOOD.

(By Alfred Gilbert, R.A. In the possession of Sir Henry Doulton.)

The sculptors of Italy who shared in the revival of art in the fifteenth century understood this. Without sacrificing in the least the beauty of the classic artists, they infused into their work that touch of sentiment—either religious or frankly human—which won for them the admiration of their contemporaries, and enables them, though long since dead, to speak to us through their art. The charming creations of Donatello, the delightful child-forms of Lucca della Robbia, the gigantic creations of Michelangelo—gigantic both in conception and execution—appeal to us primarily for the humanity which they reflect: admiration for their beauty follows in due course.

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY.

(By Warrington Woods.)

Until comparatively recent years English sculptors have failed to appreciate this public taste, and the public work all through our country has been deplorably lacking either in sentiment or art. The ghastly figures which are exposed in London streets rouse no enthusiasm, and only claim attention because of the men of which they are memorials. Curiously enough the only really beautiful piece of allegorical sculpture in our city is the work of a Frenchman, and that is smothered under a hideous cupola! I refer to the charming little group symbolising "Charity," on the drinking fountain by the Royal Exchange. This beautiful figure of a woman and two children the work of Dalou, was originally shown in stone, but the ravages of the London climate destroyed the features of the figures, and it was only when replaced by a bronze cast of the original model a year or two ago that its full beauty could be appreciated by the present generation. The symbolism is not intricate, the parable can be read by the most ignorant, and understood by all, but it is "a thing of beauty," and therefore a joy for ever.

The English sculptors who are claiming attention to-day are men influenced largely by the spirit of "modernity." They are giving us works which appeal to our sentiment as well as to our sense of beauty. Look, for instance, at the charming group by Mr. Alfred Gilbert, R.A., which is illustrated on page 345. One wishes that the original could be placed in position where people could see it every day. It is a simple subject, but what greater lesson can be enforced upon us than that of the holiness and purity of a mother's love and solicitude for her child? There is in one of the public squares of Paris a group very similar to this by Delaplanche. A mother is again giving her child its first lesson in reading. Tender and pure in sentiment, it is an object lesson to all who behold it.

The nobleness and dignity of labour provide our sculptors with a manifold variety of subjects, but there are not many English artists who have availed themselves of it. Among these, however, is the distinguished Royal Academician, Mr. Hamo Thornycroft. "The Sower Scattering Seed" is but the representation of an English farm "hand," but it would be difficult to find a piece of work among English sculptures to excel it in grace and beauty of line. The artist has executed another work of "A Mower"—again an English farm-labourer, leaning on his scythe—which is another example of his skill in the adaptation of a subject which can be understood and appreciated by every man, down to him who actually wields the scythe.

ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST.

(By W. Goscombe John.)

THE MOUNTAIN OF FAME.

(By A. C. Lucchesi.)

Biblical subjects have found exponents in sculpture to a very large extent from the days of the Renaissance downwards. The old Italians decorated their churches with such to almost as great an extent as the painters of their time did; and many sculptors to-day find their inspiration in Scripture in like manner. We have chosen some for illustration in this paper—two by living artists, and one by Warrington Woods, a sculptor who lived some years ago, when "classic" style and subject were deemed necessary by the workers in the sculpturesque arts. "The Sisters of Bethany" is infected by this spirit, but is, nevertheless, pleasing to a certain extent. The "Faith" of Mr. Alfred Drury, is, on the other hand, distinctly pictorial and frankly illustrative of the subject. The "St. John the Baptist," by Mr. Goscombe John, another of our rising sculptors, is a beautiful figure which belongs to the Marquis of Bute, and stands in the centre of a fountain basin in the garden of St. John's Lodge, Regent's Park.

THE SOWER.

(By W. Hamo Thornycroft, R.A.)

On page 347 is the most ambitious of the allegorical works among our illustrations, and is the work of Mr. A. C. Lucchesi, a young sculptor of whom great things may be expected. "The Mountain of Fame" represents a warrior, who, struggling to acquire the laurel wreath, has in his efforts thrown away sword and shield and is reaching after the honour which is held temptingly before him by the figure of Fame. Almost within his grasp, it yet eludes him, and the rough path up which he has stumbled has not yet brought him to the summit. His weapons, cast aside in the assurance of victory, are left behind; but the wreath is still not his, and he is helpless against further dangers which may await him; the eagerness for fame may prove his ruin and all his strivings end in disaster. Readers of Miss Olive Schreiner's "Story of an African Farm" will remember the beautiful parable upon this subject, and I asked the sculptor if this had influenced him at all in the work. The suggestion was almost a revelation to him, for, although he had read the book and remembered vividly this particular passage, yet confessed that it was quite out of his mind when he modelled this group. But the influence of the story is distinctly visible.

(Photo: York and Son, Notting Hill, W.)

THE NIGHTINGALE MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

(By Roubiliac.)

Memorial sculpture, of course, forms a large part of a sculptor's work, and the example by Mr. Armstead illustrated on this page is typical of a great many of the kind. The most beautiful and dignified monument we possess is without doubt Alfred Stevens' great work in St. Paul's Cathedral in memory of the Duke of Wellington—one that can never be sufficiently admired, contrasting as it does with the grandiose monuments of the last century in the same building and at Westminster Abbey.

We illustrate on this page one of the most curious monuments in the latter building. It is the work of Roubiliac, a Frenchman who worked in England in the eighteenth century. The tomb is that of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, of Minehead, Somersetshire, and of the Lady Elizabeth, his wife, who died soon after her marriage. From the dark recesses of the tomb below issues the skeleton form of Death, in the act of hurling his lance at the wife, while the husband leans forward with extended arm to ward off the fatal blow from his loved partner, who is sinking to rest beside him.

MEMORIAL TO AN ONLY DAUGHTER.

(By H. H. Armstead, R.A.)

Death, however, can be represented far better than by a ghastly skeleton, as Mr. George Frampton, A.R.A., has proved in his dignified "Angel of Death" which stands in the Camberwell Art Gallery. This figure of a young man, carrying the traditional scythe across his shoulder and an hour-glass in his hand, reminds us of Mr. Watts' constant representation of the "grim messenger"—no longer "grim," however, but beautiful, erect, inviting—the harbinger of the land where there shall be no more tears, neither sorrow nor sighing.

Arthur Fish.

By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.

London was under drizzle when the four-wheeler containing Mr. Graydon and Pamela drew up at Lady Jane Trevithick's house in Brook Street.

As the time came for saying good-bye to her father, Pamela's heart sank lower and lower. By the time the cab stopped it was a mere dead weight of foreboding and depression.

One minute she looked at her father with blank despair. It was in her heart to put her arms about his neck and cling to him and refuse to leave him, as she had done when a small child and insubordinate to nursery rule. But the minute's glance checked the impulse. He was not thinking of her: he was wholly preoccupied: as she watched him, his lips moved as if in conversation with someone.

"'Ere you are, sir. This is the 'ouse," said the old cabman, not offering to budge from his box.

Mr. Graydon jumped out and knocked at the door. While his hand yet held the knocker the door was flung open by a pompous servant.

"Here, my man, lend me a hand with this lady's luggage. The jarvey seems old and incapable," he said brightly to the functionary.

The man came out unwillingly into the rainy street. The sight of the four-wheeler with its poor little trunk brought a look of amazed contempt to his face. But Mr. Graydon was not thinking of him.

When the luggage had gone in, he took his daughter from the cab.

"No, thank you. You need not wait," he said to the cabman as he followed Pamela up the steps.

"Her ladyship is in the drawing-room, sir," said the servant, impressed, despite himself, by the shabby visitor's easy air of command.

"Ah, thank you, I am not coming in. Good-bye, Pam, darling. I'll get the night-mail back. Be sure and enjoy yourself, and give Lady Jane my kindest regards."

He kissed her hastily, unconscious of the supercilious eyes of the footman. Then he turned towards the wet street.

Pamela stood in the hall, looking after him with her miserable heart in her eyes. He went down the steps with his hands deep in his shabby overcoat pockets—for he carried no umbrella—and his soft hat pulled down over his eyes. Another minute and he would be out of sight. A wave of intolerable loneliness rushed over his daughter's heart as she saw him vanishing and leaving her alone among strangers.

"Papa, papa!" she cried.

The genial, kind face was turned back to her for an instant. Her father's hand waved a farewell. Then he was out of sight, and she became conscious that the weary footman, forcedly polite, was holding the door open for her.

"Her ladyship is in the drawing-room," he repeated, and there was rebuke in his voice. Pamela drew back, and he shut the door.

"Poor little Pam!" said her father as he walked along briskly. "She will be home-sick to-night; to-morrow she will be better content, and the day after she will begin to enjoy herself."

"And now, let me see," he said. "This turn is it, for Hill Street? I ought to know the way, though it is so many years since I took it. I hope I shall catch his lordship before dinner. If I'm obliged to disturb him, he'll be in a horrible rage, and things won't be propitious. Anyhow, at the worst, I'll have time to eat something at the station before I catch the mail. Perhaps his lordship will ask me to dinner if things go well."

He smiled so cheerfully, showing a row of even white teeth, that a wretched girl, carrying an infant, was moved to beg of him. He handed her a shilling, to her unbounded amazement.

"There goes part of my dinner," he said to himself. "Never mind: she needs it." And then to the astonished beggar: "Go home, my girl, with that poor little chap. It is no night for him—or you either—to be out."

Presently he came to a huge house, showing a dim light here and there in its black front. He knocked with a tremor of heart. When last he had knocked there he had stood at the threshold of new life and joy. The rain dripped from his soft hat and hung in beads of moisture on his grey moustache. It soaked unheeded into his thin overcoat.

The door was opened by an old man-servant. He peered in wonder at the shabby-looking stranger, who stepped so unquestioningly within those gloomy portals.

"Is his lordship in town?" asked the intruder. "Why, Thorndyke! It is surely Thorndyke?"

"Yes, I am Thorndyke," said the man. "But I don't think I know you, sir. Let me see."

He turned on the electric light into the front part of the hall, and brought his dim old eyes nearer to Mr. Graydon's face.

"Why, it is Master Archie!" he said quaveringly. "Master Archie after all those years! And how are you, sir? Are you well?"

"Quite well, Thorndyke. Can I see my uncle? I want very particularly to see him."

"He's none too pleasant," whispered the old man. "He has a touch of gout, and the little master's been ill. They've ordered him to Cannes."

"Indeed! I'm sorry for that. I thought he was a hearty little chap."

"So he was, so he was, till a few months gone. He's never recovered a heavy chill he took at the beginning of the winter. His lordship's bound up in him, and it do fret him to see Master Lance dwindle."

"Ah! I am very sorry," said Mr. Graydon, and a cloud came over his face. "I am sorry for the boy and for his lordship, too. Health is a great blessing, Thorndyke."

"It is, indeed, sir. I am glad you have yours. Come in here, sir, and I'll let his lordship know."

He opened the door of a room lined with books in heavy bindings, and motioned Mr. Graydon to enter. The atmosphere was close and warm, though the fire was low in the grate. But Mr. Graydon did not notice that his wet coat was steaming, and that he felt damply and uncomfortably warm. He had other things to think of.

"Papa, papa!" she cried.

Presently the door was sharply opened, and a red-faced, irascible-looking old man came in. He glared fiercely at his visitor as he hobbled to a chair.

"Well, Archibald," he said, using the name as if it were distasteful to him. "To what am I indebted for the honour of your visit after all those years?"

"I would have come before, sir, but for your own words."

"I'm not unsaying my words. They are as good now as they were then."

"Twenty-five years is a long time. Can't you forget and forgive?"

"I neither forget nor forgive. You did me an injury past forgiveness."

"It was no injury; Mary had chosen me."

"You chose your own lot in life. I have not interfered with it. Why do you come here?"

"Go!" said the old lord.

The old man grinned fiercely as if he had had a spasm of pain, and bit his under lip hard.

"I am sorry to have come when you are not well."

"Your visit would have been unpleasant at any time. Why do you come?"

Mr. Graydon took up his soft hat.

"I came partly out of hard necessity, partly because I hoped that after all the years you would have forgiven me. But there is no use in my staying, I see. I am sorry to have troubled you, sir."

"Say out what you have got to say, man. I don't know whether you know that I have an heir in your place? You have buried yourself so that you may well not know."

"I am glad you have a son, sir."

The old lord grunted.

"Your business, man, your business. I can't wait on you all night, and in five minutes the dinner-bell will ring."

"My business is very simple. I have three girls. One of them would marry after my own heart and hers; but poverty stands in the way. I was brought up as your heir. I thought perhaps that, remembering that fact, you would help my girl."

"You mean by giving her a dowry?"

"You are very rich."

"The time was, Archibald, when I would have given ten years of life to have heard you ask this and to have refused you. I refuse you now, but it is because everything is for the boy. I am old, and even my appetite for revenge has deserted me."

"You owe me no revenge, sir."

"We think differently. Why did you cross my path? Why didn't you marry that woman who wanted you—Dunallan's daughter?"

Mr. Graydon looked thunderstruck.

"You have forgotten, sir; Lady Jane married my friend Gerald Trevithick."

"Because she couldn't marry you. He was an idiot to marry her. Everyone saw her infatuation but he and—am I to believe?—you."

"Impossible," muttered Mr. Graydon; "I barely knew her. I never thought of her."

The old lord waved away his words contemptuously.

"She had no money, but she had connections, and she would have had ambitions if she had married you and not Trevithick. The woman was head over ears in love with you, man."

"I can't believe it, sir. But let it be. It is all five-and-twenty years ago."

"And Mary is dead, and you have three girls."

"Yes, sir."

"Are they strong—are they healthy?"

"Yes, thank God. They are all a father's heart could desire."

"Ah! you have scored again. You married the woman we both desired. You have strong children, and I—my boy is not strong."

His face twitched with more than the pain of his gout.

"I am very sorry, sir. I hoped he was strong."

"I didn't ask for your pity, Archibald."

"I can't help being sorry, all the same."

"But you've outwitted me. I married a peasant—almost a peasant—that my heir in your place might be strong. He is—not strong."

Again the bitter spasm crossed his face, and the sight of it wrung Mr. Graydon's kind heart.

"I pray that he may become strong," he said earnestly; "God is good."

"Anyhow," cried the old man with sudden fury, "I shall not break up his inheritance. If he lives to do that himself one day, let him. It is like enough he would. He does not take after me. But he is my only son."

