The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Quiver 3/1900, by Various.

At "The Castle and Falcon," in Aldersgate Street, on April 12th, 1799, there met, in all the solemnity of a public gathering, sixteen clergymen and nine laymen.

They founded there and then the Church Missionary Society for Africa and the East. That Society keeps its Centenary this month; no longer an inconspicuous organisation expressing the hopes of a godly few, but a great Society which has girdled the earth with its missions. When, in November, 1898, its Estimates Committee surveyed its position, they found that its roll included the names of 802 European missionaries, of whom 295 were ladies, whilst, of the 802, no fewer than eighty-four were serving altogether or in part at their own expense. Some of them represented the missionary enthusiasm of Australia and Canada; a fair proportion were duly qualified medical workers, men and women.

With the exception of South America, there is no considerable quarter of the globe in which they are not represented. They may be found ministering to Esquimaux within the Arctic Circle, and to the Indians of the vast expanses of Canada; they are shepherding the Maoris of New Zealand; in India their stations may be discovered alike amongst the wild tribes of the northern frontier, the strange aboriginals found here and there in the continent, and the milder races of the south; in Africa the Society begins in Egypt, but goes no farther south than Uganda, though it is both on the east coast and the west; it is strongly represented along the coasts of China, as well as in the inland province of Sze-Chuen; it works both amidst the Japanese themselves and that strange people the hairy Ainu; it is domiciled in Ceylon and Mauritius; it has not forgotten Persia. From Madagascar it has retired, and it has shown a wise indisposition to enter upon new fields whilst the old are still insufficiently manned. It has ever been known for the strictness with which it observes the comity of missions; and it may fairly be said that the zeal with which its friends have worked in behalf of foreign missions has reacted on all the missionary agencies which have their origins in Great Britain, as well as upon some which express the zeal of America and the Colonies.

The Church Missionary Society was really one of the fruits of the Evangelical Revival, though when the Society was born that movement was no longer young. Its first leaders had passed to their rest; it was their successors amongst whom the Church Missionary Society took its origin. They were, as history judges them, no mean persons, though in their own day they fell, for their religious zeal, under the condemnation of polite society, whether ecclesiastical or social.

That meeting in Aldersgate Street did not include some of those to whom the foundation of the Church Missionary Society must directly be referred; but, if we look at the circle they represented, we shall find that it was one of rare distinction in the religious history of the country. It included William Wilberforce, Zachary Macaulay, Charles Grant, James Stephen, and Henry Thornton on the lay side; Charles Simeon, John Newton, Thomas Scott, Richard Cecil, and William Goode amongst the clergy. The impulse which moved them was moving others, for the Baptist Missionary Society had been founded by Carey in 1793, and the London Missionary Society in 1795. The Religious Tract Society also began its existence in this year 1799, and the Bible Society was founded in 1804. It was a fruitful epoch. Yet it has to be remembered that it began under ecclesiastical discouragement, and amidst such popular contempt of missions to the heathen as was reflected in Sydney Smith's essay.

I do not propose to trace in detail the history of the Church Missionary Society: within the space of a magazine article such an attempt could do little more than produce a list of names and dates. It[485] may be more useful, as well as more interesting, to look at some of the Society's great workers at home, at some of its heroes in the mission-field, and at some of the romances which diversify its history.

Of the men who helped to found the Church Missionary Society the first place must be given to Charles Simeon. He was not at "The Castle and Falcon" meeting, but it was he who, at the gathering of the Eclectic Society in March of the same year, when missionary plans were again under discussion, urged immediate action. "There is not a moment to be lost," he said; "we have been dreaming these four years, while all Europe is awake." The precise old bachelor, fellow of his college at Cambridge, and incumbent of Holy Trinity Church in that town, was not a person easily daunted by obstacles. As an Evangelical he had had to face the most strenuous opposition in his own parish. But he had been deeply stirred by plans and hopes for missionary work in India; he was the friend and mentor of Henry Martyn. He was able in time to wield at Cambridge an influence which the late Bishop Christopher Wordsworth compared to that of Newman at Oxford. Later generations somehow came to think of him as something other than a Churchman; but they were quite wrong. A careful scrutiny of Simeon's works, letters, and diaries will show that he was consistently loyal to his Church and her formularies. Of his influence upon foreign missions it is difficult to speak in exaggeration; but one or two illustrations may serve to show its extent. Henry Martyn was the first Englishman who offered to go out under the Church Missionary Society. But Simeon was especially anxious about India, and so Martyn went there as "Chaplain." His brief work in Persia, the example of his singularly beautiful character, and the swift end of so promising a career, still influence the minds of young and old. And the influence of Martyn, is, in a sense, the influence of Simeon.[486] Less popularly known than Henry Martyn, but in some respects of wider power, were the others of the famous "Five Chaplains" who went out to India, the fruits of Simeon's zeal for that land. These men left an indelible mark upon the English in India during their time, and did much to prepare the way of the missionary. Thus Claudius Buchanan helped more than any other man to create the public opinion which opened India to missionaries, and led to the consecration of the first bishop for all India, the Bishop of Calcutta. Thomas Thomason was the father of James Thomason, who, as Lieutenant-Governor of the North-West Provinces, ruled (and taught others to rule) in the fear of God, and with the warmest sympathy for missionary enterprise. Through him, when the Punjab was annexed in 1849, it felt the influence which had flowed from the rooms of Charles Simeon at Cambridge.

SECRETARIES of the CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY

REV THOMAS SCOTT 1799-1802
(L. COSSÉ pinxt)

REV. JOSIAH PRATT 1802-1824
(H. WYATT pinxt)

REV. E. BICKERSTETH 1824-1830
(ALEX. MOSSES pinxt)

REV. WILLIAM JOWETT 1832-1840

REV HENRY VENN 1841-1872
(G RICHMOND R. A. pinxt)

REV HENRY WRIGHT
1872-1880

REV F E WIGRAM 1880-1895
(PHOTO ELLIOTT & FRY)

REV H E FOX appointed 1895
(PHOTO ELLIOTT & FRY)

Robert A Shield 99

The name of Edward Bickersteth seems a natural succession to that of Simeon. The influence of both is still unexhausted. When the Church Missionary Society kept its second Jubilee in November, 1898, the sermon was preached by Bishop E. H. Bickersteth, the son of Edward Bickersteth. And the influence had been wider than the limits of any one Society, for Bishop Edward Bickersteth, of Japan, who died in 1897, represented another generation[487] in this line of truly apostolic succession.

Edward Bickersteth had been a solicitor in prosperous circumstances when zeal for missions led him to take holy orders, and join the Church Missionary Society as Assistant Secretary in 1816. Almost at once he was sent to examine the Society's work at Sierra Leone. There he admitted the Society's first African converts to the Holy Communion. In 1824 he succeeded Josiah Pratt in the Secretaryship of the Society. He was never an autocrat in the sense that Henry Venn was; but his work for the Society in the country was enormous. It has ceased to be the kind of work which is mainly done by the Honorary Secretary of the Society, but at that period it was work which was of inestimable value. It was the more important because public opinion at home still presented a front of mingled contempt and indifference to missions, whilst abroad the outlook was far from hopeful.

A greater figure than that of Edward Bickersteth in the annals of the Church Missionary Society is that of Henry Venn. Here, too, the name appears in more than one generation. The first Henry Venn belongs, with Wesley, Whitfield, Romaine and others, to the beginnings of the Evangelical Revival. Then comes John Venn, who took the chair at "The Castle and Falcon" meeting. Then, in 1834, Henry Venn the younger, the son of John Venn and grandson of the first Henry Venn, began regularly to attend the[488] Society's Committee. He was Hon. Secretary in 1841, and held office for thirty-one years. He is the standard by which, doubtless, for generations to come, Hon. Secretaries of the Church Missionary Society will be compared. He was a strong man in every sense; a statesman and an autocrat. But, like some other autocrats, he clung to his work too long. He resigned only a few months before his death, and left the Society in a condition of discouragement, from the failure both of candidates for the mission field and of means for carrying on the work. Under his successor, Henry Wright (who was drowned in Coniston Lake in 1880), the Society began almost at once to enter upon new life and activity. Here again the hereditary influence, so manifest in the work of the Church Missionary Society, is evident, for four of his children went to the mission field. His successor, Frederic Wigram, was one of the most munificent benefactors the Society ever had. He died, after resigning office, worn out by its responsibility and toil. He, too, has sent children to the mission-field. In his successor, the Rev. H. E. Fox, the hereditary impulse is manifest again. Mr. Fox's father was one of the founders of the Society's Telugu mission, and one of the most devoted of its workers in the foreign field.

And now let us glance for a moment at some of the Society's agents abroad. The task of selection is difficult. There are names on the list that all men who care for missions have heard of. Samuel Marsden, Samuel Crowther, Valpy French, Pfander, John Horden, James Hannington, Alexander Mackay—these, to name but a few, and many others, are familiar far outside the limits of the Society's own friends. But there are more, less widely known, whose work deserves not a whit less to be had in remembrance.

Amongst these was William Johnson, one of the first missionaries to Sierra Leone. He went out in 1816, and began an extraordinary work amongst the slaves released by British cruisers and landed at Sierra Leone. He died on the voyage home to England at the early age of thirty-four. Those were the days in which to face work in Sierra Leone meant facing a peril so imminent that each volunteer needed the courage of those who go upon a forlorn hope.

There was William Williams, first a surgeon and then, after graduating at Oxford, ordained for work in the Colonies. He[489] went to New Zealand in 1825, when its people were a race of cannibals, not one of whom professed Christianity. He lived to see the whole country more or less fully evangelised. His wife died as recently as 1896, and his son, baptised in 1829 with the children of one of the most savage of the Maori chiefs, became Bishop of Waiapu in the land the father did so much to open up. William Williams had a brother, Henry Williams, who preceded him in the field. So great was the influence he won that, on the news of his death reaching two Maori camps, in which rival tribes were preparing to meet in battle, they at once proclaimed a truce, attended his funeral, and settled their differences in peace.

There was Ludwig Krapf, whose name, with that of John Rebmaun, should ever be joined with the origins of our growing empire in Eastern Equatorial Africa. He began his missionary work in Abyssinia, had to leave as the result of French intrigues, sailed down the East African coast in an Arab boat, and in 1844 settled at Mombasa. From the knowledge of the interior gained by Krapf and his companion, came the chain of African discovery which issued, as long afterwards as 1875, in the[490] publication, through Mr. H. M. Stanley, of Mtesa's appeal for missionaries for Uganda. How little could Krapf ever have dreamed of the vast results, political as well as spiritual, that would flow from that early disappointment, his expulsion from Abyssinia!

There was David Hinderer, who, upon the other side of Africa, did so striking a work in the Yoruba country. The prosperity of his evangelistic labours, the virtual imprisonment in which he and his wife—half-starved and in deadly peril—were for five years in the town of Ibadan, and the ultimate discovery that their work stood the severe tests of isolation and persecution, go to make up one of the most interesting chapters in the history of African missions.

There was George Maxwell Gordon, the pilgrim-missionary of the Indian frontier, a pioneer who saw little direct fruit of his labours, yet left missions where none had been. Acting as chaplain to the British forces shut up in Kandahar, he was killed, when seeking to succour the wounded, in August, 1880.

But this is a list that might be almost indefinitely extended, and still would seem invidious. Let us come to some striking pages in the Society's history; again, of necessity, passing by many of the most impressive as well as some of the most familiar.

The city of Peshawur, upon the Afghan frontier, has long been a centre of missionary work. The fanaticism of the people when it was first occupied by British troops seemed to make missionary enterprise impossible. One Commissioner—he afterwards fell by the hand of an assassin—refused permission for missionaries to come, on the ground that they would excite the fanaticism of the people to a dangerous pitch. The arrival of Herbert Edwardes changed the situation. A meeting of English people, military and civil, was called in Peshawur itself; a sum of £3,000 was raised, a memorial sent to the Church Missionary Society, and, in response, missionaries provided. Here is an example of what is so often forgotten by critics of Indian missions, that they in a large measure owe their origin and support to men actually or formerly engaged in the administration of India. The Church Missionary Society has been peculiarly happy in the number of men of high distinction in the Army and the Civil Service who have served on its Committee. Now from the Punjab men are pushing still farther afield; Quetta has long been occupied, and the medical missionary has found a welcome from the Afridis themselves.

Let us take another mission founded in answer to an appeal from without, and that an appeal from a layman. People who recall the missionary meetings of a generation ago will remember that no more thrilling story was told at them than the history of William Duncan's early work amongst the Tsimshean Indians of the North Pacific coast. It was a marvellous example of courage, tact, and patience, rewarded by the conversion of savages of a singularly unapproachable type. It was a naval officer, Captain Prevost, who suggested that mission to the Society, carried Mr. Duncan thither, and landed him at Fort Simpson in 1857. In ten years' time he had baptised nearly three hundred adult converts. In 1862 the Christian community was moved to Metlakahtla, where the spectacle of a cannibal and violent people living in peace and industry was long deemed one of the marvels of missionary enterprise.

I pass by such striking histories as those of Uganda, of the attempt of J. A. Robinson and Graham Wilmot Brooke to reach the Soudan from the Niger, and of the massacre of English women at Hwa-Sang in Fuh-kien, to recall romances of another kind. What could be more moving than the careers of some of the Society's converts? Is there any more striking history of its kind than that of the Rev. Dr. Imad-ud-din, a learned Mohammedan, who had sought the peace of God by every available means, and at last found it in Christ? Or what would they who distrust converts say to the career of that once notorious Border bandit, Dilawar Khan, baptised in 1858, who served as an officer in the Guides, and died in Chitral whilst in the service of the British Government?

But it is time to leave these things and to speak of some aspects of the Society's work which concern all missionary enterprise.

Twice in its career the Church Missionary Society has definitely committed itself to a policy of faith as it has committed itself to sending out all who offer and are found qualified. It is a policy which, judged by the most secular standard,
[492] must be accounted a success. The growth of its staff in recent years, under this system, has been most striking. The Society has had its periods of stagnation and disappointment; at times its directors have felt driven to retrenchment. Thus in 1859 the number of European missionaries on its roll was 226; ten years later it was only 228. But, whereas in 1889 the number was 360, in 1898 it had risen to 802. During the first ten years the Society sent out five agents; in the ten years ending with its Jubilee the number was 119; in the nine years ending 1898 it reached 719. The income of 1848 was £92,823; the income of 1898 was £331,598. Its latest statistics show that there are about 240,000 natives associated with its missions, and of late it would seem that its clergy baptise on an average about twenty adult converts every day.

In this month of April all round the world—from North-West Canada to New Zealand, from Palestine to Japan, from Central Africa to the Indian frontier—men will be keeping the centenary of that meeting at "The Castle and Falcon," in Aldersgate Street. For a hundred years of work, considered in relation to the power and the wealth and the responsibilities of our nation, there may be little to show; but, for such as there is, men of many races, and once of many creeds, will, with one accord, give thanks to God.

THE MASTERFUL YOUNG MAN

A COMPLETE STORY.

He stopped in the shade of the high old wall and listened.

A smile shone in his blue eyes as the sweet, childish voice sounded clear and high in the still, scented air.

"What now, Jeannette, shall the mistress of Ancelles fall in love like an ordinary mortal, then?"

"But yes, mamzelle! Love comes to all—high and low—and spares no one its pangs."

"How will it take me, Jeannette? Tell me, that I may be prepared. Will it come like a fiery dart to my bosom, bringing a light to my eyes, and a colour of roses to my cheeks? Or will it take me sadly, rendering my cheek pale and my spirits low? Tell me, Jeannette."

"Not the last way, mamzelle"—the voice was slow now—"for you are too proud."

"You are right, Jeannette, I am too proud! 'Tis not I who must be pale and afraid. 'Tis the other. Love must come to me humble and suing—to be glad or sorry at my will. Is it not so, Jeannette?"

"Bah! what matters it? And why should it come? I, for one, do not want—— Ah! do not scream so, Jeannette—it is a man—he is hurt."

"You are hurt, monsieur. Do not try to apologise. Jeannette, help him to the house. Follow me."

The man leant on Jeannette's stout shoulder, and followed the stately little figure through the sunny, twisting paths,[494] sweet and rich with their wealth of roses, up to the old château with its narrow windows gleaming in the sunshine.

"Here, Jeannette," said the little mistress of the roses and the château. "Monsieur, you will rest on the sofa."

"You must not speak," eyeing him with grave, dark eyes. "You will keep quiet till the doctor comes."

"But his face is white; and"—her suspicions bursting out—"how came he to fall into mamzelle's garden?"

"That I will not! No, I will not! Jeannette knows what is owing to her mistress, and to leave——"

He shut his own with a murmured word of thanks, and let her fan him. Jeannette came ponderously across the room.

Something in the tone stopped the old servant's words, and once more she retired vanquished.

Dr. Raunay came and pronounced a bad sprain of the left arm to be the only injury the man had received.

The doctor's sharp, black eyes were full of questions, but Mademoiselle Stéphanie met his gaze calmly, indifferently, and he dared not put one question into words.

"Monsieur, of course, will be our guest," she said when the doctor had taken his departure.

"There is not one within five miles, and that—well——" A little expressive wave of the small hands and a whimsical smile finished her sentence.

"It is not trespassing," with pretty warmth; "indeed, monsieur, you must accept of our hospitality."

"And—your luggage? Is it with friends? They will be anxious—we will send——"

She was too courteous to ask with whom he was staying. Yet she wondered much, for, beyond poor cottages, there were no dwellings within many miles of Ancelles.

Jeannette snorted. She plainly did not believe him. B—— was thirty and more miles distant. The suspicion in her stare grew deeper.

"My luggage——" He hesitated; yet what could he do without it? "It is only a small bag—it is—er—outside your garden wall," he finished desperately.

No faintest spark of surprise appeared in his hostess's small face. She seemed quite used to having strangers tumble over her wall into her garden, quite used to luggage being left outside the wall.

An old manservant, with a faint, indescribable old-world air, that fitted in with the château and the garden and[495] the roses somehow, brought food to the stranger, and, after he had eaten, showed him to his room.

It was a large apartment, large and bare and old—but everything at Ancelles was old.

But the curtains to the bed, faded now, had once been rich and handsome. The tapestry across the door of a smaller room leading from the other, was still beautiful though worn with age.

Hugh Michelhurst shivered a little as he stood there, in the dim, dark, old-world chamber. There was something pathetic in the tale it told of bygone splendour, something sad and forlorn.

Then his eye fell on a bowl of vivid red roses standing on his dressing-table, and he smiled.

They at least were not old. Their splendour was undimmed. There was nothing faded in their fresh, glowing beauty; and who had put them there?

He went closer; he bent over them and drank in their sweet scent. And as he did it the old, sunny garden rose before him again. The little twisting paths, the roses so thick and luxuriant that they trespassed forward from their beds; the old broken fountain, with the water nymph bending eternally in graceful readiness to dive, and amongst them—the roses, the sunshine, the queer paths, and the old fountain—the little mistress of them all, slim, childish, with soft dark eyes, with pretty lips made for laughter, with the sun caught in the waves of her brown hair. His hands wandered gently over the roses as he stood and thought what a gracious little hostess she was! How sweetly she had welcomed him, asking no questions!

His entry into the sweet, old-world garden had been supremely ridiculous. Moreover, he was terribly ashamed of himself as well as rueful.

But his sense of humour was strong enough to save either feeling from overpowering him. His arm began to pain him badly again. He shut his lips tightly and sat still.

Outside he heard a gay young voice. "It is a pity, Jeannette, that the sun does not shine into his room now. See how glorious is its setting to-night."

Hugh Michelhurst guessed how the pause was filled by his little hostess's mocking answer:

"Why, Jeannette, how cross you are! And, anyway, in the morning the sun will wake him."

"Rain?" with a little burst of prettiest laughter. "Why, where are your eyes, Jeannette? Rain? With that sky—that sunset? All, no! Even ma tante would not say that, and she always predicts rain, you know."

"Yes," carelessly. "Jeannette, he will need assistance—how careless I am! It is that I am so unused to entertaining a guest, and yet once Ancelles was noted for its hospitality——"

The pretty voice died away into the distance, and a few minutes later there was a discreet tap at the stranger's door, and the faded old manservant appeared, and, with an air, offered monsieur his humble services.

Two mornings had Stéphanie's prophecy been fulfilled. Two mornings the sun had wakened her guest, and now he was wondering if he dared stay and let it wake him a third.

"Madame ma tante" had put in an appearance once. She had welcomed the stranger with a stiff yet courteous stateliness that was as old-worldly as the garden and the château and everything pertaining thereto.

She was a confirmed invalid, and, till she sallied forth to welcome her niece's guest (Ancelles belonged to Stéphanie), had not left her room for nearly two years.

Hugh Michelhurst was duly presented, and made a favourable impression on "Madame ma tante." In half an hour the impression had faded. In an hour it was gone. "Madame ma tante" had forgotten his existence.

He was sitting now on the old, worn steps leading to the second terrace. His right arm rested on the step above, close by his hostess's dainty little feet.

A little breeze came and scattered the rose leaves in her lap—the soft, fragrant heap that she had gathered for pot-pourri—and roused the man.

He watched the pink deepen in her cheek, and the little dimples come and go as she smiled softly at his words.

"Must you? Will you not stay a little longer? It"—wistfully—"is nice to have a guest."

"Ancelles cannot offer much," she said, with a little stately air, "but it offers you a true welcome, monsieur, and one that will never fail you so long as you will stay with us."

"We are only glad that monsieur so fell, except for the sprained arm," answered the little mistress of Ancelles.

"I heard your voice," he said, looking up into her face. "I stood and listened, and then—I wanted to see the owner of the voice, and I climbed to the top of the wall and then—I fell."

"I thought only schoolboys behaved so," she said, but her pretty lips parted and her eyes smiled, in spite of herself.

"Monsieur"—suddenly bending her gaze upon his face—"how came you to lose your head?"

He glanced at her in swift surprise. He was no chicken-heart, yet something[497] in the proud little face made him hesitate.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle"—his tone was cool as hers now—"but the offer of a man's heart and home can never be an insult!"

With a haughty inclination of her pretty head, she left him—left him amongst the roses, in the sunshine, but cold at heart at what he had done.

He wooed her persistently. He was persistent by nature, and all his life he had never wanted anything as he wanted her. He bore the discomforts of the little inn without a murmur, and every day the roses on the little twisting paths found him among them.

Mademoiselle was proud and cold; mademoiselle was proud and mocking, proud and wilful, proud and laughing, proud and non-comprehending—every mood in the world, one after another, was mademoiselle, but proud always—proud with them all. And at last he lost heart.

So there came a day when the scent of the roses sickened him, when the twisting paths maddened him, and he stood before the little mistress of them all, white, stern, beaten.

"I would like to thank you for your kindness to me," he said dully; "but—well, perhaps some day you will understand what I feel now. I know you are too good for me. I don't see why you should ever have cared for me; but oh! my little Stéphanie, you are just all the world to me——"

His voice broke, and he turned away down one of the little sunny paths. But there amongst the roses love came to him at last; for Stéphanie, with a sudden radiance in her face which sent all the pride away, ran after him, and he, seeing the radiance, straightway took her into his arms, and the scent of the roses grew sweet to him again.

And all the explanation mademoiselle ever saw fit to give of her many unkind moods was—"You were so masterful, monsieur. You hammered out love, love, love, and 'you must,' and 'you shall'—till that day—then you wooed me as I would that I should be wooed."

And he, remembering the words he had overheard when he stood beneath the garden wall, smiled and thought he understood.

His little mistress still had her moods, and was tantalisingly chary of her soft words and caresses. Moreover, she possessed a will that had never been thwarted, and she did not understand the words "shall" and "must," never having had them said to her.

So that, sweet as he found his wooing, at times his brow grew dark; for he too had a strong will, and it irked him to have to make it give way to hers.

And at last there came a matter in which he would not yield, and so they parted.

"When you are my wife," he said, "you must come with me to my house in town—in London, you know. What a change it will be for you, petite!"

And then mademoiselle, her eyes kindling, declared that never would she live elsewhere than at Ancelles.

He was aghast. For to a man, strong of limb and strong of brain, the life that was a dream amongst the roses could not suffice.

In vain he urged his views upon her. She rebelled against his tone of authority.[498] At last she stood before him with head erect, and eyes that flashed on him from under their long lashes.

At Ancelles the roses still blossomed, the sun still shone, though not so hotly, on the little twisting paths, the water nymph still bent gracefully for her dive, and amongst them all flitted their little mistress. In and out, gayer, more restless, swifter of foot than even of yore, she wended her way—a laugh ever on her lips, merry words tripping from her tongue, and hovering near—Jeannette.

"Life is good, Jeannette," cried mademoiselle, and gaily she made herself a crown of roses.

"Life with love—yes, mamzelle," murmured Jeannette, for she was getting desperate over the problem as to how long a young girl could live eating nothing, or next to nothing.

Yet Jeannette had heard the sharp, indrawn breath that preceded the mocking words.

Jeannette had seen her again and again, yet never with mademoiselle's knowledge.

For if Jeannette were with her, then, setting her little white teeth closely, mademoiselle did the flights of stairs without a pause; but Jeannette saw how the small hand, once so disdainful of the balusters, now clung to the support. She saw how the pretty throat throbbed, how her bosom heaved, and how the colour left her face; and, seeing, Jeannette's own face grew grey and lined with care.

"It is a merry world," cried mademoiselle, setting the crown of roses on her pretty head, "and love is superfluous."

"Pride superfluous, Jeannette?" haughtily. "Nay, it is but proper and right for those of Ancelles."

The eyes were dangerous, the lips haughty, but Jeannette's love for her charge overcame the long reserve and terror of those last months.

"Mamzelle, mamzelle, listen to me! He is a good man, and he loves you well. Without him you will pine a——"

"Pine, Jeannette? Pine?" Suddenly she caught the old servant's wrists between her small, hot hands. "Jeannette," she whispered passionately, "never speak so again! Do you hear? I pine—I! Am I sad, Jeannette? Answer me! Are my spirits low?"