The dinner-bell pealed loudly through the house.

"Go!" said the old lord. "You have upset me. I shall not be the better of your visit for a week. Go back to your girls, and come here no more. Be thankful they are strong. Money is not everything."

He shuffled out of the room, and Mr. Graydon followed him.

"Show this gentleman out, Thorndyke," he said, and went without a word of farewell.

"Let me get you a little refreshment, Mr. Archie," said the old servant. "Do, sir! Dear, dear! you are very wet, and to think you have to turn out again without your dinner!"

"No, thank you, Thorndyke. I shall do very well till I get to Euston. I shall have some dinner there before the train starts."

"You are going back to Ireland to-night, sir?"

"Yes, Thorndyke, I must."

"Dear, dear! and you are very wet. Can we do nothing for you, sir? My wife—I married Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper; you remember, sir?—would be so fretted to see you going off like this. Do let me get you something, sir?"

"Nothing, thank you, Thorndyke, nothing. But it is very kind of you, all the same. I remember your wife very well. She was good to me in old days. Give her my love, Thorndyke, and good-bye."

"Good-bye, till happier times, sir," said the old servant, as Mr. Graydon went out in the streaming night.

The lights of a hansom blinked through the rain as he turned north-eastward. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a few coins, and looked at them.

"No," he said, "I can't afford it. I must walk part of the way, and 'bus the rest. I shall just have time to do it."

But by the time he got to Euston he could only snatch a few fragments of food. And so it was wet, chilled, and half-fed that he made his return journey.

His uncle's suggestion about Lady Jane disturbed him oddly, though he tried to thrust it from him as impossible; but it recurred again and again.

"After all," he thought at last, "it might explain why she sought us out, and why she wanted Pamela. If I unwittingly did her the injury that she should have cared for me, who had no love to give her, it would be like a woman's generosity to repay me in that way. Ah! but women are better nowadays. She must have been a happy woman with Gerald, happier than with a worthless fellow like me, who could bring her neither honour nor glory. Ah! if it is true, and she should repay my Pam with happiness, how wonderful it would be! And there is no goodness which is impossible to a woman, praise be to the Source!"

Despite the damp and discomfort, his thoughts made him fall asleep with a smile on his face.

"Why did you do it, Auntie Janie?" asked Lady Kitty.

"Do what, darling?" answered Lady Jane in the tone that was reserved especially for her pet.

"Better leave her to me, Auntie Janie."

"Why, ask that poor little thing here. You know you don't like her a bit, and she's as home-sick as ever I saw anyone. Why don't you pack her off home again?"

"I asked her because—because—they were kind to Anthony, and it was only civil to do it, and because it ought to be a pleasure to the girl herself."

"Now you know you didn't, Auntie Janie, and you needn't tell me. It's not like you to do a shady thing first, and then tell a story about it."

"Kitty!"

"Yes, I know it's shocking of me. But I've always found you straight. Where you disliked you disliked, and made no pretence about it. But now you're playing a part for some reason or other, and I don't like you in a part."

"I think you're a rude, spoilt child, Kitty."

"I know I'm spoilt by you, and you're forcing me to be rude. It isn't like you, as I said before, and so I thought I'd ask you why you did it. You've become tortuous, Auntie Janie, ever since the day Anthony left for Washington. I don't recognise you as a tortuous person, and, frankly, it makes me uncomfortable."

"What fault have you to find, Kitty, with me as hostess?"

Lady Jane put down the pen she had been holding in her hand all this time, and came over from her writing-table as though she foresaw that the discussion would take time.

She looked down at Lady Kitty, who was basking in front of the fire, and her cold eyes grew maternal.

"You're fond of me, Kitty, I believe."

"It would be odd if I wasn't. I'm selfish to the heart's core, but I'm really not bad enough not to be fond of you."

"I don't think you're selfish, Kitty. It is only a pose of yours. But I am glad you are fond of me. Few people are. My life has been a mistake, Kitty. I was not formed for happiness. If I had to do it over again, perhaps I would make an effort to live otherwise. But this is not what I meant to say. You think that child unhappy?"

"Anyone can see it with half an eye."

"She went off cheerfully enough with Mrs. Molyneux to see the flowers."

"Yes, it was a relief to her. Mrs. Molyneux is an old dear, and she won't feel out of it with her. She has been feeling horribly out of it with you and me."

"Perhaps, Kitty, I mean her to feel out of it. Perhaps I mean her to be unhappy."

"Oh! say you didn't, Auntie Janie," said Lady Kitty, suddenly lifting up a flushed face. "Say you didn't. If you really meant that, I think I should have to throw you over, and take up the cudgels for the girl. Only my loyalty to you has kept me from doing it before. She's a nice little thing, and I am sure she is as jolly as a kitten when she gets fair play."

Lady Jane winced.

"We are both talking nonsense, Kitty. But if what I said were true, how would you defend your—your new friend against me?"

"Upon my word I don't know. I couldn't dress her up in my frocks and jewels; for she's as proud as she's poor. And I couldn't tell her to stand up against going to places where she's perfectly unhappy. And I couldn't say what would be the kindest thing—'Run away, little baa-lamb, to your woods and mountains; the world is no place for you.'"

"Yet you expect me to say it."

"No, I suppose I really don't. Let me see. Her visit is half-way through. Let me take her round now to places she'll enjoy. She'd simply love to see the Tower and Hampton Court, and to look at the shops in Regent Street, and have tea at Winter's."

"I hardly know you in this amiable mood, Kitty."

"I hardly know myself. Still, there it is. Perhaps I'm rather sick of the world, and have a longing for Arcadian pleasures."

"I can't very well go out and leave my guest alone. Yet we are pretty full for the next couple of weeks. I have been thinking myself very good-natured for taking a brace of young women about."

"I daresay," said Lady Kitty. "Yes, we are rather full. I don't mind shirking some of the engagements."

"And I, others?"

"Better leave her to me, Auntie Janie. She's afraid of you."

"Do you begin to-night?"

Lady Kitty's face fell.

"I'm afraid I can't stay at home to-night without perjuring myself."

"Mildred Sefton is going. Let her take you, and I shall stay at home—if, indeed, you think Miss Graydon would not enjoy the 'at home.'"

"She wouldn't without a proper frock. You'll be good to her, Auntie Janie?"

"I shall try to, my dear."

"And to-morrow she and I will take up our rôle of town mouse and country mouse."

"Poor Kitty!"

"I shall like it. She likes me already, and I have an odd fancy to make her like me better."

"You amazing Kitty! But are you going to carry out those extraordinary expeditions from east to west unchaperoned?"

"I shouldn't mind at all. We aren't so particular nowadays, you know. However, I daresay Captain Leslie would go with us with joy. He admires the little Pam."

"And he is Anthony's friend."

"Yes, of course, one doesn't mind bothering him any more than one would Anthony."

When Lady Kitty announced at dinner that she was going to take Pamela a round of sight-seeing, Pamela's weary face brightened.

"You would like it better than meeting a lot of dull people who are desperately uninteresting to you."

"I should love it," said Pam, with two sudden dimples dancing into her cheeks.

"We haven't been doing our duty by you," went on Lady Kitty. "It would be an everlasting disgrace to us if you went home without seeing the sights."

"But won't it be a great bother for you?"

"On the contrary. I have long desired to see the Tower."

"You don't mean to say you never have?" said Pamela, staring.

"Well, you know, the people in a place never see the sights of it, unless they are obliged to by an amiable visitor."

"You will have such gay times with Kitty, to-morrow," said Lady Jane, with the faintest suggestion of enmity underlying the smooth words, "that you will not mind, I hope, having only my society for to-night?"

"Is Lady Kitty going out?" asked Pamela, and a cloud fell on her face.

"She must," said Lady Jane shortly. "We shall have some music," she went on, "and afterwards you must get to bed early to prepare for a tiring day to-morrow. So we shall not find the evening too long without Kitty."

Yet after dinner, when Lady Kitty, radiant, in her smartest gown, floated into the drawing-room and found Pamela alone, it was not the face of one who anticipated a pleasant evening that she beheld.

"How exquisite you look!" cried Pamela, forgetting her bad quarter of an hour to come. "I never thought anyone could look so beautiful."

Lady Kitty kissed her emphatically.

"There," she said, "I'm not the kissing sort, but you are a dear little thing to admire another girl so rapturously. Not but what you can afford to."

Pamela still gazed at her with eyes of wonder, and said nothing.

"We are going to have such a lovely day to-morrow, and don't forget it," whispered Lady Kitty; for there was the frou-frou of Lady Jane's skirt in the distance. Then quite suddenly she kissed Pamela again.

"Thank you," she said, "for what your eyes are saying. I don't mind telling you, as a great secret, that I want very particularly to look well to-night."

She laughed as she floated away towards Lady Jane, who was just coming in, and, taking up her warm cloak, wrapped herself in it.

"Good-night, you people, and be happy," she called back to them.

Lady Jane gazed rather uneasily after her as she went.

"Kitty seems excited," she said. "I hope she hasn't been overdoing it lately."

"I think she looks very well and happy," said Pamela.

"Ah!" replied Lady Jane, as if it were hardly Pamela's business to have an opinion, and vouchsafed no further remark.

After she had turned over an evening paper, and tea had been brought, she went to the piano and began to play. She was a good musician, and Pamela, who had never heard good music, listened entranced. Then Lady Jane sang song after song, as if she had no listener; and as Pamela watched her, warmed with the emotion of the music, she felt that she could understand Lady Kitty's affection for the proud and cold woman.

At last Lady Jane stopped abruptly and came over to the fire. Pamela sat with bent head in the firelight till suddenly she lifted her eyes like wet violets. A sharp pang of memory shot through Lady Jane's heart. She turned away, and when she looked at Pamela her eyes were cold and cruel.

"You don't get much music at—at—I'm afraid I've forgotten the name?"

"Carrickmoyle," said Pamela.

"Ah! Carrickmoyle."

"No, we never hear any—except the squeaky old harmonium on Sundays. We have no piano."

"Nor newspapers, nor books, nor society, nor pictures?"

"Very few novels," said Pamela, "except old ones, but plenty of books. My father always says that newspapers are worthless reading, that they divide one's interest into snippets. But," she made haste to add, "he only really cares for classical literature. I suppose we have no society and no pictures. But the country is delightful."

Lady Jane yawned as if Pamela's answer did not interest her.

"What a pity!" she went on in tones of subtle disparagement. "What a great pity that your father cannot give his daughters the things which make life really worth living."

Pamela flushed.

"Our lives are very happy. But that our dear mother died young, I should say we are the happiest girls alive."

Again Lady Jane stifled a yawn.

"Anthony must have missed his music," she went on, "while he was with you. He is devoted to music."

"He never said——" began Pamela lamely.

"Of course he wouldn't," said Lady Jane. "By the way," she went on, "has Kitty told you how things are between her and Anthony?"

Pamela flushed, and then grew pale again. Fortunately she was not called upon for an answer.

"No, I see she hasn't," went on Lady Jane; "and, of course, the boy would be equally reticent. He has been in love with Kitty all his life. She is his ideal. Anthony cannot bear your modern damsel, romping about among the pursuits of men till she has neither voice nor complexion left. A delicate and graceful creature like Kitty is his ideal."

Pamela made no comment on this confidence. She never thought of not believing it, as a more sophisticated girl might.

"Ah!" she said in her own heart, "I was the entanglement, after all, and she was the true love."

And then she remembered oddly Sylvia's contemptuous disbelief in the love of young men.

"I'm afraid you are tired," said Lady Jane, as the conversation threatened to become more and more difficult. "Shall we say 'Good-night'? You must be fresh for Kitty to-morrow."

Pamela accepted her release thankfully. When she had reached her own room, and was alone, she knelt and hid her face in the bed-clothes, and considered Lady Jane's astounding disclosure.

It did not seem to her that it admitted of doubt. Anthony's own conduct bore it out fully. For the moment he had had a fancy for her. She was not yet at the point of doubting its genuineness—but when he went away he forgot her, and his allegiance returned to its lawful owner.

The humiliation was bitter, but it did not stir her resentment at the moment nearly so much as Lady Jane's insolence about her father.

"And to think," cried Pamela hotly, "that I have eaten the woman's bread and endured such a horrible time here simply because I would not go home and let them know things had not been right! And to think how my father loved Sir Gerald Trevithick and his people for his sake! I shall never cease to hate the name from henceforth."

And yet her thoughts took a sudden turn, in spite of her; and, in spite of herself, her heart cried out for Anthony, and again for Anthony. And though she poured seas of scorn upon herself, her heart still betrayed her.

The next morning Lady Kitty knocked at her door very early for that fashionable damsel.

"Are you up, stay-a-bed?" she cried. "It is an enchanting day, and we have the loveliest programme for it."

"Come in," said a voice, unlike Pamela's.

Lady Kitty came in on a scene of confusion. Pamela had her small trunk open on the floor, and was ramming things into it wildly. She had her hat on, and her face seemed to have become pinched with trouble out of its usual soft beauty. Her lips were set, and her eyes looked unutterable woe.

Lady Kitty came in on a scene of confusion.

"My father is very ill," she said in a dull voice. "I am going to catch the express at Euston. You will tell Lady Jane I could not wait to see her."

"You poor child! When did you hear it?"

"The letter came by the first post."

"You are not going without breakfast? Those lazy creatures must have it ready to time for once."

She rang the bell sharply, and a maid came.

"Breakfast immediately for Miss Graydon," she said. "We shall be in the dining-room in three minutes. Tell Dibber it must be on the table."

And it was. Pamela ate a few mouthfuls and swallowed a cup of tea. Then the cab was at the door, and her miserable eyes were looking out on the sunshiny street.

"Good-bye, good-bye," she said.

"When you can, send me a word to say how he is," said Lady Kitty.

Pamela stepped back into the dining-room, and put her arms round Lady Kitty's neck.

"No matter, no matter!" she cried. "I love you. You've been human to me in this house, and I love you."

And then Pamela was gone.

It was May now, and the evenings were long and sweet. Eight o'clock rang from the clock-tower at Glengall, and Pamela Graydon stood by the Wishing Well in the woods and looked down into the little cup of clear water. Memory was very keen in her this delicious, scented evening.

No word had come from Anthony Trevithick, and Pamela had ceased to expect any long ago. On her father's account as much as on her own she was filled with dull anger against him—an anger that hurt.