And almost directly she burst into a gay little song; and Jeannette, standing listening, felt the slow tears of age dropping one by one down her cheeks.

In London Hugh Michelhurst shouldered his way amongst the busy throng in[499] Piccadilly, and in the fog his thoughts turned to the old sunny garden at Ancelles. He sighed, then frowned as if such sighing displeased him. His mouth took a bitter curve as his thoughts wandered back to the last time he had stood on the little sunny paths amongst the roses, with Stéphanie at his side.

Perhaps it was because his thoughts so often wandered in that direction that his face seemed to have grown harder, his mouth sterner.

"Four months!" he murmured, "twelve months in a year—say, forty years—long years! Forty years like these last four months!"

"Forty or a hundred, I will never give in!" he said, and his mouth looked almost cruel in its set sternness.

Spring had come. A soft, warm, early spring that brought all the tender flowers peeping out before their time.

At the end of May he rose from his sick bed, and refused to be an invalid any longer.

One day he walked out into the country, and his love was strong on him, so that he bowed his head, and felt weak as a child. And suddenly a scent was wafted[500] to him on the breeze. He stood and lifted his head to meet it, and his face worked. On a little cottage red roses glowed before their time. He had seen none since he was in the old garden at Ancelles. He stretched out his arms. "I give in," he said, and he turned and retraced his steps the way he had come.

They sat on the steps leading to the second terrace, and the water nymph seemed to smile down on them as she bent to take her dive. They sat side by side, and mademoiselle's pretty head rested against his shoulder.

"Ah! but then you were 'shall' and 'must'"—pouting—"and now—now you are different."

"We will live part of the year here and part in London. There, my little one—will that do?"

He stopped in one of the twisting paths down which they had so often wandered, and looked at the old château.

"That ivy is too thick to be healthy," he said, "but" (sighing), "you like it—it must stop."

Now that same ivy had been the cause of their biggest quarrel before that last biggest one of all.

GREAT ANNIVERSARIES.

IN APRIL.

April claims an anniversary which all Englishmen are presumed to honour. April 23rd is St. George's Day, and St. George is the patron saint of England. Yet he was not, so far as we know, an Englishman. He is said to have been a centurion in the army of Diocletian, and to have been roasted alive for pulling down a copy of the decree ordering the infamous persecution associated with Diocletian's name. That distinction is disputed in the interests of another person; but the fact remains that St. George was held in conspicuous honour by the early Church. His particular place as the patron of the English dates from the Crusades. The story of George and the Dragon has no relation to the incident which couples him to the English. Some authorities have identified this St. George with a certain George of Cappadocia, Arian Bishop of Alexandria; but Mr. Baring-Gould rejects with indignation the proposal to confound the patron saint of England with a heretic. We are on the ground, not of legend, but of history, in recalling St. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was born about 1033. His day is April 21st.

St. George's Day has memories of other people than the legendary slayer of the dragon. On April 23rd, 1564, William Shakespeare was born; on April 23rd, 1616, he died. These, then, are anniversaries which cannot be overlooked by any person who values literature. Our pride is qualified by the thought that all the world of intelligence has taken hold of Shakespeare; he is the possession of educated mankind. Cervantes does not come of our stock, but in passing it may be permitted to remember that he died on the same day of the same year as Shakespeare. It was on St. George's Day, 1850, too, that William Wordsworth, poet laureate, died. The body of John Keble, the poet of the Oxford Movement, was laid to rest in Hursley churchyard on April 6th, 1866. He was deeply influenced by Wordsworth, but his name still more definitely[502] suggests another English poet—the saintly George Herbert. He, too, belongs to this month, for he was born on April 3rd, 1593.

George Herbert was related to Lord Herbert of Cherbury, whose friends included Thomas Hobbes, of Malmesbury, one of the most distinguished of English philosophers. Hobbes was born on April 5th, 1588. The philosophy afterwards associated with the names of Locke, Hume, and Priestley owed much to Hobbes. Hume himself—philosopher, historian, and servant of the State—was born at Edinburgh on April 26th, 1711. Charles Darwin, philosopher and naturalist, died this month (April 19th, 1882). Few Englishmen have attained to wider fame; few have ever more profoundly influenced human thought.

Robert Raikes, in virtue of his work in prisons and his share in the foundation of Sunday schools, deserves long to be held in memory. Born at Gloucester, he died there suddenly on April 5th, 1811. Could Raikes have looked into the future, with what astonishment and joy he would have marked the development in the extent and spirit of this work, which is indicated by the existence of The Quiver Medal Fund and its rewards to veteran Sunday-school workers! A more modern and a greater philanthropist also belongs to April. Anthony Ashley Cooper, seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, was born in Grosvenor Square on April 28th, 1801. In and out of Parliament, with a zeal which no opposition and no disappointment could repress, "the good Earl" worked for the cause of the oppressed, the poor, the sick, the sinful. He did much directly; perhaps more by the stimulus of his example.

Of institutions associated with the month of April, the Royal Academy is one of the most conspicuous. The Society of Incorporated Artists held their first exhibition at the Society of Arts, Adelphi, on April 21st, 1760. From this there sprang the Royal Academy. The first exhibition of the Academicians was held in Pall Mall on April 26th, 1769. The British Museum has its association with this month, for it was on April 5th, 1753, that Parliament granted the sum of £20,000 to the daughters of Sir Hans Sloane, in return for the collections which were the basis of the museum's vast treasures. The National Gallery also has its link with April, for it was on April 9th, 1838, that the present building in Trafalgar Square was completed and opened.

April has many memories for citizens of the United States. On April 17th, 1790, died Benjamin Franklin, politician, economist, and natural philosopher; in April, 1861, began the long struggle between the Northern and Southern States; and on April 14th, 1865, Abraham Lincoln, perhaps the most striking personality hitherto produced by the great democracy, was shot by John Wilkes Booth.

BROUGHT AGAIN FROM THE DEPTHS.

AN EASTERTIDE ADDRESS.

Human history had seen but its infancy when the announcement was made that man was "born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward." And ever since the home of the Arab chief was devastated; ever since the day that Job's heart was broken by the intelligence of the Sabean slaughter of his sons and daughters, followed by a conflagration which stripped him of property, and made a pauper of a prince; ever since, the dreary wail of woe rends the air, and the requiem of life sobs and sighs like Eliphaz the Temanite, "Man is born unto trouble."

Nor can we allow ourselves to question the dictum. The infant's wail precedes the infant's weal. The cry of helplessness is heard in the cradle. The child's deep sigh anticipates the child's sweet smile. And although sunny childhood sometimes passes as if the pitiless law of hereditary trouble were suspended, yet no serious thinker can hesitate to accept the proposition, that trouble is in the ratio in which life's meaning and purpose are experienced, or divine love accepted and enjoyed. If a man has no trouble, it is because he has not yet practically realised the significance of existence. He is still free from those social, domestic, and personal influences, the derangement of any of which brings agony by day and sleeplessness by night. Or, again, it may be because he has learnt the loftiest and yet the lowliest lesson from his Lord, by accepting the Gospel of Gethsemane, "Thy will be done." But excepting the persons so classified by social isolation or spiritual resignation, there is not on earth an exception to the law of the human race being "born unto trouble." Yea, more. Constituted as we are, we live in the presence of the grim enigma, that the object which gave us the highest joy can give us the most excruciating sorrow. Nor can that existence be anything else than mournful whose happiness or misery depends upon any earthly object.

This statement may be illustrated by every condition in life—domestic, physical, intellectual. The genius across whose mental firmament the lights and shadows of history travelled, and by whom they were arrested, analysed, and grouped in their course; the great brain of the great worker whose intrepid excursions into the realms of the past and the present, with a view to tabulating the rise of civilisation—the patient and profound Mr. Buckle, is absorbed by mental enjoyment. He lives, and moves, and has his being in men and manners, among maps and manuscripts. He makes a grand discovery. He keeps the secret for twenty years. He repairs to Damascus to recruit for literary service. He is stricken with fever, and dies with the words of his intellectuality on his parched lips, "My book, my book! I shall never finish my book!" Here his highest joy was his keenest sorrow. So in physical life. There have been men who seemed at one time as if they were created without nerves. Their arms were brawny, muscular, and mighty. Their limbs were firm and fine. They seemed God's highest type of organic life. They rejoiced in their strength and in their youth. But disease assailed, or dissipation punished, and retribution appeared in feebleness, exhaustion, and debility. Youthful feats were forbidden. The sports of the past[504] recalled a youth of virtue and purity; and then came the sigh which told that, even physically, the source of our joy becomes the spring of our sorrow. And need I elaborate details to establish the place of this doctrine in domestic life? Do we not know this from the gloomy history of the orphan child, the widowed mother, the bereaved sister, brother, friend? You know that to love dearly means to have a skeleton in your house. The object of your love causes a thousand smiles to play in your eye, and to break on your countenance; but the shade of that object is mocking your mirth, and is only waiting a few rounds of the clock to compensate mirth with misery.

Nor is this all. There are sorrows far more terrible than those of sickness or the cemetery. A living sorrow defies rivalry. It has a fearful pre-eminence in woe. A wayward, wild, debauched youth; an estranged husband; an embittered, irascible, worldly wife; a stormy, or, what is far worse, a sullen home; these are amongst the darkest illustrations of the doctrine, that our sighs are in the track of our smiles; our delights become our dangers; yea, it sometimes seems as if affection became idiotic, and then, like the raving maniac, we laugh and cry together. So we are "born to trouble." This being so, it is important to listen to testimony concerning the remedy which troubled souls have found efficacious. If we have one such man, able and willing to give his fellow-sufferers a cure for care, it is surely prudent to hear what he has to say. Accordingly, let me ask you to follow me while I try to establish a cure for all afflicted souls from the experience, conviction, and anticipation of a royal mourner. I invite you to come with me to the side of a man like one of us. Listen to him struggling up the great altar-stairs of faith sustained by love, and, as he peers into the Unseen, he speaks as if to one warm with life, charged with ardent sympathy, and he says, "Oh, what troubles and adversities hast Thou shown me; and yet didst Thou turn and refresh me!"

The first step in this study is to be clear as to the nature of the troubles God showed David. There was, then, the personal and the spiritual trouble of backsliding, consequent upon his murder of Uriah for his base purpose. And here we must discriminate. The trouble of David about Bathsheba was not sent by God; God permitted it; but in the heartless and cold-blooded plot in the tyrannical insolence and diabolical dastardliness of its execution—in the coarse, callous, and criminal height of its succeeding guilty rapture—it was of Satan, of sin, of David. For three-quarters of a year David played fast and loose with God and conscience; and it was when Nathan scared him that God showed him the trouble. Then came anguish, remorse, penitence. Then came the sorrowful sighing of the soul—all the greater in the awakening because it had slept so soundly and so long. Then came that lamentation over lost virtue, the penitential Fifty-first Psalm. It is the expression of a man lacerated by conscience. He seems to bleed at every pore. The agitation and alarm and agony are piteous beyond description. He appears in this psalm to look in every direction, and the ghost of his crime haunts him. Within, without, above, below, behind, beyond, he can see the furies of justice as the embassied troublers of his life. Original depravity, actual outrage, a heart black with the Egyptian darkness of fostered treachery, the warrior slaughtered by his mandate, the blood-guiltiness staining his soul, and then the wail ringing in the ears of God, "Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me"—all these may be compared to a spiritual chamber of horrors, in which David found himself after the startling visit of Nathan.

These were some of the troubles God showed him. And their cause introduced more of a domestic, not to say of a political, kind. The sin brought scandal and reproach on the Church of God. The enemies blasphemed. Then Jehovah, vindicating His character for justice before the world, avenging the atrocious murder of Uriah, sent a series of domestic afflictions upon David unparalleled in human experience. One scene—a nameless scene—has its miserable match in the brutal bestiality of the Empire, when the sceptre of Rome was in the hands of a corpse. But the other experiences are easily related. They are as the outcome of a curse which hung heavily on the royal house. Amnon, the eldest son, was slain by young Absalom, who waited two years for an opportunity. This severed Absalom from home for three years. He then, by a singular artifice, returned, and won the hearts of the people by his consummate and accomplished address, his handsome presence, and adroit demeanour. His aged and royal father's statesmen proved false to the king, and one in particular advised the murder of David and a revolution. At length the conspiracy grew in defiance and dimension. David was obliged to flee from the capital. His flight was far more humiliating than that of the French emperor from Paris. Napoleon had not to mourn over the treason of his son as the cause of his exile. This was David's anguish. He ascended the Mount of Olives and looked back upon the city of palaces he had founded and ornamented—the seat for a generation of his power, his glory, his happiness. He was[505] leaving it a miserable fugitive, driven forth by the nation he had established and the child he had reared. He could not, he did not, disguise his sorrow. With bared head and uncovered feet the exile began his pilgrimage, and every step the old king took recalled the crime and sin of earlier years, while it remained for one Shimei to load him with the bitterest and most contemptuous execrations. Then came the crisis. Such of the army as remained loyal engaged in battle with the revolutionary forces attracted to Absalom. David begged that his unhappy son might be spared in the conflict. The war began and issued in the success of the royalists. The first question of the venerable monarch was, "Is the young man Absalom safe?" He then learnt that order was re-established, but at the cost of Absalom's life. He was accidentally hanged, and while hanging he was speared by David's commander-in-chief.

These are amongst the troubles—political, domestic, and spiritual—which God permitted to fall upon David; and yet this very David has courage amid the havoc of holiness, the misery of exile, the torture of outraged parental affection, and political insurrection. That courageous confidence is in a person: he realises God. This conviction is unshaken amid his chequered life and history; indeed, all through the din of revolution, the grief of a homeless and worse than childless existence, there is one ever-recurring belief: "God my help," "God my refuge," "God my shield." In this belief he brings back to God every trouble God sent to him. Hence we have these psalms, written by David, as agony after agony swept in upon his soul. Nor did it seem to signify how different one sorrow might be from another. The old cry, the same cry, is raised to a personal God. When Saul sought his life through jealousy; when Jonathan was slain in battle; when he himself had fallen into sin, and then was aroused—now by the whisperings of reclaiming grace, now by the booming billows of divine justice; when he bowed his head in shame, and the fierce light that beat about his court gleamed on his dark soul; when he tottered up the heights of Olivet, an impotent outcast, betrayed by his courtiers, deserted by his troops, and exiled by the unnatural rebellion and heartless perfidy of his son—in these experiences, so fearful, overwhelming, and varied, he saw God showing him the trouble. As the hand that sent it was ever the same, so from the heart that received it there arose ever and anon the same plea—"Have mercy upon me, O Lord"; "Make haste to help me"; "O Lord, make no long tarrying"; "I am poor and needy"; "O be not Thou far from me, for trouble is near at hand." And then, as if realising the apostasy, desertion, and faithlessness of his friends and forces, he adds, "There is none to help."

We know how these earnest and anxious entreaties were heard: "Thou didst turn and refresh me"; "Through Thee have I been holden up ever since I was born"; "My mouth shall speak of Thy salvation all the day long; for I know no end thereof." But further. This acknowledgment of God as a "very present help in trouble" is followed by a prophecy, and that of nothing less than the resurrection—"Thou shalt bring me up again from the depths of the earth"; so that David's sorrow, when brought humbly and heartily to God, was followed by divine refreshment then, and hope of resurrection hereafter. And a well-founded hope it was, because the trouble sent by God produced a grand moral result when laid before Him Who sent it. It had a purifying influence which made his mind speed on to the resurrection day. In its anticipation he was but yielding to the influence of a life higher than that he lived before his sorrow, and which sought enjoyment and exercise loftier and still loftier. This he, by faith, foresaw, in the anticipation of that rest to which his trouble sent him, and for the appreciation of which his trouble purified him.

So we have here in the spiritual world an instructive and encouraging illustration of what frequently occurs in the physical. We have purification by pain; refreshment out of ruin. So have I seen this grand law asserting the governance of its God in those Alpine crags on which the stars seem to pause. There on those storm-scalped peaks the climber feasts on the panorama spread by God's own hand, in winding river, sapphire lake, everlasting hill, sentinelled by a forest of pines, dressed in the matchless sombre of Alpine green or shrouded by the spotless snows of heaven. I have witnessed the troubles of the atmosphere. The bursting rain-cloud hangs low, the light recedes, the darkness deepens, the wind moans; and then the full-toned thunder roars, and the long lines of fire, angular and electric, leap from fissures in the firmament. The artillery of the elements is deafening, and its echoes rumble in the distance like the mutterings of imprisoned spirits. The storm is over. The calm succeeds. The clouds become brighter and brighter still. The sun peeps out here and there in a rift of the heavens. The air is fresh and keen and pure. The vegetation is bright and green. The rivulets and mountain torrents ripple and rush rejoicing. As we see this, we are reminded of the analogies of God's government; yea, if we could put a[506] preacher on every peak, a tongue in every valley, Nature would minister to grace, and from each would come the response of the royal poet to the call of God. The world physical would raise the ecstatic antiphon to the world spiritual: "O what great troubles and adversities hast Thou showed me, and yet didst Thou turn and refresh me!"

But these words have a still richer meaning in their bearing upon the religious fortunes of the Hebrew race, the Messianic glory of the Redeemer, and the present and future position of His believing people. I believe that Israel's troubles are to issue in Israel's refreshment, and even in national resurrection. Her captivities and dispersions, her degradation and exile, are but the preludes to her rise, return, and splendour. God has sworn it; His word is bound to it. His promise is as certain as though it were performed. But we may merely mention this as a conviction, in order to pass on and recognise in these words the history of Jesus Christ. From that cradle and cottage home; from that carpenter's bench where He toiled; from that country, with its hills and dales, and lanes and lakes, where He preached; from the Temple which He glorified and abrogated; from the cross where He died; from the tomb which He vacated; from the throne of mediation, where He sympathises, intercedes and governs; from earth below, and heaven above, the voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea, filling angelic souls with adoration, and human hearts with hope, announcing, "O what great troubles and adversities hast Thou showed Me!" He was betrayed, despised, and rejected. He looked for some to have pity on Him, but there was no man; neither found He any to comfort Him. He was maligned and misunderstood. The malice of His enemies omitted but one sin in their resolve to blacken His character, and it remained for the patronising blasphemy of Renan to insinuate that one as possible. He was accused of deceit, though infallible; He was slandered as a drunkard, though immaculate; yea, the detraction of His foes did not spare Him the agony of being charged with the commission of a sin as disgusting as it is brutal—that of gluttony. He was arraigned as a felon, and died as an impostor. But beyond all was the sin of which these were but the symptoms. This was the trouble, "great and sore," which God showed Him. This was the agony of agonies to the sinless, spotless Lamb of God. Its fell pressure is the meaning of the tradition that Jesus was often seen to weep, but never once to smile. To this trouble we trace the overpowering experiences of the fainting, prostrate Christ in the garden; of the wailing and woe-bearing Christ on the cross. Yet there was the refreshment; there was behind it all the unchangeable love of God the Father—"Therefore doth My Father love Me, because I lay down My Life that I might take it again." There was the satisfaction of His soul, in saving the race He died to redeem by representation; there was, above all, the guarantee of that redemption in being brought "from the depths of the earth again."

And if we were to follow the history of His Church, that history would be a living commentary on the experience of David and of David's Lord: divinely sent trouble, divinely sought and divinely sent refreshment, issuing in spiritual resurrection. Is not this the account many have to give of sorrow, succour, and salvation? You were weak: you are now strong. You were "choked with cares," and sought relief in a flood of tears: you are now able to leave the burden of your cares with Him Who "careth for you"; while your eyes, once red with agony, are now bright with praise, gratitude, and hope. Remembering what you were, and now recognising what you are, you may adopt the language of David, "I am become a wonder unto many, but my sure trust is in Thee"; or, taking a fuller view and a finer tone, you will ring out the litany of deliverance, and chant the song of praise and blessing, "O what great troubles and adversities has Thou showed me; and yet didst Thou turn and refresh me."

This present refreshment is a prophecy of future resurrection. It leads all the afflicted children of God on to the grand climax in sin, sorrow, and all the trouble to which we are born. Then the cup of universal affliction shall be full. The waters of our pilgrimage shall be sweetened, and changed into the bright, clear, rosy wine of immortality. Then farewell, sorrow; farewell, weakness; agony, ache, desolation, and sin, we bid you a final and a glad farewell. Then shall rise upon this scene of change and uncertainty, where pain and pleasure are so intermingled and combined, the sun that knows no setting, the everlasting day that knows no night. Then shall the children of God, the "children of the resurrection," gathered from every known and unknown region, race, and age, rise to the rapture of the saints, and, defying the immeasurable weight of all the ocean's pressure—for the sea shall give up its dead—shattering the manacles with which corruption had long bound the germ of incorruption, they shall "in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye," greet the Saviour Who loved them, with a greeting worthy the Lamb that was slain; worthy the grandest event in the annals of earth and heaven; while high above the din of the last crash of worlds, yea, louder than the storm which marches on the ruins of creation, shall rise the anthem of royal and even wretched and relieved experience—"Thou hast brought me from the depths of the earth again."

Illustration: FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILD

CHAPTER VII.

The Pity of It.

On Saturday night, in that same week, Harold sallied forth at dusk, with a bulky brown-paper parcel under his arm, containing a pair of boots which he was taking by stealth to a humble cobbler in a back alley to mend.

Just because he fervently desired not to meet anybody he knew, as he turned a corner he almost ran into the arms of May Burnside; who, on seeing him, appeared confused. He stopped and tried to conceal his parcel as well as he could, whilst talking volubly; and May stammered and fidgeted, like one detected in a guilty enterprise. Her aunt had that day presented her with half-a-crown; and, wishing to make a frock for Doris, she was on her way to buy some wonderful material she had seen marked fourpence three-farthings in a cheap, common shop she would not have cared to enter by daylight. Miss Waller would have fainted at the idea of her niece being seen going into Whittaker's, where everything was ticketed "Alarming Sacrifice!"

So, the boots weighing on his uneasy conscience, and the fourpence three-farthings on hers, they continued to blush and stammer until Harold summoned up courage to say that it was rather late, and, if Mrs. Burnside was going home, he would escort her, if she wished.

"My aunt is dining out, so I need not hurry back; and I wanted to go to a shop—Whittaker's, do you know it? I buy rubbish there occasionally."

He did know the shop, which was close to the alley wherein dwelt his old cobbler. "If you don't mind," he said eagerly, "I'll leave you a moment, whilst I do an errand hard by, and meet you when you've done your shopping."

So he went off, delighted at solving the problem of the boots; for no man appears to advantage when hugging a clumsy parcel. Having duly effected her purchase, May rejoined him, and, as they strolled towards Victoria Square, informed him that they were starting for London on Monday. "I know I shall hate it!" she added, with a sigh.

He sighed too; but what could he say or do, bound as he was, hand and foot? "July is rather hot for London," he answered discreetly. "Lulu wrote yesterday, and may I suggest, if you have leisure, she would be delighted if you called to see her? I will give you her address. The flat is very tiny, of course, but——"

"But infinitely preferable, I am sure, to Victoria Square!" retorted May bitterly. The burden of life seemed intolerable that evening.

He checked himself hastily, and May stifled a sob which rose in her throat. "Very few people are quite happy, it seems to me," she said, trying to speak calmly. "There is always something."

"Yes, but you—you ought to be happy, if there were any justice in the world!" he burst out impetuously. "You deserve a sunny, sheltered life, free from worry and care. Will you believe it is the hardest of my trials to be able to offer you nothing but barren sympathy?"

"It is very good of you to sympathise with[508] me," May murmured gratefully. "So few people do. They look at my clothes, and decide that anybody dressed as I am, and living in Victoria Square, must be happy. 'Lucky Mrs. Burnside!' they call me."

He remembered how enviable, in the early days of their acquaintance, May had seemed to him, and thought how mistaken are the judgments of this world. A great pity swelled his heart as she said "Good-bye"; and he tramped back to his dreary rooms doubly depressed, both on her account and his own. How he longed to be able to free her from her shackles, and offer her a happy home, independent of Miss Waller!

"I must say, May, nobody would think you were going to London to enjoy yourself. Do, for goodness' sake, try to look a little more cheerful!" said Miss Waller sharply, as they took their seats in a reserved first-class carriage on the Monday. Mr. Lang, to May's great relief, had returned to town three days before, so they were spared his company. "You are the most ungrateful girl I ever knew."

"It would serve you right if I washed my hands of you entirely," continued the irate spinster. "But I am too kind-hearted; my sense of duty restrains me. I should be better off now, if I'd been more selfish and less considerate for others. But I'm well aware it's useless to expect gratitude in this world."

And, with a heartfelt sigh for the wickedness of this generation, Miss Waller arranged the air-cushion more comfortably at her back, and, placing her daintily shod feet on the opposite seat, commenced to study a newspaper. May sat watching the deep-green summer landscape flit by, with pretty much the same feelings as a convict might experience while going down to Portland guarded by warders. The knowledge that Mr. Lang awaited them at the end of the journey took all the colour out of the blue sky; and the sleek cattle standing knee-deep in water beneath the willows, seemed to mock her by their animal freedom from care. For herself, she cared little; but there was Doris to consider, and the thought of her helpless child harassed her throughout that miserable journey.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Recluse.

Enforced idleness is, to an active mind, the greatest misery conceivable. Harold Inglis had in him a vast capacity for work, and therefore found it doubly bitter to have to spend his days lounging about, waiting for the patients who never came. He was afraid to go out lest he should miss a summons, and unable to sit down to read or write, so continually did he find himself listening for a ring at the bell and Ann's voice announcing a patient. He could not even tranquillise himself with[509] tobacco, for he had given up smoking on account of the expense.