She had had no communication with the house in Brook Street, except her hastily scribbled line to Lady Kitty when Mr. Graydon began to creep back out of the shadow of death, and the answering letter, full of a sympathy which would have surprised some in Lady Kitty's world, if they could but have read it.

"Anthony thinks of getting his Uncle Wilton moved home as soon as possible," was one of Lady Kitty's bits of news. "He will never be very strong again, but he is out of danger. Of course, they will have to go warily, so Anthony will hardly be here before full summer."

"He, may stay away for ever, so far as I am concerned," had been Pamela's comment as she thrust the letter into her little old desk. Indeed, at the time, in the extremity of her relief at her father's illness having taken a turn for the better, her love affair seemed a paltry thing and not worth thinking upon.

But now that the strain was over her loneliness returned. She looked with sad eyes upon the summer landscape, and the moan of May wood-doves from near and far seemed to be the voice of her pain.

She often wondered if she could be the Pamela of a year ago—so gay and careless. Her sadness of late had passed unnoticed—they had all been sad—but whereas Sylvia's spirits had gone up with a bound, and Mary's mood was one of quiet and thankful joy, the great fear being removed, Pamela, after the first relief, felt only a flatness and dulness of the spirit which seemed never likely to lift; for Pam looked to her future with all the hopelessness of very young girlhood.

She sat down on a mossy tree trunk and listened with her chin in her hand to the last song of the thrush.

"Pamela," said a voice close by her, "the dews are falling, child, and you will take cold."

"Oh, Lord Glengall!" Pamela looked up startled, and then stretched a friendly hand to him.

"No; it is not a bit damp," she said. "Just feel it. I am going home presently. Sit down here. There is room for you."

But he stood watching her seriously and made no response to her invitation.

"You have been to Carrickmoyle?" she said.

"Yes, I saw him for a few minutes." There was no necessity to specify who the "him" was. He had been so much in all their minds.

"He was very comfortable," Lord Glengall continued. "Sylvia was reading to him, and his little fire was bright. He grows every day more like himself."

"Yes," said Pamela simply. "It is good to see him growing stronger. One can rest in it, and be glad, without looking forward too much."

"You mean to the winter?"

"Yes; twenty things may happen before then to help us. We have nearly five months before the doctor says he must go abroad. I am not going to think about it."

"Lord Downside may even yet find a human heart in him," said Glengall, watching her seriously.

"Lord Downside—who turned him into the street, wet and hungry, to meet almost his death!" cried Pain, with an angry sob. 'The tender mercies of the wicked.' I shall always think of Lord Downside when I hear that."

"You look as if you needed a change yourself, Pam."

The deep-sunk eyes looked at her with an anxious tenderness, but Pamela did not notice.

"I shall pull up now," she said. "Carrickmoyle in summer is good enough for anyone."

"But the winter, Pam—the winter?"

"Let us forget the winter for a little while," answered Pamela, surprised at his insistence.

"I am very rich, Pam," he said, and then stopped.

"Ah! that is what you are aiming at," said Pam, looking up at him with repentant affection; "and I was feeling cross with you because you wouldn't let the winter be."

"He won't mind taking—a loan—from his old friend? At interest, if he likes. Eh, Pam?"

"Oh! a thousand per cent., if you like," cried Pam airily, but her eyes were dewy. "You may as well charge a big interest, for you know it would be a loan that would hardly have the faintest chance of ever being repaid."

"Oh! I don't know about that," said Lord Glengall, digging a hole in the ground with the toe of his boot.

"You are an optimist," laughed Pam, and her tone was tender.

"He will take it, you think?"

"He never will."

"I have neither chick nor child. Is my gold to lie rotting while the friend I love—wants for it?"

He substituted "wants" at the last moment for another word, and Pamela understood.

"I daresay it is foolish," she said, "but I am afraid we shall not be able to persuade him."

"If not, Pam, there is one other way."

"Ah! no," she cried, putting out both hands as if to push him off; "not that way, Lord Glengall."

She closed her eyes at the moment, and like a sudden stab there came the thought of the young lover who had kissed her in this place, deadly sweet and deadly cruel as well.

"I beg your pardon, Pam," said Glengall's quiet and patient voice. "Of course, I am too old."

"Oh! no, but I am not the right person—that is all. You must marry someone who loves you. I—I am the wrong person."

"We won't talk about it, then," said Glengall, turning away his head. "We must find some other way, Pam."

Pamela jumped up and ran to him, and, as she had often done, thrust her arm into his.

"You are a thousand times too good for a stupid, ungrateful girl like me." She hugged his arm to her unconsciously. "I should be a thousand times a happier girl if I did love you and married you. Indeed, it oughtn't to be hard to love you."

Lord Glengall patted her head.

"Thank you, Pam," he said, "for being sorry for me. I don't deserve your goodness; I am a selfish old fellow for wanting a lovely young creature like you. Ah! Pam, we should form those ties when we are young. Then we should not feel useless and lonely old blocks when we have left our youth behind."

"You're not going to be unhappy?" cried Pam, still hugging his arm.

Lord Glengall laughed.

Pamela looked up startled.

"No, Pam," he said. "I don't pretend to be like a young fellow, all fire and despair. I should have liked to take care of you, little girl, and to have the right to take care of you all. But we must find another way."

They walked back together to Carrickmoyle in the old friendly fashion, and no one seeing them could have guessed that Glengall was a rejected lover; but that night Pam was thoughtful.

The next morning she was alone with her father. Mr. Graydon lay on a couch, from which he could see the mountains through the open window, and Pamela, on the rug by his side, was trying to teach Mark Antony to balance a straw on his nose.

"Let him alone, Pam," said her father. "He's too old and fat to learn tricks."

"Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall.

"Then he shan't have his bone; Pat deserves it better. Pat has learned three new tricks since you've been getting well."

"It is good to be getting well again. I don't think I realised before how beautiful the world is."

"Our bit of it," said Pam.

"And yet I am no coward. When my time comes, I shall not be afraid to go. If only I could feel that you children were provided for!"

"Did that trouble you—then?" said Pam, in a low voice.

"It did," answered her father, "though I tried hard for faith and trust."

"Dear, darling dad!" cried Pamela suddenly. "Would it make you happier if I were to marry Lord Glengall?"

"I thought we had settled all that, Pam."

"Oh, yes, in that old life," said Pamela dreamily, "before you were ill. But things are altered now. It is just as well we don't know what's before us."

"But I am getting well, my little Pam."

"Ah, yes, thank God! You are getting well," said Pam. "But you haven't told me if it would make you happier for me to marry Lord Glengall."

"You would be safe," said Mr. Graydon wistfully, "and he would take care of the others. But—but—it is not a question of making me happy, or of anyone but yourself, little Pam. Could you be happy?"

"Sometimes I think I could," said Pamela. "It would be an end of trouble; it would be peace."

"Poor Pam! you talk as if you had been through storms."

Pam shook her head.

"Never mind, darling dad. I think I shall say 'Yes' then, after all."

"He has asked you, Pam?"

"Yes, he has asked me. You don't think, dad, that he would like Sylvia just as well?"

"He seems to prefer you, Pam."

"I should love him for a brother-in-law."

"If you feel like that, don't think of him for a husband."

"He would never deceive nor betray me," said Pamela, with a sigh.

"Poor little girl!" said her father, and then said no more.

A day or two later, as Lord Glengall was leaving Carrickmoyle, he was overtaken by Pamela.

"I'm coming with you a bit," she said. "I want to give the dogs a run."

"I'll be proud of your company. Shall we take the wood-path?"

"No," said Pamela, with a little shudder. "I hate the wood. Let us cross the bog."

"Why, what has come to you, child? I thought you were a perfect wood-nymph."

"I'm tired of the wood," said Pam, shortly.

They walked on till they were out in the road through the bog. Then Pamela suddenly spoke what was in her mind.

"Lord Glengall," she said, "do you still want me to marry you?"

"Why, it was only on Wednesday I asked you. You don't suppose I've had time to change my mind?"

"Because—I've changed mine. I want to say 'Yes.'"

"'Yes,' Pam? Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall, turning and facing her. "Are you quite sure you mean 'Yes'?"

"Quite, quite sure," said Pam.

"What's come over you to make you say it, when you said 'No' the other day? You're doing it of your own free will, Pam?"

"Quite of my own free will."

Lord Glengall stooped and kissed the cool cheek, almost as her father might.

"And you won't want to unsay it later on, Pam?"

Pam shook her head.

"I'll be very good to you, little Pam—God helping me."

"I know you will," said Pain. "But why did you like me instead of Sylvia?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Pam. I never thought of that." He laughed out. "It's lucky I didn't. Pam. What chance should I have had with Sylvia, and all those boys about her?"

"What, indeed?" said Pamela, but she looked mysterious.

A moment later she pulled up again sharply.

"Now that we're engaged," she said, "I've something to tell you. Lord Glengall."

A wave of the loveliest rose flowed over her face, but her eyes were down.

"What is it, Pam?" he said quietly, but he felt a sharp pang as he watched her. She would never flush like that for him, he felt sure. Ah, his lost youth! What would he not have given to recall it?

"I think I ought to tell you," she said, looking on the ground at her feet, "that I have cared for someone else."

"Very much, Pam?"

"Very much."

"Is it all over, Pam?"

"It is all over."

"Was it—a matter of money, Pam? Could nothing be done? I don't want you to marry me at the cost of your own happiness."

Pamela was pulling a wild yellow iris to pieces. He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face till he could look into her eyes.

"Tell me, tell me, Pam. Be brave and truthful with me. It is my happiness as well as yours. Is there nothing that can be done?"

"There is nothing."

He let her go, and stood away again, and his face was full of trouble. Pamela looked at him for a moment. Then she made a step forward, and drew his arms about her.

"I told you because I thought I must," she said. "But it is all over and done with. I am going to be so happy with you, so happy!" He looked down at her and his face was transformed.

"Don't make me too happy, Pam," he said. "It is too much for an old hulk like me."

And so they went home through the summer evening, Pamela saying to herself over and over again that she was really happy. Now she need not dread the autumn for her father, for had not Glengall said that together they would take him to the Riviera, or farther afield to Algiers, and so would make him strong again? And had he not thought, even in his first content, of poor Mary and her hopeless love affair? Mick was to exchange into a home regiment, and a little money would smooth the way for their marriage, so that the two need not wait till some day far distant, when they should look in each other's faded faces and feel that this was not the love of long ago. Sylvia, too, was to have fine frocks and gaiety as befitted her beauty and her youth. And to think that she, Pamela, was the wonder-worker, the magician, to give her beloved ones the things that lay nearest their hearts—she, Pamela, who had always desired to give!

Only Sylvia, of them all, did not congratulate Pamela with approval.

"I don't believe you'll make him half as happy as I should have done," she said. "But never mind—it is your score, and I accept it."

And then she went off with a frown to refuse young St. Quentin for the fifth time, as she had already refused his superior officer.

"I'll do my best to make him happy," Pamela said, remembering before she slept. "Help me to make him happy," she cried, lifting her heart and her eyes.

And so she fell asleep placidly, quite unlike a girl who had been asked in marriage and had accepted only a few hours ago. Just for that one night she was troubled with no thought of Anthony Trevithick.

[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]

By E. W. Howson, M.A.

Let me try to picture a scene for you. It is a spring day, towards the end of March, and a group of friends are walking along one of the high roads leading to Jerusalem. They are going, like many others, to attend the Feast of the Passover, in the Holy City, during the following week. Slightly in front of the rest walks Jesus Christ. There is something unusual, almost alarming, in His aspect, and the disciples who are following behind are watching Him with awe and wonder as He strides along with rapid steps. He is evidently possessed and agitated by some deep emotion, some inflexible purpose, which they do not fully comprehend. His thoughts are not their thoughts. They do not know what He knows—that in a few short days He, their Lord and Master, whom they fondly dream is destined to win an earthly crown, will be tried like a common felon and nailed to the bitter cross. They are thinking of a triumph and a throne, and are already discussing the honours which they hope to share. He is thinking of something widely different—of agony, desertion, and death.

Presently, two of His disciples—James and John—step forward, with their mother, Salome, to ask Him a question. Jesus looks round and says to her, "What wilt thou?" Salome, who, like many mothers, was ambitious for her sons, replies, "Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on Thy left, in Thy kingdom." The other disciples, who overheard her words, are annoyed at the request, which appears to them pushing and selfish. Why should James and John be singled out for special favour? They expect and hope that Jesus will rebuke them. Instead of which, He says gently, but very seriously, "Ye know not what ye ask. Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of? and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with?" It was a stern and searching challenge, and a coward would have hesitated to meet it. But James and John were no cowards. They took up the challenge at once, and simply and promptly they answered. Δυνάμεθα—"We can." The request may have been selfish, but the answer was brave; and, what was more, they were destined to seal that promise with their blood.

It is this answer—this one word (for in the Greek it is but one word), Δυνάμεθα, "We can"—which I wish to consider with you for a few minutes this evening.

For an answer like this is a key to character, and shows of what sort of stuff the men were made who gave it. You will find as you grow older that men may be roughly divided into two classes—those who face difficulty with a can, and those who face it with a can't. The former are the material from which heroes are made; the latter may be good, kind and pure, but sooner or later they fall behind, and become the followers, not the leaders, in the work of life.

There is an old Latin proverb—"Possunt quia posse videntur," "They can because they think they can." Nothing could be more true. For let a man only believe he can do a thing, and he is already half-way to the achievement of his purpose. It is the half-hearted, the faint-hearted, who fail. Belief is the thing we want. "All things are possible to him that believeth." You know this is true in your games. You know that the boy who goes shivering and shaking to the wicket is pretty sure to return after a few overs clean bowled. But it is equally true of every department of life. Napoleon said that the word "impossible" ought to be removed from the dictionary, and the boy or man who, when duty calls him, can answer calmly and deliberately, "I can," is the one who not only deserves but commands success.

You remember, no doubt, the old Greek fable of Perseus—how, when he was a boy of fifteen, the goddess Athene appeared to him in a dream and showed him the hideous head of the Gorgon writhing with snakes. "Can you," she asked him, "face this wicked monster, and will you some day try to slay it?" "Yes," he said, "I can; if thou wilt help me, I can." And though Athene told him of all the long journey, and all the terrible perils in the way, he did not shrink or falter, but when he came to be a man he nobly fulfilled his resolution and promise. And this is only an allegory. It means, that if a man or boy has sufficient will and determination, there is no danger, no difficulty, no temptation, which he may not overcome by the assistance of divine support. Pray, every one of you, for God's best gift of a strong will. It is worth, believe me, all the knowledge, wealth, and popularity in the world.