He returned from an errand one afternoon to find an elderly manservant waiting with the intimation that Sir Edward Vane, of The Towers, was ill, and would like to see him. He knew Sir Edward by name as a wealthy and eccentric recluse, who lived alone in a big house just outside the town, and was liberal in doctors' fees. Not a little flattered, he promised to come immediately, and was about to turn in at the lodge gate at The Towers, when he encountered Dr. Selwyn, another local medical man, with whom he was acquainted.

"Wish you joy. You may not know it, but he's already tried every doctor in Beachbourne, and quarrelled with them all in succession. I wouldn't attend him again for any money. Good-bye, and good luck to you!"

In some trepidation, Harold knocked, and was admitted through a handsome hall into a spacious sitting-room, littered with almost every conceivable object. On a sofa reclined a grey-haired man about sixty, whose tanned face, speaking of long residence in the tropics, was disfigured by a look of fretful ill-health. A retired Anglo-Indian, distinguished in the Civil Service, Sir Edward had seen more of the world than most men.

"You're not in partnership with anybody here, are you?" he asked, when Harold had examined him carefully.

"All the better. A more wretched lot of impostors than the Beachbourne doctors I never came across. For years they've been tinkering at me, and, after all, I'm worse, instead of better. What are doctors for, if they can't cure one?"

Harold was discreetly silent. Sir Edward had a complication of maladies, beyond any medical skill to remedy.

"I don't think, for my part, I should wish to be so old as that," diffidently returned Harold. "It must be so sad to outlive all one's friends."

"I have no friends," was the grim reply. "Only some greedy relations, eager for my money. I've a good deal to leave," he added, looking keenly at Harold. "And when I take a fancy to people, I'm liberal——They say here that I'm always quarrelling with my doctors; but it's the doctors who quarrel with me, and will air their own particular fads, instead of trying to cure me. Are you married?" he asked abruptly.

"A good thing, too; you've more time to attend to your patients. Hewett used to bore me talking by the hour about that ugly wife of his. Do you understand fossils, and such things? My room's in an awful mess, as you see, and I should like to have the specimens arranged a bit; but I can't trust the servants."

The place was indeed crammed with all sorts of curios, many exceedingly valuable. By continually asking for one possession after another, Sir Edward had ended by accumulating all his treasures in this one room, which he never left, save for his bedchamber adjoining. A most untidy place it was; the curiosities being heaped on chairs, shelves, and the floor, without any method.

"I am very fond of fossils; and if you wish them arranged, it would give me great pleasure to help."

"Hewett wanted me to make a clean sweep of them; interfered with the flow of his precious fresh air. Like his ignorance! Did he think I wanted to sit and stare at an ugly wall-paper all day when I was tired of reading?"

"Yes; chiefly Sanskrit. In my day, Indian officials had to be not only gentlemen but scholars. Well," as Harold rose to go, "I'll have your prescription made up, and shall expect you again to-morrow."

"I will come, and hope the pain will be easier then." He detailed the treatment he desired, and was giving a few final directions when the manservant opened the door. "Miss Geare has called, sir. Will you see her?"

"Oh dear!" pettishly exclaimed Sir Edward. "She'll stay an hour, prosing about her dogs. For mercy's sake, don't go!" detaining Harold. "Help me to entertain her, and get her away soon! She was to have been my sister-in-law, having been engaged to my brother Adrian years ago; and since in an evil hour I settled at Beachbourne, I've been fairly persecuted by her."

"Well, Edward dear, how are you now? I heard you were not well, so I just came to inquire."

"I'm better now, thank you," returned Sir Edward gruffly. "I've given Hewett the sack, and this is my new doctor—Dr. Inglis. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, he has been attending me. I'm sure he has done me good, and I hope you'll benefit also, Edward. You can't think how kind Dr. Inglis was to my darling Bijou when he broke his leg!"

"Having attended Bijou, it, of course, follows that Dr. Inglis will cure me," sneered Sir Edward. "How is the amiable Miss Pepper?"

"She's waiting outside with the dogs, as you said you wouldn't have her here. She's a faithful creature; I wish you liked her a little better, Edward dear."

"Oh, don't be so sarcastic, Edward! I never was clever; but you make me feel like a little girl again, when my governess scolded me."

There were tears in the watery blue eyes; but they did not seem to touch Sir Edward. "The remedy, my dear Catherine, is exceedingly simple," he blandly rejoined. "I know I'm a curmudgeon, unfit to associate with such an angel as you. Why then should you inflict upon yourself the unpleasantness of coming here? Why not stay away, to enjoy the more congenial society of Miss Pepper and the dogs?"

"So you don't want me, Edward? I think you're very unkind," returned Miss Geare, evidently wounded, but with a patient dignity Harold had not expected. He noticed that ever since she entered her gaze had wandered, at intervals, to an oil-painting of a fine-looking young man in uniform which hung over the mantelpiece. "But I know better than to take you at your word. You are all I have left—my dear Adrian's brother—and——" She broke down, and wiped the slow tears of age from her eyes.

Sir Edward gave an impatient sigh, and Harold interposed. "Allow me to remind you, Miss Geare, that my patient has had a very severe attack, and the quieter he is the better. Everything depends on that. I must go home now; and may I request the pleasure of your company to the gate, if you are ready?"

"Yes, do go home to Bijou!" fretfully murmured the invalid. And Miss Geare, after bestowing an affectionate farewell on the unresponsive Sir Edward, allowed Harold to politely conduct her to the lodge gate.

"Poor Edward!" she began, as they went down the drive, "he allows illness to sour his temper, and it's such a pity! But I take no notice—he's my dear Adrian's only brother, and I can't bear to stay away from the house. Did you see the portrait over the mantelpiece?—that was my Adrian. I was young, and pretty too, in those days, though you mayn't believe it——"

"I quite believe it," said Harold kindly, touched by the spectacle of this forlorn old age.

"Adrian was so proud of Edward. He was so much thought of in India, and is very, very clever—but not equal to my Adrian—oh, no; nobody ever could be as handsome and noble as he was! When I heard he was killed in the Mutiny, I thought I should die too; I think it must have killed something inside me, for I've never been the same since. I get confused, and I can't remember things——Yes, I'm coming. Very sorry to have kept you waiting."

The humble apology was to Miss Pepper, who, with a most unamiable countenance, was standing just outside the gate. Miss Geare hastily said farewell, and Harold could hear her companion scolding her vigorously as they went down the road. But, as he thought of the faded, antique love story which had ended so tragically, he could not but feel sorry for poor little eccentric Miss Geare—it was so evident that the best part of her had been buried in her lover's grave. Her eyes must have been rather like May's, he thought, before sorrow had given them that vacant expression; and then he wondered, for the hundredth time, what Mrs. Burnside was doing in London, and whether she thought of him as often as he did of her.

CHAPTER IX.

Vanitas Vanitatum.

Arrived in London, all May's worst anticipations were realised; for Mr. Lang accompanied them everywhere, and she had not a minute to call her own. He assumed an air of proprietorship which made her blood boil. "You ought to do this, Mrs. Burnside—you should see that," he repeated from morning till night; and, as Miss Waller invariably pronounced all his suggestions charming, it was useless for May to rebel.

So London proved the same weary old story over again—a life of outward glitter and show, of softly rolling carriages, of sumptuous dinners, and reserved seats; and within, dust and ashes, and Dead Sea fruit! May talked and smiled, but it was mechanically; her heart was far away.

She asserted herself sufficiently, however, to declare her intention of calling upon the Inglis girls in their flat in West Kensington. She had written to Lulu, who sent her a pressing invitation to come on Saturday afternoon, when they were at leisure.

Miss Waller instantly denounced the scheme as a wild-goose chase, asserting that May was certain to lose her way. They were still discussing it when Mr. Lang came in from Palace Gardens, as he usually did first thing in the morning, ostensibly to ask what they wished to do, but really to order them about at his sovereign will and pleasure. "Well, ladies, what's the programme for to-day?" he began.

May turned round from the window of the handsome drawing-room for which her aunt was paying a small fortune, thinking, as the[511] morning sunlight fell upon his podgy figure, that Mr. Lang grew uglier and more common-looking every day. "I have promised to go and see my friends the Inglises this afternoon," she announced firmly.

"Some girls who live at West Kensington," returned May, colouring at his lordly tone.

"Their brother is a doctor—a very unsuccessful one at Beachbourne," put in Miss Waller irritably. "They are very poor, and live in a poky flat. What May can see in them I can't imagine; and I'm sure she'll get lost if she goes alone."

"I can take a cab, aunt." By a perfect miracle she had a few shillings in her pocket.

"I'll tell you what," pompously proclaimed Mr. Lang. "You shall go in a cab, Mrs. Burnside, if you really must, and I'll call and bring you back in my carriage. Eh, Miss Waller?"

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" gushed the spinster, brightening; and, though May protested earnestly against troubling Mr. Lang, he was resolute. Then he carried them off to inspect a picture in a Bond Street shop which took his fancy—a seapiece, with violently ultramarine waves tumbling about the canvas. May considered it a most irritating production, and boldly said so; for, despite her aunt's frowns, she refused to flatter Mr. Lang. He took her criticism very good-naturedly, however, and insisted on their coming to luncheon with him at a fashionable Regent Street restaurant, where only African millionaires and suchlike could afford to go.

But at length May's ordeal was over, and she drew a great breath of relief as the lift deposited her at No. 18, Windermere Mansions. Lulu herself admitted her, evidently delighted to see her, and announced that just then she was alone.

"Esther isn't back yet, but I expect her every minute," she explained. "Mabel, our chum, has gone to see some friends. We don't keep a servant, but a charwoman comes morning and evening. Our flat is a mere cupboard, as you see; but, such as it is, you are very welcome."

She conducted May over it, and tiny it certainly was; only one sitting-room, a speck of a kitchen, three small bedrooms, and a bathroom. But it was very comfortable and homelike; and, though many of the articles were merely of wicker and bamboo, it was furnished with a taste which betrayed the instincts of gentlewomen.

"How I envy you!" exclaimed May, as she sank into a chair in the cosy little sitting-room. And then, to Lulu's consternation[512] and to her own intense disgust, she burst into tears.

Lulu looked quite alarmed; for the modern girl reserves all such exhibitions for the privacy of her own apartment, and tears and hysterics are as much out of fashion nowadays as poke bonnets and sandalled shoes. It is not that the new girl can't feel, but that she considers it undignified to cry.

"Forgive me," apologised May, blushing furiously. "I'm overtired—I've been doing too much in this heat. I feel quite ashamed to be so foolish."

"We'll have tea directly Esther comes; that will revive you," replied Lulu cheerfully and she proceeded to light a dainty spirit-kettle which formed part of a most inviting tea equipage. May watched her enviously, thinking how sweet and homelike it all was. She had never known a real home since leaving her father's house. Her married life was a horrible nightmare, and Victoria Square was little better; and if she yielded to pressure and married Mr. Lang——But no! that would not bear thinking of!

May had expected to find Miss Inglis handsome; but she was not prepared for such a young goddess as now swept into the room, with a stride of long, well-knit limbs which made the place seem ludicrously small. Esther Inglis would have attracted notice anywhere, with her splendid, keen-cut, dark face and stately poise of head; and her family might well be proud of her.

She was better dressed than Lulu, in a plain but well-fitting gown which was very becoming.

"Tired, dear?" asked Lulu affectionately, as her sister, after greeting May, reclined her tall figure in a basket-chair.

"Rather; that is, I've a Saturday afternoon kind of feeling. The office was very hot, and the new man can't quite manage the telephone. Where's Mabel?"

She removed her sister's outdoor garb with a deft motherliness which charmed May.[513] Miss Inglis was clearly accustomed to being waited upon; but it seemed quite natural, with her splendid face and figure.

CHAPTER X.

Mr. Lang meets his Match.

May gave as favourable an account of his progress as she could, to which Miss Inglis listened thoughtfully. "I'm afraid he has an uphill struggle before him, poor old fellow! Without capital, it seems to me, you can do nothing nowadays? Are there many doctors at Beachbourne?"

"It's always the same old story—want of money!" sighed Esther pessimistically. "Nowadays the competition is something dreadful; and what will it be for the next generation?"

"Well, my dear, going about daily in trains and omnibuses, and having to run the gauntlet of every man who thinks that because a girl works for her living she can't possibly be a lady, doesn't tend to sweeten one's view of life."

"I suppose there are annoyances in every lot," diffidently put in May. "But there are—there really are—worse things than being obliged to earn one's living. You must be so happy here, able to do just as you like, with nobody to worry you."

Esther's brow cleared. "Yes, it's something to be independent, nowadays. And it's too bad to bore you with my grumbles, Mrs. Burnside. I don't often indulge in complaints, do I, Lulu? We three really have a jolly time here; and my salary is to be raised twenty pounds a year, beginning from next month."

"Yes, we must go on the river, or have some dissipation to celebrate it. Oh! who can that be?" as a loud knock resounded at the outer door.

"My aunt thought I might get lost, and a friend of ours—Mr. Lang—offered to call for me," said May, flushing. "He is earlier than I expected—I hope you don't mind his coming?"

"Oh, dear, no!" nonchalantly responded Esther, as Lulu bustled out to admit Mr. Lang, who entered with his usual bumptious self-confidence. But when his eyes fell upon the superb figure of Esther, he was palpably surprised.

May introduced him; but, while Lulu gave him a friendly greeting, Esther barely condescended to acknowledge his existence. Miss Inglis, late of Mallowfield Hall, was not to be put down by a vulgar plutocrat.

"I must apologise for coming rather early, Mrs. Burnside," he began, "but I didn't quite know how long it would take to get here; I never was in this neighbourhood before. Don't you find it rather out of the way?" he continued, addressing Esther.

"It is rather inconvenient, especially as we don't keep a carriage," she coolly returned. A keen observer of human nature, she had taken Mr. Lang's measure in one haughty glance.

"Nice little place, though," he added patronisingly, intending to be very polite. "That drapery over the mantelpiece is a good idea. Did Liberty do it?"

"I did it myself, with a few yards of cheap cretonne and an ounce of tin-tacks."

"Really! How clever!" he exclaimed, not perceiving that Esther was covertly laughing at him. "Old miniatures, too! Are you a collector? I am; I've got some lovely Cosways."

"Oh, dear, no! these are only some of our ancestors. My father has the best ones, down in Cornwall."

"I've rather a good collection at my house in Palace Gardens. You've seen them, haven't you, Mrs. Burnside? It would give me great pleasure to show them to your young friends, if they care to call some day."

"Thank you; my sister and I are working all day, and have very little time. I am not specially interested in miniatures, except those belonging to our family," replied Esther coldly. May inwardly rejoiced at seeing Mr. Lang meet his match for once.

"I believe you have a brother out in South Africa?" presently asked Mr. Lang, turning to Lulu.

"I believe I've met him somewhere. Rather good-looking, with dark hair, isn't he? He must know me; I'm so well known out there in connection with the Springkloof Mine. Have you heard of the Springkloof, Miss Inglis?"

"Yes," answered that superb young lady, fixing her eyes steadily on him. "I have heard a good deal about it from Jack. He was over in England last summer."

"I'm often going backwards and forwards to Johannesburg," continued Mr. Lang; "I should be glad at any time to take charge of any parcels or letters for your brother, if you will let me know. This is my London address," and he laid his card on the table.

"No trouble, I assure you. I should be very glad to oblige any—any of Mrs. Burnside's friends."

May crimsoned beneath his significant glance and the scarcely veiled scorn on Esther's fine face. How these girls must despise her for associating with this horrible man! Unable to bear it any longer, she rose to take leave.

"I hope we shall meet again before you go," Lulu said wistfully; but May dared not press them to come and see her aunt, knowing they would only meet a chilly reception from Miss Waller. "I will write and let you know," she answered hurriedly.

"Perhaps you young ladies might like a drive in the Park occasionally?" suggested Mr. Lang. "I'd be very happy to send my carriage."

"Thank you," responded Esther, who appeared to be spokeswoman on all occasions. "My sister and I work for our living, and have no time for such dissipations. I am employed in a City office."

"Then it's a shame you should have to work—that's all I can say," warmly rejoined Mr. Lang. "A woman's place is at home, in a handsome drawing-room, with every comfort about her—not jostling about in the crowd with men."

"Handsome drawing-rooms and an idle life are not within the reach of every woman, nowadays, Mr. Lang," coldly responded Esther, as they shook hands; and the next minute the door closed behind them.

"Horrid man!" cried Esther wrathfully, when the visitors had gone. "Didn't his insufferable patronage make your blood boil? He might well ask if we knew him by name; of course, we do—too well, for, according to Jack, the Springkloof Mine was a byword on the Randt, from the way in which the original owners were cheated out of the property by Mr. Lang and his syndicate. I remember he mentioned this Lang as a man who was well known at Johannesburg to have mixed in many shady transactions."

"What a pity that nice Mrs. Burnside should be obliged to associate with him! He evidently admires her; but, to tell you a secret, Esther, there's somebody who admires her even more—and that's Harold."

"Poor Harold! How can he ever afford to marry? Mrs. Burnside is dependent on her aunt for everything, isn't she?"

"Yes, and her aunt intends her to marry Mr. Lang. Poor thing! I can see she is simply miserable at the idea of it."

Esther took up Mr. Lang's card, to read the address. "He might well say West Kensington was out of the way! If he ever comes again—I don't mean to be at home." And she tore it into the smallest fragments.

CHAPTER XI.

On the Island.

"This is what I call perfectly delightful," pronounced Miss Waller solemnly. She looked meaningly at May, who stood near, looking her best in pale blue, with a big white hat, but her niece pretended not to hear.

A week had elapsed since Mrs. Burnside's visit to the Inglis girls; and it was again Saturday afternoon. It had been a week of absolutely tropical heat, exhausting to a degree; and Mr. Lang, noticing May's pale cheeks, had proposed a trip up the river in his steam-launch. So, with their mutual friends the Wingates, and some other people, they were now bound for an island some distance above Kingston, where they intended to land and have tea.

After the scorching and crowded streets, the river, with its green, tree-shaded banks, was indeed a pleasant change; and, had she been free from care, May would have greatly enjoyed watching the numerous gay boats and launches filled with happy holiday-makers. But the presence of Mr. Lang—vulgar, fussy, and pretentious—spoiled everything, and she avoided him as much as possible, greatly to her aunt's disgust.

The island at which they presently arrived was very small; and so crowded with people that at another time the scene would have amused May. They landed with some difficulty, amid the crowd of skiffs, punts, and canoes, which were moored to the banks; and had to walk warily, not to tread upon their late occupants, who were now grouped round every variety of tea equipage, arrayed in every kind of costume. One or two people, ostentatious like themselves, were attended by liveried servants to turn the whole thing into a burlesque; but the great mass had spread their tea with their own hands, and it was comical to see how their ideas of a picnic varied. Here would be a homely meal with thick enamelled tea-things, huge chunks of bread-and-butter, and shrimps or watercress for a relish. Next door would be an aristocratic party with a silver teapot, fairy-like china, expensive cakes, and fruit on artistic dessert plates. Here a stout materfamilias, purple with the heat, struggled to satisfy her hungry brood of eight with hastily buttered rolls; there a pair of lovers, oblivious of all else, sat partaking of nectar and ambrosia, in imagination a thousand miles away. Everywhere was good humour, laughter, and happiness.

At last, after his usual bustle, Mr. Lang contrived to secure a vacant spot for his party; though not without an angry argument with[515] some plainly dressed people who, with scant respect for African millionaires, declined to move their common delft tea-service to make way for his costly Dresden. Whilst the footman spread the cloth May sat abstractedly gazing over the sunlit river, when suddenly she caught a glimpse in an approaching boat of a figure which made her heart leap. Surely that stalwart young man in flannels, rowing two girls towards the island, was Harold Inglis! With consummate skill he steered his cockleshell craft to the bank, then helped his sisters out, and, carrying a basket, came to find a place to sit down.

"What a handsome girl!" murmured more than one of Mr. Lang's party as Esther advanced with her queenly gait. May, delighted, rose to greet her. "How wonderful to meet you here!" exclaimed Miss Inglis. "Harold had to come up to town on business, and we persuaded him to bring us up the river."

"So glad to see you again, Mrs. Burnside," said the young doctor as they shook hands; his honest English face flushing as his glance met hers. That glance and that handclasp seemed to throw a flood of light upon the secret places of May's soul; for suddenly she realised that she loved him better than her life. He was, and always must be, the one man in the world to her.

Miss Waller was not pleased at this addition to their party; but she could not interfere when Mr. Lang pressed the Inglises to join the circle assembled at tea. Nor could they well refuse: though independent Esther insisted on making use of the provisions they had brought with them. Harold stationed himself beside May, as a matter of course, and contrived, under cover of the lively chatter of the rest, to tell her about the new patients he had secured at Beachbourne, and hear what she had been doing in London. It was a very harmless, matter-of-fact conversation, but it drew down many jealous glances from Mr. Lang, which May perceived, but did not heed. Why should she not enjoy this brief moment of happiness?

"Shall I see you again before I leave? I'm going back on Monday," Harold observed wistfully, when the tea-things had been packed up for the return journey.

But she shook her head, knowing it was useless to invite him to call upon her aunt; nor could she promise to visit Windermere Mansions. "We shall be returning the end of next week, I hope," she answered hurriedly, sorry to seem so inhospitable. "I shall be so glad to leave London!"

"Now, Mrs. Burnside," interrupted Mr. Lang, bustling up, "your aunt's invited me to dine with you at eight; and if I'm to be back in time to dress, we must look sharp. Sorry to have to say good-bye to you, Miss Inglis," he added, turning to stately Esther with his most patronising air. "I wish I could ask you to come back in the launch with us; but there's so little room."

"Thank you, I prefer a rowing-boat. I[516] thoroughly disapprove of steam launches on a crowded river like the Thames," calmly responded she; whilst Miss Waller gasped, open-mouthed, at such effrontery. Imagine a beggarly girl in an office daring to address such criticism to the great Mr. Lang!

The lovers had perforce to separate, for the rowing-boat would, of course, be soon left behind by the launch. May took her seat with a sinking heart at the prospect of Mr. Lang's company for the rest of the day; and Harold was so silent all the way home that Esther commented on it as they disembarked.

"So this is the end of my little treat in honour of my rise of salary!" she ruefully remarked. "I thought it would be pleasant on the river; but I feel almost sorry we came. Certainly, Mrs. Poyser was right in her opinion of 'pleasuring-days.'"

CHAPTER XII.

Reprieved.

"Now, May," began Miss Waller in her most portentous tone, on Monday morning, "I must have an explanation with you. I'm going home this week, for it's ruinously expensive being here; and to-day Mr. Lang is coming for his answer. Without any beating about the bush, I expect you to marry him."

"Oh, aunt, don't—don't!" entreated May, wringing her hands. "I cannot marry Mr. Lang."

"What childish nonsense! Fancy refusing a house in Palace Gardens, and all that money!"

"Very well, then, you and Doris must find another home. I have pinched myself to keep you in luxury; but if you will be so wickedly blind to your plain duty, I wash my hands of you."

"I don't care one bit for myself, aunt; I could earn a living, I'm sure, and I'd gladly do it. Let me try," pleaded May, "I will promise never to cost you another penny, if you will only be so kind as to give Doris a home until I am able to keep her myself."

"Which will not be till Doomsday. Talk of earning your living—what rubbish! Why, you haven't even one decent accomplishment. No, if you leave my house, Doris goes, too; I won't have the little spoilt monkey left on my hands."

"Besides, think what advantages you could give Doris if you married Mr. Lang—the best possible education, horses, carriages, Continental trips, everything! If you really cared at all for your child, you couldn't hesitate for a minute."

It was a clever argument, and it made May waver as nothing else could; and Miss Waller did not know whether to be glad or sorry that just then Mr. Lang himself was announced.

"Don't go, Miss Waller," he began, as the spinster, after a few casual observations, was about to leave the room. "I've nothing to say to Mrs. Burnside you may not hear as well. Your niece knows by this time that I am anxious to have her for my wife. I want to marry and settle down now, and I can promise you," he added, turning to face May for the first time, "a most luxurious home—you've seen it—both for yourself and your little girl. Your aunt wishes it, I know; and I hope, Mrs. Burnside—May—you'll make me very happy by saying you'll be my wife before Christmas."

He came closer, and would have taken her hand; but she started back. Her aunt's basilisk eyes were fixed on her, to add to her discomfiture; but she said as firmly as she could, "I am very grateful for your kindness, Mr. Lang; nevertheless, I must refuse your offer, for I do not love you, and I could not marry any man unless I did."

"Now, really, Miss Waller," remonstrated the plutocrat, turning with an injured air to the wrathful spinster, "I call this too bad! It was understood between us that you would prepare Mrs. Burnside, so that it might all be plain sailing. I'm not accustomed to ask and be refused, I can tell you."

"May must have lost her senses to reject such an offer, Mr. Lang," returned Miss Waller, with an annihilating glance at her niece. "She is an ungrateful, undutiful girl; and if she refuses you, I will have nothing more to do with her."

"Well," rejoined Mr. Lang, with a gulp, as if swallowing something very nauseous to the taste, "I must confess I didn't expect to be sent to the right-about like this. However, young ladies often change their minds; and perhaps, when Mrs. Burnside thinks my offer quietly over, she may alter her opinion. I've great faith in your persuasions, Miss Waller. I've just had a telegram, saying a fall of rock has damaged the machinery at the Springkloof, and I'm wanted out there, so I must sail for the Cape at once. I expect to be away some months; by November I shall probably be back in England. I give Mrs. Burnside until then to consider my offer; I won't look upon this as a final rejection. I'm sure, when she thinks of all I'm in a position to offer, she can't be so foolish as to refuse."

"How kind—how generous!" exclaimed Miss Waller, as May stood in stony silence. "I promise in my niece's name that when you come back she will accept you. I hope we shall see you again before you leave?"

"Well, no, for I've a lot to do before I go. But I'll write to you; and as soon as I possibly can I shall return for Mrs. Burnside's answer."

As if in a sick dream, with this threat ringing in her ears, May mechanically tendered him her limp hand in farewell. When they were once more alone her aunt said in crisp, dry tones:

"I shall return to Beachbourne on Wednesday, and make arrangements for spending August and September in visiting amongst our friends in the country. We have plenty of invitations. I have said all I need say on the subject of Mr. Lang. Meanwhile, you can choose between Palace Gardens and every luxury, and a life of starvation and beggary for you and Doris."

Despite the apparent calm with which Mr. Lang had taken May's rejection of his flattering offer, he was nevertheless in a very bad temper when he left the house and jumped into his victoria. He was not accustomed to rebuffs—which made the fact that he had just been rejected by a penniless widow, only saved from actual want by her aunt's charity, doubly galling.

"I'm mad to care so much about a pale-faced girl with nothing to say for herself; and I really ought to do better. I could easily marry a lady of title, or anybody I choose; and it would serve her right if I went straight off and proposed to somebody else, just to show her that rich husbands don't grow on every bush!"

Revenge is always the first thought of a mean mind which is smarting from a sense of injury. Mr. Lang chuckled over this idea for some time, and the result was, that when Esther Inglis entered their one sitting-room about half-past five that day, she found Mr. Lang seated in the most comfortable chair, awaiting her.

She instantly assumed her thorny manner; but it had no more effect than it would have had upon a rhinoceros. "I've come to say good-bye for the present, Miss Inglis," he[518] airily remarked, as if his visit were a matter of course. "I leave to-morrow for Johannesburg on business; and as I shall probably see your brother, it would give me great pleasure to take charge of anything you may wish to send him."

Esther's handsome face relaxed. Really it was very kind and thoughtful of Mr. Lang, who, with his influence, might prove a valuable friend to Jack.

"It is very good of you, and in his last letter Jack asked us to send him some collars and ties; they are such a fearful price at Johannesburg, and not good. But they are not bought yet, and you say you leave to-morrow?"

"Yes, but the shops will not be closed for some time, and my victoria is at the door, if you will honour me by using it to go where you wish."

Esther hesitated a moment; but the opportunity of saving expensive and troublesome postage, besides serving Jack, was too good to lose. Mr. Lang rose, and indicated a box lying on the table.

"I've brought you a little fruit, Miss Inglis, just sent to me from my country place near Dorking. My head-gardener prides himself on his peaches and nectarines; but I must leave you to judge."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Esther, with sparkling eyes; for she had not tasted a nectarine since leaving Mallowfleld. In a moment she had undone the satin ribbon which tied down the lid, and was feasting her eyes on such peaches as she had seldom seen.

"As you seem fond of fruit, I'll give orders to my gardener to send you a box periodically," observed Mr. Lang. "Oh, don't thank me; I shall be away, and somebody may as well enjoy it. And if you'll have the parcel and letters ready, my footman shall call for them to-morrow morning."

He accompanied Esther down to the street, where his beautifully appointed carriage was waiting; and it must be confessed she enjoyed finding herself seated behind a spruce coachman and footman once more. "You will take this lady's orders," pompously commanded Mr. Lang. "Keep the carriage as long as you like, Miss Inglis, and I'll not forget about the parcel."

So manifest was his desire to propitiate, that Esther could do no less than bid him a civil farewell, with the hope that he might have a pleasant journey. Then she rolled away, looking so much at home in the smart carriage that Mr. Lang gazed after her admiringly.

"By Jove, how well she sets the whole thing off! Looks like a lady used to carriages all her life. May Burnside really isn't a patch upon Esther Inglis; there is no mistake about that!"

Had Miss Waller only been there to hear him, she might well have trembled for the success of her darling scheme of marrying May to a rich man.

EASTER EGG ROLLING IN WASHINGTON

"Going to Mr. President's!"

That is what the hundreds of little boys and girls will tell you any Easter Monday morning, should you chance to stop them and ask their destination as they go toddling along the streets of Washington with baskets of eggs hanging on their arms and a glad delight shining in their eyes.

They make up a very "mixed" crowd, these children! There is the dainty little miss in richly embroidered frock and wide silk sash, with one tiny hand held tightly in the grasp of a big negro nurse and the other hand clasping lovingly a basket of pretty coloured eggs; there is another little girl in a very clean but much-faded gingham or print apron, trotting along at her mother's side—the mother dressed, perchance, in shabby black, belonging to the class known in the Southern part of the States as the "poor whites"; there is also the trio of little "darkey" girls, dancing merrily along the sidewalk, swinging their egg-baskets as though with intention of spilling the eggs over passers-by, yet never quite dropping them, and singing the while as they keep step—

There are nice, smart-looking little boys, strutting along proudly in their first pair of knickerbockers, with pockets bulging out with Easter eggs, their black nurses walking just a few steps behind them; there are the poor white boys whose clothes are patched and boots worn with toes protruding. On other days they sell newspapers, black boots, and do "odd jobbs" to earn a few cents, but on Easter Monday morning they somehow get together a collection of coloured eggs and go to see the President. Then there are the little black boys, some smartly dressed (for many of the coloured people of Washington[520] are well-to-do), and others as shabby as shabby can be. But no matter. Are they not provided with Easter Monday eggs and going up to the White House to see "Mr. President," who every Easter Monday gives over his beautiful lawn to as many little boys and girls as like to go and see him, and roll their eggs over the grassy slopes that look out over the Potomac River?

On no other day during the year does Washington present so interesting and picturesque an appearance as on Easter Monday, and it is the happiest day of all the year with the children of the Capitol City. In England, of course, Easter Monday is always a Bank Holiday, but not so in the United States. In New York and other large American cities banks and shops and schools are open as usual; but in the district of Columbia, where Washington is situated, it is a legal holiday. That in itself makes it a happy time for the children. Then, add to the joy of having no lessons to learn the fact that they are allowed to take[521] dozens of coloured eggs to the White House lawn and play the games of "egg-picking" and "egg-rolling" as the specially invited guests of the President of the United States, and it will be easily understood how festive an occasion is Easter Monday to the children of Washington.

Not even the oldest inhabitants of Washington can remember the time when the boys and girls of the city did not celebrate Easter Monday by "egg-rolling," although the children of fifty years ago rolled their eggs down Capitol Hill, under the shadow of the magnificent Capitol building, instead of on the White House lawn. Year after year the children of former generations trudged up the great hill with their egg-baskets over their arms and had the happiest times imaginable with their Easter games.

One Easter Monday, however, about twenty years ago, hundreds of boys and girls went to Capitol Hill with their eggs just as they had done in previous years, when they were astonished to be hustled off the grounds by special messengers and policemen from the Senate and House of Representatives, who declared that the distinguished Senators and Congressmen in convention assembled had made up their minds that their "door-yard" was no longer to be disfigured for days after Easter Monday with broken eggs and vari-coloured shells! They were weary of having their highly polished boots smeared with yolks of eggs, and Easter Monday "egg-rolling" in Washington was to be ended!

Then there went up all about the precincts of the nation's Capitol a loud wail of anguish and wrath from hundreds of childish throats, in which the numerous nurses and attendants joined. Many boys and girls gathered on the steps of the building, sobbing in disappointment, some of the larger boys throwing out direful hints of vengeance to be wreaked on the heads of the nation's law-makers; but the stately Senators remained stony-hearted, in spite of it all. In the midst of the tearful hubbub the President's carriage drove past, and President Hayes (the then head of the nation) drew up near the portico to inquire why the children wept instead of rolling their eggs on Easter Monday.

A chorus of voices informed him that the "nasty Senators wouldn't let them play any more because they messed up the grounds"; and then again from the throng of little ones confronting the President there arose fresh outbursts of grief and indignation.

"Never you mind, children," said President Hayes soothingly. "You may come right up to my house and play in my back yard."

Then the mourning was turned to rejoicing. Every child knew that in all the city of Washington there was not so wonderful a "back yard" as that which belonged to the White House. Its beautifully kept slopes were ideal places for "egg-rolling," and then there was the great fountain in the middle of the lawn! So when the President's carriage started to return to the White House, it was followed by several hundred boys and girls swinging their egg-baskets, and singing and shouting out their gratitude to the President of the United States, who was going to let them play in his garden. I doubt if ever an American President had an escort of which he[522] had such cause to feel proud as that which accompanied President Hayes to the White House gates on that memorable Easter Monday.

Outside the gates they were kept waiting for about an hour, while the President gave his hurried instructions to the gardeners to put the place in readiness. At eleven o'clock the gates swung open, and from that time till six o'clock the children rolled their eggs.

Ever since then Washington children have gone regularly every Easter Monday to play in the President's "back yard," each of President Hayes's successors having kept up the custom of inserting in the Washington papers each year an invitation to all the children residents of the town to spend the day rolling eggs on the lawn.

In President Hayes's time his own children joined in the sport, and during the last term of President Cleveland the President's little girls, who were considered too young to roll eggs with the elder children, were kept on the back portico with their mother or their nurse, where they could watch the progress of the games.

Two years ago, on Easter Monday, I spent the day on the White House lawn, watching the big "Presidential children's party," as it is called. The gates were opened at a little after ten o'clock, and during the day there were several thousand children playing in the grounds. Many of the children, besides carrying their baskets of eggs, carried also their luncheon-baskets, and when tired of games they sat about on the grass, picnic-fashion, eating bread-and-butter and cakes and hard-boiled eggs. I should here mention that, although the President does not consider it necessary to make any rules for the preservation of order among his young guests—it being taken for granted that all children invited to the President's garden will behave in their very best style—he always requests that those who accept his invitation to roll their eggs on his lawn will be particular to bring with them only eggs that are thoroughly hard boiled, for in the game of "egg-picking" the use of raw or soft-boiled eggs would be, to say the least, most inconvenient!

The game of "egg-picking" is a very simple one, although it is entered into most enthusiastically by the boys and girls. The children separate themselves into groups of eight or ten, then seat themselves on the grass at the top of the slopes and roll their eggs down to the bottom. The eggs that make the descent without getting cracked or "picked" may be brought back and re-rolled, until they do get cracked or until the game is over, while those that get "picked" are placed back in the baskets. The boy who can hit his neighbour's egg and "pick" it without "picking" his own is looked upon as something of a hero. Of course, toward the end of the game many of the players drop out, all of their eggs having got "picked." Very often the players are reduced to two who show themselves particularly expert, and then there is great excitement watching for the winner.

Besides the game of "egg-picking" there are egg-ball games, egg croquet[523] games; but plain "egg-rolling," which consists of rolling eggs down the slopes, going after them, and rolling them again and again, seems to be the favourite amusement. Then, too, the children engage in "jumping the rope" and other similar amusements.

Although many of the children spend the entire day on the lawn, numbers of them remain for a couple of hours only. By this means the grounds are not kept so crowded as they would otherwise be. The hours between three and five o'clock, however, are considered the most enjoyable, as during that time the President always arranges to have the Marine Baud to entertain the children with music, and it is at that time also that the President makes his appearance out on the back portico to greet the children. It is, of course, thoroughly understood that so busy a man as the President cannot spend his whole day with his young visitors. He entertains them by turning over his grounds to them, and they enjoy themselves in their own way without molestation.

On the afternoon of the Easter Monday which I spent in Washington President McKinley came out on the portico at about half-past three. He took off his hat and waved it to the children, who all gathered as near as possible about the portico and shouted out—

"Howdy do, Mr. President? Howdy do, howdy do?"—the boys taking off their caps and the little girls waving their handkerchiefs.

"How do you do, children? Glad to see you, and hope you are having a good time!" shouted back the President.

"Splendid time, Mr. President, and thank you for your invitation," called back the delighted little guests.

"That's right!" returned the President, laughing. "I hope you'll all come again next Easter Monday."

"Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye, good-bye!" shouted the children. Then President McKinley went back to his duties of State and the children returned to their egg-rolling. Mrs. McKinley sat on the portico most of the afternoon watching the merriment. Occasionally a little boy or girl would edge up to the portico, and push a blue or red egg through the railings, saying:

Mrs. McKinley accepted the little presents with the sweetest of smiles and a "Thank you."

At about two o'clock in the afternoon the White House lawn looked like a large picnic ground. Some of the children had brought napkins to lay upon the grass when they should be ready to eat their luncheon, and on the napkins they spread their boiled eggs and bread-and-butter. One little girl, when I complimented her on her daintiness, explained:

"I does it so I won't get eggshells on Mr. President's grass! My mamma told me I must be careful, cos it wouldn't be very nice if the President of the 'Nited States had to go round to-morrow picking up eggshells after me!"

During the afternoon there were several slight accidents at the fountain. Some of the children delighted in digging all the meat from their eggs through the smallest possible aperture and then floating the empty shells in the lower basin of the fountain where the water was undisturbed. In trying to keep their improvised ships from sailing away, two little girls fell into the water, but they were quickly rescued by their nurses and taken home to be dried.

At five o'clock the crowd began to disperse, and at a little past six the small guests of the President had all left the lawn and were on their way to their various homes. Such a variety of homes, indeed, they went to! Some to magnificent mansions on Connecticut Avenue. Their fathers were high Government officials, Senators, members of the Cabinet, and their mothers well-known society women. Other little boys and girls went to very humble homes and minded their little baby brothers and sisters while their mothers got supper; and then there were the homes in the localities given over almost entirely to the negro population. Before the War their parents and grandparents had been slaves, little dreaming that their descendants would ever be invited along with the children of the aristocratic whites to play in the President's "back yard"!

By the way, what a sight that "back yard" did present on the morning following Easter Monday! There were four gardeners busily at work with rakes and brooms and baskets. They were gathering up the litter of eggshells, breadcrumbs, bits of paper, lost playthings, and tiny bits of muslin and calico that had somehow got torn off the dresses of some of the children. At the fountain one of the gardeners was fishing out pieces of string and floating shells. It was four o'clock when the garden was finally "picked up" and shorn of its festive appearance. It was then absolutely "spick and span," and no one could ever have guessed that the day before it had been a playground for several thousand children!

FORGIVENESS.

Within a spacious hall, before a fire
Whose flick'ring light danced weirdly on his brow,
Stood Peter mutely brooding o'er his vow
To die with Christ, though thousands should conspire
To wreak their vengeance, profitless and dire,
On Christ and all who faith in Him avow.
With sin the soul of Peter struggled now,
When, "Known, or not, to Jesus?" men inquire.

"I know Him not"—thus, falsely, thrice he swore;
And think you that because this weak man fell
The God-Man would deny him evermore?
Christ looked upon him, and that look did spell:
"For thee My soul shall on the Cross be riven,
And, therefore, Peter, is thy sin forgiven!"

Louis H. Victory.

Our Roll of Heroic Deeds

The above picture records a brave attempted rescue on the part of Private Frederick Lakeman Banks, of the London Rifle Brigade. When on the way to the Rainham Rifle Range some time ago, Banks and several of his companions were attracted to this spot by the cries of some bystanders, who stated that a child had fallen into the thick muddy water of the tidal creek and had disappeared. Banks immediately threw off his coat, plunged into the filthy water, and after a three minutes' search succeeded in finding the boy. Unhappily, the child was past help; but, all the same, the gallantry displayed by the rescuer was rewarded by the bestowal of the Bronze Medal of The Quiver Heroes' Fund.

MISS LUCRETIA'S NEW IDEA.

A COMPLETE STORY.

"So poor Annie is dead!" Miss Lucretia repeated as she laid down the black-edged letter which she had just read through for the third time and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief already damp and flabby. "Poor Annie! So soon after poor Edward's death too! And now I wonder what will become of poor little Amy?"

She repeated the adjective which seemed most appropriate as often as she liked, for she was only speaking to herself.

Miss Lucretia lived alone in a very small house, which was one of a row, all just alike, with a bow-window apiece for their glory, and a little bit of garden and a fence and a gate. They were called Primrose Cottages, despite the fact that there were no primroses about them.

Thirlambury was a very dull, behind-the-age little town, and people thought Miss Lucretia a very dull, behind-the-age little lady. She thought so herself; for she had always taken life meekly.

Lucretia was the only one of the three sisters—of whose happy girlhood together the old maid was thinking as she wiped away her tears—who had been at all meek. Constantia and Ann had both been strong-charactered, masterful girls, in accordance with the traditions of their family. With Constantia this decided turn had met with the happiest development. It had enabled her to manage to perfection a husband and family, and it was with pardonable pride that she now looked at her six successful sons and daughters, all brought up just as they should have been, physically, intellectually, and morally; of whom the last had just left the nursery for the school-room.

With Ann the family characteristics had gone in the wrong direction. Her strong will had led her to marry a very unsatisfactory little man, whom his family finally exported to New Zealand, with her and their four children, rejoicing over the happy riddance. Out there Constantia did not like to say, providentially, though that was the adverb which suggested itself—the four children took diphtheria, and every one of them died.

When the grass had grown green on those four graves, another child was born—little Amy—and Aunt Lucretia was asked to be its godmother. And now, there was this child of five years old left without either parent. They had not been first-class parents, but Miss Lucretia did not think of that; her heart being of too old-fashioned make for such philosophy.

"An orphan, poor little dear!" she said to herself, and her handkerchief became damp again at the thought.

"Constantia has arranged already about her being brought to England," Miss Lucretia soliloquised. (Being alone, she had got into the way of soliloquising.) "How prompt Constantia always is! And now what will become of the child?"

It was not an idle speculation. Miss Lucretia was revolving something in her mind—an idea so new, so absorbing, that over it her eyes dried, and she put back the letter into its envelope with untrembling fingers.

"I am sure I could do it!" she said at last, speaking aloud this time, and with a great deal of determination. "A child of five cannot cost much to keep, and there are many little ways in which I could reduce my expenditure." Then she relapsed into silent thought again. She was making deep calculations, wondering how an income which just sufficed for her and her faithful Fanny could be stretched at the four corners so as to cover the expenses of one more member of humanity. Such a little member that in a large household she could be received and fed and clothed for some years to come without any perceptible difference in the outgoings; but this was a very small household, and the matter had to be considered.

Miss Lucretia's income was of the kind described as modest; but she was a careful manager, and, as everybody knew how poor she was, nothing was expected of her in the way of entertaining beyond a quiet cup of afternoon tea, and the promoters of charity lists went away from her door contented if she only gave half-a-crown.

She always did give the half-crown, and a penny to the organ-grinder who came round weekly, and sixpence each to the butcher's boy, the baker's boy, and the grocer's boy at Christmas; the same every year, not allowing herself any wild excursions of charity till the regular subscriptions had been provided for.

But it was not in her philanthropies that Miss Lucretia proposed making her substantial reductions. There were a great many little luxuries which could be curtailed.

Regarding food, people would have said that no one was more economical than Miss Lucretia, but Miss Lucretia herself knew better. It was true that there never was any waste in this little establishment. A pound of meat was never ordered when three-quarters of a pound would do; and every scrap of food was eaten. But the meat and the milk and the butter ordered for 4, Primrose Cottages were always of the very best. The eggs must be newlaid, and not selected. The pot of jam—"preserves," Miss Lucretia called it, with old-fashioned elegance—in which she and Fanny indulged once a fortnight, must be of whole fruit in syrup; not the marvels of cheapness in two-pound jars.

"Why," thought Miss Lucretia now to herself, "should I buy butter at eighteenpence a pound, when they say the Normandy butter, or the Brittany, is really excellent? And it does seem a sinful waste to give two shillings for tea when one can get it quite good, the Vicar's wife tells me, at sixteen-pence. Indeed, I have seen phenomenal tea at a shilling." And so on.

The little lady proceeded with her reductions till she was quite convinced that Amy's coming need make no real difference in Fanny's comfort—the question which had pressed most upon her mind.

Then there were Amy's clothes to be thought of. Well, they would not cost much. There was a gown hanging up now in the cupboard which might be cut up for her.

Then there was a crimson merino dress which Miss Lucretia had bought last summer for the Vicarage garden-party—not without some misgivings as to the choice of so unwearing a colour, but with the solace to her conscience of knowing it could be dyed.

That would make a sweet little frock and cloak for Amy; for the dress had only been worn twice, and its wearer had held it up very carefully out of the dust.

Miss Lucretia went up to the little box-room opening out of her bedroom, and turned out a number of old treasures—things she had kept ever since her girlhood, carefully folded, wrong side out, and covered with tissue-paper. Here was her bridesmaid's dress for Constantia's wedding—that would cut up into a lovely Sunday frock; and here was a piece of china silk which had never been made up till Miss Lucretia grew too old for white dresses; and other things that would all come in.[528] Yes, she would have no difficulty in dressing little Amy, and making her look just as smart as the children at Beaconsfield Mansion when occasion arose for it. She hoped the occasions would arise, that her child would be asked to parties, like other children, and with a new interest the old woman thought of the different families of her acquaintance.

And now about a room for Amy. The little box-room must be cleared out, and that would make a charming nest for her. The old chintz with the rosebuds on it Miss Lucretia had just taken from its paper would be the very thing for curtains. A little bed would just fit here behind the door, and a washstand there, and so on. Miss Lucretia planned it all out with absorbing interest. The question was, where was the money to come from for buying the furniture? There were certain things in the box-room which could be sold. Miss Lucretia's harp; she never played on it now, and harping was out of fashion, so it would not be wanted for Amy. And that portfolio of engravings—and—— She had soon marked out enough of her treasures to make the furnishing of the little room an easy matter.

Then she went downstairs and divulged her great project to Fanny. Her co-operation was very necessary, and her mistress approached her a little timidly.

Fanny's heart was warm. She listened to Miss Lucretia's plans and wishes without any crushing comment, but at the end she remarked, "Well, I should have thought as Mrs. Dalrymple would have taken her; she is so rich and with that big place and all; but if she don't feel disposed that way, and you do, ma'am, well, I suppose the poor little soul had best come to us." That was quite enough, and now Miss Lucretia hurried out of the house, and into the High Street, to inquire about the price of children's beds. It was early in the day, of course, to enter into such details, but then, the whole affair was so interesting that they could not be put off till to-morrow.

As Miss Lucretia walked down the High Street, she was attracted by a toyshop, and found herself straying into it to inquire the price of a doll in the window. It would be very silly to buy one so soon, and before any of the necessaries of life were provided for. But the temptation proved too strong for her. She went in and bought it—the first present she would give to her child.

Miss Lucretia spent an hour in the furniture shop. She had to arrange first with the proprietor about the sale of her own belongings, and then to choose the furniture for the room. She found she wanted only the prettiest, nicest things for Amy, though the cheapest for their solid value would have been her main object if for herself. Then there was a lovely paper, with nursery rhyme pictures all over it, which so fascinated her that she ordered half-a-dozen pieces of it to come on approval.

Altogether, it was a most exciting afternoon, and Miss Lucretia came home with a springing step, and radiant eyes, and a general bearing of youthfulness, such as she had not known for the last twenty years. A bright golden glow had suddenly overspread the grey landscape of her life, such as the sun sometimes throws at sunset, when it looks out from under a cloud at the end of a long grey day.

Before the post went out, she wrote a letter to Constantia, announcing her intention of taking Amy for her own, which gave a delightful seal of finality to her decision.

II.

"I could not have believed that Lucretia would be so foolish. Just fancy! she wants to adopt Amy!" was Mrs. Dalrymple's comment, as she read her sister's letter; and everyone at the breakfast table exclaimed.

"It is a very generous idea," remarked Mr. Dalrymple mildly. He had always been a mild sort of man, and marriage with Constantia had not made him less so.

"Generous! yes. Lucretia is always generous. You know the difficulty I had in stopping her giving expensive presents to the children; but it is so very foolish. I shall write her a letter, of course, and tell her that we intend to have Amy ourselves. Poor Lucretia! Fancy her with the charge of a child!"

So Constantia wrote her letter. It[529] contained about a quarter of the words that Lucretia had used, and was very sensible, kind and decided. There was no answer required to it.

Great was Mrs. Dalrymple's surprise, therefore, when by return of post came a reply, not of acquiescence, but setting forth the other aunt's superior claim as godmother, an idea which, as Constantia remarked, was simply absurd.

"I shall have to go to Thirlambury myself," she said: "though it is not very convenient." It was often not very convenient to go to Thirlambury.

In the meantime, Miss Lucretia had been indulging in her new day-dream, till every bit of her life had been remodelled in anticipation, and brought into harmony with her coming work and responsibility as an adopted mother. Already she attached to herself that beautiful title, the missing of which had been the sole sorrow of her life. As a young girl, Lucretia's day-dreams had not been of lovers, but of marriage; the joys of children clinging round her neck, the merry voices about the house, the little feet pattering up and down.

And now she counted the days to the one coming so near, when she should feel the real warm arms of little Amy clasped round "godmamma's" neck, and fold the child in her own with the new wonderful joy of possession. She felt that she could hold up her head again among women, and that the life which a week ago had seemed to hold nothing more except advancing infirmities was full of new possibilities and ever-increasing interest. Miss Lucretia lived again.

Miss Lucretia actually bought the bed,[530] which the shopman had urged her to purchase at once, or it might be gone, as he had no other bedstead for a child.

As Miss Lucretia relinquished one after another of her own comforts and conveniences, the blessedness of giving grew more and more apparent to her. Nothing in life had ever given her a joy like the joy of this sacrifice.

Four days had passed so, and Miss Lucretia was just planning which plot of the small garden space allowed to a Primrose cottage might be spared from beans and cauliflowers to make a flowerbed for Amy, when a ring was heard at the door-bell. Miss Lucretia answered it herself, as Fanny was out, and there stood Constantia!

Miss Lucretia was always delighted to see her sister, and made the most of her rather infrequent visits. But to-day a kind of misgiving came over her at the unexpected sight of Constantia's smiling face; and a sensation of defeat as Constantia uttered, in her brisk, cheerful voice, the words, "And how are you, Lucretia? You didn't expect to see me?"