Now, of course, I do not pretend that you and I are called on in our daily school life to act the hero or the martyr on the grander scale. Our life is cast in quiet ways. And yet, as surely as our Lord asked James and John, so He asks each one of us, "Can you drink of My cup? Can you be baptised with My baptism?"

What, then, is this cup, what is this baptism in your school life here at Harrow? For if we dare not share it we cannot be called His disciples. "No pain, no gain." "No sweat, no sweet." So ran the old sayings, and if we cannot bear His cross most assuredly we shall not deserve His crown. Let me, then, take a few homely instances to show what I think is the meaning of Christ's question here at Harrow for you.

You are, let us suppose, in your house with three or four other boys. You have all been talking together about your games, when suddenly the conversation takes a bad turn, and something is said, perhaps in jest, which is coarse or irreverent. The speaker is an influential boy, and you are rather proud to claim his acquaintance. It would be easy for you to join in the laugh; it will please him, it will show that you are as "knowing" as the rest. There is the temptation—it is a very common one; but the question is, can you resist it? Can you refuse the expected smile? Can you sacrifice the cheap popularity? Can you boldly say "Shut up"? Can you walk quietly out of the room? Can you? Very well, then, if so, you can drink the cup of Christ.

Do you think this is asking too much of you? Let me tell you, then, a story—it is a well-known one, but it will bear repetition—of an Eton boy. He was captain of the boats at Eton about fifty years ago, and it was the custom then at boat suppers for coarse and indecent songs to be sung. Patteson (for that was the boy's name) said that if he was present those songs should not be sung. He went to the supper as usual, and a boy got up to sing one of those songs. Patteson jumped up then and there and walked out of the room. I have not a doubt he was laughed at for his pains, and that he lost some of his popularity; but the protest was successful, and, so far as I know, the practice has never, from that day to this, been revived. Some thirty years later Patteson, who had learnt to drink the cup of Christ at school, became a bishop—a missionary bishop—and met a martyr's death in the far islands of the Pacific Ocean, a loyal servant of his Master to the last.

Or again—to take another instance—you have been playing a game and you have come back in a hurry rather late. You have an exercise to show up, and you have not left yourself time to finish it. Another boy in the house has already done his, and the work lies there on the table before your eyes. You are tempted to take it and copy it. It will save you from punishment. No one will be the wiser—except God (and for the moment you forget that). Other boys have often done it. Perhaps your friend offers to lend it you, and would think you something of a prig and simpleton to say no. Can you reject the temptation and refuse to look at it? Can you show up your exercise unfinished and bear the punishment it involves? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.

Or, once more, we will say that you are waiting with your form for a master outside the form-room door. While you wait, an unpopular and helpless boy is being teased and pestered. I daresay his appearance is odd, and he is sensitive and excitable and easily provoked. You are tempted to join with the rest and add one more jest at his expense. It will, perhaps, sting him to the quick and make the tears start to his eyes, but you will earn a laugh and get the credit of being thought amusing. Can you check that jest? Can you speak up in defence of the weaker side? Can you take his part and protect him? Can you do more? Can you take the trouble, when the rest are gone, to say that you are sorry for him and give him a word of encouragement and sympathy? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.

I know it is the fashion to say that the life of a boy at a public school is one long round of unbroken pleasure. There could not be a greater mistake. You are not all—you are not any of you—always happy. You have every now and then a cup of bitterness to drink. You may have had a quarrel with your best friend, and you find it hard, almost impossible, to forgive. You are too proud to make the first apology: he would think he had gained his point; and so bad blood gets worse, and soon you are barely on speaking terms. You have been trying to turn over a new leaf, to break off some bad habit which is growing on you like a creeper on a tree—to give up swearing, perhaps; to say your prayers more regularly—and then someone says, with a sneer, that you are turning "pi." You know how the sneer tells. Or perhaps you have been idle and you determine to make a fresh start. You prepare your work carefully, but when you are put on to construe your memory fails; you get turned, and your master thinks you still idle and will not believe that you have tried.

Such are some of your common trials. They may make you very unhappy, but they are God's way of testing you. Can you, He seems to say, do this and that for Me? Can you give up that bad habit, can you bear ridicule, can you do your duty patiently in spite of failure? Oh! answer boldly, "Yes—with Thy help we can." Never give up hope. Fight on and on. Despair is the devil's triumph. When he sees you throw up your hands and give way, he chuckles; for he knows that you are, or soon will be, at his mercy.

The fact is, we cannot go to heaven in an easy-chair, and these trials are, indeed, the hammer strokes which harden the metal of your character. Shirk and evade them, and you will never be a strong and useful man. Bear them, and you will be able to tackle other and fiercer temptations in the larger battle of life—to be brave and pure in your regiment, honest in business, valiant and self-denying in the Church.

But more than this lies in this little word Δυνάμεθα, "We can." For perhaps, as you grow older, you will be called upon to fill some high office of trust and responsibility. Will you, then, at that critical moment, prove worthy of the opportunity, or will you let false modesty, indolence, or nervousness, tempt you to decline it, and let the chance slip by which God has given you of useful service? Will you be one of those contemptible people who say, "No, thank you, it isn't good enough," or, "No, I'm afraid of what others would think or say of me"? Will you not rather rise to the occasion, in a spirit of alacrity, and say, "Yes, I can. I will not be content to lag in the poor-spirited ruck, who die unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. I, too, will take my part in the front rank, and strike as stout a blow as I can for the cause of truth and right"?

But if you are to give such an answer as this (and I trust you will), remember that you must give it relying on that strength which is greater than your own. If you don't, you will be ambitious and selfish, and I daresay successful, and nothing better. Listen to what Christ says: "Without Me ye can do nothing." It is His strength, His spirit, which alone can give the full force and the right direction to our wills. With Him everything, without Him nothing. "I can," said St. Paul in one of his bursts of enthusiasm, "I can do all things," but then he is careful to add, "through Christ which strengtheneth me." There is the secret, that is the only talisman of true success. Let us, then, pray to Him morning by morning, evening by evening, to give us His help.

This, then, as I understand it, is the message contained in the words "We can." And whenever a fierce temptation comes upon you, as it will, perhaps, even to-morrow, and you are inclined to say to yourself, "No, I can't face this unpopularity; I can't do this irksome duty; I can't resist this temptation any longer; I can't go on fighting any more," then turn a deaf ear to Satan's whispers, and answer boldly, "I can."

By Myra Hamilton.

"Caleb! Where are you?"

"Here, mother," he cried, suddenly rising from one of the hay-cocks upon which he had been resting. He took the little bundle from her hand without one word of thanks, and then he slowly untied the red cotton handkerchief and began to eat his dinner.

"What is the matter with you, my lad?" his mother asked him. "You seem very cross to-day."

Caleb nodded his head moodily.

"I feel cross," he assented. Then he looked searchingly at his mother.

"Don't you want to be rich?" he demanded.

The old woman was horrified at the thought of it.

"Rich? Heaven forbid! I am quite content to live in our little cottage by the stream. I do not dread the cold winter approaching, for you are such a good son to me that I know I shall lack naught."

Caleb moved uneasily. This simple statement did not correspond with his preconceived notion of prosperity, so he tried to explain his views more fully to his mother.

"I want gold," he said firmly. "Bushels and bushels of it! Enough to buy me fine clothes, horses, carriages and food—heaps of different kinds of food that I might eat continuously. That is what I call being rich!"

The old woman packed the empty plate up in the handkerchief before she spoke.

"You will never be happy with those thoughts in your head," she said, sadly. "Money is not the only thing to live for in the world, dearie." Then she walked to his side and laid a wrinkled hand upon his arm. "Don't you bother about the hay any more to-day," she said kindly. "You go and have some fishing. I will give it a toss over."

So this discontented young man walked off to amuse himself, and left his mother to labour under the burning sun to finish his work, and as he sat on the bank patiently waiting for a fish to bite, a shrill voice suddenly addressed him.

"A penny for your thoughts," the voice said.

Caleb looked about him in amazement. The only living thing he could see was a frog, and, of course, he was aware that frogs had not the gift of conversing with human beings; so he went on with his meditation and paid no attention to the mysterious question.

The frog hopped angrily about, and then it repeated its remark.

"I did not know that a frog could speak," said Caleb, feeling very astonished; "I have never heard one do so before."

"Oh, really!" said the frog patronisingly. "You do not know everything yet. You are far too young. A friend of mine, who is a most cultivated sparrow, tells me you were grizzling for money this afternoon. Money indeed! What good could it do you, do you think?"

"Money buys everything worth having," replied Caleb promptly.

"No, it doesn't," snapped the frog, looking very important. "For it does not buy ME! When you are older and wiser, you will find there are many things in the world that gold cannot purchase. Wealth has many advantages certainly," he went on reflectively. "It was through money that I lost my first wife."

"Indeed," said Caleb, politely. "How was that?"

"The frog I selected to wed," explained his companion, "was a very well-bred frog, though unfortunately rather greedy. She was always delighted to discover fresh food at the bottom of the stream, and one day she thought she had found quite a new kind of dainty. As she did not wish to give me a share of it, she swallowed it hurriedly, and it stuck in her throat and choked her. Just before she died, she confessed to me what she had done, and I, from her description of it, knew it was a penny-piece she had attempted to eat. Now, what would you say," the frog went on calmly, "if I gave you the power to be as rich as you liked, to possess more gold than you knew how to spend, to gratify every wish your heart contains?"

"Can you really do this?" gasped Caleb, incredulously. "I have not met you before. I cannot understand why you are so good to me."

The frog puffed himself out with pride. "I am accustomed to judge character by faces," he replied. "I can see that you will never settle down here or be content without money. I, as the head of our family, am allowed to offer our wonderful purse to any mortal I may choose to confer such an honour upon. If you like to accept it, you are welcome to do so."

Caleb was quite bewildered at this stroke of good luck. "For how long may I keep it?" he asked.

"Until you realise there are certain things in the world that cannot be bought by gold; until you weary of the sight of riches, until you loathe the purse," said the frog solemnly.

"Then I shall keep it for ever!" declared Caleb.

But the old frog shook his head. "No you won't," he replied gravely. "You will want to get rid of it very soon, I think."

"Where shall I find this extraordinary gift?" asked Caleb cautiously.

"When you get home, look under the pillow of your bed and you will discover a shabby green purse lying there," said the frog. "As long as you desire money, you will be able to take out of it as much as you require, but when you have learnt your lesson thoroughly the purse will cease to supply you. Then it must be returned to me, and I will guard it until I meet another mortal as discontented as yourself. Farewell! I wish you a short period of wealth, for you will never enjoy it."

Caleb hastened back to the cottage, and ran up to his room, where he easily found the wee purse. It was so small that the young man felt dubious when he opened it, and he was greatly relieved to see that there was one gold piece inside. He drew it out and peered in again. There was another coin waiting in precisely the same place. This he also removed, but still there came another. When he found the supply of gold did not fail him, he rushed downstairs to tell his mother of his good fortune. But she, poor soul, did not appreciate the change in his position.

"There is trouble to come, lad," she prophesied, as she heard of his wealth. "I suppose you will leave your old mother now, and go out into the world. You won't want to waste your riches here."

"I was thinking," Caleb admitted nervously, "that it would be fine to go about a little, but you must come too."

His mother shook her head decidedly. "No, I shall stay here," she replied, "for I am too old to wander amid strange scenes. Let me hear of you, dearie, from time to time, for I shan't live much longer, I know. I shall have Volta the orphan to live with me, and then we shall be able to manage the work."

"No, mother, no," interrupted Caleb. "You forget I am rich now. I will engage servants to labour for you. You must never do anything again."

But his mother declared she wished to live as she had done hitherto. Servants and fine clothes would worry her, she told him, and she could not bear to be idle all day long. Her way of participating in her son's good fortune would be to hear of his grand doings occasionally, and to look forward to the time when he would return to sit by her side and describe the wonderful things he had seen.

Caleb bought a suit of clothes from the village tailor and a horse from the landlord of the inn, and then he set off. As he rode down the lane the birds sang to one another, "Here comes silly Caleb!" but he was too full of his own importance to realise they were mocking him, and when the tall branches of the trees bent forward and whispered to him, "Go back! Go back!" he set spurs to his horse and galloped on. His mother watched him out of sight. She hoped he would wave his hand to her from the top of the hill, but he was so occupied with his own thoughts that he only remembered he had promised to do so when it was too late.

Caleb rode for many hours, until he reached a beautiful town, where he arranged to purchase a castle. He installed himself in one that stood deep in the shadow of the wood, and he supplied himself with servants, horses, and carriages. He had decided not to travel, for he did not want to learn anything about foreign lands—he only desired to live grandly, to eclipse his neighbours and make them envious of his wealth.

He had almost forgotten his mother. He never sent her news of himself, although, at first, he occasionally ordered one of his servants to ride to the cottage and carry her some gold. He was so ashamed of her humble origin that he would not admit he was her son, and when the man returned from his errand Caleb used to avoid him, for fear he had discovered the secret of his birth.

At last the young fellow grew very discontented, for he had no interests in his life; so he determined to marry. He was sure that no high-born lady would wed him, for, in spite of his riches, he was only the son of a peasant woman, so he made up his mind to select a poor girl who would be properly impressed with his position.

As he had no acquaintances, he decided to walk slowly over the land and ask the first damsel he met to be his wife. So he called his dogs together, and away they went upon this extraordinary search for a bride, but for a long time they saw nobody.

On the way home, however, Caleb encountered a young maiden, who was tripping merrily along with a bundle of sticks balanced upon her head. As she stood aside to allow this grand gentleman to pass her, her face seemed so familiar that Caleb thought he had seen her before. He looked at her critically; she was certainly very pretty, young, and graceful, so he promptly raised his plumed cap and addressed her.

"I fear those sticks are too heavy for you," he remarked. "Will you allow me to carry them for you?"

But she shook her head. "I am used to them," she explained. "Besides, I could not trouble you so much. You are a great lord, and I am only a poor country girl."

Caleb was not very quick with his tongue, and as he wondered what to say she gave him a little nod and hastened away.