Lucretia welcomed her, as usual, and took her into the little parlour, which was drawing-room or dining-room according to the time of day. It was drawing-room now, and the dining-table stood folded, with a cloth and some ornaments on it, in a corner; everything was as neat and carefully arranged as it always was; each chair in that particular spot which experience had proved to be the best for it.

"How nice and tidy you always look, Lucretia," was Mrs. Dalrymple's first remark, as she sat down with a genial laugh in the visitor's arm-chair. "You must be struck with the difference when you come to The Towers. With six children, it is impossible to keep everything in its place!"

Miss Lucretia asked after the six children, categorically, staving off the subject which she knew very well had brought her sister to Thirlambury.

"The girls are as well as possible," answered their mother, massing them, for brevity; "and they are all looking forward so much to having Amy." Mrs. Dalrymple was a person who took bulls by their horns. She always knew exactly what she intended to do with the bull—the great secret of success in life—and was quite sure about its being the best thing that could be done.

"But I intended to have Amy," answered Miss Lucretia, in almost as firm a voice, but putting herself at a disadvantage at once by her slip of the past tense.

"Yes, I know you did. You wrote me all about it. It was exceedingly kind and good of you to think of such a thing, but, of course, it was quite out of the question. As I told you when I wrote, we intend to take her."

"Yes, and I saw by that you did not quite understand mine to you. I wrote in a hurry, and I suppose I did not make myself clear."

Constantia Dalrymple was under the[531] impression that she was the most truthful of women.

"You made yourself perfectly clear," answered Lucretia, with a quiet dignity which was not usual with her. "But before you spoke of taking the child, I had made up my mind to do so. I have spoken to Fanny about it, and she is perfectly willing to accept the extra economies we shall have to practise, and any trouble Amy will give her. Of course, I shall take charge of her myself."

"How good of Fanny! I have always thought she must have enough to do with the whole work of your house, and she works a good deal in the garden, too, does she not?"

"I think Fanny will enjoy having a young life about the house," she replied, rather hurriedly; "just as I shall myself."

Constantia smiled. It was not exactly a nice smile, but perhaps she did not know that.

"I do not think either you or Fanny have had much to do with children," she said. "It is all very well to have them with you for a few hours at a time, when they are in their best frocks and on their best behaviour, and you have nothing to do with them except amuse them. But when you have the whole responsibility of a child, and are obliged to look after her from morning till night, it is a very different thing."

It was that very fact, comprising as it did the constant demand on time and thought and labour, with all the rich reward of corresponding affection from the child in its dependence, that made the sweetness of this dream of motherhood. But Lucretia could not put this into words. She was never very fluent with her deeper ideas, which were, perhaps, instincts rather than formulated notions, and she was least fluent of all with Constantia.

"But you won't be able to go on dressing Amy with your old things for ever," said Constantia. "And, then, there will be hats and boots and shoes.

"She may be ill, too; children have to go through measles and whooping-cough, and that sort of thing: how will you afford to pay the doctor?"

Lucretia was silent for a moment; Constantia had such a very convincing way of saying things, and making all that was unpractical and visionary appear so; but she was not really vanquished.

"I think one must trust for that——" she began, at which Constantia smiled again.

"How about schooling, too? A girl's education is a very expensive thing nowadays. I am sure Edie and Gwendoline have cost us as much as the boys."

"Amy is only five now, and for some years to come I think of teaching her myself." The present tense this time, for she was on her mettle. "You know we were very thoroughly grounded by Miss Cox."

"Yes, it is a long time, but I suppose the principles of grammar and arithmetic are the same, and I have not forgotten how to read!"

It surprised Mrs. Dalrymple to see her sister pluck up so much spirit, but this defiant attitude did not affect her. There was in her such a certainty of being in the right, and of causing the right to prevail, that she was able to take all Lucretia's opposition very quietly. It was obstinate of her sister to hold out like this—weak people always were obstinate—and it was extremely foolish, but her surrender was only a matter of time.

Lucretia went on talking, urging her suit in a way that would have struck some people as pathetic, but Constantia was not much given to seeing the pathos in life; her view of things in general was optimistic, and unless a sorrow was thrust before her she did not look at it.

Constantia let Lucretia talk on until she naturally ceased, after repeating herself a good many times, in the way that peculiarly weakens a cause. Then she brought up her reserve force.

"But do you think it would be good for the child to be by herself, just with you and old Fanny?"

Fanny was ten years younger than her mistress, and Lucretia realised how very old fifty-nine must be.

Constantia paused a moment. Then she went on to point out all the drawbacks of a bringing-up such as Amy must have with two old maids—not using the term, but dwelling on the characteristics implied in it.

"What would you do with the child if she were naughty?" Mrs. Dalrymple asked by way of a test question. "She is sure to have a strong will of her own; you know what poor Ann was."

Miss Lucretia could not answer the question, naughtiness seeming to her as multi-form a thing as illness, and the treatment for either depending upon its form and cause. She replied that her idea was to bring the child up on a system of love; a vague answer which did not satisfy her sister.

"Bringing up children is not such an easy and simple matter as people might think who have had no experience." Here Constantia herself stood on a firm foundation. "And it is much more difficult to bring up one child by itself than when there are others for it to consort with."

Then Mrs. Dalrymple proceeded to dilate on the smallness of Primrose Cottage, which was certainly a very poor little place compared with The Towers. There Amy would have the grounds to play about in; she would share the girls' governess, ride on Gwendoline's pony, and Nurse, who had been so splendid with Bertram and Edie, would only be too pleased to have a child again.

"It always makes her and me quite unhappy to look at the empty nursery," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "though the children have only flown into the schoolroom."

There was a weight of truth in every sentence Constantia uttered, which made it strike like a battering-ram against the walls of Miss Lucretia's airy castle. At last she gave a little cry—a cry in words:

"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would really be best for Amy."

Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been doing its duty.

At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which was always so much better than they could get their cook at The Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that seemed as if it would never smile again.

She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship.

But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing. No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it, so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings, Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by, the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of unselfishness had not made any other course impossible.

It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to Constantia she must go.

"I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace as befitted her unheroic sacrifice.

"I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system, the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children, never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life and your pretty cottage upside down."

There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she could have understood, it would have made no difference.

Miss Lucretia said nothing. It was time now for Mrs. Dalrymple to go, and, finishing her second cup of tea, she wished her sister an affectionate good-bye, with the promise of a hamper of game from The Towers, where they were just going to have one of their "big shoots."

"Perhaps I might have done it more kindly," Constantia thought, as she drove in her cab to the station. "But it was such a foolish idea. I am glad Lucretia saw it for herself in the end."

Miss Lucretia went upstairs with slow, old footsteps, after her sister had gone. The last red glow had faded from her landscape, and everything was grey again, a shade deeper grey now, as it must go on growing deeper, till the night. She went into the little room, and, as she looked at the little bed which was never to hold her child, a tear came up into each of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

The doll lay on the bed, wrapped up in the white muslin that was to have made its underclothes, looking like a tiny corpse. It seemed to Lucretia like her dream of motherhood as it was now, the dead body of something that had never really lived.

She went to the window and looked out on the grey, darkening landscape, and over it there twinkled one faint star. She stood watching, and the star grew brighter, then another came out, and then another. For a long time Lucretia looked up: then she knelt down, looking up still.

The far-off light from the stars seemed to be shining on her face as she turned it to Fanny, when that faithful woman came up at last to bring her mistress down to supper.

"Miss Amy is going to Mrs. Dalrymple," she said, quietly, and with a little smile. "My sister left it to me to decide whether she should go to The Towers or come here, and I gave her up to them, Fanny. I am glad she is going to my sister. She will be happier there."

SOME FAMOUS EASTER HYMNS

There can be no two opinions as to the most famous Easter hymn. In almost every church throughout the land, and in most chapels too, there arises, every Easter morning, the well-known strains of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Alleluia!" There may be an occasional difference in the wording of a line here and there, as the hymn appears in various hymnals, but practically it is the one hymn which binds all Christian congregations together on Easter morning. It is our Easter greeting one to another, in the joy and hope of that blessed day, like the greeting of the pious Russian on the same morn, who salutes every passer-by with the words "Christ is risen!"

It is strange, therefore, that no one has even an indistinct notion as to who wrote this famous hymn. Its author is, and long has been, unknown; and, equally strange, there is almost the same to be said of the composer of its famous tune. For the tune is as great a favourite as the words, and, in fact, whilst the words do occasionally alter, as stated, the tune is ever the same one we know so well. The honour of being its composer has by some been ascribed to Henry Carey, but there are no certain grounds for the assumption, fine musician though he was. So completely has this tune associated itself, however, with the hymn that few people are aware that some collections of hymns have alternative tunes to the great song of praise for Easter Day. But even Monk's tune to it[535] in "Hymns Ancient and Modern," takes quite an inferior place; it is seldom, or never, used.

Possibly the immense popularity of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day" depends on two things. Firstly, the words are extremely simple—a little child can understand them; secondly, the tune is one of the very best "congregational" ones of any collection.

Were I asked to name the next favourite Easter hymn, I should certainly give the palm to one of the most beautiful hymns of the Church of Christ—a hymn which has solaced and sustained the hearts of thousands in their dark hours of grief for the loss of their loved ones, just as it has rejoiced the hearts of so many loving servants of the Master at their Easter festivals. I refer to Baring-Gould's touching hymn "On the Resurrection morning."

The comfort derived from the sweet words of hope and promise in this hymn by members of the Church militant here on earth will never be known till that "Resurrection morning."

The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould has kindly given me, for The Quiver, a copy of the manuscript of this hymn, and a few notes about it which cannot but prove interesting. It was composed on May Day, in 1864, he says; and, certainly, that is appropriate enough, for do not all poets sing of May Day as a special day for the awakening and rejoicing of nature? Horbury, that robust Yorkshire village where Mr. Baring-Gould was then the curate, was the birthplace of "On the Resurrection morning," as it was of what has proved one of the six most "popular" hymns of the world, viz. "Onward, Christian soldiers." So Horbury enjoys no mean fame. No one speaks more lovingly of Horbury than does its former curate, now so famous; and Horbury—church, chapel, and "non-connected"—is proud to a degree of Sabine Baring-Gould and of the fame he has for ever given its name by these and other noted hymns.

It will be noticed that there is a word or two slightly different in the author's copy from those of the usually printed text. In one case his manuscript is not perhaps the better. "Which shall never, through long ages, pass away," is not, in the writer's opinion, grander than "Which shall not, through endless ages, pass away." Dr. E. H. Turpin's fine tune to "On the Resurrection morning" has the merit of exactly suiting it. All can sing it, and that makes it so popular. The composer, with great kindness, has also allowed me to reproduce his manuscript of it here; and it is only fair to say that did the renown of the celebrated organist, as a[536] composer, depend only on this one tune, so linked to the hymn, it would not easily perish whilst joyful hearts on Easter Day, and sad hearts at the graveside of loved ones, join in singing "On the Resurrection morning."

To the Rev. J. M. Neale, who died about the time when Baring-Gould wrote the hymn just spoken of, the Christian world is indebted for three splendid Easter hymns. Of these it is difficult to say which is the finest, though perhaps, being quite original, we should give that honour to the well-known "The foe behind, the deep before." Every section of the Church of Christ sings with deep and solemn pathos those beautiful lines—

following so closely on the joyful strain of "Christ is risen!" in the preceding verse.

To this hymn innumerable tunes have been composed by musical people of various degrees of ability; but it has always seemed to me that by far the best are the two tunes given to it in the Wesleyan hymn-book, and, curious to relate, the composers are both ministers, the Rev. Olinthus R. Barnicott and the Rev. Sidney J. P. Dunman. And it may safely be said that the singing by an average Wesleyan congregation of this fine hymn, to either of these fine tunes, will not be easily forgotten by the person who hears it for the first time.

The two other famous Easter hymns of Dr. Neale's composition were really translations from the Greek. Nevertheless, they are grand translations, if one may say so. "The Day of Resurrection"—best recognised when sung to the tune composed by Berthold Tours, the celebrated composer is a regular favourite at Easter-tide; but even more famous is the other hymn from the Greek—

This hymn may safely be placed amongst the most popular of Easter favourites, and, like so many others, whilst excellent in its words, it owes not a little of its fame to its fine tune. This latter was composed by Mr. Arthur Henry Brown, of Brentwood, and was called "St. John Damascene," under which name it still figures in the various Church hymn-books. Mr. Brown told me that the tune was composed in less than a quarter of an hour! But he also told me that even that was eclipsed by the tune "St. Anatolius"—does any hymn-lover not know it?—to "The day is past and over," which was composed in five minutes! Truly that was an[537] "inspired" five minutes, for which the Christian Church has reason to be thankful!

To the late Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Christopher Wordsworth—who that knew the saintly old man did not love him?—the world is indebted for the ever-popular

which always goes with "a good swing" on Easter morn. Its tone is "victory" from beginning to end, and there are few more beautiful Easter verses than the first one of this hymn.

Sir Arthur Sullivan composed its tune—the one best known, "Lux Eoi"—and the very lilt of the music seems somehow to suggest the work of the great musician who gave us similar "swinging" tunes for "Onward, Christian soldiers" ("St. Gertrude") and for "The Jubilee Hymn." But Sir Arthur tells me that "Lux Eoi" was not composed especially for this hymn, but for another one less famous. The rapidity of Sir Arthur's composition is only equalled by that of Arthur H. Brown, already mentioned. The gifted composer of The Golden Legend thinks long before he puts pen to paper, and often defers doing this "till the last minute," as we say; but when he does get started, he goes at it as few composers can, and will polish off the introduction to an oratorio in a night!

"When I survey the wondrous Cross," that splendid old hymn of that splendid old divine, Dr. Isaac Watts, is probably one of our very oldest hymns that is at all well known to-day. Everybody sings it, for everybody knows both words and tune: Englishman, native African, Brother Jonathan, converted Chinese, all sing alike from the heart, after they have felt the real significance and power of that death and resurrection—

"Rockingham," the tune to which this hymn is eternally wedded, was composed by Dr. Edward Miller. There is a magnificent roll and stateliness about it which suits the words perfectly, and the wonderful magnetic force which comes over one as one listens to six thousand people—led by, say, Mr. Ira D. Sankey, singing "When I survey the wondrous Cross"—was well described by the nameless slave in America, who, hearing it thus sung by a crowd, and being reproved for humming the tune as the people sang, said, "Massa, it no use; me must jine in!"

A living hymn-writer of no small fame—the present Archbishop of York—has given us one of the very finest of the hymns for this season. Though not popular in the sense that Dr. Watts' celebrated hymn is, yet there are few more charmingly beautiful lines, suggestive of Good Friday and Easter thoughts, than are found in Dr. Maclagan's hymn,[538] "Lord, when Thy Kingdom comes, remember me!"

This hymn is one of the best-known of the Archbishop's, though, of course, his most famous one is the ever-beautiful "The Saints of God, their conflict past."

We cannot pass by without notice the Rev. John Ellerton's "Welcome, happy morning," and the Rev. F. W. Faber's very sweetly sad "O come and mourn with me awhile," which, of course, is a hymn for Good Friday. The tune to this was written by the celebrated Durham man to whom the Church of England (and all denominations) will ever be in debt for some of the sweetest hymn-tunes the world has ever known—Dr. J. B. Dykes. And it was fitting that he who composed the beautiful tune to "Our blest Redeemer," for Whitsuntide, should then give us another ever-famous tune to Faber's grand words.

Let me close this brief account of some of our finest Easter hymns by just recalling one or two of our finest Easter anthems. Of course, the first, par excellence, is the immortal "I know that my Redeemer liveth"; and equally with it, from the same "oratorio of oratorios," is the "Hallelujah" Chorus. Of these what shall be said? Shall it be told again how Handel thought he was in heaven when he wrote them? Or shall we note that the "Hallelujah" Chorus is one of the three pieces of music in the world on hearing which every Briton stands up and doffs his hat? These are the National Anthem, the "Dead March" in Saul, and the "Hallelujah" Chorus. In the first he pays his tribute to his earthly sovereign; in the second he pays his last tribute to the venerated dead; in the third he acknowledges the tribute due to his Almighty Lord, the Sovereign of Heaven.

Apart from these two masterpieces of Handel, the prettiest and most beautiful Easter anthem is that of Dr. Stainer, composed for the cantata The Raising of Jairus' Daughter. In a wide experience of cathedral music and anthem-singing by our best choirs, I doubt if there is any much finer musical treat than to listen to the choir of St. Paul's, or that of York Minster, as there rolls forth that most beautiful of anthems, words and music—"Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and God shall give thee light." This is, indeed, a noble song for "Easter's bright morning," and well may its words be taken as our special Easter thought; for to all of us, in some way or other, they must have a special meaning.

SELF-HEALING.

"Physician, heal thyself."—St. Luke iv. 23.

]We are accustomed to think that the healing virtue there is in herbs and trees was meant only for man; that herbs and trees were created with these virtues in them for the special purpose of curing our human diseases and ministering to our human wants, and for nothing else; that God had man in view in the beginning when He gave these medicinal qualities to plants, and apart from man's use of them they serve no other purpose.

Now this, which is a common, widespread idea, is an altogether erroneous one. For if God meant these vegetable qualities and products exclusively for man's use, the questions may be pertinently asked, Why were they so long undiscovered; and why do they occur in places often remote from human habitation, and waste themselves upon the desert air?

It is true indeed that God designed them as remedies for man's ailments, that He prepared beforehand the cures of human ills long previous to the necessity for these cures arising. But this law of mercy was a comprehensive one, and had a two-fold object in view. God in the first place created the plant complete in itself, adapted to its own circumstances and requirements; and in the second place, it is through this perfect adaptability to its own wants that it becomes generally useful in nature, and ministers to the necessities of other created things. It is because the plant heals itself first by the remedy which it grows and produces by its own powers that it becomes a medicine to the animal world, when any members of that world are placed in similar circumstances and exposed to a similar disease.

Why, for instance, does the Peruvian bark tree produce the bitter principle in its bark from which we have prepared the valuable medicine called quinine? Is it not because that bitter principle is necessary to preserve the health of the tree itself in the wet, malarial districts where it grows? The Peruvian bark tree grows its own quinine, and administers it to itself, as it were, in order to prevent a disease in itself caused by the marshy places where it is found, similar to fever in the human subject. The willow grows beside rivers and streams which are apt to cause exhalations and breed influences that are noxious to the well-being of the tree. It has therefore developed in its own bark a febrifuge called salicin, which protects it from these noxious influences and maintains its trunk and branches and foliage in vigorous health and beauty. And it is because the quinine is good for the tree itself in malarial places that it is good for the fever which human beings take in such places; and it is because the salicin of the willow guards the tree from the injurious exhalations of marshes and river banks that it is a specific for rheumatism in man, which is produced by the same causes.

The same benefit which the medicinal principle developed by itself works in its own constitution it confers upon man when subjected to the same evil. And so it is with all the herbal medicines. They have a purpose to serve in the economy of the plant that yields them before they can minister to human sickness and disease. Sugar was not meant in the first instance to sweeten man's cup, but to store up food for the plant in order to enable it to flower. Tannin is created in the bark of the oak tree, in the first instance, not for the purpose[540] of helping to make leather for man's shoes, but for the purpose of preventing mildew and fungous growths from settling on the bark of the tree and so decaying it. Scent is produced in flowers and shrubs that grow in watery places, not for man's gratification in the first instance, but in order to deodorise the air and make it fit for these scented flowers and shrubs to breathe and to preserve their vitality and vigour. Aromatic fragrance is yielded by the grey shrubs and herbs of the dry desert, not that the garments of the human passer-by might smell pleasantly of it, but that it might regulate the temperature, and keep the plants cool in the burning heat of the noonday and warm in the freezing cold of the night air.

Such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. Indeed, it may be regarded as a rule of nature without exception that, whatever properties plants possess that are useful to man, these properties, in the first instance, are not only useful but indispensable to themselves. And it is because they serve necessary uses in their own economy that they are found so necessary in the economy of man. Each plant that grows in circumstances where it is likely to be injured by the soil or climate develops within itself the antidotes and remedies against these unfavourable circumstances. It is a physician that heals itself first of all, that adapts itself as perfectly as possible to the peculiarities of its own place of growth. Nature and it are harmonious: they help each other. The qualities that are beneficial to itself are equally in the same way beneficial to other creatures; and it helps the world because it has first helped itself. It imparts health all around because it looks first after its own health.

All this is obvious. The plant could not exist at all did it not develop those qualities which would minister to its welfare and adjust it perfectly to its environment. But in human economy we fancy somehow that the law is less strict and more irregular, and can be violated at times with impunity. We think that a man can perform the part of a physician, and cure others, although he cannot cure a trouble that afflicts himself; that he can restore others to health while he himself is unhealthy. We can separate between a man's skill and his personality; and, indeed, there are many cases where a physician who is dying slowly of some incurable disease can yet, by his knowledge and cleverness, so treat his patients that he may heal their diseases and restore them to health and strength. But we are usually suspicious of a doctor endeavouring to cure others when he himself labours under an uncured disease. We reason naturally that his first concern should be himself; and if he fails in doing good to himself by his skill and medicine, when his interests are most of all concerned and the motive for healing strongest, how can he hope to succeed in the case of others, strangers and comparatively indifferent to him? We should not accept with implicit confidence a so-called remedy for baldness forced upon our notice by a person whose own head was in that condition. We should expect him to operate upon himself in the first instance with success, and then we should feel disposed to venture upon a similar use of it. The proverb says that "He who drives fat cattle must himself be fat"; and upon the principle involved in that common saying he who would heal others must himself be a specimen of that active, vigorous health to which he wishes to restore others. In no work, indeed, is the personal equation of more consequence than in the work of the physician. Three-fourths of the elements that enter into all diseases are spiritual, and three-fourths of the remedies that must be used for them must also be spiritual. The personal appearance, character, and manner of the physician himself are most important factors in the cure of disease. Confidence in the doctor is more than half the cure; and therefore what the doctor is in himself is of great consequence.

In the spiritual sphere the physician can only heal others as he heals himself. He himself must be an exemplification of the saving health of God's countenance if he is to do good to others. It is just as true in the affairs of the human soul as it is in the case of the plant—that the quality which is beneficial to the soul itself is equally beneficial to the world. It is noticeable, however, that there are exceptions to the rule in the spiritual world as there are exceptions in the natural human world. Just as there are cases of physicians healing bodily diseases in others while their own disease is unhealed, so there are cases where a man is the means of saving others while he himself is unsaved.

It is not, indeed, a matter of supposition, but of certainty, that a man may do good while he is not good. Hundreds of instances could be given, in which persons have been the means of quickening, comforting, and building up souls in the Lord, while all the time they themselves were strangers to the power of truth and ignorant of the love of Christ in their hearts. Ministers have preached the Gospel for years, and have been wise in bringing souls to Christ, and yet have themselves been castaways in the end. Members of churches have been zealous in every good work, and yet have known nothing of godliness but the form. The very commonness of this thing increases its sadness. We[541] think the case of Moses leading the Israelites to the border of the Promised Land while he himself was forbidden to enter peculiarly pathetic; but its pathos is in reality far less touching than the case of the man who brings others to the fountain of life while he himself is perishing of thirst, who is like a guide-post pointing the way of salvation to others while unable himself to take a single step.

But though instances have unquestionably occurred in which signal beneficial results have followed the preaching of the Gospel by ungodly men, this is not the normal order of the Divine procedure. It is personal experience of religion as an inward life, as a living power in the heart, that imparts unction to active Christian effort, that adds conviction and power to testimony and commendation. He is the man to do spiritual good to others who is able to say with the Apostle, "That which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, and our hands have handled, of the word of life, declare we unto you, that ye also may have fellowship with us." He is the man to say to others, "O taste and see that the Lord is good," who has himself tasted, and from his own enjoyment can say, "Blessed is the man that trusteth in Him."

It is an unchangeable law and constitution of our nature that we cannot desire blessings for others which we do not really desire for ourselves, the blessedness of which we have not known ourselves. When we feel the value of our own souls, and not till then, we shall feel the value of the souls of others. When we see the Lord ourselves, and not till then, we shall desire that every child of man shall see Him.

It is on this account that our Lord says to Peter, "When thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren." "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me? Feed My sheep; feed My lambs." If we are saved ourselves, we shall be best fitted to save and benefit others. There is a virtue in true holiness, there is a secret charm in the wisdom that cometh from above, which wins our hearts, and inclines us to embrace a religion which yields such blessed fruits. The man who eminently possesses and constantly exhibits these qualities becomes quick and powerful in acting upon the minds of those around him.

The best way, then, to do good is to be good, and to have such a Christian character as will of itself communicate good. Be yourself what you wish your family, your friends and neighbours, to be. "Physician, heal thyself." God needs physicians, many physicians; for there are many destroyers spreading the influence of their ungodly life—a deadly infection—around, and adding to the disease and misery which man's sin first brought upon the world. Let us act as fellow-workers with the Good Physician in bringing back health and strength and beauty to a plague-stricken world; and for this purpose let us qualify ourselves more thoroughly. Let us apply the Gospel remedies anew to our own case which we recommend to others, that our own profiting and healing by these may be made manifest to all. Let us ask God to search us and see if there be anything that would prevent us from doing all the good that we might, any defect of manner or disposition of heart that might cause the way of truth so far as we are concerned to be evil spoken of; and let us ask the help of the Divine Spirit to get it healed. So that thus being made every whit whole ourselves, we may diffuse a healthy atmosphere around us and make others partakers of our saving health.

The Sabbath is the best day for healing. Jesus asked the Jews, "Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath day?" The reply might have been, "Is it lawful to do anything else but heal on the Sabbath day?" That day is set apart for healing the diseases of the world. It is the day of recreation—re-creating us and fitting us anew by its rest and refreshment of worship for the toil and travail of our weekday life. Let us bring to Jesus on this Sabbath day all the old infirmities and disabilities which have been a hindrance to the growth of the work of grace in the midst of us, and He will deliver us from them, and make us new creatures; and so—set free in newness of health and strength, with our palsied frame invigorated, our withered hand restored, our lame feet made swift in the way of God's commandments, and our world-bound spirit loosed from its infirmity and covetousness, and enabled to look upward where our true treasure is—let us seek to free others from their infirmities and diseases, and to make all around us strong in faith and health in the new life of God's service.

Let the tonic that has restored our own spiritual constitution be in all our words and deeds and looks, to restore the spiritual constitution of others. Let the perfume that neutralises the drought and cold of the world be exhaled from all our character and conduct, so that it may be the means of enabling all with whom we come in contact to resist the aridity and the coldness of the world too. Let each of us be so full of Christ's healing and saving power, so saturated with His salvation, as it were, that we ourselves may be Christ's best medicines. Let the words "Physician, heal thyself" be in the very forefront of our profession and of our life throughout all the years; and we ourselves in such a case will be among the most potent influences for good in the world.

PLEDGED.

CHAPTER XVI.

"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART."

Beside the Wishing Well stood Anthony Trevithick, pale and moody. His eyes were on the ground, and an old childish habit of biting his nails when he was perplexed or in trouble had come back to him.

"I beg your pardon," said Lord Glengall at his elbow. "I have returned for some things Miss Graydon left behind her."

"These?" asked the young fellow, pointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets on the moss. But even in his anger he blushed for the unhappiness of the position.

Lord Glengall stooped and picked up the things, and stuffed them into one of the pockets of his rough coat. He turned as if to go away. Then he hesitated an instant and came back.

"There is no reason why we should be enemies," he said, advancing a step nearer.

"You mean on whether I am prepared to stand aside and to sacrifice everything that you may have your will. I know the state of affairs, you see."

"I meant to seek you out and tell you, Lord Glengall. I ought to say, perhaps, that Miss Graydon is without reproach in this matter."

"Neither of us is likely to wrong her in our thoughts, I hope," said Lord Glengall. "The question is, whether you are without reproach."

"Hush!" said the other, with a dignity that was more compelling than his words. "We are speaking as man to man. Miss Graydon has told me something of how affairs lay between you and her, but not all. Why did you leave her in the first instance in the position of a half-engaged girl?"

"She is dearer to me, I dare swear, than she is to you, though you will not believe it. There is no use in beating about the bush. If I think you can make her happier than I can, I am prepared to give her back her promise."

"Don't say anything, please. If I do it, I do it for her. And I shall only give her up to you if I am sure you are worthy."

"I don't say I am worthy, but I have a fairly clean record. As for that matter, I will explain. I was unwise, but I was not altogether to blame. My mother has a greatly loved young cousin. She has been in the house with us since her mother died some years ago. It was a scheme of my mother's that we should marry, though it was not openly expressed. I did not oppose it. I had no idea what love meant till I saw Pamela; but I had fetched and carried for Lady Kitty. Probably a great number of people thought we were engaged; and it seemed to me that I ought to set the matter straight before I was formally engaged to Pamela."

"There; you are young. You can't be expected to be as deliberate as an older man. You meant to act straight by her?"

"I meant to come back in a week a free man. When I was called away to my uncle's sick[543] bed, my mother made me promise not to speak, not to try to clear up things with Lady Kitty, till I returned. I did write to Mr. Graydon, but the letter never reached him." He blushed hotly and paused.

"When I came back, I found—Pamela engaged to you, and my cousin engaged to a great friend of mine. As it proved, she had never thought of me in that way; but her affection for my mother prevented her from speaking out."

"I thought he had not written because I said I would come as soon as I could. Then I was kept week after week, till the time turned into months. I am deeply sorry that I caused her unhappiness."

"Very well, Sir Anthony, I believe you. If you had not been straight, I should have held her to the letter of her bond against you and the world, even against herself. Now—in her heart she has chosen you, and you are a fitter mate for her than I—I resign her to you."

"I do not ask your thanks, sir. Make her happy—that is all. For the rest, I have one word of advice for you."

"Let her be. I will say what is necessary. You will have to win her again, young sir. She is not the girl to change her lovers like her frocks."

"Go," said Lord Glengall, waving him away, "go! If you speak to her in her present mood, you will be sorry. Let her be free of both of us for a while."

"I shall leave her till all this is forgotten. It will be nothing new for me to set out for the ends of the earth at an hour's notice."

"Stop!" said Lord Glengall, with a gesture as if he could not endure the praise. "Good-bye!"

Several times as he went homeward Lord Glengall stooped to pat the shaggy coat of the terrier who still trotted by him.

"You don't know poetry, old fellow," he said once aloud, "but there was a poet named Shakespeare who wrote something about people coming back 'to push us from our[544] stools.' I am not good at remembering poetry; but that young gentleman we have just left has come back to push us from our stools—to push us from our stools."

The dog, as if he understood, thrust a sympathetic nose into his companion's hand.

When Lord Glengall reached Carrickmoyle, he went straight to Mr. Graydon's room. Mary was sitting by her father, stitching a piece of fine white stuff in the twilight.

"Ah! Glengall," said the invalid briskly. "Have you come in to smoke a last pipe with me? Come and tell me what prices were like at the fair to-day. Run away, Molly child, and rest your eyes, and let Glengall have your seat."

The two men lit up soberly, and smoked away for a while, discussing prices and cattle and crops in a desultory fashion.

At last Lord Glengall knocked out the ashes from his stumpy clay against the top bar of the grate, and stuffed the pipe into his pocket.

"Poor little Pam! There were some love-passages, Graydon, between her and your pupil Trevithick."

"I guessed as much, but how far the thing went I have no idea. I don't believe in probing into those things, Glengall. It is better to let them die."

"I hoped so once, not because it would be a good marriage for Pam, or anything of that sort, but because I thought him a good lad, and I believed in his father's son. I was disappointed that he turned out so different from my expectations."

"Would you be surprised to hear that he wrote to you about Pam immediately after he left, and that his mother intercepted the letter?"

"I wonder why she came here, why she troubled our peace, and forced her hospitality on Pam, who didn't want it?" said Mr. Graydon musingly.

"To make a parting between the lad and Pam more certain. She told Pam he was engaged to his cousin; and in other ways made the child's visit miserable."

"Yet I remember her a very noble-looking girl. I don't think she was made for mean things."

"Ah! well, we can let her be. She is sufficiently punished, poor woman, by her son's scorn. That must be a terrible thing to endure."

"However, Graydon, we are not concerned with her. The state of the case is this: The young people were in love with each other, and were parted by a fraud. Under a total misapprehension, Pamela has engaged herself to me. Now that the misapprehension is removed, what is the clear course for me to take?"

"Pamela is at this moment in a mood in which it would not be safe to take her at her word. The only thing for me to do is to step down and out."

"I shall tell her. Afterwards I shall go away till the nine days' wonder is forgotten."

"There is one way in which you can atone to me for its bitterness—I don't mind confessing to you that it is bitter."

"You must borrow from me what will take you abroad. You must; it is for their sakes."

"You have plenty of time before you to grow rich in. When you come back next spring, you must finish your magnum opus."

"I shall feel equal to tackling it after a change. I'm afraid I've been vegetating, and the mosses and mildew have grown upon me. You have lived, Glengall, while I was growing into a worthless old block."

"It is you who have lived," said Lord Glengall. "You have lived naturally. When I die, it is the end of my line, and I shall have no one to close my eyes."

When he found Pam in the drawing-room alone, a little later, he drew her to him, and kissed her hair where it clustered over the white forehead.

"You will wear them for me, Pam?" he[545] said. "I should not know what to do with them."

"You did yesterday, Pam, and you will to-morrow. I have seen Sir Anthony, Pam. He is guiltless, and will come again."

"I sent him away because I was afraid if he came to you now you would make him and yourself unhappy. He hated to go, but he went. He will come again. You will be good to him, Pam, because you love him. Now, good-bye, my dear. I shall come back when you are married."

"Another thing, Pam," he said. "I have arranged with your father. He is to winter abroad."

"Sylvia will see to that," she answered. "Miss Spencer has made it easy for her. At least, we need not take that from you."

"You have given me great happiness," he repeated. "And now, good-bye, my dear, good-bye."

A day or two later Carrickmoyle was startled by the news that Lord Glengall had sailed for Australia.

CHAPTER XVII.

"THOUGH 'TWERE TEN THOUSAND MILE."

"I wish something would happen," said Sylvia; "it is the longest summer I have ever known."

Sylvia was wearing black for Miss Spencer, who had passed away peacefully a[546] few weeks after that talk with Pamela. When the legal formalities were completed, Sylvia would be châtelaine of Dovercourt; but her interest in her inheritance seemed very slight.

"By-and-by," she had said, "I shall be glad to know that I have money to do things with; but just at present I can only remember what it is that has made me rich."

"Why not have Mr. Baker or Mr. St. Quintin to tea quietly?" suggested Pam. "I am sure they are longing to come, and they would cheer you up."

But Sylvia would not. She preferred to wander from the house to the garden with the dogs at her heels, or to stray from one room to another, having a desultory chat with her father, who was now up and about, or with Mary, cheerfully sewing her bridal clothes, usually ending up with a visit to Bridget in the kitchen.

Bridget quite agreed with Sylvia about the dulness of the house, and suggested the same remedy for it as Pamela had done.

"Have a bit of company, child," she said. "Sure, her that's gone (the heavens be her bed!) 'ud be the last to grudge the young what's natural to the young, let alone that I hear young Mr. St. Quintin's that mopy that they say 'tis to horse-racin' he's took, wid the design of breakin' his neck by way of divarsion."

"Don't talk such nonsense, Bridget," said Sylvia languidly. "The horse is not born that could unseat Mr. St. Quintin. He can stick on like grim death. But I don't feel that company, such company as I could get, would be any good to me. I don't like young people, Bridget."

"Never mind, Bridget dear," said Sylvia, who had temporarily lost her taste for sharp argument with Bridget. "I suppose I was born old."

"Listen to her," cried Bridget, "an' she wid the lightest feet, aye, an' the purtiest face in the barony! Between you and Miss Pamela, me heart's fairly bruk. There's Miss Pamela, that ought to be goin' to be married a week from next Tuesday, goin' round as mopy as a chicken wid the pip. I never seen such goin's on anywhere I was."

"It certainly is time," said Sylvia again, "that something should happen, and, short of marrying myself, Bridget, I'll do anything to bring it about."

"Indeed, then Mr. St. Quintin's a pleasant young gentleman," said Bridget, broadly smiling, "though an imp of mischief. 'Tis meself'll not forget in a hurry how he whipped the steps from undher Grady whin[547] he was pickin' the morello cherries, an' never purtended he heard him bawlin' melia murther, an' the ould rogue, as he was contrivin' to slip down by the trunk, caught by a twig in his breeches an' held there! As I said to Mr. St. Quintin, I hoped he thought then on poor Mary that's gone, that often he made suffer, the crathur!"

"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget," said Sylvia, with the same languid interest.

"Och, then, heaven forgive you, Miss Sylvia. Sure them was only my jokes. Not but what he axed me. 'The mischief bother you, man,' says I. 'Is it havin' me commit murther you'd be? Why, sure I couldn't keep me hands off you if I was lookin' at you every day, an' then I'd be tried an' hung for it, maybe.'"

"Well, I'm glad you're not going to marry him under the circumstances," said Sylvia. "But, all the same, it is time some of us made a stir."

And even then one thing that was to disturb the current of their lives was on its way.

The very morning after Sylvia's conversation with Bridget there was a large square envelope for Mr. Graydon, which somewhat exercised his youngest daughter's imagination.

"Come here, dad," she said, when at last he arrived at the breakfast-table. "I've been longing for something to happen, and I believe this is really a happening at last."

"It is my uncle's writing," said Mr. Graydon, as he took the letter and opened it. As he read it his face grew graver and graver.

"My dear Archie,—I will not say you have scored again, but at least I have failed with the last card I held against you. My boy is dead. I don't ask for your sympathy or your pity. You, with your healthy girls, cannot appreciate what I suffer. I am racked in the spirit and the body, and I shall be very glad to leave a world that has lost savour for me. I heard indirectly that you were ill after you had been here; but, you see, you have recovered, and it is my boy that is dead. You are my heir now, and I am too sick of it all to make another attempt to frustrate you. And there is no use continuing in enmity against you, so I shall make you an allowance proportionate to the condition of my heir. I shall not ask to see you, but Messrs. Lees and Saunders, of Lincoln's Inn—you will remember Saunders; Lees died last year—have my instructions."

"Something has happened, Sylvia," he said sorrowfully. "I am Lord Downshire's heir once more; and yet I would a thousand times rather be as I was, and the old man's little son living."

Sylvia, going her pilgrimage to Miss Spencer's new grave, was aware of a tall young figure, which had something familiar about it, swinging along towards her. Presently she recognised Anthony Trevithick.

"Yes—Pamela. I have stayed away as long as I could. I promised Lord Glengall I would give her time."

"I guessed, of course, but Pam is not the old Pam. She has been as solemn as an owl, and as secretive, ever since.... When was it?... I really think it began about the time of your going away. She used to be the best of good company."

"Oh, Miss Sylvia!" cried Anthony Trevithick, flushing delightedly through his tan.

"Oh, yes! she's fond of you. I'm not going to talk about her secrets, but I know how it is. I knew all along. That is why I was so vexed with her—when—— Never mind. You want to see Pamela, then? Well, just wait for me a minute outside this gate. I will come back with you then, and find Pamela for you."

"Perhaps I'm glad to get rid of Pam. She's prettier than I am, though some people don't think so. Perhaps I'm afraid of her stealing my admirers."

"And to Pam. She's not the same Pam she was a year ago. If you make her like her old self, I shall forgive you even that you left us forlorn and unsquired at that famous festivity for which you should have returned."

She did not try Anthony Trevithick's patience by keeping him waiting long at the churchyard gate. She was gone only a minute or two before she returned, her basket empty of its flowers, and her face, which had gained[548] so much in character and sweetness during the year, a little overshadowed.

When they reached Carrickmoyle, she brought Anthony Trevithick through the sunny hall where the door stood, as ever, hospitably open, and into the big drawing-room. "Stay here till I find Pam," she said. She went upstairs two steps at a time in the boyish way he remembered. He listened with a smile on his face till the sound of the footsteps died away. Then he began to walk up and down nervously.

Pam sat in the window of her own little room with her chin in her hands, gazing over the summer-dark landscape, her air listless, and her eyes apathetic.

"It is lonely, Sylvia," she said, scarcely turning her head as her sister entered.

"You never used to find it so," said Sylvia. "I remember the time when Carrickmoyle held all the delights for you."

"That was when we were little girls in short frocks, and led poor Mick into scrapes."

"Many a year ago," said Sylvia. "When you struck Anthony Trevithick with the sun-bonnet that was intended for the red cock——"

"Oh, Sylvia!" said Pamela, "you don't understand. I am tired of love and lovers. I only want to be let alone. I have suffered too much."

"If you have, it's your own fault. You'd no business to take poor dear Glengall when you were in love with someone else, though how you could look at others in the same day with Glengall fairly bothers me. And now, why don't you write and ask Anthony Trevithick to come back?"

"Yes, you do; you're crying your eyes out for him every night. Yes, you are. And why you let all this muddle go on without doing anything to prevent it I don't know. I could shake you, Pam!"

"Well, supposing I was in love with a man and knew him to be in love with me, and supposing he went away and didn't write, I'd never think anything except that the letter was lost. If I could get at him, I'd write and ask him what it meant. If I couldn't, I'd go on believing in him, maybe till I was old and grey, and till I died, as some have done—if I really loved him, mind you."

"But come," she said, after a benevolent scrutiny of Pamela; "come, you look very nice, unless you'd like to put on the pink sun-bonnet. Anthony Trevithick is in the drawing-room."

"Yes, I know I ought to have mentioned it before, instead of talking nonsense. The poor young man's on tenter-hooks."

"Come, don't think about it. Do it quickly, as we used to take our cod-liver oil long ago. Let us run down the stairs. There, you poor little thing! your hands are cold. The run will warm them."

"Ah, Pam darling!" cried the young man, coming to meet her. "Don't give me any more cold words or cold looks. I haven't deserved them, and if you've nothing else for me I shall go away for ever."

"No, surely," said Pam, and her sweet voice had a little surprise in it. "You didn't really deserve any blame at all."

"But you did, for I asked you to trust me, Pam. I asked you to trust me, and your faith was brittle."

"Well," said Sylvia, as she went out and closed the door. "It is plain these recriminations are not meant for me. Heigho! I wish Mr. Baker would come along just now, that I might have the satisfaction of refusing him. It is easy to see that Glengall is as completely forgotten as if he had never existed."

No one could say that Mr. Graydon's youngest daughter was not loyal to the absent.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A PROPOSAL.

Pamela Graydon had been Pamela Trevithick for three years, when one day in late summer Sylvia, still Sylvia Graydon, was entertaining a visitor in her London drawing-room.

It was Lord Glengall, a shade greyer, a shade leaner, but looking well nevertheless, and brown with southern suns.

"Glad! It is no word for it. I am hungry for the velvety wind that blows across the mountains. I am so tired of these glaring streets, of parties, and dinners and luncheons, and functions of all kinds."

"To tell you the truth, I am amazed and amused to find your father in the midst of it all."

"Papa! Oh, papa is the veriest Piccadilly lounger. He has returned to it all as freshly as if he had never left it. He discovered troops of old friends—without a misgiving—as soon as ever he came in for the title."

"Now and again. When the desire becomes very strong, he and I slip away to Euston some evening, forgetting all our engagements, and, for a few days, our new circumstances, at Carrickmoyle, where Bridget cooks our chops and makes us potato-cakes just as of old."

"But to return to your father. The magnum opus has become an accomplished fact. You see, I haven't been so far out of the world as not to have heard that."

"Yes. It has been a great success. He is as much in request at learned societies and conversaziones as he is in fashionable drawing-rooms. To think of the years he vegetated at Carrickmoyle!"

"About half-past five," consulting a little watch fastened to her gown. "You can endure my company till then."

"I shall try to. But am I not keeping you from afternoon calls or something? I saw a carriage at the door as I came in."

"I have sent it away. I was rejoiced to do it. Papa will be simply wild with delight at your falling from the clouds like this."

"How should he? The only drawback about Carrickmoyle has been that we could see from it the cold chimneys of Glengall."

"Ah! we shall warm them," said Lord Glengall, beaming at her. "We shall have fine jinks if only you and your father will spend six months of the year at Carrickmoyle. I am no Londoner, and never shall be. But I shall be able to endure six months of solitude if I know I am going to have you for the remainder of the year."

"You will not long be left solitary. You cheated the country the last time by disappearing again before it had had time to rejoice over you. Your return will flutter the dovecotes for thirty miles around."

"You are very kind, Sylvia," said Lord Glengall simply. "But you have not told me half the news," he went on. "How is Molly?"

"Flourishing. Mick has got his company. He wouldn't leave the service on any consideration, and I think he was right. They are as much in love with each other as ever; and they have a beautiful boy."

"Pam, too, is a success. She has been a beauty for three seasons, strange to say."

"Fairly well, I believe. Lady Jane keeps herself to herself, which is lucky for Pam. I never took to that lady. But she is devoted to the heir. She wouldn't strike you, somehow, as a grandmotherly person, but it is so."

"Ah! how you young people have been making history since I left. I shall not know this new world of your making."

"Ah!"—with more intensity than he thought the occasion demanded—"you never can be that!"

"You are always kind, little girl. When I look into your eyes, I fancy it is the old Sylvia I am talking to, and not a fine lady."

"She would, if she could. It is only a Paris tea-gown. She was happier in the prints at sixpence a yard from Guirk's shop in Lettergort."

"Growing old and faded with trying to occupy several houses at once and doing a great many things I detest."

She laughed at him from where she sat in her youth and beauty, and he laughed in answer.

"All married, except Algy St. Quintin; but he has long given up asking me. We are good comrades."

"No more than that. I wouldn't lose sight of him for anything. He is just the same imp of mischief, as Bridget used to call him. His coolness is phenomenal, and his impudence so deliciously incongruous with his cherubic boy's face."

"Ah! you are so hard-hearted, child. Or is it that you will stay with your father?"

She looked at him an instant; then she suddenly blushed hotly, and her eyes fell and rested on the jewelled fingers in her lap. So full was her attitude of yielding and submission that it might well make the heart of a lover leap.

A sudden, bewildering idea came to the man before her. For an instant he was dazed with the shock of it. Then he stood up and paced the room in great agitation.

"Sylvia," he said at last, pausing before her where she still sat, a lovely image of submission, "Pamela was right when she did not marry me."

"If I were a young man and you would do it, you might turn this work-a-day earth to Paradise for me."

"Ah! child, you do not know what you are saying. What could you, a beauty and an heiress, see in me?"

"I am glad I am beautiful to you. But why should that and the other things stand between me and my happiness?"

"Ah, yes! You wouldn't see it, but I always thought there was no one in the world like you. You chose Pam before me, and even then I accepted your will, but I loved you still."

"I chose Pam because she was unhappy, because there seemed no other way. It did not break my heart to give her up, though it was a blow. It does not hurt me now to hear of her as Lady Trevithick. But I dare not risk the same thing with you."

"Because it would be so easy to forget my years, and love you with a young man's ardour, and more than a young man's faith."

"Ah! Sylvia, it is your kindness, your compassion. I could not endure to be thrown over now, even though I am well on in my forties."

"Yes. How hard it was to persuade you. There will be lots of people who will want to marry you once it is known you have come back. You might have liked someone better than me. And I have waited for three years."

"You fairy princess, what do you mean by condescending to a mortal's grey hairs?"

"We shall be so happy, you and I and papa. We shall lead the country life, though he'll have to come to London now and again for his serious 'frivolities.' And I shall make you care for me. Now you do not care for me nearly so much as I do for you."

"It is not flown. You do not mean to say you used up your youth during those hard years that lined your face and sowed grey hairs in your head? Ah! no, you were saving it up for me."

"Take time, then, to think, good gentleman," said Sylvia, with laughter dancing bewitchingly about her mouth; but her eyes were tender.

"It is time you should say that. You have been going after false fires, while I have been true all the time."

"I to you. But if I had not almost asked you, you would have left me to single blessedness. Ah! there is papa's ring. He will be glad."

"Ah! no, he won't. Dear, wise papa, he was always anxious for you to marry one of his daughters."

TIRED.

On the weary waves of the world
To and fro
This tired life of mine has been whirled!
In the flow
And ebb of every dangerous tide
My thoughts have drifted far and wide,
As on a bleak and bare hill-side
Drifts the snow.

I sought for rest afar, afar,
But found it not;
I dreamed sweet dreams, if such things are
Sweet which we wot
Are false. I woke again to know
The weight of an unceasing woe,
And journeyed onward, bending low
To a hard lot.

At length to my weary soul I said,
"Soul of mite,
The empty restless life thou hast led,
In shade and shine,
In winter's cold and angry beat,
In summer's languid parching heat—
Poor soul!" I said, "It is not meet
Such fate be thine.

"There is a rest, oh! my tired soul,
Far away,
We soon may reach that happy goal
Beyond to-day.
Far, far beyond those darkening skies
There is a Land which Rest supplies—
Peace, endless peace, that never dies.
Come away!"

H. Brooke Davies.

Light through Dull Panes.

A VISIT TO THE EARLSWOOD ASYLUM.

The young Queen Victoria had been ten years on the throne of England. In this decade the wheel of philanthropy seemed to turn with increased impetus. It had been set in motion before the dawn of the nineteenth century, for then asylums for the blind, the deaf and dumb, and lunatic had been established. Now various institutions and schemes of benevolence were springing into existence in aid of other classes of sufferers. There was still something wanting, a lady maintained to Dr. Andrew Reed—a powerful friend of the afflicted and needy; she asked him to help the feeble-minded. He demurred; he doubted whether there were sufficient cases to call for a special institute. If she could find six in six days, he promised to take up the matter. Six days produced twenty eligible from their poverty and infirmity, and the well-known philanthropist kept his word. The National Asylum for Idiots was inaugurated at the Mansion House in October, 1847, and was established at Highgate in January, 1848. Since then it has received upwards of 3,000 cases, and the institution now at Earlswood has served as a model for others in different parts of Europe and our colonies.

The need of such asylums encircles the world; for wherever humanity has spread children may be born with inherent infirmity, or the "heart ache and a thousand natural shocks which flesh is heir to" may cloud the brightest intelligence. The poor and sick in mind must ever appeal for help to the rich and strong and capable. The mysterious "something wanting" in intellect is a grievous calamity, even when good friends and wealth can procure all[554] possible compensations. In a family where the necessities of life depend on the power to work, it reduces existence to a miserable burden. It was especially for the poor that the National Asylum was established. The pleasant building standing on the breezy uplands above Redhill can accommodate nearly 700 patients; and twice a year, on the last Thursday in the months of April and October, needy cases, from five years old and upwards, are elected on the foundation by the votes of subscribers. There are generally from 130 to 150 applicants, though funds only allow the admission of about one-fifth of the number. Presentations for life may be secured, but it is a happiness to know that the term of five years, which is the rule in election, is sometimes sufficient to teach a boy a trade, or a girl to make herself useful in housework, needlework, or a laundry. Patients entered for five years may be re-elected. Lately one of them wrote to his friends, "It will be soon time to get me in again for another five years. I hope that it will be all right; I like Earlswood."

Why should a boy able to write and to take thought for his own affairs be in an asylum for imbeciles? A visit to Earlswood would be the most effectual answer to the question. It is hard to know where idiocy begins and ends. There are skilled workmen in the printers', tailors', carpenters', and other departments, who, to a casual observer, betray nothing wanting.