The next day he met her again, and the day following also; for he was really in love with this peasant girl.

One day he brought her a handsome silver casket full of rare jewels, but she just glanced at them and then laid them aside.

"What are they?" she asked innocently. "Bits of glass?"

"Bits of glass?" he exclaimed in astonishment at her ignorance. "No; they are precious stones, and worth a fortune. I hope you will accept them," he added.

But she shook her head. "They are useless to me," she declared candidly. "If they are so valuable, why do you wish to part with them? I should not know what to do with such jewels if they were mine."

Caleb could not understand his companion at all. For the first time since he possessed the wonderful purse he had encountered somebody who did not appreciate his wealth.

She looked so fascinating as she sat in the sunshine, with the contents of the jewel-case glittering in her lap, that Caleb fell on his knees before her and entreated her to marry him. He talked of his estate and his money, but his words made no impression.

"I do not care for you, my lord," she said. "Neither do you really love me. It is my beauty that attracts you."

"But I am rich," he objected; "I have——"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted impatiently; "you have gold, land, and jewels—in fact, everything that money can purchase. But you cannot buy affection. If we loved each other, I would marry you, even though you were the poorest beggar in the land. Although I am honoured by your proposal, it cannot be. Besides, I should not be a fit wife for one so great."

"I do not care for you, my lord."

So Caleb went back to his lonely castle and she to her cottage in the wood, but he did not despair. He could not believe that he was to take her refusal seriously, so the next day he sent her many valuable presents, but when she returned them all he knew she was in earnest.

That evening, as he sat by his solitary fireside brooding over his disappointment, he recalled the girl's words, and then he realised that he was pining for something that money was powerless to give him. He looked at the presents she had rejected, and, at last, he understood the limit of wealth.

In his loneliness and sorrow his thoughts recurred to his aged mother. He felt he had neglected her, and determined to pay her an unexpected visit. So early the next morning he called for his horse and rode quickly away.

Sitting by his mother's bedside.

But when he reached the little cottage he thought it was deserted. The garden was overgrown, the gate flapped uneasily on its broken hinges, and the hens scratched among the flowers. He drove them out, and then he opened the door and peeped inside. His mother lay upon her bed; her face was very thin, and her breath came in quick, short gasps, and she seemed very ill.

"Mother, what has happened?" Caleb asked, as he sat by her bedside and gently stroked her hand. "Did you never receive the money I sent to you and Volta?" he added, as he looked in vain for the pretty little orphan.

"The gold your servant brought us stands untouched on the mantelpiece," explained the old woman proudly. "It was useless to me. I only needed news of you, my dear boy. I sent Volta to watch over you, for I hoped she would be able to influence you, but now that you have returned I am sure she will hasten back. Did you not see her?"

Then Caleb realised who the beautiful maiden had been. It was his little playfellow, but his wealth had made him forget his past life so completely that he had not recognised her. He understood everything now. His gold could not buy health for his mother, nor could he use it to win Volta's love. He longed to begin his old life over again, so he rose to his feet and walked to the door.

"Mother, dear," he said, "I am tired of my wealth. I am going to the stream to throw back my purse. It has been a curse to me."

When he drew near the water, he pulled the shabby little case out of his pocket and opened it curiously. All had happened as the frog prophesied. The purse was empty now, for he had learnt his lesson thoroughly. As he threw it into the stream he saw a little frog dive hurriedly down after it, and, while he watched, all his fine clothes slipped away from him and he was once more clad in his peasant's rags.

He wanted to see his beautiful maiden again, and, as he opened the cottage door, he was delighted to find her sitting by his mother's bedside.

"Volta," he said as he approached her, "I am poor now. Will you be my wife, although I have neither a fine castle nor jewels to offer you?"

She smiled sweetly at him as she replied shyly, "Your wealth was nothing to me, Caleb. When I refused to marry you, it was because I felt you did not care for me. I was afraid, too, of your grandeur. I know I should not have been a suitable bride for you, but now all is changed."

Very soon they were married, and the young couple settled down to live in the cottage with Caleb's mother. The old woman was completely contented with the love her son and daughter-in-law bestowed upon her. And later on, in the winter evenings, everybody would gather round the fire, and Caleb would take his children upon his knees as he related the strange things he used to do while he was the possessor of the wonderful purse.

Illustrated from Photographs.]

We who live in the present generation of this best of all possible worlds, as we may well deem it, considering that we have no experience of any other, are apt to look back on those who preceded us as benighted beings who walked by very dim lights, had few artistic perceptions, and only the most humdrum of occupations. Girls who were born before Waterloo were not very much educated, and not at all emancipated, and when we think of them we are apt to wonder how their lives dragged on without railways, without gas, without circulating libraries, magazines, or tennis.

WAX FLOWERS (1853).

On the whole, however, these old-fashioned lasses had no time to be dull. One whose brain was as bright as ever when Queen Victoria celebrated her first Jubilee in 1887 was questioned by a girl of the period as to her occupations when in her teens and afterwards. "My dear," she said, "there were always babies in our old house at home, and your father was the youngest of them. I had the baby clothes to make, and they wore out so fast! When I was tired of plain hemming and sewing, I used to embroider the cap crowns or quill up the clean cap borders." And this woman's mind was not in the least dwarfed or stunted by much needlework; she lived and travelled a good deal on the Continent afterwards, and kept well abreast of the literature of her day to the very end.

Fine needlework may certainly be counted among the vanished arts, for our muslin embroidery is now Swiss, and made by machine, and our delicate stitchery accomplished by a "Singer" or a "Willcox and Gibbs'." No longer, like the Martineaus of Norwich and their contemporaries, do we make the fine linen shirts of our fathers and brothers; and no longer, happily, are middle-class girls obliged to laboriously copy the new music and songs that their wealthier relatives and friends have purchased. That is a distinct change for the better.

A kind of work that late in the last and early in this century was thought very highly of, and occupied a good deal of time, was called filigree. A Christmas present for Grandmamma or for Mamma's birthday might be a tea-caddy or a workbox, the frame of which was produced by the cabinetmaker in rosewood or mahogany and lined with tinfoil, or lead, or satin paper, as the case might be. Rims of polished wood were seen at the corners, and received the lock and hinges, but the surface was sunk and had to be filled in with tiny rolls of gilt-edged paper made in long lengths for the purpose. These rolls were closely packed together, and produced an appearance of fine gilt tracery, as seen in the illustration below. Unless very roughly treated, or kept in a palpably damp place, they did not come out of position. In the absence of all Oriental goods, which were never seen in those days unless in families connected with the East India Company, they were considered handsome, and no one not in the secret could have guessed how the effect was obtained.

FILIGREE WORK (1795).

Here and there in great houses a few fine lacquered or Chinese cabinets might be seen, principally brought home as loot, for they were most plentiful in military and naval families. They were much admired and very highly esteemed, and some ingenious individual hit on a mode of making very passable imitations of them in a small way; and it was not entirely a feminine industry, but one in which the sterner sex could find indoor occupation during wet weather and long evenings without loss of dignity. Small tables and the doors of corner cupboards were frequently treated in this manner, especially the latter, which were seldom looked at very closely and did not get much handled. The work was called imitation lacquer, and the materials were collected during summer and autumn.

Very thin leaves were selected, such as the crimson foliage of the Herb Robert when it grows in stony places, silver-weed, which is to be found in hilly districts such as Derbyshire and the Lake Country, and the leaves of the sloe or blackthorn, which in late autumn turn yellowish and assume curious fade green tints. They were most carefully and smoothly dried between sheets of blotting-paper under heavy weights or in the thick volumes of bound-up music then to be found in every house, and when quite dry they were so thin that the ordinary finger might be passed over them without feeling an inequality of surface. The piece of wood—table top, cupboard door, or what not—intended to be ornamented was made perfectly smooth, and the delicate leaves were fixed on it as taste dictated with clean, strong gum. If any stalks were required to connect leaves, they were painted in; and when this was done, well pressed, and quite dry, all the interstices were filled up by means of a small camel's-hair brush with a black or dark brown varnish, probably shellac. Another coat very often had to be put on, and when all was perfectly smooth and flat two or three coats were laid all over by way of finish, and when perfectly dry and hard the article looked remarkably well.

A SAMPLE OF BERLIN WOOL WORK.

Berlin wool work on canvas, either in raised cross or tent stitch, was a great resource to ladies, and largely used for furnishing purposes. Of course, it was the latter-day equivalent of the old tapestry, and tent stitch was usually worked in frames, while really good workers could accomplish cross stitch in their hands without drawing up or cockling. Figure-pieces were often framed and hung as pictures, and fearful and wonderful they generally were. Many of the floral wreaths, however, were really artistic, especially those that depicted carnations, tulips, and poppies. Some designs were absurdly impossible, and a writer in the 'forties describes them as peacocks or birds of Paradise resting on their talons on the petals of passion-flowers. Shading was a matter of taste—good, bad, and indifferent.

The bride of that day generally took many monuments of her own and her family's industry to her new home in the shape of wool-worked cushions, chair seats, screens, and sometimes borders to table covers and curtains. Preparing them was a great pleasure, and she was very proud of them when done. They were quite in the taste of the day, and none of us in such matters lives twenty years before our time.

Another kind of decorative furnishing very highly prized was the leather work which made such handsome frames for mirrors and was also much used for brackets, and those dark articles formed a very welcome relief to the amount of gilding in vogue during the days of the Third Empire in France, which was copied almost ad nauseam in England. They entailed an amount of attention from duster and feather brush that would drive modern mistresses and maids crazy; but that is a detail.

TENT-STITCH FIGURE PICTURE (1797).

(Christ and the Woman of Samaria.)

The modelling and cutting of leaves, flowers, and berries in leather was really hard work, and required hands endowed with a good deal of muscular strength. The skilled worker was always a student of nature, and found models in some of her loveliest forms. Vine leaves and tendrils, with or without bunches of grapes, oak leaves and acorns, convolvulus blossoms and leaves (see illustration at head of article), passion-flowers and roses, were great favourites. The leather used was tanned sheepskin and cowhide, technically known as basil and skiver; the tools were few, being principally a sharp strong pair of scissors, a stout penknife, a stiletto and a veiner. The best work was often accomplished with the fewest tools, for it is very rarely that the craftsman or artist who can afford to buy every possible accessory turns out anything worth looking at. A large board or old deal table, a basin of water, sponge, wire, tacks, hammer, stain, glue, and varnish, were all needed, and the work was not quite of a kind for the family circle, as it was best pursued in a room with no carpet to spoil, and where no one could be disturbed by the tap-tapping of the hammer. Very good work may be seen from time to time at the various "Arts and Crafts" exhibitions, and leather embossing is a good deal used. Professor Herkomer has some wonderful embossed leather on the dining-room chairs in his House Beautiful at Bushey, and it was all done by a lady. Work in leather cannot therefore be classed altogether among the lost arts; it is being modified, and may some day be revived in all its glory by women who have plenty of leisure and love to have something to show for their handiwork. It must not be forgotten that even in an age that has witnessed such a revival of learning as this there are still girls of active temperament who are neither students nor great readers.

TENT-STITCH FLOWER PICTURE (1825).

Shell work was accomplished by sticking small shells, chiefly the halves of little pink or white bivalves on to a coloured background with very strong glue. A shallow box was the favourite article, and it was then glazed and used as an ornament much as cases of stuffed birds are. How long it lasted is proved by the specimen photographed, which was worked in 1805.

SHELL WORK (1805).

The wealth of flowers in the present day is quite a modern feature of luxury. Even twenty years ago, except in summer, they were the prerogatives of the wealthy who had gardeners and greenhouses and plenty of artificial heat. Lovers of flowers consequently had wax models of them, and very beautiful they were when natural, though unfortunately they had to be covered with glass shades. The lady who could make them really well was very much thought of, and it was an occupation that could be pursued at any time, except in severely cold weather and a hard frost. The Pantheon in Oxford Street was the great place for obtaining the sheets of wax, shaved off a block with a sharp plane, which was a delicate operation seldom attempted by an amateur. The rose wax was peculiarly thin, almost of the consistence of a real rose petal. The chief tools were small, sharp scissors and a few bone or steel pins with solid glass heads, some dry colours and cotton wool to rub them on with. The worker simply took a rose, snowdrop, violet, or whatever flower she preferred, pulled it carefully to pieces, laid each portion on her sheet of wax and cut out by it as closely as possible, previously wetting her scissors. The petals were moulded in the hollow of the hand with the head of a pin after being coloured, and curled over where desirable, with the steel part wetted like the scissors. The wire stalk was covered by a narrow strip of green wax neatly rolled and rubbed smooth, crooked over at the top and a sort of little wax centre formed on this crook on which the flower was literally built petal by petal. Experience taught which flowers were feasible and which were not. Roses usually turned out well, so did scarlet japonica, apple blossom, snowdrops, and daffodils. Primroses were almost unattainable. Lilies of the valley had each separate blossom made in a tiny mould. All scraps of wax were collected in a stone jar (a strong jam-pot), and, as the great crux was to obtain natural-looking leaves, this wax was carefully melted over or near the fire, well mixed and coloured with indigo and ochre in proportion to the tint of green required. Suppose a few violet leaves were wanted, fresh ones of two or three sizes were gathered and the upper side thoroughly, but not lavishly, moistened with sweet or salad oil. Then a brush was dipped in the liquid green wax and passed over the surface, which was allowed to cool and then a wire stalk was laid on to form the mid-rib of the leaf. Two or three more layers of wax were added, and when quite cold the natural leaf was removed, and a very exact facsimile made its appearance. A well-arranged vase (see illustration on page 309) or basket of wax flowers, closely copied from nature was very pretty and acceptable in the absence of the real blossoms. The wax was rather expensive, though the tools were not, the average price being from one shilling to one shilling and sixpence per dozen small sheets.

Sampler-making was a fine art practised in silk or wool on fine woollen or silk canvas. Its primary use was to teach how to make capital and small letters and figures, which were practically applied to the marking of linen; but occasionally the geography of England was attempted, as shown in the illustration below, and probably no girl who had marked in the outlines and names of the counties ever forgot their respective positions.

All these home occupations had their day and fulfilled their purpose. They added to the household attractions, and made the rooms look as if women lived there and took a pride in them. Very often the nimble fingers worked all the more quickly and efficiently while an interesting book was being read aloud.

OLD SAMPLER MAP (1810).

We often say that in those days—which, after all, are not so very long ago—girls were delicate and unhealthy, took but little exercise, and were too much given to sedentary occupations. But it was only the foolish (who carry everything to excess) of whom this was true. There was a good deal of running about the house, and the sons and daughters would have known very little of their relations and friends a few miles off, if they had not walked to see them, perhaps to spend the day, or to go one day and return the next. Few families were without sundry poor people in whom they were interested, and if they lived at the other end of the parish, it was an object for a walk to take an old woman a milk pudding, or a little delicacy to a sick child. Houses were more roomy than they are now, certainly the population was not quite so thick on the ground, and in persistent bad weather, when outdoor exercise was impossible for the girls, there were fine games of battledore and shuttlecock in the hall or schoolroom or some half-empty apartment cleared for the purpose. And it was a point of skill, as well as honour, to see who could keep up longest with a skipping-rope, and, though the little ones shared the fun, it was by no means confined to them.

Small daily duties well done, and the change of work that is as good as play, made life satisfactory as well as pleasant. Amusements were rare and costly; they are not invariably cheap now, but apparently we must have them, whatever may be neglected in consequence. We cannot exactly go back to all the ways of our "foremothers," but we need not despise them, and already there are signs that the finger of common-sense is pointing back to that lost era of domesticity in which so many English virtues grew up and nourished.

E. C.

Photo: Gillman and Co., Ltd., Dublin.

THE HON. CONRAD DILLON.

What a fascinating book might be written about the story of temperance work in the Army! Long before any attempt at organised effort, the gallant Havelock had seen the necessity of inculcating "sober habits" among our brave defenders. Coming to our own times, Miss Sarah Robinson, Mrs. Daniells and her daughter at home, and the Rev. J. Gelson Gregson in India, have laboured with more or less success to bring about a change in the state of affairs. The National Temperance League did a vast amount of pioneer work through its military agent, the late Samuel Sims. The formation of the Army Temperance Association a few years back, gave the movement a position which even the most sanguine of its friends would not have ventured to expect. There can be little doubt that this result is largely due to the far-seeing intelligence which its devoted Honorary Secretary, the Hon. Conrad Dillon, has brought to the work. His sagacious counsels, unfailing tact, and extraordinary power of attracting the sympathetic co-operation of the commanding officers, have combined to place the work upon a footing from which it is scarcely likely to be displaced. At the autumn manœuvres on Salisbury Plain the Army Temperance Association was much in evidence, and a number of most successful meetings were addressed by the Hon. Conrad Dillon and the popular secretary of the Association, Mr. Clare White. The Patron of the Association is the Duke of Cambridge; the President is the Duke of Connaught; the Chairman of the Council is Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, and the Chairman of the Executive Committee is General Sir Martin Dillon, K.C.B. The Association publishes an attractive periodical entitled On the March, and its comparatively small subscription list is supplemented by a Government grant of £500. It speaks volumes for the thoroughly satisfactory nature of the work done that the Government actually parts with this little plum annually. The amount might easily be doubled in view of the saving to the nation which the improved stamina of the Army has effected, an improvement most certainly traceable to the efforts of temperance workers.

ON SALISBURY PLAIN.

(Working the Field Telegraph.)

The close of the year was marked by the death of some notable pioneers of temperance. The Rev. G. H. Kirwood, M.A., was for upwards of fifty years identified with the cause in Hereford, and the Rev. Isaac Doxsey for even a longer period in the metropolis. Charles Pollard, of Kettering, could be credited with sixty years' untiring advocacy; John Faulkner, of Derby, had been an abstainer for fifty-five years; and William Symington, of Market Harborough, had reached the patriarchal age of eighty-nine. Apart altogether from the noble work which these lamented worthies accomplished, their long lives present a concrete argument as to the benefits of total abstinence which it will take a great deal to explain away. May the example of their consistent perseverance prove an incentive to young men to follow in their steps!

THE COLONY FOR INEBRIATE WOMEN, DUXHURST.

The Industrial Farm Colony at Duxhurst, Reigate, which owes its establishment mainly to the self-sacrificing devotion of Lady Henry Somerset, is an experiment which cannot fail to command the sympathy of everyone interested in the reclamation of inebriate women. To take the poor creatures away from their sordid surroundings, and place them in village homes with the attraction of out-door occupation, are the salient features of the work. Floriculture, gardening, bee-keeping, and poultry-keeping, are all engaged in; and, as some of the poor women must perforce bring their very young babies with them, a "Children's Nest" is part of the scheme. Dr. Walters, the medical officer, in a recent report gives some interesting particulars of sixty-four inmates:—

"Forty-eight were married women; sixteen were single.

"Twenty-nine drank spirits alone; fifteen drank beer and malt liquors; eleven drank any form of alcohol; four drank wine and spirits; three drank beer and spirits; one drank beer and wine; one took opium.

"Sufficient time has not yet elapsed to be able to speak with confidence regarding the ultimate cure of the thirty-three cases that are now marked as doing well.

"Regarding the failures:—Ten only stayed the full time: two of these had been in homes previously; one had been in an asylum, four were so broken in health that they were removed by the medical officer as unfit for treatment, seven were removed by their friends before the full period had expired."

The members of the National British Women's Temperance Association raise a considerable sum annually in aid of this beneficent institution, but financial help is much needed if the work is to be maintained with anything like efficiency.

ONE OF THE KITCHENS AT DUXHURST.

The reassembling of our legislators at St. Stephen's will once again give interest to the legislative aspect of the temperance question. The friends of Sunday closing are lending all their energies to a determined effort to "get something" in the new session of Parliament. We may also expect the usual crop of private members' notices dealing with varied phases of legislative control; and then the Report of the Royal Commission, from which great things are anticipated, will be sufficient to keep all interested parties on the alert. As if this were not enough, Sir Wilfrid Lawson may be counted upon to peg away at his project for bringing the House itself under the operation of the licensing laws; so for the next few months we shall find our morning papers liberally besprinkled with items of interest from a temperance standpoint.

As considerable interest has been taken in our recent references to the editor-in-chief of the New English Dictionary, we may remark that Dr. Murray makes no secret of his views. Speaking at a public meeting of teachers held in Oxford in 1894, he said that he claimed to be a teetotaller of more than fifty years' standing; and the great dictionary-maker added:—"I am perfectly convinced that I have been able to do my work in the world to a large extent owing to this fact; and that if I were to take stimulants I should be less able to do my work, and certainly my brain would be less fitted to deal with the complicated and somewhat difficult questions which often puzzle me a good deal."

Workers may like to make a note of the following important fixtures:—The annual meeting of Miss Weston's Royal Naval Temperance Society, Town Hall, Portsmouth, February 1st; Sunday Closing Demonstration, Birmingham, February 6th; Sunday Closing Mission, Sheffield, February 1st to February 15th; Sunday Closing Mission, Salisbury, February 13th to February 28th; a lecture on "The Scientific Evidence for Total Abstinence," by Dr. William Carter, at Liverpool, February 6th; and the annual meetings of the Church of England Temperance Society, Memorial Hall, Islington (March 13th), Exeter Hall (April 25th), and the People's Palace (May 2nd).

Words by Joseph Swain, 1792.

Music by Roland Rogers, Mus. D., Oxon.
(Late Organist of Bangor Cathedral.)

With Illustrative Anecdotes and References.

February 19th—Christ Feeding the Five Thousand.

To read—St. John vi. 1-14. Golden Text—Ver. 35.

Christ and disciples have returned to Galilee. The fame of His miracles and teaching spreads. Multitudes crowd to see and hear Him. The annual Feast of Passover is coming on. Large bodies of pilgrims going up to Jerusalem attract Christ's notice. They are fed and taught.

I. The Multitude (1-7). Their desire for Christ. Why did they come to Him? Some from curiosity—to see this famous Man; or because sick, hoping they might be healed; or from gratitude—having received benefits from Him. Christ does not court popularity; seeks retirement; goes up a hill with disciples for privacy and rest; there sits down and talks with them. From there sees crowd of pilgrims. Must do something for them.

Christ's desire for them. Their wants call out His sympathy—they need food. Their helplessness moves His pity. Whence obtain supplies in wilderness far from home? Their ignorance makes Him long to teach them (St. Matt. ix. 36). What does He do! Tests His disciple Philip of Bethsaida (i. 44), who ought to know the resources of the district. Philip makes mental calculation of cost of feeding them. It will take two hundred pence (about £7, taking the denarius or penny as worth 7d., an ordinary day's wages, Matt. xx. 2). But the Lord knew what He would do.

II. The Miracle (8-13). Many points to be noticed. The lad's offering—probably the meal provided for Christ and disciples. Five barley-bread loaves and two small fishes. But five thousand to be fed! Man's extremity is God's opportunity.

Christ's command. People to rest, sit in rows.

Giving thanks to God Who giveth food to all.

Distribution by disciples, His almoners to the poor.

Sufficient and to spare. None went empty away.

Gathering up fragments to avoid any waste.

III. The Result (14). Acceptance of Christ by the multitude as the expected Messiah.

Lessons. 1. Blessed is he who considereth the poor.

2. Give thanks unto the God of heaven.

We are in want of food, and we buy a loaf at a baker's shop. Whence does a baker get the flour to make that loaf? You say at once—"From the miller"; but how does the miller get the corn to grind into flour? He buys it of the farmer. But how does the farmer get it? With infinite pains he prepares the ground with plough and harrow. Then he sows the seed and—leaves it. He can do no more. The soil in which it grows, the sunshine to warm it, the rain to moisten it, and the wind to blow upon it—all these are God's doing, not man's. So a wonder is seen in thousands of harvest fields every year. One grain has produced a hundred grains by the almighty power of God. Christ, the Son of God, passed over all the intermediate processes, and made one loaf to be multiplied into many. "He giveth food to all flesh, for His mercy endureth for ever."

February 26th.—Christ at the Feast.

To read—St. John vii. 14, 28-37. Golden Text—Ver. 37.

Scene again changes to Jerusalem. Spring Feast of Passover long over, autumn Feast of Tabernacles begun. Christ at first decided (ver. 8) not to attend, but (ver. 14) changed His mind and went up, in the middle of the eight days, quite privately (ver. 10), and began teaching in the Temple.

I. A Sermon (28, 29). Christ now preaches openly and proclaims His authority. They by this time know Him well. How? By His miracles, which proclaim Him as sent from God. Had healed the impotent man here at Jerusalem (ch. v. 8), also had been testified to by God at His baptism (St. Matt. iii. 17), and by John the Baptist afterwards as the Son of God (i. 33, 34). They knew not God, and therefore would not receive Him.

II. An Attempt at Arrest (30-36). Many believed on Him—mostly common people. Why? Because of His miracles, His loving words, His holy life. But chief priests and Pharisees hated Him. Why? For His increasing popularity, while theirs was becoming less. Also for His so openly rebuking sin. So they sought to take Him prisoner, but failed. Why? Because His time for being tried not yet come.

Christ continued His talk. He is now with them as Teacher and Saviour, but will soon go where they cannot follow, i.e. back to God. They who reject Him will then seek Him too late, and not find Him (Prov. i. 26). Christ is believed, accepted, loved by some. Rejected, hated, despised by others. How is it with us?

III. An Offer (37). Last day of feast. Great procession to Temple. Water brought from Pool of Siloam and poured out. Isaiah xi. sung by priests and Levites. Christ applies it to Himself. Notice the steps—

Thirst, or desire for satisfaction, common to all.

Coming to Christ for free gifts of salvation (Is. lv. 1) follows. This is succeeded by—

Believing or throwing ourselves entirely on Him.

Lesson. Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.

I once saw a picture in which the artist had represented a party of travellers in the desert. They had travelled far and long. The water was spent in their bottles, and their thirst was maddening. They were tired and footsore, and could scarce drag themselves along, when lo! joy of joys they descried a well in the distance. Gathering up their little remaining strength, they joyfully hastened to it. But, alas! for their bitter disappointment, when they reached it, there was no water there! The well was dry! In attitudes of utter despair the unhappy party laid themselves down beside the deceitful well to die. Never, oh never, can it be so with Christ. His water will never fail. He is the well of life. That living stream is from the throne of God, always full of life and grace for thirsting souls.—Rev. Gordon Calthrop.

March 5th.—Christ Freeing from Sin.

To read—St. John viii. 12, 31-36. Golden Text—Ver. 36.

Christ still at Jerusalem. Feast over. Country people gone home. He teaches daily in Temple courts. Tells of the union between His Father and Himself, and of His being lifted up on the cross (ver. 28). Result, that many professed to believe in Him. He tells them first of Himself as the Light of the World and then of their position as God's free children.

I. Christ the Light of the World. The figure. Light is from God (Gen. i. 3), is bright and shining. Lights up darkness, reveals hidden things, makes all clear.

The meaning. Christ came from God, to dispel world's darkness (St. Matt. iv. 16) and ignorance, and to reveal God (ch. xiv. 9).

II. Christ's People Free (31-36). Bondage. New disciples put to the test. They must do two things—continue in His word, i.e. learn more of Him, and act upon the truth in their lives. The result will be that they will break their bondage and be free. The Jews object that they have never been in bondage. What have they forgotten? Their bondage in Egypt for four hundred years (Acts vii. 6); their seventy years' exile in Babylon (Dan. ix. 2); their present submission to the Romans. Christ tells them of a greater bondage than any other—that of sin and Satan. To live a life of sin is to be a slave of sin, which involves expulsion from the house (ver. 35).

Examples. Cain the murderer became a wanderer (Gen. iv. 12). Hagar, mocking Sarah, had to leave home (Gen. xvi. 6). Prodigal son went to strange land (St. Luke xv. 13). No rest for the wicked.

Freedom. Given to Christ's people. The Son shared Father's home from all eternity—so do His brethren. They are ever with Him, share His home and love (St. Luke xv. 31); they are free from sin (Rom. vi. 22); they cannot wilfully sin, being children of God (1 John iii. 9). Free to serve Him with loving service.

Examples. Martha (St. Luke x. 40), Mary (St. John xii. 4), and St. Paul (Phil. iii. 7).

Lessons. 1. The wages of sin is death.

2. Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?

We have a picture of the Arabs dragging huge loads for Mr. Layard, the great explorer, and we can imagine how Pharaoh's slaves, the Israelites, must have sweated and smarted under their burdens when in Egypt. And I (writes an eminent preacher) seemed in my youth to have just such a load behind me, and it would not stir. My burden of inward sin when I was fifteen was such that I knew not what to do. I prayed, and it would not stir. I read my Bible, but it would not move. I cried to God in my agony; I trusted Him. I looked to the Lamb of God, the sin-bearer, and lo! the burden was gone. I obtained pardon and peace through Jesus Christ, "Who bore our sins."

March 12th.—Christ Healing the Blind Man.

To read—St. John ix. 1-11. Golden Text—Ver. 25.

Three months since conversation in last lesson. Christ one Sabbath, on His way with disciples to or from Temple, sees a man blind from birth, probably asking alms from worshippers.

I. The Disciples' Question. Why this blindness? A babe born blind—terrible calamity. Unable to care for self, avoid danger, or work for living. Was it a punishment in advance for some after-sin? Was it because of some sin of parents?

The answer. No. Unusual suffering must not be connected with some particular sin. True, if there were no sin there would be no suffering. But all suffering for some good end (Heb. xii. 7. 11). Calls forth pity, love, sympathy, help. Example: Good Samaritan caring for traveller in trouble (St. Luke x. 33). This blind man's misfortune would prove to be for the glory of God.

Christ's message. 1. To do works of mercy. Therefore "went about doing good." Proving Himself "sent from God," Who shows love for all—evil and good (St. Matt. v. 45).

2. To be Light of the world. To teach the ignorant, to reveal to men their sin and Himself as Saviour (Heb. i. 2), to show the principles underlying the commandments as He did about observance of the Sabbath (vii. 23).

II. The Miracle (6-11). Notice—The use of means. Christ could have cured him by a word, as He did the sick of the palsy (St. Matt. ix. 6), but He put clay on his eyes and bade him go and wash—thus teaching use of healing ointment and cleanliness in cure of bodily ailments—but useless without His blessing; also a test of the man's faith, as with Naaman (2 Kings v. 14).

The neighbours' interest. Such a wonderful cure seemed incredible, caused discussion—could it be the same man? How were his eyes opened? So the man was questioned and told his story. He believed, obeyed, and was cured.

III. The Teaching. A Parable of the Sinner and Saviour.

The sinner, born in sin, cannot see the light. Is bidden to wash in the fountain always open. Believes, obeys, and is cleansed.

The Saviour, full of compassion, gives light, knowledge, hope, salvation, to those who believe.

Lesson. Open Thou mine eyes, that I may see.

A poor boy in a coal-mine, whose work it was to close the door after the coal-waggons had passed, was forced to sit there alone hour after hour in the dark. He was a dear lad, and when someone said to him, "Are you not tired of sitting so long in the dark?" he answered, "Yes, I do get tired, but sometimes when the men give me a bit of candle I sing." So do we. When we get a light in our hearts we sing. Glory to God Who is our light as well as our salvation! We see our sin and our Saviour, and, saved by grace, we shall one day see the dear face of Him we love, and behold the land which is far off.

The striking diagram here shown is an attempt to represent the different prices a buyer would have had to pay in times past for an ordinary English Bible which he can get to-day for sixpence! In 1804 such a Bible could not be bought under ten times that sum, and in 1650 the purchaser would have had to pay no less than a sovereign, or, forty times to-day's price, for a similar Bible. In 1450 it could not have been bought, except as a written copy, and would have cost over five pounds, money then, as compared with now, having greater purchasing power, too! So that it is practically impossible to give a true representation of this last case, compared with the former; but the diagram clearly shows that a silver coin which would buy such a Bible to-day would have to be represented by the ten coins to buy the same Bible in 1804, and by the forty coins to buy it in 1650!

(Photo: London Stereoscopic Co., Limited.)

THE EARL OF HARROWBY.

(President of the Bible Society.)

THE COMPARATIVE COST OF A BIBLE IN 1650, 1804, AND 1899.

In the pretty neighbourhood of Roehampton stands a useful Convalescent Home rejoicing in the bright name of Hope Cottage, or The Children's Rest. The Home is intended for girls requiring country air and good food, and once again more than sixty little visitors have passed through the Home in twelve months, and delighted in the love and the sunshine, the treats and the toys, they found awaiting them there. From April 1st to September 30th girls between four and thirteen years of age are received for three weeks; but during the winter months children from hospitals requiring continued care are admitted, also chronic invalids and young servants up to sixteen years of age needing the benefits of the Home, the time of their visit being longer or shorter according to circumstances. Small payments weekly are taken in some cases. Twenty of the children have come from the Ragged School Union's Cripple department, all with some burden of suffering to bear through life; and Miss B. M. Galpin, the lady superintendent, would be glad if a new wheeled chair could be sent by some kind friend to supply the place of the wickerwork hand carriage that has so frequently journeyed up Putney Hill with the afflicted children, and which has lately become very frail. Any number of dolls seem wanted, and Miss Pretty, the matron, looking to stern realities, asks for children's boots. The "paper-soled apologies" that come with the patients too often are reduced to pulp at the first real country jaunt. Wet feet for convalescents do not conduce to recovery. Of course, subscriptions are also required, for though small payments are made by some of the children, yet there are free beds and many cases which have to be met half-way. Miss Galpin would welcome more visitors also, to take an interest in the children; and one lady, Miss M. Pollock (who has left the neighbourhood) has made an afternoon every week pass very quickly in games, while several others have given donations of toys or arranged picnics. Perhaps some others would do likewise.

January 8th, 1895, was an eventful day for Korea. From a hill in the grounds of the Mulberry Palace at Seoul a vast crowd of men, white-robed, black-hatted, looked down in silence and gravity on a scene which marked a new era in its history. In the presence of his court and the dignitaries of his kingdom, assembled at the most sacred altar in Korea, the king took an oath to reform internal administration, and remedy accumulated abuses. "All thoughts of dependence on China shall be cut away and a firm foundation for independence secured," was the first of fourteen clauses in the Great Charter. There was nothing alarming on the surface of this royal undertaking enforced by Japan. Yet the king was ill with anxiety, and old and serious men had fasted and mourned for two previous days. The king and the officers had probably a very shrewd impression what this action involved. Sprinkled amongst the gorgeous costumes of Korean officers were Japanese policemen in blue ulsters, and newly created Seoul police in a blue European uniform. These and other apparent trifles indicated an incoming wave of Western civilisation which could not fail to sweep away old and cherished institutions. The hermit kingdom of Korea has been roughly dragged out of obscurity. It stands dazzled and faint with the glare. A transition stage has inevitable trials. It was during this crisis in its history that the well-known traveller, Mrs. Bishop, visited the country and had four royal audiences. On one of these occasions the queen, who was shortly afterwards assassinated with great brutality, spoke with admiration of Queen Victoria. "Does she ever in her glory think of poor Korea?" she inquired. "She does so much good in the world; her life is so good. We wish her long life and prosperity." The king added, "England is our best friend." Poor Korea, rich by nature, but ruined by man, with its thirty-four million inhabitants, has a claim on English consideration. Already Chemulpo, the treaty port, is a bustling foreign settlement, open both to the good and evil influence of Western power. Which of the two is to predominate?

KOREAN CIVIL OFFICERS.

(From a Photograph.)

One of the most interesting books of the season is Mr. Richard Kearton's "Wild Life at Home" (Cassell and Co.), in which he treats in a bright and informing manner of many phases of bird, animal, and insect life of the United Kingdom. A special value is given to the work by the numerous unique photographs, taken direct from nature, by Mr. Cherry Kearton, many of which were secured only after hours of patient waiting and by means of most ingenious devices (of which full particulars are given) to overcome the natural shyness and timidity of the "subjects."

From Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton comes a series of short stories by Ian Maclaren, under the title of "Afterwards." The author's abounding sympathy with, and extensive knowledge of, human nature are abundantly manifested throughout the book; but we cannot help expressing a wish that the stories had been, as a whole, less melancholy in character, and more on the lines of "The Right Hand of Samuel Dodson," which is the most interesting of the series. The same publishers are also responsible for a biography of "John Stoughton, D.D.," by his daughter, Mrs. King Lewis. Dr. Stoughton's own "Recollections" were issued a few years before his death and widely read, and consequently this biography is limited in its scope, but all the same it contains much that will be read with interest by the many friends of the late veteran divine. Our contributor, the Rev. Professor Bernard, D.D., has just issued, through Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton, a volume of sermons under the title "Via Domini," more than one of which originally appeared in our pages. It is quite unnecessary to introduce Dr. Bernard to our readers, to whom we heartily commend this helpful and suggestive volume.—"Beneath the Banner" (Cassell and Co.) is a work which ought to be in the hands of every boy and girl, and on the shelf of every young people's library. It consists of a number of interesting and instructive "narratives of noble lives and brave deeds," compiled by Mr. F. J. Cross, and we give a special word of welcome to the new and enlarged edition which has just been issued.—For young men and women no more earnest and stimulating work could be found than the recently published addresses by the late Charles Haddon Spurgeon, which appear under the appropriate title "A Good Start" (Passmore and Alabaster); whilst young people, as well as their elders, will doubtless be specially attracted by the new volume of "Anecdotes, Incidents, and Illustrations," which Mr. D. L. Moody has just issued through Messrs. Morgan and Scott. From the same publishers also comes a volume of graceful and pathetic poems by S. Trevor Francis, entitled "Whence—Whither," and also another of the Rev. F. B. Meyer's popular booklets of daily homilies, the latest of which deals with the Psalms and Canticles.—We have also to acknowledge the receipt of "A Study of the Types of the Bible," by Ada Habershon (Morgan and Scott), and of a new shilling edition of "Cassell's Miniature Cyclopædia," which should have a place in every home, where also Phyllis Browne's new work, "The Dictionary of Dainty Breakfasts" (Cassell and Co.), would be found exceedingly useful by every housewife in search of information respecting new dishes and reliable hints regarding old ones.

AN OLD SERMON.

(See "Were Young Folk Wiser Then?")

The sermon of which we have reproduced the dingy title-page seemed worthy of rescue from half a dozen handfuls of booksellers' rubbish. The treatise itself is solid, and a trifle heavy according to our modern ideas, but its existence proves that a solution was found in London nearly two hundred years ago for a difficulty which to-day perplexes ministers of all denominations. Young men would come to church, and were willing to be taught and, even further, to be questioned when they got there. "Consideration" is hardly a subject that would appeal to a youthful audience at the close of the nineteenth century. But there are signs that the strenuous efforts made in every department of the Church are winning back young men to exhortation and worship, though the methods pursued are probably more lively than those adopted with such apparent success by the Rev. Mr. Billingsly of the Old Jewry. That divine, however, had not to cope with the comparative secularisation of Sunday, and with what somebody has cleverly called the "era of cyclisation."

In our December number we published some touching lines under the above title, which were sent to us by a correspondent who was unaware of the authorship of the poem. Since their publication we have received several inquiries as to the author's identity, and if any of our readers should be aware of the name of the author, we should be very glad to hear from such, and to pass on the information to the inquirers.

The Special Silver Medal and Presentation Bible offered for the longest known Sunday-school service in the county of Wiltshire (for which applications were invited up to December 31st, 1898) have been gained by

Mr. Matthew Henry Trent,
Berry Cottage, Holt, near Trowbridge,

who has distinguished himself by fifty-nine years' service in Holt Congregational Sunday School.

As already announced, the next territorial county for which claims are invited for the Silver Medal is

and applications, on the special form, must be received on or before January 31st, 1899. We may add that Devonshire is the following county selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being February 28th, 1899. This county, in its turn, will be followed by the territorial county of Kent, for which the date will be one month later—viz. March 30th, 1899.

The full particulars of our League of Peace were published in our last number, and we would impress upon those readers who desire to obtain the distinction of being the first to send in a thousand signatures that such names and addresses should reach us as soon after the 1st of March as possible—or even before. Since the January part went to press we are glad to hear that other movements have been set on foot with the special object of rousing up the nations to a sense of their responsibilities in strengthening the hands of all who desire to secure permanent peace, and we heartily wish "God-speed" to these schemes. But the individual, personal responsibility of every man and woman in this momentous matter must not be overlooked, and for this reason we desire to obtain the signature to our memorial of every interested person. The following is the form in which it has been issued:—

"We, the undersigned, desire to express our earnest sympathy with the peace proposals contained in the recent Rescript of his Imperial Majesty the Czar of Russia, and hereby authorise the attachment of our names to any International Memorial having for its object the promotion of Universal Peace upon a Christian basis."

This may be copied at the head of blank sheets of paper, and the signatures placed beneath, but we shall be very pleased to send (post free) any number of printed forms on receipt of an application addressed to the Editor of The Quiver, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.

The objects of our League have already been endorsed, amongst other prominent men, by the Lord Bishop of London, the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes (President of the Wesleyan Conference), the Rev. Samuel Vincent (President of the Baptist Union of Great Britain and Ireland), and Pastor Thomas Spurgeon of the Metropolitan Tabernacle.

37. Where did the miracle of feeding the five thousand take place?

38. By what name was the Sea of Galilee known in olden times?

39. Why was it our Lord inquired of St. Philip how to obtain food for the multitude?

40. What was one of the great hindrances to the Jews acceptance of Christ?

41. What act of open opposition to Christ did the Jews commit during the Feast of Tabernacles?

42. Why was the last day of the Feast of Tabernacles called "the Great Day"?

43. Why were the Pharisees so offended when Jesus spake of Himself as the "Light of the World"?

44. What expression did our Lord use to signify to the Jews that they would crucify Him?

45. In what way did Jesus escape from the Temple when the Jews sought to stone Him?

46. The disciples said to our Lord, "Who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" What do we infer from this?

47. In what way did our Lord test the faith of the blind man?

48. How did the Jews manifest their displeasure against Christ for healing the blind man on the Sabbath day?

25. Because there was another place called Cana, situate in Samaria (St. John ii. 1; Josh. xvi. 8 and xix. 28).

26. Because the Jews always washed before partaking of any food, and sometimes three or four times during a meal (St. John ii. 6; St. Mark vii. 3).

27. Five (St. John i. 40-45 and ii. 2).

28. Nicodemus is spoken of as a ruler, and was present when the council met to decide what they should do to Jesus (St. John iii. 1 and vii. 38, 50, 51).

29. St. John iii. 14.

30. The piece of land which Jacob bought of Hamor (St. John iv. 5; Josh. xxiv. 32; Gen. xxxiii. 19).

31. The children of Israel were at one time the inhabitants of Samaria, and though the poor who were left after the Captivity became mixed up with the other inhabitants, they still claimed to be Israelites (St. John iv. 12).

32. St. John iv. 42.

33. When the nobleman (an officer in the king's court) came to Jesus at Cana of Galilee, He refused to go and heal his son, simply telling the nobleman, "Go thy way, thy son liveth" (St. John iv. 50).

34. Neh. iii. 1; St. John v. 2-5.

35. St. John v. 22, 27.

36. Because the Jews thereby understood that Jesus claimed to be the Son of God (St. John v. 17, 18).

It is with great pleasure that we acknowledge the prompt and generous assistance accorded by our readers to our scheme for providing destitute children with a little Christmas cheer, and by their help we were enabled to distribute

Sixteen Hundred Stockings

to really deserving cases in all parts of the kingdom. The following letter from Paris is but a sample of the many kindly messages sent to us by those interested in the scheme. The writer says:—

"I have just seen in the Christmas number of The Quiver about your Christmas stockings. Although it is too late to propose any children, I hope it is not too late for you to make use of the enclosed towards supplying the 'stockings.' I hope it may make four children happy, and only regret that I cannot see their joy. To bring a ray of sunshine to children who have none in their lives is the work among all others to which I would lend a willing hand, and do more if I were able.—Praying for every success and blessing on your work, believe me one of your faithful readers abroad.—F. L.—Enclosed please find P.O. 4s."

It is quite impossible to reproduce the many letters of acknowledgment, but to all those who contributed to the fund we can only say that they would feel amply repaid for their kindly remembrance of the little ones, could they see the numerous spontaneous expressions of thanks which we have received. We may add that the balance sheet of the fund will be duly published when our various yearly statements are made for the twelve months ending at midsummer next.

The following is a list of contributions received from December 1st up to and including December 31st, 1898. Subscriptions received after this date will be acknowledged next month:—

For "The Quiver" Christmas Stocking Fund: Anon., Gilford, Ireland, 1s. 6d.; C. B. Grove, Exmouth, 1s.; J. A. B., Grantham, 2s.; G. B. H., Paddington, 5s.; A Friend, Stalybridge, 2s.; A. Gadie, Bradford, 3s.; Cyril Manley, Oxford, 1s.; D. R. H., Liverpool, 2s.; E. F., Birkenhead, 10s.; A Friend, 1s.; Mrs. G. Sandeson, Heskington, 2s. 6d.; J. Frazer, Dublin, 1s.; H. E. F., Forest Gate, 1s.; K. Thomerson, Upper Clapton, 2s.; Mrs. Grimesthorpe, 10s.: E. Jones, Exmouth, 1s.; A Reader of The Quiver, Stafford, 1s.; Anon., Margate, 3s.; W. Brindley, Boscombe, 2s.; A Friend, Leytonstone, 1s.; A. H., Glasgow, 1s.; H. S., St. Leonards, 1s.; J. E. H., Henbury, 5s.; B. M., Darlington, 3s.; C. Burton, Morpeth, 6s.; A. Bamber, Cheltenham, 5s.; A Friend, Southport, 1s.; Mrs. Tyler, Forest Hill, 2s.; Winnie, Nellie, and Marie, Clapham, 5s.; E. B. Mitchell, Kensal, 1s.; Marie Louyse, Norwood, £1; J. B., Hayward's Heath, 5s.; B. Burston, Moreland Court, 1s.; A. H., Ripon, 1s.; Ealing, 1s.; M. Smith, Blackheath, 2s.; An Ayrshire Reader, 3s.; A Scotch Lassie, 1s.; Mrs. Crossley, Warrington, 5s.: Miss Firth, Cleckheaton, 2s.; Grace T. H. Sim, 5s.; Miss Lacey, Eastbourne, £1; A Manx Reader, Ramsey, 2s.; "For Jesu's Sake," 1s. 1d.; N. Wilke, Leyton, 1s.; T. R. Brockbank, Carlisle, 2s.; W. Bradfield, Buckingham, 1s. 6d.; Tivia, Glasgow, 3s.; Freddy, 1s.; E. A. G., Barnsley, 2s.; Miss Sharpley, 1s.; Miss Clarke, Belfast, 2s.; Miss L. Clarke, Belfast, 2s.; Miss E. Marshall, Brighton, 5s.; E. M. B., Weedon, 2s.; A. Hone, Bristol, 2s.; Anon., Bristol, 1s.; W. B. J. A. C. and W. J. W. C, 5s.; M. W. and M. L., Cobham, 2s.; Mrs. Gowlett, Great Caufield, 10s.; E. L., Grampound Road, 2s.; L. V. D., 1s.; A. W., Lymington, 1s.; Two Lovers of Children, 2s.; Mrs. C. M. Waterfall, Hull, 5s.; M. Ling, Ipswich, 1s.; Memories, Dartford, 1s.; E. E. T., South Norwood, 1s.; Hettie and Eva Neirson, Wadhurst, 2s.; Mr. Catlee, Bristol, 1s.; Anon., Sheffield, 1s.; J. R., Alloi, 2s.; Anon., Ipswich, 1s.; A Reader of The Quiver, Hartlepool, 10s.; S. V., Blackheath, 1s.; L. E. B., 2s.; Daisy, Dorothy, and Edgar, 1s.; M. Moore, Birkdale, 5s.; L. R., Newcastle, 2s.; Mrs. M. M. Thomas, Rodborough, 5s.; H. M. Matthews, Blaenavon, 1s.; A. B. Scott, Hawick, 1s.; E. A. and A. H., 2s.; A Lover of Children, Bramin, 1s.; H. L. P., Belfast, 2s.; Douglas, Dorothy, and Moncrieff, 4s.; Mrs. Turner, Bournemouth, 5s.; Two Sisters in Stirling, 2s.; E. M. H., Stratford-on-Avon, 5s.; Mrs. M. Hollis, Newport, 1s.; E. F., Gainsborough, 1s.; B. Bibby, Crouch End, 2s.; E. Bailey, Ipswich, 1s.; A Reader, Peterborough, 1s.; H. Reeve, Westminster, 10s.; Mrs. A. W. Arnold, Eastbourne, 10s.; Lettie, Exeter, 2s.; Mrs. T. Barber, 1s.; Miss Tinne, Aigburth, 5s.; Mother, Ernest, and Baby Kathleen, Lincoln, 3s.; H. B., Balham, 2s.; Mrs. A. M. Braley, Sutton, 1s.; Two Friends, Tulse Hill, 3s. 6d.; Jessie, Bournemouth, 10s.; Anon., Salisbury, 1s.; Winifred and Frankie Mattock, 2s.; Reggy, Hornsey Rise, 2s.; Mrs. Clark, Dunstable, 2s.; Anon., Grimsby, 1s.; Forest Gate, 1s.; Anon., Bromley, 1s. 6d.; Wabba and Little Three, 2s.; Anon., Glasgow, 1s.; Miss C. Combes, Clapham Common, 10s.; Winifred and Ruth, Green Lanes, 1s.; L. E W., 5s.; H. Peel, Redditch, 2s.; Mrs. T. Barber, Eastwood, 3s.; Nemo, Leeds, 5s.; Mr. and Mrs. W. R. Shaw, Southport, 2s. 6d.; Abbey House, Hexham, 1s.; Winifred Berry, Liverpool, 2s.; C. and L. Clutterbuck, 2s.; Master Macdonald, Northwood, 3s.; B. A. Watson, Havant, 5s.; In Memory, Leicester, 1s.; N. E. A., Stowmarket, 10s.; A Constant Reader, Westmorland, 1s.; M. M. P., Sydenham Hill, 1s.; C. Stanhope, Darlington, 3s.; Elgie, Glasgow, 1s.; A. B. J., Gainsboro', 1s.; A. M. Foster, Croydon, 14s. 6d.; W. Day, Pimlico, 10s.; C. B. Ellison, Liscard, 5s.; Mrs. Travers, Altringham, 3s.; A. S., Stocksfield, 9s.; M. B. R., 2s.; A Reader of The Quiver, Highbury, 2s.; G. Morris, Windsor, 10s.; Larkie, 3s.; G. S. H., 5s.; J. R. D. G., 5s.; M. S. B., North Walsham, 2s.; A Well-Wisher, Ulverston, 5s.; Ada and Gladys, Billingshurst, 5s.; L. G., Falmouth, 1s.; J. G. Hunter, Bradford, 1s.; A. E. Willis, Edinburgh, 5s.; H. Fife, East Dulwich, 1s.; Pat Turney, Carrickmacross, 1s.; Aileen Fleming, 2s. 6d.; M. H. R., 10s.; Sydney, Rochester, 1s.; Ruth and Mary Beynon, Rock Ferry, 2s.; R. S. J. A. B., Brighton, 2s. 6d.; R. E. Longsight, 5s.; "Inasmuch," Berkeley, 3s.; Walter and Stanley Hewett, Stroud, 2s.; M. D. and K. C., 2s.; Grannie, Edinburgh, 1s.; W. P. Thorne, Woburn, 5s.; E. S. S., Empingham, 8s.; F. E., D. M. E., and A. F. E., 4s.; E. Johnston, Essex Road, 2s.; J. G. H. C., Ventnor, 2s.; T. J. G., Rochester, 3s.; Lily and Jackie, Dulwich, 2s.; E. J. E. B., 5s.; A Reader of The Quiver, Bristol, 1s.; L. D., Lower Clapton, 4s.; F. L., Paris, 4s.; D. Benson, Grenoble, 1s.; Anon., Sunderland, 2s.; Miss E. Scott, Pateley Bridge, 1s.; Nelloff, Bandon, 2s.; Mrs. Hall, Miss, and Miss F. Hall, 3s.; E. S., Plymouth, 1s.; B. S. A., Groombridge, 2s.; A Friend, Fife, 2s.; M. Price, Commercial Road, 1s.; Maggie Crighton, Turriff, 1s.; Two Little Girls, Sherborne, 2s.; L. A. Garner, Burton-on-Trent, 1s.; Lovers of Children, Wolverhampton, 5s.; Two Members, League of Christian Compassion, 2s.; Mrs. H. F. Hall, Bournemouth, 2s.; H. B., Hornsey Rise, 5s.; Mrs. Bashford, jun., Croydon, 1s.; Devonian, 2s.; L. Tilley, Warwick, 5s.; C. Todd, Headingley, 5s.; Anon., Lincoln, 9d.; H. J. M., Tunbridge Wells, 2s. 6d.; M. D., 2s.; Anon., Bournemouth, 3s.; Mrs. Poole, Ealing, 1s.; Mrs. Bonham, Cleveland, 4s.; M. Hamlin, Sevenoaks, 7s. 6d.; Mrs. H., Hougham, 1s.; Jean Noll, Bristol, 2s.; J. J. Hill, Ashton-under-Lyne, 4s. 6d.; Anon., Stirling, 2s.; F. I. B., Norwich, 2s.; Children's Friend, Doncaster, 10s.; Anon., Wolverhampton, 2s.; The Sisters Smith, Guernsey, 2s.; Two Little Girls, Barnsley, 4s.; Three Friends, Weybridge, 3s.; Help, Berkeley, 2s. 6d.; A. Arnold, New Malden, 1s.; M. B., Knutsford, 1s.; Jack and Eva, Troon, 2s.; Anon., Tring, 1s.; G. K. Eyre, Boxmoor, 5s.; Admirer, 1s.; Mrs. Swan, Cullercoats, 5s.; M. S. T., Newcastle, 3s.; Anon., Warwick, 1s.; E. M. B., Hythe, 1s.; J. Hepworth, Huddersfield, 2s.; Elsie, Guernsey, 5s.; A Reader of The Quiver, 1s.; Mrs. G. Ireland, Davos Platz, 5s.; Anon., Brightlingsea, 1s.; Mrs. B., Gainsboro', 5s.; A Daily Governess, Windsor, 1s.; C. Salt and R. Heeles, 2s.; Miss Stirling, 3s.; Anon., 2s. 6d.

For "The Quiver" Waifs' Fund: J. J. E. (133rd donation), 5s.; In Loving Remembrance of a Little One, 10s.; E. F., Birkenhead, 10s.; Bill and Joe, 3s.; G. T. Cooper, St. John's Wood, 5s.; Grace T. H. Sim, 10s.; A Friend, Kilburn, £1; A Glasgow Mother (103rd donation), 1s.; H. D., 5s.; Maudie, Brighton, 2s. 6d.; C. B. Ellison, Liscard, 5s.; H. E. H., Brockley, 5s.; Mrs. Travers, Altringham, 7s.; M. H. R., £1; The Misses Richards, 6s.; C. A. Moore, Huntingdon, 2s. 6d.; A Widow, 5s.; A Lover of Children, 2s. 6d.; Mrs. Rivett, 2s. 6d.; M. H. R., Robertsbridge, 2s.; E. A. Lyne, 1s.; E. G., Stourbridge, 5s.; A Thank-Offering, 4s.; W. R., Nottingham, 2s.; M. A. L., Chiswick, 2s. 6d.; W. W., Glasgow, 2s.; M. S. Canway, Port Talbot, 2s.; J. Chatterton, Horncastle, 10s. 6d.; N. R., Primrose Hill, 3s.; J. W. E., Wells, 2s. 6d.

For Dr. Barnardo's Homes: An Irish Girl, £1 6s.; Jennie, Henry, Albert, and Edna Newby, 4s.; A Thank-Offering, 5s.; G. R. Nyte, 5s.; E. H., 2s. 6d.; Ranceby, 5s.; Devonian, 2s. 6d.; G. S. H. and J. R. D. G., 5s.; A. S., £1 0s. 3d.; C. B. Ellison, 10s.; L. E. W., 5s.; A Constant Reader, 4s.; A Swansea Mother, 5s. The following amounts, which we are asked to acknowledge, were sent direct: M. J. C, 5s.; Dux, 10s.; F. B., 2s.; A. F., 2s.; M. E. C., 10s.; A South Ayrshire Dairy Farmer £50; X. Y. Z., 2s. 6d.

For Miss Sharman's Orphan Homes: E. H., 2s. 6d.

For "The Quiver" Lifeboat Fund: N. R., Primrose Hill, 2s.; K. E. H., 5s.

For The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children: M. Moore, 10s.

For The St. Giles' Christian Mission: M. E. S., 3s.

For The Indian Leper Mission Fund: A Thank-Offering, 5s.