Many of their exhibits, as well as specimens of the girls' and women's needlework, were sold at the Arts and Crafts Exhibition at Lancaster in 1897, where a section was open to institutions for imbeciles, and seventeen prizes were awarded to Earlswood. But there are other patients whose limited intelligence renders them oblivious of their own infirmity or their own names; between the two extremes there is every degree[555] of feebleness of mind. Those who consciously suffer least are likely to call out the greatest compassion. It is natural to turn away and try to forget the sight of a human creature going on all-fours, or of great helpless babies, without the charm or sweetness of infancy, sitting up with bibs on, waiting for the meal for which they cannot ask.

"It must be sad and painful to a visitor," the matron said, "to have a passing glance at the worst cases, but to live amongst them, as she had done for eleven years, was full of interest. Nearly all were capable of some improvement."

A home where everything is done to promote their health and happiness is, for the weak-minded, a new world. To be taken from conditions of continual disadvantage, and placed under the charge of guardians whose first duty is to work and watch for the awakening of soul and mind, brings hope and comfort into their life. A poor constitution is often added to the disadvantages of the imbecile; and in families where their friends cannot constantly protect them they are often exposed to teasing, and driven into fits of fury, ending in chronic bad temper, by the mischief or malice of their companions.

"No one is allowed to tease them here," a nurse remarked, in speaking of the patients' affection and their general disposition to get on well together. They are classified, so that they meet companions on equal terms. The lowest have not the spirit or independence to defy lawful authority; to the highest but refractory, degradation to a class below is the most salutary punishment that can be inflicted. They soon try by their conduct to rise to their former level. Anyone in charge giving a patient a blow would be liable to criminal prosecution. The vicious or dangerous cases are not admitted, and the authorities do not encourage the re-election of those who give absolutely no promise of[556] improvement. The vacancies ought to be filled by candidates to whom care and treatment will be of use. In the great busy world outside Earlswood are muscular limbs dwindling or growing stiff for want of exercise, and hands framed for skill which are only filled with mischief by the active spirit against whom Dr. Watts left an immortal warning. They need not remain idle, for special training can supply much that Nature has denied.

It requires a great deal of patience to teach this class of pupils a useful calling, as more than one instructor remarked when the doctor conducted a visitor through the various workshops. Some are unwilling to learn; in Earlswood, as in all communities, each variety of disposition is represented, as well as every degree of lack of ability.

"You can't make me work, you know, doctor," one patient maintained, "for I am only an imbecile."

Happily, in this little world which, in spite of its limitations, manufactures and supplies for itself most of the necessaries of life, all are not ready to make capital out of their infirmity. The master-carpenter lamented the loss of a former diligent pupil, who had been worth one pound a week to the institution, and he showed with pride the doors and panels of another, who he said might now earn his own living anywhere. This clever young carpenter had been at Earlswood for three years, and in the workshop for two. He bore a high character, and was so attached to the asylum that, when he was at home for a summer holiday, he came back for a day. Yet before his admission his relations had been unable to manage him.

The master-tailor called one of his "best boys" to show the waistcoat he was making. A good-looking middle-aged man descended with alacrity from the table—where, in the time-honoured custom of his trade, he worked in an attitude calculated to cause persons of other callings violent cramp in the legs—and shook hands all round with great warmth and friendliness. Directly he had displayed a piece of work, in which his instructor took pardonable pride, he returned with renewed diligence to his needle and thread. This man's interest in tailoring is so keen that when he, in his turn, does duty in the kitchen, he returns to his cloth and his favourite attitude for every available moment. Seated together with the first-class workmen are others, smiling over their attempts to learn stitching or to make button-holes. They may possibly never get beyond samplers, but time will show.

In the shoemakers' shop similar degrees of skill and industry were manifest. One man held in his hand a finished boot that he had made from the beginning, whilst others could only be trusted to black and polish. So it was with the rest of the twenty-five trades and callings in which last year 198 men and boys were employed, each according to his several ability. Perhaps the highest attainments are seen in the printing department—the only one that undertakes outside work. Besides the necessary printing for Earlswood and the London office, 232 private orders were sent out last year, and a profit was made of £150. On the occasion of my visit, a young compositor was not quite ready to show his proof to the doctor, who inquired what he was doing. He had just set up the programme for a patients' party, and had made it conclude with "Musicle Chairs"; he wanted to correct the spelling before it was inspected.

One elderly man, deaf, with an impediment in his speech and afflicted in mind, had his own workshop. All around him were evidences of his artistic skill. He looked tenderly at his own drawings, but the objects of his special admiration were the various magnifiers and reflectors he had designed and made to help him in fine carving. H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, who is interested in Earlswood, has lately presented him with some elephant tusks. It was a pleasure to this artist to display the lightness of an ivory landscape brooch. A piece of tortoise-shell at the back, with a judicious arrangement of the golden and dark blotches, made it a transparency. When held up on one side to the light, it was a sunny scene; whilst on the other it was dark, with a full moon.

In spite of gentle manners and artistic skill, this man would probably be unable to live or turn his talents to account outside an asylum. He belongs to a class who for practical purposes never outgrow mental childhood. Years roll by. Time brings them grey hairs and other signs of his flight, but never carries them beyond the need of fatherly care. Many with far less intelligence seem to realise this.

It is pathetic to hear in some wards the cry of "Mother!" and see a smile of fancied recognition when a stranger appears. One middle-aged woman who called out "Mamma, mamma!" had some information, cheerful but incoherent, to impart. Then the name of "George" suddenly arrested her flow of trivialities, and her face puckered into a grotesque expression of distress. She raised her hand and pointed upward, saying, "George up there." The sorrowful remembrance was, however, transient; the next instant she was all smiles. The eddy on the surface of her smooth life soon caught the sunshine, but its presence was sufficient to call out fresh compassion for the poor souls whose wits may have been lost under a weight of trouble heavier than they could bear.

The sad pages in the life-history of some of the most helpless are, however, blotted out of their memory, or only[558] dimly recalled by a fragmentary remark. The sound of laughter in the recreation-room, sitting-rooms, and playground is almost constant. If it shows the vacant mind, it also bespeaks content. Pleasure and enjoyment are circumscribed, but so also is the capacity for suffering in mind and body. The patients have almost as little temptation to anxious thought for the morrow as the ravens or lilies.

In a narrow sphere a trifling event assumes great dimensions, and the day may be easily filled with pleasures. The delight with which one middle-aged patient said that she was going to have a new dress had all the innocent glee of childhood. A lad who called out "Tick, tick!" at the sight of the doctor was immediately made happy by being allowed to listen to his watch.

Various little treats are planned as rewards for good conduct. In the winter, those who do well are invited once a week to join in games in the recreation-room. Yet the Head Governess is of opinion that the little ones are never happier than when they are at lessons. According to their ability, they go through the course usually adopted in elementary schools, and have the same physical exercises. The elder girls are employed in housework or in the laundry. Many, no doubt, enjoy the new experience of being usefully employed, and industry and willingness are rewarded by an afternoon walk to the town, a small amount of pocket-money, and a reward at the New Year.

The sense of right and wrong, and of responsibility, develops with exercise. Of the many letters received last year at Earlswood from the patients or their relations acknowledging the good results of training, the Resident Physician looked upon one from a man discharged five years ago as the most satisfactory. But for a course of treatment the writer would probably have remained all his life as a burden on his relations. He is now earning ten shillings a week in a grocery business. After making this satisfactory announcement, he continues: "I belong to a Bible-class. I am also in a club, so, if I am ill, my mother gets ten shillings and sixpence per week, and my doctor's bill paid." With inquiries after old friends, special love to two, this patient remains a "loving friend." How many men with all their faculties do more? And how many others fall below his standard of duty and gratitude! In days of old, one out of ten to whom the same miracle of mercy brought new life[559] and health returned to the great Healer and gave glory to God, and he belonged to a class from whom least might have been expected. A good proportion of the strangers to many privileges, as the feeble-minded must ever remain, often live as examples of doing their best. A man is accepted according to that he hath.

The highest and the only certain principle of good conduct is kept before all who enter the asylum. Twice a day they meet for prayers, and before and after meals grace, sung in the great hall to the accompaniment of a fine organ, fills the corridors with music, in which many of the patients delight. The resident Religious Instructor last year found a note slipped into his hand, addressed, "Mr. Small, from me." A patient wrote:

"Dear Sir, I wish to ask you, in a nice kind way or other, to have two of my hymns on the 5th of February, which is Saturday. Please have them in the evening—Nos. 500 and 532—and you may quite expect a nice pocket-book from me.—Your friend, Percy."

It is not unusual for boys to ask that their birthdays may be celebrated by singing their favourite hymns.

Their teacher finds that lessons on the life and miracles of our Lord always have a charm for the patients. Even those unable to read or intelligently follow the prayers can enjoy Sunday; then they receive pictures illustrating Bible incidents, and can, at least, hear the hymns at the evening service, which in summer is held under the trees. Methods of teaching must be adapted to the varied capacity, but the lesson of the compassion of our Lord for every infirmity is common to the 600 patients whom Earlswood now shelters, whilst 130 are waiting for admission.

One class may enter by payment, which varies according to the circumstances and requirements. The lowest payment is sixty-five guineas a year, and it includes entire maintenance and clothing for twelve months. There are no vacations,[560] unless the friends desire it. Private patients do not mix with those on the foundation either at meals or in the recreation-room. Some have their own sitting-rooms and special attendants.

Another class of patients may enter by part-payment. They are elected from a list of candidates whose friends fill a position that would preclude their gaining free admission, but who are unable to make the ordinary payment. The minimum sum of fifteen guineas is required annually so long as the child remains in the asylum.

A large number of subscribers' votes, 700 at least, are required to place a candidate for ordinary election on the foundation. Before canvassing, a form must be obtained from the office, 36, King William Street, London Bridge, E.C., in order to see if the case is deemed eligible by the Board, whether for free or part-payment election. For the well-being of the community in general, rules cannot be broken. Great disappointment and trouble are sometimes occasioned by an attempt to canvass before ascertaining that a candidate will be approved by the Board. The receipt of parish relief at any time disqualifies a candidate. Certain regulations, the result of experience, have been made regarding receiving and maintaining the large family whom the authorities have taken under their care, and Earlswood is subject to the inspection of the Commissioners in Lunacy.

During fifty years the supporters of this institution have, in a very literal sense, obeyed the injunction to "comfort the feeble-minded." In spite of limp limbs and slouching gait, the weakest among the imbecile bear the image of their Creator. Can it be doubted that they are as precious to Him as the conies who, though "but a feeble folk," find, under His providence, a refuge in the stony rocks? In their helplessness and dependence, the afflicted in mind find a place in the heart and affection of their guardians; and who can tell how many have learnt, through them, to hide themselves with all their infirmities in the Rock of Ages?

Mother-hood

There is many an arrow in my quiver, full of speech to the wise, but for the many they need interpreters."

So wrote Pindar long, long ago; and I, having gathered many arrows of help and knowledge from the quiver of books around me, would fain pass them on. In this paper I string these barbs to the bow of motherhood, and trust they may pierce to the joints of the harness.

Perhaps there is no subject absorbing more attention at the present time than that of motherhood and heredity. Never has the cult of maternity been better formulated—never has the practice of it been more carefully studied. "In these days of pressure," writes Lyttleton, "it is a mother's first duty to her children to secure for them a full seven years of passive life." "The best and first service a mother can do her children," says another writer, "is to maintain the standard of her own life at its highest—

"It is a mother's first duty to provide for each newborn soul an environment which will foster its highest development," says another. "To praise is a part of a mother's first work in the world on behalf of her children," adds a fourth. "I consider it to be the first and most important part of the education of childhood to lead them early to think" is Froebel's opinion.

The importance of a mother's influence during the first few years of existence is repeated in Lord Macaulay's well-known aphorism, "Give me the first seven years of a child's life, and let who will take the rest"; and by Froebel, when he says, "The most important period of human education is before the child is seven years old."

We mothers, who are God's special servants—His instruments, as it were, for the particular purpose of carrying out His will for the wee individuals confided to us—are apt to think too little about those first years of a child's life. Our children, from two to five, are often left to self-education. Very little scientific care is expended on them. Yet beauty of body and soul would not be so seldom met with, or so transient as it is apt to be with us, if we truly educated persons took our children in hand from their babyhood, instead of leaving them to the most ignorant class of the community.

"It is usual to speak of the Greeks," writes Peabody in his "Primary School," "as if they were of exceptional organisation. Their organisation was only exceptional because it was more carefully treated in infancy than ours is apt to be."

"The laws which govern the growth of the human mind are as definite and as general in their application as those which apply to the material universe," and we know the basis of all development is a good foundation. This must be laid in early youth, both as regards the body and as regards the mind. "It is so fatally easy to do mischief" in those first seven years. The limbs of a sapling are not more easily bent than the budding desires of the infant. "The soul instinctively expects love" from the first, and only a mother's exclusively cherishing tenderness ought to be the rule in a nursery. "The true educational instinct is but the mother's instinct and method clearly understood in all its bearings and carried out intelligently."

This last word opens out a wonderful vista. "Parents should make the care of their children an object to study physiology and psychology," says Peabody; and thus we find education is always mutual. According to Goethe, "the child teaches the parent what the parents omit to teach him"; and, as Plato adds, "man cannot propose (or woman either) a higher or loftier object for his study than education and all that pertains thereto."

Before leaving this branch of the subject, it is well for all mothers clearly to understand the difference between education and instruction. The former (training of the heart) belongs exclusively to the parent. The latter (training of the intellect) to the governess. As Renan puts it, "Instruction is given in the school. Education takes place in the father's house; the masters are the mothers and sisters."

Well for us if we remember that education is always going on, whether we will it or not. Our life, our morals, are affecting our children for weal or woe, whether we realise or shirk the fact. "Every human life is lifted or lowered by the home it is born into." That magic and omnipotent gift of a mother's influence "is an hourly, unconscious, emanating force" exercised on those around. "We always know when we are instructing. We do not always know when we are educating." The realisation of this amazing power is enough to stagger the bravest heart. "A mother has to be convinced that the great function of motherhood is not only to guard her child, to exhort him, to train him, but to live her life in the presence of that child as a pattern of what the child should aspire to become."

A mother's influence should certainly be at its strongest during the early years of life. It "depends on what she is, and only in a subordinate way on what she does." Therefore, she can carry altruism too far. A mother is of as much value in the sight of God as is her child, and "the path in which she has to walk is plainly that of self-sanctification for the sake of" that child. This implies seasons for culture, rest, prayer, and the preservation of her body in health. To quote Miss Mason on this point, "Health is a duty, and any trifling with health, either vicious or careless, is really in the nature of suicide, because life is held in trust from a supreme Authority."

Will the years be wasted if we spend them mastering the science of education in our nurseries? Nay! even our personal charms will be amplified by the most entrancing study in the world. "The perfect loveliness of a woman's countenance can only consist in that majestic peace which is founded in memory of happy and useful years full of sweet records" (Ruskin). Verily we shall have our reward.

The Ten Little Indians

A FAIRY PARABLE.

Once upon a time there were ten little Red Indians, and they lived in a school-house built of logs on the banks of the River Saskatchewan; and, if you cannot pronounce the river's name, just try till you can. The reason they lived in a school-house was that their fathers had gone hunting in the woods, and their mothers were dead, so the wigwams were very lonely; but the children were as happy as they could be, and enjoyed their schooling as much as any white children enjoy their holidays. The teacher was a sweet white lady from down beyond, who mothered them all so well that they never even thought of being bad. At least, only two of them did; and they never got beyond thinking about it, as long as the teacher was with them.

Down at the bottom of the river, in a deep, deep hole, there lived a wicked wizard; and one morning very early he was prowling along by the shore, with just the tip of his nose above water, sniff-sniff-sniffing for the scent of anyone good to eat. Now it happened that that morning the teacher had got up very early, and was sitting on a stone by the riverside, trying to think of new story-lessons to tell the children; and the wizard put up his long snaky arm out of the water and caught her by the neck and dragged her down to his cave. Then he tied her hands and feet, and waited for her to drown; but drown she would not. So he thought she must have a Testament in her pocket to act as a charm. The Testament was really in her heart, which was a great deal better. So when he saw she would not drown, he was a little frightened, and offered to let her go if she would give him one of the children instead.

"We shall see about that," said the wizard; and out he went, leaving the teacher tied fast at the bottom of the hole.

Now, when the children came down, they were very much surprised to find no teacher; but they took their morning dip in the river, as she had taught them to do. Just as they were coming out to dry themselves, a great grey fish put his head out of the water and said—"Children, the wizard that lives in the hole has caught your teacher, and he's coming to catch you."

The children jumped out of the water in a great fright. "What shall we do? What shall we do?" they all began to cry.

"Put on your clothes," said the fish, after he had gone down for a moment to breathe.

"Now get on our backs," said the great grey fish, who had come up this time with nine others as like him as could be. Then the ten fishes humped up their great grey backs, just[564] keeping their heads under water to breathe with and their tails to swim with; and the ten children got on, and the fishes carried them across the big river in a twinkling.

"Now, children," said the chief of the fishes, "strike into the wood as straight as you can go till you come to the old brown bear, and he'll tell you the way to Fruity Hollow, where you'll get your dinner; but don't speak to the grizzly bear, for he's the wizard's son. Then go on till you come to the old grey wolf, and she'll tell you the way to the otters' cave; but don't say a word to the red wolf with the squint, for she's the wizard's daughter."

The fish was quite out of breath when he got to the end of this speech, and disappeared in a hurry.

Then the ten little Indians marched off into the woods, Indian file; and they all kept close together, one behind the other, except the two little boys that sometimes wished they did not have to do what they ought; and they dawdled behind. Pretty soon the children got to where the poplars end and the pinewoods begin, and there they saw the grizzly bear sitting on his haunches beside the path, with his arms folded smugly across his chest and his cruel face trying to smile.

"Welcome, little darlings!" the grizzly bear said, in a voice as sweet as honey. "Would you like me to take you to Fruity Hollow?"

The children shut their mouths tightly, and went straight on, and the grizzly gritted his teeth in disappointment; but when the two bad little Indians came straggling along he sat up again and put on his smirkiest smile and said—

"You poor little dears! What a shame it was for the others to leave you behind! How hungry you must be! Would you like me to show you the way to Fruity Hollow?"

"That I should, indeed!" said one of the boys. And the grizzly bear sprang upon him, and caught him up, and hugged him till the breath was nearly out of his body, and strode off with him; and the other boy ran on as fast as he could to catch up his companions.

Meanwhile the eight little Indians marched steadily on till they came to the old brown bear; and he was so fast asleep they could only wake him by pulling his fur, but they took care to pull it respectfully.

"All right," said the old brown bear in a mumbly voice, "I know what you want. First turning on the right, over the big tree that blew down last winter." Then he went to sleep again before they could say "Thank you, sir."

When they came to a big tree lying with its roots in the air, but with its needles still green, they scrambled over it and followed a winding path down into a narrow valley just full of wild raspberry- and gooseberry- and currant-bushes, and they picked and ate and picked and ate till they could eat no more. Then they made baskets of big leaves and twigs, and filled them with berries for supper, and climbed back over the big tree and trudged along up the path.

Soon afterwards they came upon the squinting red wolf, straddling right across the track.

"Here we are, you sweet little redskins," said she, with a grin two feet long. "The otters have asked me to show you the way to their cave."

The little redskins turned almost white with fear, but they shut their mouths tightly and pushed right on, and the wicked red wolf had to jump out of the way in a hurry, for she did not dare to touch children who remembered and obeyed. Presently the dawdler came up, very hungry and tired—for the brown bear had been much too fast asleep to tell him about Fruity Hollow—and burst out at once, without thinking, "Please can you tell me the way to the otters' cave?" Then the red wolf leapt upon him, and knocked him down, and picked him up by the back of his clothes and carried him off at a trot through the scratching brambles.

Just where the pinewoods end and the poplars begin again, the eight little Indians came upon the old grey wolf, curled up with her nose on her tail; and she put up her head for the children to scratch her neck. "Across the meadow and round the slough," she said when she had been scratched enough; "and down the stony creek."

So when they got to the edge of the wood they struck right across the meadow, wading knee-deep in the long rich grass; and then they found a path leading through another patch of poplar wood to a wide green slough—or "sloo," as they call it in Canada—half-lake and half-swamp; and they trod lightly round the narrow edge till they found the place where the water oozed out into the creek. Down the creek they went, with the stream purring beside their feet like a kitten in the sun, and the mosquitoes humming over their heads, and the silly loose-leaved poplars rustling all around them, wind or no wind.

"Listen!" said the biggest little Indian. And through all the purring and humming and rustling came the long low swishing sound of a big river. Then the eight little pairs of feet climbed out of the creek-bed, and crossed a corner of land till they stood almost on the edge of the river's earthen-cut bank.

There was a bustling and a scurrying under foot, and then a row of furry brown little heads popped up from the edge of the bank. "Come in!" barked all the otters in chorus; and, scrambling down the bank, the children followed the otters into their cave. There was[565] plenty of room, though the door was rather small, and a big bed of prairie hay was spread on the floor.

"We've been expecting you, you see," said the mother otter, when the eight little Indians were squatting on their hunkers and eating berries. "The fishes told us to look out for you about this time."

"No, we're not exactly friends, only allies. We hate the wizard more than we hate each other, so we've joined to fight him. But I wish it was all over, so that we could go fishing again. Gophers are dreadfully dry food, and they do burrow in such dusty holes."

After supper the eight little Indians lay down in a row, and all the little otters spread themselves out into a big fur counterpane to keep the children warm. But the big otters sharpened their teeth as soon as it was dark, and swam down and down and down, with fiery eyes, till they came into the River Saskatchewan; and then they swam up and up and up till they came near the wizard's pit; and there they climbed out and hid just under the edge of the bank.

Presently they felt a heavy silent somebody tramping over the grass from the wood, and they knew that the grizzly bear was coming, and one of them slipped down to the water's edge to tell the great grey fishes, who were lying just inside the river.

"Well," said the greatest of the fishes, "what do you want us to do?" For he knew that the otters must take the lead when fighting had to be done.

"You must pretend to be the wizard," said the otter, "and tell the grizzly to come into the river up to his waist. We can fight much better in the water, you know."

So the fish put up his head, and called out, imitating the wizard's voice as well as he could, "Is that you, my son?"

"Of course it's me," grumbled the bear; "and a precious hard run I've had with this little wretch. I'd a good mind to stop on the way and eat him myself."

"Never mind, my dear," said the sham wizard. "I'll pay you well. Just bring him in, will you? The water won't come above your middle."

The grizzly grumbled something about the water being cold, and he thought his father might as well have come ashore; but he waded in, all the same, and the otters dived and swam after him. And when the water was up to his middle the fishes swam in between his legs and nibbled his toes, and hit him hard on the legs with their great tails, and toppled him right over; but still he held on to the boy with one arm, while he clawed savagely at the fishes with the other. Then the otters sprang at his shoulders, and bit right through the fur and the flesh, so that he dropped the boy in the water; and the fishes and otters kept up such a splashing and a jumping and a biting that the bear could not see a foot in front of him, and the boy dashed back to the shore and huddled shivering under the bank.

"Help, help, help!" yelled the grizzly. "They've stolen the boy! They're cutting off my toes! They're tearing off my ears! They're flaying me alive!"

Then the wizard awoke, and leapt out of his hole, and came flying to the rescue, raking the water and the air with his long snaky arms, and screeching horribly. But before he got to where the grizzly was rolling over and over in a whirlpool of mad otters and fishes and foam, he heard the voice of his daughter, the red wolf, who had just arrived and was calling out (as well as she could with a little Indian's clothes in her mouth) to ask what was the matter.

"If I've lost one, I'll make sure of the other," the wizard thought; and he seized the[566] boy from his daughter's mouth and plunged down into the pit, leaving his grizzly son to look after himself.

"He's not worth saving," said the fishes; "haven't we done enough for one night?"

The otters did not condescend to answer, but swam hotly after the wizard, and the fishes followed without another word, leaving the grizzly to hobble ashore and lick his wounds.

None of the otters had ever dared to descend the wizard's pit before, and none of the fishes had ever ventured within a hundred feet of its mouth; but now the otters' blood was up, and they dived like a flash, and caught up the wizard before he got to the bottom, and fastened on his heels, and dug their teeth into his calves. The wizard flung himself round and gripped an otter in each hand; but they gnawed his wrists till their teeth met in the sinews, and the rest of the otters swarmed round his neck and cut his head right off.

"The boy is drowned, all the same," said the head fish, who swam bravely down into the pit when he heard the otters' scream of victory.

"Not a bit of it," said the head otter; "it's only his badness that's drowned; the boy will be righter than ever if you hurry ashore with him."

So the fishes pushed him up to the air and rolled him ashore; though it was rather difficult, as he had not the sense to hold on, and they had no arms to hold him by.

Meanwhile the otters had gone down to the very bottom of the pit, and bitten through the teacher's cords; and she kissed their wet foreheads and left her dark prison, and the rising sun flung her a rosy welcome as she stepped out on to dry ground. The squinting wolf shut her eyes and howled, and fled into the wood with her tail between her legs.

The eight little Indians were having a fine romp with the little otters when the big otters came back, tired and wounded, but proud with glorious news. As soon as the story was told, the head otter said—"Now, children, it's time to go home, and the fishes are waiting. No going through the woods this time!"

As he spoke, the fishes humped up their great grey backs, and the children took their seats, and the procession never stopped till it came to the little school-house, where the best of all teachers stood smiling welcomes at the door and two shamefaced little Indians pretended to be very busy at their sums inside.

Then there was a great hugging and kissing and laughing and crying for joy, while the little otters turned flying somersaults over the desks and played catch on the grass outside, and the fishes looked on through their water-window, till the children were tired of play and begged for lessons to begin.

TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.

A MODEL TOWN.

"Could we but do away with intemperance, the conditions of living would become so changed that we should hardly know ourselves," said John Bright on a memorable occasion. What would the country be like without public-houses? We can form some idea of the altered state of affairs by taking a trip to the model town of Bessbrook in the county of Armagh. Here we shall find a thriving, populous community without any public-house or place for the sale of intoxicating liquor. It owes its origin to the philanthropic prescience of the late John Grubb Richardson, a wealthy member of the Society of Friends. In the early 'sixties he purchased an estate of some sixty thousand acres, and there erected the factory which is now world-famed as the Bessbrook Flax Spinning Mills. Approaching the town from Newry, the spinning mills form the most prominent feature in the view. The immense range of lofty buildings is of noble proportions, and for massive elegance compares very favourably with similar erections in the Lancashire and Yorkshire factory districts. When the mills are in full work, occupation is afforded for about five thousand hands. The chief feature of the model town is a handsome square. There are several shops in addition to the co-operative stores, and the houses are well built, varying in size, every family being accommodated with three to six rooms, according to the number of its members. There is an institute with a capital[568] library, a recreation room, a dispensary, excellent schools under the supervision of the National Board of Education, a savings bank, and half-a-dozen places of worship, the respective congregations supporting the current expenses. The sale of intoxicating liquors is entirely prohibited, and, as a consequence, there is not only an absence of drunkenness, but a general freedom from the legion of evils which seem inseparable from the liquor traffic. There is no resident police officer, and it is only quite recently that there has been any police perambulation of the model town, this latter being due more to political disturbances in the near neighbourhood than to any outbreak of crime on the part of the inhabitants of Bessbrook itself. The North of Ireland thus furnishes an excellent example of how to make the working classes thrifty, sober, industrious, happy and prosperous.

A VILLAGE EXPERIMENT.

The Rev. W. E. Bolland, M.A., vicar of Embleton, Northumberland, has, in conjunction with some friends, launched a scheme for a model club and hall for the village. The plan contains some novel features, inasmuch as it embraces a working men's club, a public hall available for meetings, entertainments, etc.; a café and refreshment rooms, specially catering for cyclists and visitors; bedrooms for summer visitors, and also a public laundry. The catering will exclude the provision of intoxicants, and it will be seen from the illustration that the architect has planned a very attractive looking house. This village scheme will be closely watched, and, if it should succeed, there can be no doubt that the enterprising vicar of Embleton will have many followers.

THE BLUECOAT BOYS.

In a very short time London will be deprived of one of its most picturesque sights—namely, the tramp of its seven hundred or more Bluecoat boys to the Mansion House on Easter Tuesday to pay their respects to the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress, and receive a monetary gift, and a bun and a glass of wine. The Grecians are given a sovereign and a shilling each; the junior Grecians a half-sovereign and a sixpence; the monitors half-a-crown; and the other boys a shilling each. The removal of this famous school to the country will possibly put an end to the function. The glass of wine has become a diminishing quantity in recent years; for, thanks to the activity of a friend at court, lemonade was introduced as an alternative a few years back, and now the teetotal boys have no hesitation in availing themselves of this beverage. The preacher of the Spital sermon this year is to be a life-long abstainer, the Bishop of Carlisle.

COMING EVENTS.

The programmes for the May meetings are now nearing completion. The Church of England Temperance Society announces as speakers the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of Chichester, the Bishop of Thetford, and the Rev. Dr. Ridgeway; the National Temperance League relies upon the Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr. T. W. Russell, M.P., Mr.[569] John Colville, M.P., the Rev. George Hanson, B.D., and Miss Agnes Weston; while Sir George Williams will preside for the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union. The annual meetings of the Scottish Temperance League will be held in Glasgow on April 17th; the annual meeting of the Sussex Band of Hope Union will take place at Lewes on April 26th; a social meeting of the Young Men's Auxiliary of the National Temperance League will be held in Sion College on April 21st; the Hackney and East Middlesex Band of Hope Union will give a reception in honour of its new President, the Dowager Countess of Errol, on April 20th. The usual open-air demonstrations in the London parks, promoted by the United Temperance Council will take place on Saturday, June 17th. The Rev. F. B. Meyer will preach the annual sermon of the Congregational Total Abstinence Society. The Archbishop of Canterbury and Mrs. Temple will give a Garden Party at Lambeth Palace on July 1st to meet the official advocates of the temperance movement. The Norwich Diocesan temperance anniversary will be held at Norwich from October 17th to October 24th inclusive.

TOTAL ABSTAINING BISHOPS.

A few weeks ago the Lord Bishop of Llandaff agreeably surprised the temperance workers of Cardiff by announcing that he had definitely decided to try total abstinence. It may not be generally known that the Right Rev. H. J. Foss, who has recently been consecrated Bishop of Osaka, is an abstainer, and has been an active temperance worker during the whole of his twenty years' residence in Japan. The Bishop of Islington and the Bishop of Southampton are also total abstainers.

THE FIRST TEMPERANCE HALL IN THE WORLD.

The city of Bradford claims to possess the first Temperance Hall in the world. The foundation stone was laid on Monday, March 13th, 1837, and the building was opened on February 27th, 1838, by the Bishop of Ripon, Dr. Longley (who in succession became Bishop of Durham, Archbishop of York, and Archbishop of Canterbury). This famous building is still in regular use, the Bradford Temperance Society being one of the most vigorous associations in the country. A unique feature of the hall is a very handsome painted window in memory of the late John Priestman. It is a four-light window, and contains four female figures robed in mediæval costumes, and representing "Religion," "Temperance," "Health," and "Prosperity." Above the central light is an effective portrait of Mr. Priestman. Mr. George Field in his interesting "Historical Survey of the Bradford Temperance Society," says:—

"The hall of this, the first temperance society in England, has been a battle-field for many conflicts with drink, and some of the greatest orators have made its walls re-echo with their oratory. It has had amongst its friends and workers some of the best men and women of Bradford. By its agency many a degraded sot has been rescued and restored to respectability in society, but while the curse of drink remains the work will have to go on."

SCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL & HOME
INTERNATIONAL SERIES

With Illustrative Anecdotes and References.

So far have had Christ's active life coupled with His teachings. Come now to His passive life just before the close. To-day's lesson—a sort of active parable—teaching His giving up Himself for man.

I. The Washing (1-11). The time. Just before Christ's last Passover. Supper being "at hand" (Revised Version); washing taking place before a meal (St. Mark vii. 3). Always known as the "Last Supper" or Passover Feast. His "hour" for showing Himself fully as the Saviour was now come.

The cause (ver. 1). Love passing all knowledge (Eph. iii. 19). Shown by its greatness—loved to the uttermost; its comprehensiveness—including even Judas; its lowliness—doing a servant's work.

The act. Disciples began to dispute which should be the greatest (St. Luke xxii. 24). Christ shows by His action what His opinion is. The greatest in His kingdom are they who serve most. Takes towel, water, basin; washes feet of each in turn. Who declines to accept the act of service? But unless Peter submits to Christ, can have no part with Him. He dreads separation from Him, therefore is eager now to be wholly washed. Christ tells him two things—

(a) He cannot understand meaning of this act but will hereafter—will add to his faith, virtue (or valour), and knowledge (2 Pet. i. 3).

(b) He who is washed, i.e. bathed (Greek), in Christ's atoning blood (Zech. xiii. 1) needs only to "wash" or be washed from daily sin to be kept clean and holy.

II. The Meaning (12-17). Equality in Christ's service. He is their Master, but delights to serve them. Followers must copy His example.

Service. The spirit of His example to be followed—feeding hungry, teaching ignorant, visiting the sick and sad (St. Matt. xxv. 35, 36).

Knowledge. Life's mysteries to be cleared up hereafter. Duties now, rewards future.

Discourse with disciples at Last Supper continued. Peter, boasting of his steadfastness, been warned of his coming fall, that very night (xiii. 38), but comforted by thought of heaven to all who come to God by Him for pardon.

I. The Many Mansions. What they are? Abiding places (Greek). This world passes away—heaven endures. They are many in number—room for all. Also prepared by Christ for all who believe in Him. Christ by His death opened heaven to man, and waits there to receive His people.

II. The Way to Heaven (4-7). Christ the Way. Came to reveal this. None else could make atonement. God's holy Son alone could, by dying for sin, open way to heaven for sinners. He alone lifted up, gives eternal life (iii. 14, 15).

Christ the Truth. Yet charged that night with blasphemy, worst of all falsehoods, making Himself God (xix. 7). Yet was the perfect truth. Exposed hypocrisy of chief priests, hollowness of Scribes and Pharisees (St. Luke xi. 39, 44). Taught the spirit of the commandments in Sermon on Mount (St. Matt. v. 21, 22, 28, 39, etc.). Acted truth in His own perfect life. Taught God's truth to men.

Christ the Life, though put to death day following. Author of life; the world made by Him. Gave natural life once more to three dead persons. Gave spiritual life to Nicodemus, who became disciple; Samaritan who accepted His teaching (iv. 42). Raised Himself from the dead, and gives eternal life to as many as believe.

III. The Father Revealed (8-14). Cannot be seen by mortal eye (i. 18), but is seen in person of His Son. Christ reveals the person of the Father full of love and pity to those in need; full of anger against hypocrites, liars, etc. (viii. 44). Christ also reveals works of God, miracles of mercy. Same, and even greater, power of working miracles promised to His disciples after His departure. Also answers to prayer made to the Father in His name.

So the revelation of the Father shows Him as a[571] loving Person, a Giver of power, a Hearer of prayer. What more can Philip need?

Christ continues to comfort and teach His disciples ready for the time when He must leave them.

I. The Comforter (15-17). See the order in the spiritual life. First faith to believe in Him (ver. 1), then love to cling to Him, then obedience to work for Him. He will help them. He must leave them, but will not forget them. Will send Another to be with them always—the Comforter.

His work. To aid Christ's people. How does He do so? By helping their prayers (Rom. viii. 26). By giving counsel, e.g. showing how to speak to adversaries (St. Matt. x. 19, 20), of which Stephen is an example (Acts vi. 10). By strengthening their souls to do right; hence called the Comforter or Strengthener. Also by revealing the things of God.

11. The Result (18-27). Consolations of Christ's people. Comfort by His continual presence. Life present and future because of union with Him.

This parable one of two only in this Gospel. Spoken in court of Temple after leaving Passover Feast.

I. The Parable (1-8). The Vine itself must be good and true, planted in soil prepared for it. Husbandman places, cares for, and watches over it. Unfruitful branches must be cut off, fruitful ones purged—to produce more fruit—dead ones burned. Much fruit redounds to glory of husbandman.

The meaning. Christ Himself is the true ideal Vine, doing always such things as please God. The husbandman is God, who placed Him in the world (iii. 16) and watched over Him (St. Matt. iii. 17). The branches are believers joined to Him by living faith. Fruit—the graces of a Christian life.

What are results of union with Christ the Vine? Life to the soul from life of Christ. Fruit outward result of inward life. Answers to prayer. Christ and His people alike heard. Glory to God the Father.

II. Results of Union (9-16). Metaphor dropped. Christ urges disciples to continue in His love. Then they will have full joy; love to all arising from love to Him; friendship of Christ as evidenced by His death for them; knowledge because of revelation of Father. Permanence of results.

Christ's hour now come—has finished teachings—must go forth to die. Path of sorrow to be trod—He does not shrink.

I. Christ Betrayed (1-11). The place. The garden or olive orchard of Gethsemane. Note that Christ went forth of His own will, knowing all before Him. Also He went not for concealment, but for prayer.

The band. Judas, His disciple, their leader. A band of Roman soldiers to prevent a tumult, and officers of the Temple police supplied by chief priests. Also chief priests and elders, and a mixed rabble (St. Luke xxii. 52). All had common hatred of Jesus of Nazareth.

The incidents. Jesus comes forth with His three disciples, Peter, James, John. He asks, "Whom seek ye?" Soldiers fall back in surprise. He asks again—they answer. He asks that disciples may go their way. Request granted; He lost none. St. Peter with sword wounds Malchus. Christ heals his ear (St. Luke xxii. 51) and rebukes Peter. Note the forbearance and majesty of Christ; the loving impetuosity of St. Peter; the malice of Judas and the gratified hatred of chief priests.

II. Christ a Prisoner (12-14). The soldiers close in. Prisoner bound because of attempt to rescue. The captain secures Christ, leads Him to Annas, chief of priests and president of Jewish Sanhedrim.

SHORT ARROWS

NOTES OF CHRISTIAN LIFE AND WORK.

A Remarkable Church Doorway.

Clonfert Cathedral, in County Galway, can boast a very remarkable and ancient doorway, which is regarded as one of the finest specimens of Hiberno-Romanesque work now in existence. The shafts and piers present an astonishing variety of decoration; every inch of its surface has been worked by the sculptor's tool. Above the rounded archway rises a triangular space filled with many carvings, while the archway itself consists of several decorated semicircles, one within the other. Norman and Romanesque porches may be found of grander proportions; but Brash, in his "Ecclesiastical Architecture of Ireland," declares that "in point of design and execution" he had not seen this beautiful porch "excelled by any similar features in these islands," and specially mentions its beauty of design and fertility of invention. The Cathedral itself has had a long and interesting history. It was founded by St. Brendan in the year 558, and suffered greatly from the Danes. It was burnt six times between 744 and 1179, and was plundered thrice between 949 and 1065. In 1541 it was almost destroyed. Repaired by Bishop Wolley in 1664, it was subsequently altered and improved to some extent, but no general work of restoration was done, and consequently it is in great need of repair. To this work Canon McLarney, the present rector of Clonfert, has set his hand. Though small, the building is very beautiful, and is now used as the parish church, the parish of Clonfert being very large and measuring twenty-seven Irish miles in circumference. The work of restoration is proceeding in sections as funds are provided by the public. The chancel has already been restored, and Canon McLarney hopes to collect a thousand pounds to complete the work on the nave. One need not leave the British Isles to see very ancient and interesting structures, and a writer lately said it would be worth a pilgrimage to Connaught to see Clonfert doorway alone.

The Westminster Choir Boys.

Nowhere in England do the trained voices of a choir seem to harmonise more perfectly with the surroundings than in Westminster Abbey. Architecture, as an old German philosopher once described it, is but "frozen music" after all. The noble anthems that rise soaring upwards amongst the fluted columns and giant arches, the hymns of praise that roll through the long aisles seem, as we listen to the sacred music, not only to give thanks to Him who "made the earth so bright," but to Him who gave England such men as lie in the sculptured tombs around us. Not far from the Abbey—some three minutes' walk, in fact, through Dean's Yard—stands a tall, red-brick building. It is the choir school, where live the twenty-four boys of the choir under the headmastership of Mr.[573] Arthur Hore. To gain admission, a boy must be at least eight years of age, possessing a good voice and the knowledge of the rudiments of music; he will also be expected to read and write fairly. His examination on these points will be conducted by the master of the choristers, Sir J. Frederick Bridge, or someone appointed by him. If he passes satisfactorily, he will become a probationer, paying £10 a year towards his expenses; at the end of three years, however, he will become a recognised member of the Abbey choir, and no further charge will be made. The internal arrangements of the choir house are excellent. On the ground floor are the big class-room and the dining-room. To see the youngsters attacking a joint of roast beef is a conclusive proof that the boy who sings like a young seraph is, nevertheless, far from being the wishy-washy individual that he is often represented to be in some poems and sentimental novels. On the second floor is another big class-room containing the school library. Walter Scott is there, and rows of well-thumbed volumes of Henty. Many years ago Princess Alice gave a present of books to the school. For some time they were kept ceremoniously shut up in a glass case. The present headmaster, however, recognising that the kind donor would have strongly objected to such a foolish use being made of the volumes, placed them in the library for general use. On the third floor are the plain, clean dormitories with their rows of little iron beds and the regulation striped rugs over all.

A Chinese Y.M.C.A.

Amid the discouragements which the recent revolution in Pekin has occasioned to those concerned in China's welfare—for the movement in question is manifestly anti-reform, anti-foreign, and consequently anti-Christian—there are many signs that such opposition cannot radically hinder this country's enlightenment. Such a sign is the progress of the Y.M.C.A. movement among Chinese youths, which is assuming considerable importance, especially in connection with mission schools. It was found desirable to invite from America an experienced worker in this department; and though it will be some time before this gentleman can speak Chinese, there is no difficulty in the matter of interpreters, native or foreign. Yesterday in our large Shanghai mission church—says a correspondent—there were gathered 200 Chinese boy-scholars from various mission stations in and near Shanghai, all of whom were either members of the local Y.M.C.A. or willing to join it. Earnest addresses were given and prayers offered, both in English and Chinese, the English addresses being admirably[574] translated by a Christian Chinaman; while the bright hymn-singing of these strong young voices was a delightful sound. At the close of the morning meeting papers were distributed to the boys containing questions to be answered in writing, and a form, of Christian engagement to be signed. At the afternoon service many of these were returned most satisfactorily and intelligently filled in. Such assemblies have recently been held with much interest and zeal, and apparently solid results, at Nanking and other centres of missionary work.

The "Metal Man."

At Tramore, near Waterford, a place where the Atlantic breakers dash with sublime fury against the rocks, there are on one of the headlands three towers, and on the middle one stands what is called "The Metal Man." This is a figure made of metal, and painted to resemble a sailor. With his finger he points to some very dangerous rocks that are to be shunned. There are rocks in life's troublesome sea that are ready to shipwreck the bodies and souls of the young. These we should point out to them with as much diligence as does the metal man when God has saved us from being shipwrecked upon them.

A Saint's Rest.

Richard Baxter was all his long life physically weak, and for fourteen years had scarcely a waking hour free from pain. He felt himself continually "at the door of eternity." At the close of his life he said, "Weakness and pain helped me to study how to die; I am going now to see that for which I have lived and studied." His death was a fitting end to a life of pain and patience—a fulfilment of his own words: "After the rough and tempestuous day we shall at last have the quiet, silent night—light and rest together; the quietness of the night without its gloom."

The Quiver Pictures.

The six beautiful plates which the readers of The Quiver have the opportunity of acquiring, and the last coupon for which is contained in this number, are representative examples of the work of some of the most notable exponents of sacred art among modern British painters. The names of Leighton and Millais are now familiar in every household, and great interest attaches to the works from their hands included in this series of pictures. "The Star of Bethlehem," by Lord Leighton, was painted in 1862, when the artist was thirty-two years of age, and four years before his election as Associate of the Royal Academy. The main figure represents one of the magi on the terrace of his house, gazing at the miraculous light which led him and his fellows to search out Him, "who was born King of the Jews." "Christ in the House of His Parents" is one of the most wonderful pictures painted by Sir John Millais. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1850, when the artist was but twenty years of age, and, as related in the article on "Pictorial Sermons" in our last number, aroused a storm of discussion among the critics. The work is a veritable parable in paint, and, as its allegories are all fully explained in the article referred to, we need not repeat them here. The picture has great interest, apart from this, as being one of the best specimens of the work of the artist's Pre-Raphaelite period. "Christ Washing Peter's Feet," by Ford Madox Brown, which was presented to the nation by a body of subscribers; and now hangs in the Tate Gallery at Millbank, is a typical painting, and one of the most beautiful examples of this artist's work. Exquisite in colour, it is a perfect specimen of what a picture dealing with a sacred subject should be. Full of reverence and piety, it yet illustrates the subject fully; the rugged figure of the apostle, expressing withal the penitence produced by the rebuking words, "If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with Me," contrasts strongly with the humility of the Master kneeling to His self-imposed task. "The Remorse of Judas," by the late Edward Armitage, R.A., is another picture to be seen at Millbank, and is, perhaps, one of the strongest works produced by this artist. The terror of remorse is expressed in every line of the face of the betrayer, while the cold indifference of the priests, now that their work is accomplished, is admirably portrayed. "The Raising of the Widow's Son of Nain," by W. C. T. Dobson, R.A., was shown at the Academy in 1868, and fully explains itself. The joy of the mother and the surprise of the beholders of the miracle are well rendered; but the main interest of the picture, of course, centres in the boy. His gaze is fixed upon Him whose voice has recalled him from the "valley of the shadow." The[575] last picture of the series, by W. Dyce, R.A., was recently added to the national collection, and was removed from Trafalgar Square to Millbank when the new gallery was completed. It represents the Apostle John taking Mary to his own home after the death of their Lord. Mary carries on her arm the crown of thorns, and in the background may be seen Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, who are just leaving the garden which contains the sepulchre. Mary Magdalene and the "other Mary" are seen seated at the mouth of the grave. The picture was painted in 1860.

Public Charity.

According to a recent calculation, the amount given during the previous year by Churchmen towards Christian work of all kinds, such as Church Building, Home Missions, Foreign Missions, Education, etc., was over £5,750,000. The various Presbyterian Churches contributed during the same time for similar work a sum of £1,600,000, and the Wesleyans gave over £500,000; the Calvinistic Methodists about £228,500; the Baptists over £200,000; and the Primitive Methodists over £100,000. Of the Congregationalists and the "Friends" no such statistics are available, and it is estimated that other branches of the Christian Church in England gave an aggregate of not less than £150,000 towards the same work. Generally speaking, all the different bodies contribute in a fairly equal proportion, directly or indirectly, to the different kinds of Christian work—at any rate, sufficiently so for the comparison we wish to make here. So, taking the Church of England's returns as our standard, we find that these proportions are nearly as follows, 1 being our unit:—Church Building and Repairs, 35; Home Missions, 7; Foreign Missions, 10; Educational Work of all kinds, 20; various Charitable Works of other kinds, 6.

A New Quiver Heroine.

The latest recipient of the Bronze Medal of The Quiver Heroes Fund is Annie Healand, a servant in the employ of Mr. Frederick Latham, of Sledmere. On the afternoon of January 28th last, two little boys and a girl were suddenly immersed beneath the ice whilst sliding on a pond. On hearing of this, Annie Healand, who is herself but fifteen years of age, immediately rushed to the rescue, and, plunging in, succeeded in bringing the little girl to the bank. She then endeavoured to find the two boys, who were still under the ice, but was at last reluctantly compelled to give up the search, through being overcome by the intense cold. The bodies of the lads were afterwards found, and the coroner congratulated the brave girl for the very plucky manner in which she had rescued one of the party and attempted to save the others.

International League of Peace.

We are still daily receiving the names of numbers of new members, and one roll of signatures which has just come to hand measures thirty feet in length. Any number of blank forms will be gladly sent, post free, to those requiring them. We may take this opportunity of announcing that the first member to send in a thousand signatures is Mr. John N. Munro, of 50, Park Road, Glasgow, to whom a cheque for Ten Pounds has been sent, in accordance with our offer.

ROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL WORKERS.

The Special Silver Medal and Presentation Bible offered for the longest known Sunday-school service in the county of Devonshire (for which applications were invited up to February 28th, 1899) have been gained by

who has distinguished herself by sixty-two complete years' service in Northam Church Sunday School.

As already announced, the next territorial county for which claims are invited for the Silver Medal is

KENT,

and applications, on the special form, must be received on or before March 30th, 1899. We may add that Cheshire is the following county selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being April 30th, 1899. This county, in its turn, will be followed by the territorial county of Somersetshire, for which the date will be one month later—viz. May 31st, 1899.

The following letter, received from the Devonshire Silver Medallist, of whom particulars are given above, will doubtless be interesting to all our readers, and especially to Sunday school workers:—

THE QUIVER FUNDS.

The following is a list of contributions received from February 1st, 1899, up to and including February 28th, 1899. Subscriptions received after this date will be acknowledged next month:—

THE QUIVER BIBLE CLASS.

QUESTIONS.

61. What did our Lord do as a rebuke to His Apostles when they disputed among themselves as to who should be the greatest?

62. In the discourse at the Last Supper, what did our Lord say is to be the distinctive mark of all His disciples? Quote passage.

64. By what promise did our Lord seek to comfort His Apostles on the eve of His crucifixion?

65. Which of the Apostles seems to have been very slow in comprehending the divinity of our Lord?

66. Quote some words from our Lord's answer to St. Philip in which He clearly declares His Godhead?

68. What is the great blessing Christ gives as the result of the influence of the Holy Spirit in our hearts?

72. From what circumstances do we gather that the Jews expected great difficulty in arresting our blessed Lord?

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 480.

49. In the parable of the Sheepfold our Lord speaks of a porter who had charge of the door, and of a thief climbing over a fence (St. John x. 1-3).

51. Our Lord speaks of Himself as the Good Shepherd, who giveth His life for the sheep, while the Jewish teachers, as hirelings, cared not for them (St. John x. 11-14).

54. Turning the water into wine and healing the nobleman's son (St. John ii. 1-11 and iv. 46-54).

56. That it was done to increase the faith of the Apostles by showing them that there was no limitation to the power of Christ (St. John xi. 15).

57. So many Jews believed in Christ that the chief priests thought of killing Lazarus as well as Jesus (St. John xi. 47-53 and xii. 10, 11).

58. Because it would seem that Martha was hostess at the house of Simon the Leper, where Mary, her sister, anointed our Lord with the precious ointment of spikenard (compare St. John xii. 1-3 with St. Mark xiv. 3).

59. St. John tells us that Judas Iscariot acted as treasurer for our Lord and His disciples, but that he was a thief (St. John xii. 6 and xiii. 29).

Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.

Missing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the original text.

Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it's not sufficiently clear where the missing quote should be placed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The hymns are handwritten on pages 483, 534, 535 and 536. There are handwritten signatures by Arthur H. Brown on page 536, and John Stainer on page 538.

Page 508 and following: The chapter titles in the section "For the Sake of the Child" are in handwritten script.

Page 559: "in the evening—Nos. 500 and 532—and"—the number 500 is unclear.

Page 560: "must be obtained from the office, 36,"—the number 36 is unclear.

The church	(1)	represents	the	money	spent in building places of worship.
The mission room	(2)	"	"	"	home mission work.
The native hut	(3)	"	"	"	foreign mission work.
The school	(4)	"	"	"	educational work.
The hall	(5)	"	"	"	other general charitable work.

The Quiver 3/1900

THE CENTENARY OF THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY.