CHAPTER X.

The Quiver 1/1900

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).

* * * * *

[Illustration: Our Roll of Heroic Deeds

The above illustration depicts a notable deed of heroism performed

by the daughter of a Sheffield collier when only seventeen years of

age. It happened that early one morning, when the father and mother

were absent, Charlotte Morewood awoke to find the house in flames.

Escape downstairs was impossible, but, with admirable presence of

mind, she awakened the four younger children, and dropped them one

by one out of a bedroom window into the arms of neighbours below.

Next, by a great effort, she lifted her eldest sister, who had

fainted with the shock, and saved her in the same manner. She then

endeavoured to rescue some of the furniture and clothes in the

attic, but the fire had meanwhile spread so rapidly that she only

saved herself by a hurried jump. By the pluck and coolness of this

brave, devoted girl, the lives of the six inmates of the burning

house were thus saved.]

FACING DEATH FOR CHRIST.

_BASED ON AN INTERVIEW WITH THE REV. C. H. GOODMAN._

By Our Special Commissioner.

[Illustration: MR. GOODMAN WITH TEACHERS AND CHILDREN OF DAY SCHOOL,

TIKONKO.

(_Photo: The Rev. W. Vivian, F.R.G.S._)]

A terrible adventure befell the Rev. C. H. Goodman, missionary in

the Mendi country, West Africa, in the summer of 1898. It is really

surprising that he is alive to tell the tale, and, indeed, the marks

of great suffering were still visible on his face when, a few months

afterwards, he kindly told me the story.

[Illustration: THE REV. C. H. GOODMAN.

(_Photo: Mr. Stephens, Harrogate._)]

The peril came on him with startling suddenness. No bolt from the

blue could dash from the heavens more unexpectedly. He was stationed

at Tikonko, about two hundred miles inland from Freetown, Sierra

Leone, and had been in charge of the United Methodist Free Church

Mission there for about six years. Suddenly, one morning, he heard

by chance that his life and the lives of his Mission-workers had

been demanded by a neighbouring tribe.

"Is it really true," he asked his friends, the Tikonko Mendis, "that

the Bompeh people wish me to be killed?"

"Yes, it is true."

"And you can give me no protection?"

"We fear not any."

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

"Yes."

"Can you give me carriers to accompany me and my helpers, and to

take food for the journey?"

"Yes, we promise that."

But Mr. Goodman could not get the promise fulfilled--whether from

insincerity or inability on the part of the Mendis to keep it he

could not discover.

What was to be done? He was the only white man there: some coloured

people, chiefly from Free Town, and associated with the Mission,

were with him; but the tribes all round were in a state of terrible

unrest and were ripe for war, while, indeed, hostilities had

actually commenced in some districts.

[Illustration: MR. ROBERTS' RESIDENCE.

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

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

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

(_The mark_ =X= _indicates the well into which their bodies were

thrown_.)]

Mr. Goodman had hoped that the Tikonkos would have been strong

enough to keep out of the war, but he was disappointed; and it was

now clear to him that he could not rely upon their protection, or

upon any assistance to reach the coast. The children and several of

the workers had left the Mission and had taken refuge in Tikonko

town, which consists of a collection of mud-huts surrounded by a

fence, while he remained quietly at the Mission premises and watched.

On Monday, May 2nd, he saw many strange men loitering about the farm

in a suspicious manner. It was evident a crisis was impending, and

he steeled himself to prepare for the worst.

Suddenly, in the afternoon, he heard a great noise. Rushing out, he

found that a lad, named Johnson, who was carrying a box belonging to

some of the Mission people, was surrounded by strange men, who were

seizing the box and ill-treating the boy.

Johnson and his wife hurried to the rescue, but they were set upon

by the "war-boys" and beaten; their clothes were torn off their

backs, and Mr. Johnson received such a frightful gash across the

face that his nose was nearly severed from his body and fell off

next day.

Seizing his gun and calling to others, Mr. Goodman hurried out of

the house, and with a yell the "war-boys" rushed to the Mission.

Mr. Goodman's little party were hopelessly outnumbered; and Mr.

Campbell, the native school teacher and Mr. Goodman, seeing that

discretion was the better part of valour, turned to the bush and

escaped in different directions.

Mr. Goodman did not proceed very far. Hurrying along, he was soon

able to hide in the dense bush, his object being to work his way to

the town and enter by the Bompeh road. If he could reach the town,

he thought the nominal chief, Sandy, might secretly prove his friend.

Gradually, therefore, he made his way to the road, and then hurried

to the gate, but it was shut in his face.

[Illustration: THEO. ROBERTS.

(_Industrial Trainer._)]

[Illustration: THE REV. J. C. JOHNSON.

(_Mission Worker._)]

[Illustration: T. T. CAMPBELL

(_School Teacher._)]

[Illustration: _ISHMAEL PRATT.

(_Carpenter._)_

FOUR OF THE MARTYRS.

(_From Photographs by the Rev. W. Vivian, F.R.G.S._)]

Back, then, to the friendly shelter of the bush he turned, and now

even the elements seemed against him, for a terrible tornado burst,

and in a minute he was drenched to the skin.

Alone, wet, weary, and foodless, with savage enemies around him

seeking to kill him, his position might well have appalled the

stoutest heart. But an Englishman, whether missionary or soldier,

must never know when he is beaten; and so at night he made his way

again to the town, and entered it through a hole in the fence and

hurried up to the king's compound.

Now the old chief of Tikonko had died shortly before, and the "cry

for the dead"--that is, the time of mourning--was not yet over,

consequently the new chief or king--whom the missionary called

Sandy--had not been fully invested with his new powers.

[Illustration: THE MISSION HOUSE BEFORE ITS DESTRUCTION.

(_From a Drawing by Mrs. Vivian._)]

"Oh, you have escaped," he cried, when Mr. Goodman came to him. "I

am glad indeed. Yes, I will help you, but it is not safe for you to

remain in the town. The 'war-boys' are eager to kill you. Where

will you go? Ah! you shall appear as one of my wives."

Thus the palaver was short but decisive. Disguised as a woman--an

expedient forced on him by urgent necessity--the missionary was

conveyed that night out of the town to a hut in the bush belonging

to Sandy. Silently through the darksome night the little party crept

along, and the missionary was left there alone. He was supposed

to be one of the chief's wives, who was ill. In the morning the

imaginary wife sought once more the friendly protection of the dense

bush, and at night he returned again to the hut.

Stealthily, one of his friendly boys brought him now and again

a little food. The lad had secured one of the Mission boxes and

procured from it a tin of cocoa, and this cocoa he brought to the

missionary, with rice, and occasionally a little fish and meat.

[Illustration: MR. GOODMAN AND HIS MENDI "BOYS."

(_Photo: The Rev. W. Vivian, F.R.G.S._)]

Hiding thus, while the yells of the "war-boys" sounded far and near,

the missionary lived through those terrible days. Tuesday came

and went, also the Wednesday and the Thursday. But Friday morning

heralded a change. A message was brought to him that Sandy desired

to see him, and to this day Mr. Goodman does not know whether the

message was treacherous or not. But, trusting to its honesty, he

left the hut to visit the chief, and then, before he had gone

far, he suddenly found himself surrounded by the yelling Bompeh

"war-boys."

They caught him and shouted round him, but did not then hurt him.

Resistance was useless, and with war-whoops and yells of triumph

they led him forward as though to Tikonko. But when near the fence

they altered their cry: "To Bompeh" they shouted, and to Bompeh he

was turned.

For three and a half weary hours the missionary marched on in the

blazing sun, and without his white helmet. He was fully surrounded

by the yelling savages, and the leader of the party marched beside

him with drawn sword. The shouts and excitement of his captors

gradually calmed down as they walked along; but, presently, as they

neared Bompeh town, his clothes were pulled off his back, and clad

only in pants and vest, and without even shoes or stockings, he

crept along the burning path with naked and bleeding feet.

But at length the weary march was over. Bompeh town was reached, and

then the war-horns were blown, and amid much excitement Mr. Goodman

was taken to an open space before the king's hut, where also the

people assembled.

[Illustration: THE TRIAL.]

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

decided.

The chief, whose name was Gruburu, sat on a rude kind of chair in

the middle of the people, his prime minister near, and men and women

and "war-boys" grouped all round, chiefly according to families. Mr.

Goodman, tired with his long journey, sat himself down on a log.

First, one of his captors spoke. The man came out from the group,

and as he talked he walked up and down in the open space before the

king. An account was being given of the missionary's capture. "And,"

said Mr. Goodman, "while this was going on, I prayed that God would

bring about a division in their counsels."

When the man had finished, up rose an old man, and by his gestures

and the anxiety he displayed, Mr. Goodman saw with pleasure that he

was pleading for him.

This gleam of friendliness--the first that day, and met with in the

stronghold of his enemies--fell like genial warmth upon his spirits

and encouraged him to hope.

Then a woman arose. She was a relative of the king; and, advancing

before him, she bent before him and took his foot in her hand as a

sign of submission. "Do not let this man die," she said. "My son at

Tikonko has sent me a message pleading for his life. 'Do not let the

white man die,' says my son; 'he is a good man.'"

Indeed, many messages had come to the king in the missionary's

favour. "When we were sick," said the messages, "he has mended us;

he has done us good; we like the way he has walked"--_i.e._ they

liked his manner of life.

It was the old story--conduct and character had impressed the

natives after all, and they were not wholly ungrateful.

But, see! The king is about to give his judgment. The final decision

is to be made. Is it to be death or life?

[Illustration: (_From a Water-Colour Drawing by Mrs. Vivian._)

THE DEVIL HOUSE AT TIKONKO.

(_Where the town fetish or devil is consulted and propitiated._)]

The king said: "This white man is our friend. He has come to do us

good, and to give our picken (children) sense. He has nothing to do

with the Government. He shall not die in my town."

Bravo, King of Bompeh! Thou hast more common-sense and right feeling

beneath thy sable skin than some people would have supposed.

"I was surprised," said Mr. Goodman modestly, "to find how the

influence of the Mission had spread."

At once his clothes were returned to him--all save his waistcoat,

which was given to the leader of his captors; he was sheltered in

a hut and allowed a measure of freedom--more freedom, indeed, than

some of the natives who were prisoners. But, alas! he had escaped

one great danger only to fall into another. The hardships he had

undergone, and the malaria from which he had suffered, induced

severe illness. Dysentery and black-water fever seized him; they

shook him in their fell grasp until, from their power and poor food,

he became so weak that he could scarcely stand.

His bed was a sort of raised platform of beaten mud, about six

inches above the floor, with a mat upon it. Sometimes he slept in

his clothes. But he became so sore from lying so long on such a hard

resting-place that wounds were formed which troubled him for long

afterwards. Such requisites as soap and towel were wholly wanting.

The prospect, indeed, became very dark, and it seemed as though he

had only escaped the savages to fall a victim to fever.

At first a boy waited on him, then an English-speaking Mendi; but

unfortunately the king wanted this man, and his place was taken by

another.

The news of Mr. Goodman's illness and imprisonment travelled abroad.

It came to Tikonko, and his Mission boy Boyma sent him some quinine,

which proved very beneficial. Then one day, though he knew it not, a

friendly chief looked in upon him as he lay there so ill, and sent

word to the English that one of their countrymen was a captive up

there at Bompeh town, and Colonel Cunninghame promptly sent a demand

that he should be given up alive. A great force, said the Colonel,

was coming, with plenty of guns, to rescue him. Curiously enough,

a native declared that he had dreamed the same thing; he had seen

in his dream a great English army with "plenty guns" coming for the

captive Englishman. Let him, therefore, be sent to his countrymen.

But another cause was working in his favour. While Mr. Goodman

had been ill a battle had been fought, and the Mendis had been

disastrously beaten by those terrible English with their "plenty

guns." The "war-boys" were sick of the war. "Send the white man

down," they also said to the king, "to plead that the fighting may

cease."

So it was decided that he should be sent. He was given boys to

assist him in his journey, and by their help he made his way, though

he could scarcely walk, down to the English camp. He arrived there

on June 26th, eight weeks from that fateful day when he had seen the

strange men loitering so suspiciously about his Mission farm.

Alas! he found that the Mission premises had been totally destroyed,

and, worse still, that Mr. Campbell had been killed. Mr. Johnson,

after being kept a prisoner, was also slain, as were some other

members of the Mission, who were Sierra Leone men.

It was therefore with a chastened joy, and gratitude for his own

escape, that Mr. Goodman slowly made his way to the coast. He

remained at the camp but a short time, and was then sent on to

Bonthe, Sherbro', where he recovered a measure of strength under the

care of Commandant Alldridge. Finally, he reached Freetown on July

21st, and presently took ship for England.

When he returned home some of his friends scarcely knew him. His

beard was marked with grey, his cheeks were hollow, and his bodily

weakness very great. He looked like an old man. He has recovered

wonderfully since then, and appears more like his natural age; but

when I saw him he was still far from well. He suffered from the

effects of malaria even yet, and from the evil results of the poison

in his system. Four times in his nine years of missionary life has

he suffered from the fell "black-water" scourge.

But since his return he has been manfully doing his duty in speaking

to many audiences of his mission work; and, if the Committee should

so decide, he is fully prepared to return to Africa and reinstate

the Methodist Free Churches Mission in the heart of Mendiland.

[Illustration: SAMPLES OF WRITING BY TIKONKO SCHOOL CHILDREN.

(_Arranged by Mrs. Vivian._)]

GREAT ANNIVERSARIES

_IN FEBRUARY._

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

Hospital.

[Illustration: THE MARQUIS OF SALISBURY.

(_Photo: J. Phillips, Belfast._)]

In this democratic age the birthday of Sir Edward Coke (February

1st, 1551-2) can hardly be passed over. We remember him, not so

much as the rival of Bacon and the prosecutor of Raleigh, as for

his share in drawing up the Petition of Rights. Of his works, one

part of his "Institutes of the Laws of England," long known as "Coke

upon Littleton," has a place amongst the few classical law books

which are familiar by name to the general public. Coke married for

his second wife a daughter of Lord Burghley and grand-daughter of

the great Cecil, who, in this same month, was raised to the peerage

by Elizabeth on the suppression of the northern rebellion. His

descendant, the present Marquis of Salisbury, belongs also to this

month, for he was born on February 3rd, 1830. This is not the place

in which to discuss a living statesman: let us pass to other names.

[Illustration: SIR ROBERT PEEL

(_After the Portrait by sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A._)]

"Bob, you dog, if you're not Prime Minister, I'll disinherit you."

That, we are told, was the way in which the father of Sir Robert

Peel stimulated the political ambitions of his son. He became

Prime Minister, and is not likely soon to be forgotten. His Corn

Importation Bill is one of the pieces of legislation which mark an

epoch. In London, too, he will be remembered for his creation of the

present police system. Possibly there are many now who, hearing a

police constable called a "peeler," forget that the name carries us

back to the remodelling of the London police by Mr. Peel in the year

1829.

[Illustration: BISHOP HOOPER'S MONUMENT.

(_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)]

The same month may speak to us of a statesman who helped to bring

the nation through a crisis of another kind. On the last day of

February, 1856, Lord Canning disembarked at Calcutta, and within

five minutes after touching land proceeded to take the customary

oaths as Governor-General of India. It fell upon him to deal with so

appalling a crisis as the Indian Mutiny; he met it, as one of his

biographers reminds us, in a way that "places him high on the list

of those great officers of State whose services to their country

entitle them to the esteem and gratitude of every loyal Englishman."

February is not a great month in ecclesiastical anniversaries.

But it was on February 9th, 1555, that John Hooper, Bishop of

Gloucester, was burnt just outside his cathedral, where a monument

to his memory now stands. It was in this month that Robert Leighton,

sometime Archbishop of Glasgow, died in London in the year 1684. His

commentary on the Epistles of St. Peter is still numbered amongst

standard homiletical and expository works.

[Illustration: BISHOP PATTESON.

(_From the Portrait in the British Museum._)]

February has some pathetic associations with the foreign missionary

work of the English Church. It was on February 24th, 1861, that J.

C. Patteson was consecrated at Auckland first Bishop for Melanesia.

The story of his martyrdom is one of the most moving incidents in

the history of modern missions. His successor, J. R. Selwyn, was

consecrated in the same month in 1877.

On February 8th, 1890, there died at Usambiro, at the south end of

the Victoria Nyanza, Alexander Mackay, the simple layman whose work

and early death did so much to rivet attention, not only on the

Uganda Mission, but also on missionary enterprise in general. No

modern example seems to have been more fruitful; but he saw nothing

of the wonderful development of Uganda. The pioneer often does not

live to look on the results of his own enterprise.

[Illustration: ALEXANDER MACKAY.

(_The Pioneer Missionary of Uganda._)]

[Illustration: THOMAS CARLYLE.

(_From a Pencil Drawing by George Howard, Esq., M.P._)]

There are some who tell us that people do not read Dickens now.

More is the pity! Yet the flat stone over the grave of Dickens in

Westminster Abbey so often has a flower upon it, while others of no

less famous men are bare, that the man must still be remembered as

well as his books. He was born in this month in the year 1812, and

died in June, 1870. Much of his character might be summed up in the

benediction he put into the mouth of Tiny Tim, "God bless us every

one." In the same month of February, in the year 1881, there died

an author and philosopher of another type--Thomas Carlyle, one of

the most striking figures in English literature, and one of those

whose reputation was world-wide. "When the devil's advocate has said

his worst against Carlyle, he leaves a figure still of unblemished

integrity, purity, loftiness of purpose, and inflexible resolution

to do the right, as of a man living consciously under his Maker's

eye, and with his thoughts fixed on the account which he would have

to render of his talents."

On February 23rd, 1807, Wilberforce's Bill for the abolition of the

foreign slave trade was carried by a majority of 283 to 16. Sir

Samuel Romilly contrasted the feelings of Napoleon with that of the

man who would that night "lay his head upon his pillow and remember

that the slave trade was no more." There was still, however, much

to do; but Wilberforce lived to hear the news that the nation was

willing to pay twenty millions for the abolition of slavery.

[Illustration: WILLIAM WILBERFORCE.

(_After the Portrait by Joseph Slater._)]

[Illustration: THE MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER]

_THE STORY OF A CATHEDRAL TOWN._

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

Etc.

CHAPTER X.

THE SEARCH.

It was Mr. Warde who, before the police arrived, organised and

dispatched search parties. The visitors and servants from the

Deanery, with his own and the Palace household, were scattered

through the immediate neighbourhood, in less than half an hour from

the first summons.

Marjorie was with her mother. Mr. Pelham--after a distracted visit

to his own house, hoping against hope that he might still find the

toddling child safe and rosy, sleeping in her cot--had brought

servants back with him, whom he put under Mr. Warde's instructions.

For Mr. Warde knew every inch of ground about, every possible danger

into which the little feet might have strayed.

In the precincts of the cathedral, in the gardens throughout the

neighbourhood, in every nook and secluded place, lights were soon

flashing and voices calling.

All that anybody knew was little enough. Soon after eight--the hour

at which Mr. Bethune and Marjorie had gone to the Deanery--nurse had

gone to the garden to call the children in. She found it empty, and,

pursuing her search into the cave, found reason to be alarmed. But

she did not then alarm Mrs. Bethune. Returning to the house, which

was strangely still, she had looked into the drawing-room.

"They have taken Barbara home," Mrs. Bethune explained. "They will

soon be back, nurse. But it is getting late for the little ones."

She looked so quiet and calm on her sofa, resting, with the sense

of her husband's love folding her round, that the nurse forbore to

disturb her with her own sudden forebodings. But she put on her

bonnet, and ran up to The Ridges, to satisfy herself against her

fears. No Barbara was there; neither she nor the boys had been seen

since the afternoon. Barbara's nurse--forgetting for a time her

airs--accompanied her to the Canons' Court. Together they again

searched the garden; the cathedral yard, where the darkness was

settling down over the numerous graves and tombs; the shady Canons'

Walk--calling anxiously the names of their respective charges.

No signs were to be found of the children. Then nurse, without

troubling her mistress, went to the Deanery, and asked for Mr.

Bethune; and from him, when he reached his wife's side, had come the

summons to Mr. Pelham and Marjorie.

A thorough examination of the cave, at nurse's suggestion, revealed

the passage and its exit into the Palace grounds; resulting in Mr.

Warde's systematic search throughout the parks and neighbourhood.

Marjorie recollected Sandy's visit to her room; and the discovery

of the abstraction of the blanket from her bed seemed to prove that

some larger scheme than merely running away must have been in the

boys' heads.

Then a new fear was started. A visit to the little station at the

bottom of the Green had seemed for a time to furnish a clue. The

station-master reported that within the last week the two boys had

been inquiring the price of tickets to Baskerton for a party of

five. He had been struck with the answer to his question--"All under

twelve." But the children had not travelled by the only train that

evening. The Dean, who had made this inquiry, thereupon went home,

and ordered his carriage, and had himself driven over to Baskerton.

It was five miles away, famous for its picturesque scenery and

fishing, and was the scene of all the picnic parties about. Across

the parks and by-lanes, filled with roses and honeysuckle, it was

only about three miles off. David and Sandy, he knew, were well

acquainted with its delights; they had often been included in his

own parties there.

The route of the little brook for several miles was explored by a

party of men from the Palace and The Ridges. The boys were known to

frequent it, and a day or two before Sandy had been seen up to his

waist in the water, trying to entice a lively water-rat.

It was wonderful how many people helped in the search. To all, the

boys were well known, and, now that trouble had come upon them, well

beloved. Their fearlessness and _bonhomie_ were remembered, and

their mischief only with indulgent excuses. And Mr. Pelham was taken

to all hearts that sorrowful night, for the sake of the pretty baby

who was lost.

No one was more energetic and suggestive than Mrs. Lytchett, no one

kinder, no one more tearful. It was she who headed a search party

through the cathedral, recalling to mind how Marjorie had once got

herself locked up there nearly all night through a fit of obstinacy.

But no children were discovered.

"If only the Bishop were here--he would know what to do," she sighed

frequently, as news kept coming in that nothing had been found of

the missing ones. They seemed to have vanished as completely as

if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. No one had seen

them--nothing had been heard of them after Sandy's visit to his

sister's room.

"But what could he want the blanket for?"

Mr. Warde, after two or three fruitless journeys, had again come

back to the Court for news, hoping that somebody else might have

been more fortunate. It was just on the edge of dawn, in that

stillness when the first faint twitter of the birds is just

beginning.

As he came down the broad pavement to the Court gate, the eastern

sky was growing clear above the chimney stacks of the Deanery.

Lights were still shining in the windows round, and, as he neared

the gate, Marjorie came forward quickly.

The sight of her wan face was a shock to him; she was still in the

pretty evening dress, above which, in the twilight of the dawn,

her neck and throat shone white. She had the air of some broken

lily--desolate, woeful.

Mr. Warde's heart went out to her with a great compassion. His eyes

grew dim as her wistful glance met his.

[Illustration: The sight of her wan face was a shock to him.]

"No, dear, I can hear nothing," he said softly, putting his arm

round her. Marjorie rested against him, letting her tired young

limbs collapse against his strength. Inspired by some instinct she

did not understand, she had left her mother's sofa, where Mr. Pelham

was now sitting, waiting for the return of a messenger. They two,

it seemed to Marjorie, with a mutual sorrow could understand each

other. She felt somehow restless, uneasy, unworthy, as she coldly

responded to Mr. Pelham's sympathy and care. At his suggestion she

had come away to prepare some tea for her mother, and in passing

through the hall had been lured to the open door by the sound of

Mr. Warde's footsteps on the flagstones. The quick, firm tread

encouraged hope. She could rest on him. The very sight of his kind,

familiar face seemed to renew her strength and courage.

[Illustration: "See! on that little tower on the chapel."]

After a minute's silence, during which his hand had caressed the

soft waves of her hair, he asked, "What could Sandy want the blanket

for? I have been trying to think."

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

"Is she alone?" he asked.

"No. Mr. Pelham is with her; he understands, he is tender and

careful; and she is full of hope now--she comforts him. Father has

gone to the river."

Marjorie gave a little shudder.

"You are cold," Mr. Warde said briskly. "Let me advise you, dear.

Go and change your dress; put on something warm. By that time I

shall have got some food and shall bring it in. I expect you have no

servants left."

"No. They are all--somewhere."

She allowed herself to be led back to the house, and as he stood

watching her ascend the stairs, the man's heart gave a bound of

rejoicing. She had come to him willingly, of her own accord. What

though it were sorrow that had brought her? She was his now for

ever, of her own free will. He stood looking after her, with face

upraised, a thanksgiving in his heart. And thus for the last time he

looked on Marjorie, rejoicing. Never again without pain was he to

hear the soft swish of her dress, the soft fall of her foot. But in

those few seconds he lived through an æon of joy.

He could not guess the force of the feeling which had driven her

from Mr. Pelham's side. The same sorrow that had sent her to Mr.

Warde had also taught her that she must shun the man who could now

be nothing to her. Marjorie's was a very simple nature. When she

realised a fact, she did not play with it. Matter-of-fact duty was

a real power with her. So she had responded to the strong training

which the calm approval or disapproval shining in her father's quiet

eyes had sufficiently imposed.

As the different search parties came back, all with the same "no

news," Mr. Warde had a table of provisions brought out into the

Court. He was too busy caring for the needs of the many weary

volunteers to go again into Mr. Bethune's house; but nurse had by

this time returned, and was tearfully waiting on her mistress.

"Nothing could have happened to them all," the Dean said briskly,

"or we must have found some trace. It is the most mysterious thing

I ever knew in my life. They are all together in some safe place, I

feel convinced."

"My mistress thinks now that they are kept," nurse, overhearing,

said; "she is sure the boys would understand that she would be

anxious, and they are always careful about Miss Barbie. But if only

we could know!" and nurse departed sobbing.

* * * * *

The dawn had broadened into morning, the tips of the cathedral

spires were red in the sunlight, and many of the unavailing

searchers were at last going slowly to their homes. Nothing more

could be done than had been done. Mr. Warde's servants were clearing

away the _débris_ of the meal; whilst he himself was again hurrying

along the flagged path to the cathedral, with the intention of again

thoroughly searching its many nooks and crannies in the daylight. He

feared he knew not what, recollecting Sandy's adventurous spirit.

Mr. Bethune was sitting beside his wife, her hand in his, as once

before that night, looking out upon the still garden. Marjorie,

seeing them thus, noting the far-away look in her father's eyes (as

though visions were being vouchsafed to the weary man, unseen by

other eyes), noting, too, that his calmness was bringing a look of

peace and trust to the wan face of her mother--turned involuntarily

to the other bereaved and, as she remembered, so desperately lonely

man.

"Come into the garden," she said, her eyes full of pity. "Now that

it is light we have a better chance; we may find something."

He followed her across the dewy lawn, as she led the way quickly

to the untidy corner so eloquent of the little workers. Spades

and baskets lay scattered about; a cap of Sandy's hung on a

currant-bush, where it had been put to dry after the washing in the

bath; a large fragment of bread and butter, dropped in the hasty

departure, lay in the path. The tears at last welled into Marjorie's

eyes, as she saw Mr. Pelham stoop and pick up a little shoe.

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

They paused together on the garden path, and Marjorie's eyes turned

to the rose-tinged pinnacles of the beautiful cathedral. To all the

dwellers in its precincts it was almost like a living presence,

dominating all their lives and thoughts.

The length of the choir, terminating in the big central tower,

was before them, whilst in the distance rose the twin spires. The

morning mist was fleeing before the sun, now lighting each finial.

Shadows still lay under the flying buttresses, and along the lower

plane of the south aisle roof and chapel.

Mr. Pelham, after a moment's look at the girl's rapt face, turned

also to gaze at the scene on which her eyes were resting.

Suddenly Marjorie gave a little cry, instantly suppressed.

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

chapel?"

"I see," he answered, "something fluttering, you mean--something

blue."

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

"It is a ribbon," Marjorie said hoarsely. "Barbie was wearing----"

She paused, turning her dilated eyes to her companion's face.

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

signal."

He turned to her, and for a second their encountering eyes were

eloquent. Under the shock of sudden hope, the joy, the emotion, the

agitation of the moment, the man's self-control vanished. His eyes

spoke their message--hers replied--both of them taken unawares.

"Hush!" said Marjorie, putting up her hands as if answering speech.

"I know the way," she faltered. "Father has keys; wait, don't tell

them yet, till we are sure. It is the chapel roof, where they were

mending. Sandy knew."

She turned swiftly, the man following with eager strides.

CHAPTER XI.

JUVENILE ADVENTURERS.

A big yew-tree hid the corner of the wall, where the adventurers,

on their enterprise, dropped down into the cathedral yard. Numerous

square tombstones and old monuments made splendid hiding-places.

There was only one little bit of open space to cross, where the

evening sunshine cast long shadows, and where for a few moments the

strange little truant procession looked a procession of giants.

David and Sandy each held a hand of Barbara, she having declined

to be carried. Ross and Orme followed solemnly. If anybody had met

them, the boys would have turned down the path to their home, and

their presence there would have seemed quite natural. But no one

passed--no one was in sight. David had chosen the time for his move

well. The Court households were busy preparing for dinner. And

though windows commanded the cathedral yard, from none, as it turned

out, was the start of the little party into the world observed. Once

across the grass, they were soon hidden by the many projections and

buttresses and corners of the walls.

In the angle of the south aisle and its chapel was the tiny room

whence the spiral staircase started, in the thickness of the wall,

up to the clerestory of the choir. It also led through a narrow door

lower down, on to the roof of the south aisle. Sandy knew all the

keys of the cathedral, and the place in Mr. Galton's house where

each hung. The door of the little room was, however, open; Mr.

Galton therefore was somewhere about, though he often lingered on

his last look round. They must be quick.

In a few minutes the excited children were mounting the spiral

staircase. David went first, helping Barbara's unaccustomed feet;

Sandy came last, having closed the little door of communication

at the foot of the stairs. They were embarked on their "climb up

the mountain." Issuing through the narrow door which came first in

sight, the delighted children found themselves in the wide gutter

at the base of the roof. Guarded by its low parapet, it was as safe

as their own garden, provided they did not attempt to climb. David

gave strict orders that they were to keep under the "shelter of the

forts," and on no account to show their faces to the enemy.

Up here, they were in another world--a delightful, wide, spacious

world, whence they could look down on the earth they had left. The

Palace grounds lay below them; beyond were the parks, intersected by

their hedges, like the sections of a map. From the flat chapel roof

they could see their own garden and Mr. Warde's, with the Deanery

trees beyond.

"Ross, and Orme, and Barbie, remember you're our family now, and you

must do what you are bid," was David's solemn reminder to them of

the altered condition of things.

Up and down the children ran, with a pitter-patter of clamouring

feet on the leads. Barbara was a little unhappy because she could

not make as much noise as the boys, owing to the make of her shoes,

and to her misfortune in having lost one in transit. Sandy set this

right.

"Stop the march!" he ordered. "You'll give notice to the enemy,

you duffers"--this to the wide-eyed boys--"where we are." So they

stopped. Ross then proceeded to clamber on hands and knees up the

incline of the roof, and, turning, to slide down on his other side.

This amusement lasted all three some time. When their clothes looked

pretty well spoilt, the fun palled. Then came supper, the crowning

act of the evening's proceedings. After this, they intended to

return to ordinary life and the earth they had left; abandoning

their fortress till another opportunity arrived. They intended to be

at home before they would be much missed.

But all this had taken longer than they thought, and when the

"family" was called to its repast the little boys refused to be

hurried. With much self-denial, this meal had been saved. They meant

to enjoy it. By the time they were satisfied, the darkness and cold

were beginning to be appreciably perceived.

Then Sandy hugged himself for his pioneering knowledge.

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

want it."

"Hurry up," David urged, beginning to be a little alarmed at the

aspect of things in their aërial world. "We've got to get Barbie

home. It's time to go."

Ten minutes later the boy turned a white face to the expectant babes

behind him. He and Sandy had pushed with all their might at the

little iron door, which had so easily admitted them to the roof. It

was fast and firm--locked up securely for the night--and they were

prisoners. Probably they would not be released until the workmen

arrived in the morning.

"I wouldn't mind, if we could let mother know, not to be

frightened," the boy said, "and Barbie's father. Think, Sandy;

couldn't we let 'em know?"

Sandy desisted from fruitless bangings on the door, propped his

elbows on the parapet, and put his head between his hands in the

most approved attitude of thinking. Possibly, this attitude was

useful for another purpose than thinking. Sandy was only seven,

but he had a fervent belief in his mother's fragility, and in the

power of himself and his brothers to keep her laughing presence

on her sofa or to banish her elsewhere. He had heard things said

which made him realise that a very little thing might transfer

her to a narrower couch--in a sunny, railed-off corner just under

the cathedral walls. Already a little white stone marked the

resting-place of "Archibald, aged one year." Sandy sometimes pitied

Archibald for being all by himself there. He had one day suggested

to his mother that "P'r'aps one of us ought to go and mind him--as

he was so little." For answer, the mother had gathered the bright

head on to her breast, fervently breathing, "No, Sandy, mother can't

let one go, not the very littlest bit of any of you. God is minding

little Archie better than we can."

So up there in the air, within sight of the familiar garden--within

sound almost of the mother who as yet was not concerned about

him--her little son may be excused if, in process of his thinking,

he blinked away a tear. The responsibility was so great. This had

been his scheme more than David's. And there was Barbie's father,

too. But he wasted no sentiment on him.

"My finks is all in a mess," he said at last, lifting his face.

"On'y we must signal. It's like a desert island up here. P'r'aps we

might frow down something."

* * * * *

The gathering darkness, alas! hid the fluttering signal which, after

some protestations from Barbara, they tied to a carved projection.

It was the longest thing they had about them. How tiny it looked up

there, they did not realise.

The little feet were growing weary, the "family" by this time were

showing signs of restive discontent.

"Ain't we got no beds in this home?" asked Ross, his hands in his

pockets, his legs wide apart, surveying the leads, of whose hardness

he had made ample trial.

"Not yet," said Sandy cheerily. Whatever he felt himself, he was

not going to let the babes be unhappy, if he could help it. "On'y

pioneers to-night. Beds have to be made."

"Nur' did maked Ross's bed--see'd her--mornin'," announced Ross in a

dissatisfied tone; and he brought his brows together, and signified

generally that he was disgusted.

"No barf?" inquired Orme, planting himself by his elder brother in a

similar revolutionary attitude.

"Bar?" echoed Barbara, unwilling to be kept out of whatever anarchy

might be going. "Barbedie's bar?" she inquired of Sandy; and it said

much for Sandy's ability in translating languages that he quite

understood what she was demanding.

David turned out his pockets, in the hope of finding enough string

to let down a basket, or a letter describing their distressed

condition. But the utmost length they could attain, when every

pocket had been ransacked, and all their ties, and hat ribbons, and

pocket-handkerchiefs tied together, was about midway down the long

windows. No hope that way, even if the darkness of the summer night

had not by this time settled down upon the land. David gave it up at

last.

[Illustration: David and Sandy pushed with all their might.]

"Somebody'll p'r'aps remember us," he said with a catch in his

voice. "Mother----"; and then, for the sake of his manhood, he

stopped short. No one remembered having ever seen a tear from David.

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

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

"Not in the blanket, an' us sittin' close round outside to keep out

the cold. Hens sit on their little ones, so do cats--curl round 'em,

that is--and there's our jackets," said Sandy lightly.

But first there were remonstrances from the babies to combat, when

it was explained to them what they were expected to do.

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

"So do Ross," eagerly excused Orme. But the novelty of Barbara as a

bed-fellow was some consolation.

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

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

knees.

When she was quite settled there, with her arm round his neck to

keep herself from slipping, Sandy explained matters.

"It's 'stead of your nightie-gown, Barbie," with an entreaty in his

tone, in itself a sufficient betrayal of weakness to the baby's

feminine intelligence. "We forgot to bring your nightie-gown."

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

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

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

revolutionaries.

But not all the boys' chivalric devotion, unstinted through that

troublous night, could produce the desired garment. At last, arrayed

in David's coat as a substitute, over her own dainty garments,

little Barbedie Pelham fell to repose.

By this time the two little boys, huddled together like kittens or

young-puppies on the outspread blanket, had fallen fast asleep.

Barbara was snuggled in beside them, and the blanket carefully

wrapped round the three. Sandy and David, with their backs against

the parapet--the latter with Barbara's head upon his knees,

whilst Sandy's performed the same office of pillow for his little

brothers--prepared to win through the hours of darkness as patiently

as they might. No word of reproof or bitterness had been said by

either boy. Each bore his share manfully of the difficulty, for

which both were perhaps equally responsible.

Down below, the lanterns flashed in and out of the ruins, and across

the Palace grounds. Voices called, which, if the boys heard at

all, seemed to them only the distant sounds of the day, to which

they were accustomed. Their own frantic shouts some time ago, even

Sandy's whistle, had been unheard and unheeded.

When the midnight chimes rang out softly over their heads, Sandy,

rousing, said sleepily, "We forgot somefing, Dave. I've been

dreamin' 'bout it."

"What?" David asked. He had not yet slept, and his mind had been

busy, thinking, wondering, sorrowing, chiefly about his mother. In

difficulties, hers was the personality which always presented itself

to her children.

"We've forgot all our prayers."

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

"It'll wake 'em!"

"Not if we don't move."

"Will it be proper prayers sittin' here?"

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

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

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

"More she can." Sandy was hopeful again at this thought. "There's

two apiece," he went on thoughtfully, "and one over. You say yours

an' Ross's--I'll say mine an' Orme's. How 'bout Barbie's? We

couldn't say half each, could we?" doubtfully.

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

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

spoke--

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

There was no response, and Sandy, respecting the silence which he

took for the hush of devotion, held his peace, and essayed for the

third time his evening prayer.

* * * * *

In a few moments, whilst below was desolation and the anguish of

bereavement--up above, under the stars, all the children slept.

CHAPTER XII.

FOUND!

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

stairs.

Issuing on to the leads, Marjorie glanced hastily round. Together

they hurried, till, under the little turret, they stood beside the,

as yet, unawakened group. It looked very pathetic in the morning

greyness, the little huddled-up party, which the sun had not yet

reached.

The man's frame trembled as he stooped--doubting, fearing, his keen

eyes noting the care which had been bestowed upon his little child.

Not much of her was visible--only a rosy cheek, under the tangle of

hair which lay across David's knee. The boy's body had sunk slightly

as the muscles relaxed in sleep; and he and Sandy were now propped

together. Both of them were jacketless: Sandy's little body was

covered only by his vest.

David's hand lay protectingly across Barbara, over whom his jacket

lay outspread. She was warm and rosy; so were the two babies curled

up under the little coat--a scanty covering--of which Sandy had

divested himself.

Marjorie sank down beside Sandy. He looked white and wan, and there

was a look of disturbance and unrest on his sleeping face. His head

rested uncomfortably against David's shoulder. Solicitously, she

gathered his unprotected little body into her warm arms; and at her

movement he opened startled blue eyes upon her.

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

"How could you, Sandy?" Marjorie asked, tenderly kissing the

impertinent little nose turned up to her. And that was all the

reproach Sandy ever heard.

[Illustration: "THE LITTLE HUDDLED-UP PARTY."]

"Didn't mean to, Margie," eagerly. "The door got locked 'fore we got

down. How did you guess we were here?" he went on, the fascination

of the "game," now that he again felt safe and irresponsible,

filling his imagination. "Was it the signal?"

He listened much gratified, as Marjorie described how the fluttering

sash had caught her sight.

The children woke one by one, Barbara climbing into her father's

arms to be divested of her strange night-clothes. She returned the

coat to its owner, with a gracious "Barbedie's done."

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

"You have been good to my baby. I shall never forget it, never. You

are two little men."

With hurrying, trembling fingers, Marjorie tidied up the

children--some impulse making her wish her mother's first sight

of them to be wholly without alarm. Barbara refused to leave her

father's arms, so her rescued sash was tied on under his eloquent

eyes. Now that they had once delivered their message, they were

masterful and compelling. Marjorie's fell before them; but something

in the quiver of her lip, and the wanness of her face in the

sunlight, under his closer scrutiny, made him hasten to speak. He

caught her fingers, and they lay for a moment pressed close against

his breast.

"Mine, Marjorie! Mine now," he said. "Dearest, do not shrink," he

whispered, turning hurriedly to see what was producing the startled

change in the kindling face before him. Mr. Warde stood in the

doorway surveying the little scene.

With just a glance at the two, who for the moment had forgotten

everyone but themselves, he stooped and picked up Orme--a

disconsolate, woe-begone baby, whose ideas would need much

readjusting after this eventful night.

The others followed, pitter-patter down the stairs, and along the

gravelled path. But it was Marjorie who entered first through the

open door into her mother's presence.

Mr. Bethune still sat beside his wife's couch. He put up a hand to

hush the intruder, but Marjorie saw beyond him the wide, questioning

eyes and the wave of colour rushing into her mother's face. She did

not know that she herself--radiant, sparkling, with a look upon

her face only to be seen on a maiden's face in presence of her

beloved--was sufficient herald of good news. It scarcely needed her

words.

"All quite safe, mother," even if Sandy's rush past her restraining

hand had not told the tale.

The children entered like a conquering army. Mr. Warde slid Orme,

murmuring satisfaction, down on to the sofa beside his mother, and

watched with an unaccountable pang at his heart as she gathered

them all into her arms. The parents accepted David's rapid "Didn't

mean to, father," and his explanation of the mishap which they had

never counted on--too glad to see them safe, too accustomed to their

enterprise, too certain that what they said was true, to give the

scolding they perhaps deserved.

As the news of their safety spread, sympathisers flocked in. Like

a young turkey-cock lifting up its crest, Sandy stood a captive at

Mrs. Lytchett's knee, his jacket held tightly in her firm grasp.

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

"Ain't," said Sandy.

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

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

twinge.

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

"Let me go, please," giving his jacket a tug. "I want to go to

my mother." Sandy always said "My mother" when he wished to be

impressive.

Mrs. Lytchett watched him insinuate his small body to his mother's

side, where he stood defiant, only the mother guessing all that the

clinging clasp of his fingers round her arm was meant to say.

Marjorie came down to say that the little ones were safe in bed; and

David and Sandy walked off beside her with uplifted heads.

* * * * *

With the house still, and the children of which it had been bereaved

once more within its walls, with the need for exertion and control

giving place to a languor which would not permit sleep, Marjorie

felt a load like lead descend upon her. In spite of visions that

came to her wakeful senses, of ardent eyes and a tender tone,

although her fingers tingled still with the warm clasp of those

stronger ones, she was very unhappy. On her bed, alone with rushing

thoughts, staring with wakeful eyes on to the green bravery outside

her window, she thought over all that had happened, and knew that

she had played a sorry part. An engaged girl--she had let another

man make love to her. Marjorie shrank as she realised her action.

"What have I done? It came to me upon the roof! Oh! why didn't I

find out before? What can I tell Mr. Warde? How can I tell him that

I never cared for him a bit? Is it I--can it be I, who have behaved

so badly? But I must tell him, straight away. Not a minute longer

than I can help will I be so double-faced."

At her usual hour she dressed and went downstairs. The empty

breakfast-room added strength to her resolve. Pausing but for a

moment on the doorstep, to catch at her slipping courage, she ran

down the flagged path of the Court, and knocked at Mr. Warde's door.

Mr. Warde, like herself, had been wakeful. Marjorie's face on the

roof had been a startling revelation. And yet he had to confess to

himself that in his inmost heart he had gauged rightly her love.

Even in the dawn, whilst he had rejoiced at its expression, a cold

hand had seemed to pluck it away. And now--he had seen her kindling

face--he had seen the mounting flush, he had seen the love-light in

her dark eyes, in that glance when he had surprised the lovers. It

was a very different girl who had borne his caresses, when for a few

moments she had leant her tired body against his strength.

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

* * * * *

Entering Mr. Warde's house, the door at the end of the hall leading

into the garden stood open before her. Many a time in her childish

life, Marjorie had sought her friend by way of the study window.

Some impulse now made her seek that mode of approach. It was a

French window, not quite open to the ground. She had to mount two

steps, and step over a low framework, which in former days her small

feet had found a sufficient barrier.

The window was wide open. Marjorie tapped upon the pane. Mr. Warde

was sitting at his bureau, and she could not see his face.

"May I come in?"

As the loved voice fell upon his ear, the man rose, and pushed the

letter he was writing aside.

"Like old days, Marjorie," he smiled, coming forward to meet her,

but his face looked pale and drawn.

Something in hers, something to him admirable in the courage which

had prompted her visit--for he knew why she had come--some desire to

save her pain made him say:

"I was writing to you, Marjorie."

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

"But now you have come--it was good of you to come, Marjorie--I did

not like to disturb you, or I would have saved you. Sit there in the

old place--your chair has never been moved."

But instead, Marjorie moved restlessly to the window, and looked out

upon the trim luxuriance of the rose-filled garden. Her courage was

oozing fast in face of his kindness and the old associations.

"I came to tell you," she said slowly, "that what I said the other

day was wrong. I have found out--that I cannot----"

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

"I have behaved very badly," she went on. "I let you think I cared

for you. I did not know--then. I never did care. I never can--I know

now." Unconsciously her tone took a note of triumph, which made her

hearer wince. He forced himself to reply:

"It was a mistake, dear. I realised that it was only a chance--that

you were but a child whom I have loved very dearly. That is it,

Marjorie. That is how it is between us."

She lifted her foot over the threshold of the window, and the

straying rose-branches fell about her. She looked very slight and

young, as she stood there for a moment, the sun burnishing the

bright tendrils of her hair into a halo round her face. The man's

soul went out in a sigh of longing as he saw the beauty of the

picture--saw her standing as he had dreamt she would stand, his own

loved possession, in her home.

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

Pelham----"

[Illustration: She put up her hands to ward off his speech.]

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

scarlet.

"Good-bye," she said softly.

There was a rustle of soft drapery, a hasty footfall, a blank.

The window was vacant. The man stared at it, still for a moment

possessed with the vision of her presence. Then he turned, and

looked painfully round the luxurious room.

All was there that man could want--every expression of a cultivated

taste. As he looked, his loneliness--the loneliness that would never

now be satisfied--fell in desolation round him.

* * * * *

The adventurers were gathered on the lawn on a rug and cushions

Marjorie had found for them. After a long sleep, as school was

out of the question for that day, they had spent some hours in

shovelling the earth back into their hole.

"Never knew such a funny fing in all my life!" Sandy had exclaimed

during this process. "It all came out, and on'y 'bout half will go

in. How do you splain that, Dave?"

"Don't want to explain," said David, jumping in and stamping

vigorously. "It's got to go, whether it will or no."

"It's like a grave," Sandy said, observing him. "On'y there's

nothing buried. You'll get buried in a minute, Orme, if you don't

look out."

"Me s'ant."

"You will. There!" as a clatter of earth fell over and around the

busy baby. "Didn't I tell you so?"

Orme looked round, his chubby moon-face a surprised interrogation.

Then as fast as he could trot, he went off to his mother. To her he

imparted the information that the "'ky had fell, an' it was a dirty

'ky."

It was after they had tired themselves with digging that the

four had sought Marjorie and a fairy story. In the middle of

this, when the prince and the heroine were engaged in a customary

understanding, Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative and

relapsed into thought.

[Illustration: Marjorie suddenly broke off in her narrative.]

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

Marjorie did not reply. Her thoughts had ascended the hill, and

there was a dreamy, unseeing look in her eyes.

* * * * *

Almost every day Ross and Orme go and stamp upon the mound of earth

in the corner of the garden, the monument of the boys' enterprise.

Ross does it out of hatred, and Orme in the hope of bringing down

the "ky."

But to Marjorie that mound tells a tale of love, found and won--and

mistakes buried, happily before it was too late. Sometimes her young

brothers wonder at some unlooked-for expression of affection, and

look at her reproachfully, resenting the sudden kiss. Sandy one day

said to her--

"Why did you kiss Orme--sudden--like that? He ain't gooder than

usual--an' he's dirty."

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

She stopped at the sound of a step.

"'Minded you? Your cheeks get redder an' redder the nearer Mr.

Pelham comes. 'Minded you--what?"

"Of that dreadful night," she whispered.

But it was no "dreadful" reminiscence that shone in the welcome of

her uplifted eye.

THE END.

THE POWER OF A GREAT PURPOSE

"None of these things move me."--ACTS XX. 24.

A Sermon Preached before the Queen by the Very Rev. the Dean of

Windsor

The "things" of which St. Paul spoke were very definite things

indeed. They were the things which befell him as he continued to

fulfill his ministry and to proclaim the Gospel in Jerusalem and

elsewhere. It is true he says that he did not know the things that

would befall him when he reached Jerusalem. He meant that he could

not exactly describe beforehand all that would happen to him. But

his experience of the past could have left him in no doubt as to

the sort of experience that awaited him in the future. Bonds and

imprisonment, persecution in its many different forms, opposition to

the great message which he had to deliver, contempt and ridicule,

hardship and toil, pain and the risk of death--these were the things

with which, his experience had been filled since he became an

apostle of Christ. They were the things which, as he well knew, he

should have to encounter whithersoever he might go. They were the

things which he had clearly before his mind when he declared "None

of these things move me."

As he speaks the words, we are at once placed in the presence

of that life which is one of the great treasures of the Church

of Christ--that life, the record of which has animated tens of

thousands of the soldiers of Christ, and has encouraged myriads of

sufferers in their times of need, and has, over and over again, made

men heroes and martyrs. Delicate health, unceasing toil, bodily

suffering, constant privations, long journeys by sea and land, long

imprisonments, cruel scourgings, vexations and disappointments, and

the ever-present danger of death--such were the experiences of that

life. We, as we read the record, wonder at the steadfastness and

endurance which made such a life possible. And while we admire the

set purpose and the unflinching courage of the man, we pity him for

the things which made up the experiences of his life. But he does

not for a moment pity himself. On the contrary, he says of it all,

"None of these things move me."

What did St. Paul really mean by saying that the sufferings of his

life did not move him?

Is he speaking the language of mere bravado? Have we before us a

man who is merely giving utterance to great swelling words? Is this

some proud and foolish boaster who does not mean what he says? Men

of this sort are not by any means uncommon. We have not to go far

to come across those who, to judge by their fine words and their

swaggering boastfulness, are brave and good, and superior to others,

but who are, in reality, cowardly and mean and contemptible. Such

men are to be met with in all departments of human life--in the

family circle, in society, in politics, in the church. But no one

that ever lived on this earth has been farther from the character of

an empty boaster than the Apostle Paul. There were two reasons why

it was impossible that he could ever have been a mere boaster. One

reason is that he was absolutely true to his very heart's core. The

other reason is that all his thoughts of himself were thoughts of

the very deepest humility. The man who could feel himself to be the

"chief of sinners," and whose whole life was manifestly sincere and

true, was quite incapable of a windy boast. It is plain that mere

bravado could have had nothing whatever to do with the words "None

of these things move me."

Then, are his words those of a Stoic? Are we listening to the

language of one whose philosophy has taught him that human virtue

could have no more conspicuous triumph than to be able to suppress

every emotion of the soul, and to petrify into a marble death that

warm, living thing which God has given to every man, and which we

call his "heart"? There were those in St. Paul's days who were

philosophers after this sort. They were the men who succeeded in

killing all feeling. They practised their philosophy so well, and

were so obedient to its principles, that they were never conscious

of a real transport of joy, and refused to acknowledge any pangs of

sorrow. They turned themselves from men into marble statues. A Stoic

could move about the world with a cold, contemptuous smile upon his

lips; and as he passed through scenes of joy and happiness, as he

listened to the happy laughter of an innocent maiden, or watched the

bounding joyousness of a young man in the heyday of his youth, as he

looked upon the agonies of bodily suffering, or witnessed the bitter

tears of some bereaved one, or stood in the presence of the terrible

realities of death, he could say--and say it with truth--"None of

these things move me."

Is it with this stoical indifference that St. Paul speaks? We might

as well imagine that the sun could become cold and dark, as that

the warm, tender heart of the apostle could become stoical. A very

cursory glance at that life, so full of love and tenderness, is

enough to tell us that there could have been nothing of the Stoic

about the apostle. A single moment's recollection will bring to our

memories words that he spoke or wrote, which could only have come

from a nature that was sensitive, tender, and emotional. St. Paul

was one who loved strongly and felt deeply. He was easily lifted

up with joy, and cut to the quick by pain and suffering. His love

and sympathy flowed out to all around him. He welcomed the love and

sympathy of others. The warm heart that was in him spoke to and

influenced the hearts of others; for, as Goethe says,

"You never can make heart throb with heart

Unless your own heart first has struck the tone."

Assuredly he was far from being anything approaching to a Stoic. On

the contrary, he was a man who daily grew more and more into the

likeness of Him Who suffered, and felt, and loved more than any

other man, Who, in his wonderful tenderness and boundless sympathy,

is the Great Model for us to copy.

When, therefore, St. Paul said, "None of these things move me," he

could not possibly have said it out of the cold, passionless heart

of a Stoic.

What, then, did he really mean by what he said? He himself has made

plain to us what he meant. He says that he must finish his course

with joy, and the ministry, which he has received of the Lord Jesus,

to testify the gospel of the grace of God. Nothing must interfere

with the fulfilment of his ministry. That ministry was his life's

work, to which he had been specially called. There could be no

possibility of mistake about it. From the time of his conversion no

shadow of a misgiving or doubt concerning it had ever for a moment

crossed his mind. He was absolutely certain that he was commissioned

by God to testify the gospel of His grace. His mission was to go

whithersoever the providence of God might lead him--over land or

sea, in sunshine or in storm--in order that he might proclaim the

great message of the love of God. The thought of that mission so

entirely possessed him, so penetrated his whole being, that nothing

in the world could turn him aside from it, even for a moment. And

the steadfast purpose of his heart to fulfil his ministry at all

costs is breathed out in his words, "None of these things move

me." He meant that nothing, however vexatious or disappointing or

painful, could hold him back from his great work. The Holy Ghost had

witnessed to him that bonds and imprisonment awaited him. It made no

difference. Nothing could move him. He had received his charge to

preach the gospel, and preach it he must.

We cannot but admire this courageous steadfastness of purpose, this

unswerving faithfulness. But behind it all, and inspiring it all,

there was the clear, bright, living faith--the open eye of his

soul--which looked full on the great reality of the love of God.

His faith was absolutely convinced of the love of God to him and to

all mankind. The great certainty lighted up an answering love in

his heart towards God and towards all men; and therefore, come what

might, he must preach Christ. No doubt steadfastness and courage lie

in the words, "None of these things move me." Yet even more are they

the words of faith. He who speaks them is one who _knows_ in Whom he

has believed.

Why is it that we are not able to do greater things for God? Why

do we so easily lose heart? Why does our energy so quickly flag?

Why are our sacrifices so poor and small? Why does our courage so

soon ebb away? Why do we so cry out when we are hurt? Why is our

endurance so short-lived? Surely the reason is plain. If we had the

strong faith of St. Paul, instead of a faith that is so often feeble

and halting and irresolute, we should be better able to pass through

the varied experiences of human life and say, "None of these things

move me. Nothing can move me from my trust in God and from the work

which He has given me to do."

But there is a further meaning in the apostle's words. They express

the living faith which inspired the steadfastness of purpose with

which he clung to his life's work. Yet they express more than this.

As he speaks there is a scene before his eyes which, no doubt, he

had often witnessed. He sees the runners in a race striving together

for victory. He sees the one who, when the race is run, receives

the prize. He sees the joy of victory that beams in his eyes as the

chaplet is placed on his brow.

It is a picture of himself. He is running in a race. He is still in

the midst of the course. And he expects to finish his course with

the joy of victory. That is the hope set before him, and from that

hope nothing could move him. It is out of the assuredness of that

hope, which he knew would not be disappointed, that he can say of

all his troubles and anxieties, "None of these things move me." He

meant that nothing could shake his hope of finishing his course with

joy. For was not that hope founded upon the promises of God? Was it

not bound up with the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead?

Had he not received ten thousand tokens of the faithfulness of God?

His hope was no delusion--no baseless fabric of a dream. It was a

certainty of which nothing could rob him.

It is a joy to us to remember that what was St. Paul's hope is ours

also. For it is the hope of the Christian. It is the hope of glory

set before all the followers of Christ. Let our faith only grasp the

love of God, and win our lives from sin to the service to God, and

then this blessed hope will become the golden treasure of the lives

that have been renewed.

We live in a strange and sad world. Dark clouds of mystery are

around us on every side. Vexation, disappointment, suffering, pain,

death, confront us, and we cannot escape them. We are, more or

less, sufferers all and mourners all. Oh, that we might be able

to say, not with the boastfulness of fools, nor yet with the icy

indifference of Stoics, but with humble faith and ever-brightening

hope, "None of these things move me"! Blessed is the steadfastness

which nothing can move either from the conviction of the love of God

which the cross of Christ reveals, or from the path of duty which

lies before us, or from the Christian hope of the life to come.

[Illustration: Decorative]

[Illustration: TWICE ROUND THE BIBLE CLOCK]

Those travellers who have noticed how turbaned or fezzed native

merchants will gladly wait for half a dozen hours under the

colonnade of some hotel at Tangiers or Cairo on the doubtful chance

of concluding a bargain with the errant Englishman, which does not

involve half a dozen francs, may have some idea of the small value

which the modern Oriental sets upon his time. The sun is his only

clock, and even that suits him rather to bask in than to scrutinise.

The thoughts and habits of men change even less in the East than

the features of Nature, and we are confronted with just the same

easy elasticity as regards anything to do with definite hours when

we restore for ourselves the sacred scenes of the earlier Bible

history, and put back the timepiece of our own contemplation for two

or three thousand years. To the Hebrew or Canaanite of Joshua's day

the phenomenon of the "sun standing still," conveyed into Holy Writ

from the highly wrought poetic imagery of the lost Book of Jasher,

would be little of a miracle--that luminary was often stationary for

the popular convenience.

Exact notes of time are very hard to discover in the Old Testament.

We have for the most part to depend on such expressions as "dawn,"

"morning," "noon," "heat of day," "cool of day," "evening,"

"twilight," "night," and no attempt that Hebrew scholars have made

to set those terms in their correct chronological order has met with

more than very partial success. The word "hour" is itself mentioned

only once: Dan. iv. 19. It seems difficult to suppose that some

simple method of measuring the hours was not in use, such as the

trickling of sand or water from a vessel, but our knowledge on the

subject is scanty. We must even resign ourselves to the prosaic

probability that the famous sun-dial of Ahaz was a very different

contrivance from the lichened stone pillar, with weather-beaten

brass face, which we associate in the Western world with the odorous

lawn of some sequestered manor garden. It is more likely that Ahaz

had upon his terrace a slanting tower, upon a certain number of the

steps of which the shadow fell. Such towers were known in ancient

India. The only formal computation of time that we can discover in

the Old Testament is by three watches. There was the "beginning of

watches" (Lam. ii. 19), from sunset to 10 p.m.; the middle watch,

Judges vii. 19 (we speak of this incident later), from 10 p.m. to 2

a.m.; the morning watch, from 2 a.m. to sunrise (Exodus xiv. 24),

when the Lord looked on the Egyptians, and discomfited them in the

midst of the Red Sea.

[Illustration: THE BIBLE CLOCK.]

But the rough and ready indications of hours, supplied by the

progress of the day from dawn to darkness, were quite enough for

the men and women of the earlier Hebrew centuries, and if we are

willing to shake off our Occidental precision and the tyranny of

Greenwich, many a Bible scene would take a place upon the clock

with moderate exactitude. It is in the glow of the rising sun that

Abraham gazes upon the destruction of Sodom, that Jacob beholds

the face of the Unknown who has wrestled with him at Peniel, that

Achan is marked out before the congregation for the doom of his

theft, that Hannah asks God so earnestly for the son for whom she

longs; that poor, over-persuaded Darius hastens to the den of

lions, to see whether his faithful favourite Daniel is alive. It

is in the very early hours that Giant Goliath struts out to defy

the armies of the living God, and that fair Rebekah rides away,

with the day-spring on her face, to meet the love which has been

predestined for her, beyond the plains of Padan-aram. It is in the

heat of the day that the three mysterious Visitors greet Abraham

at his tent door, and that Saul completes the slaughter of the

Ammonites and wins the hearts of his people. It is at high noon that

Joseph provides Benjamin with a dinner five times as large as that

of his other brothers, in the sunny courts of Pharaoh, and that

Ishbosheth's siesta leads to his assassination at the hands of the

sons of Rimmon. It is towards evening that the weary dove returns

to the ark's refuge, that Joshua takes down the bodies of the five

kings from their gibbet, that Ezekiel's wife dies, and that the

haunted life of King Ahab ebbs painfully away. The night scenes are

numerous. It is in the darkness that the hosts of Sennacherib are

destroyed, that the awful cry is heard in Egypt on the death of the

first-born, and that, while Belshazzar banquets, the Angel of Death

"is whetting his sword upon the stones of Babylon." We survey these

pictures, so far as their exact hour is concerned, through the haze

of Oriental indefiniteness, but they have been limned for ever by

the genius of inspiration upon the retina of universal humanity.

When we come to New Testament times we are, at least by comparison,

on more reliable ground. It was certainly Roman influence which

brought the system of hours into Palestine. That this system existed

in our Lord's day is undoubted. "Are there not twelve hours in the

day?" said Jesus Christ Himself.

There were two modes of reckoning, one used by St. John and the

other by the rest of the New Testament writers. St. John counts

his hours just as we do, from midnight to noon and from noon to

midnight. His fellow-evangelists reckon from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. and

from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., according to the ordinary Jewish fashion. We

may add in passing that the Romans divided the night not into three

but into four watches. These watches lasted three hours each. Thus,

when Christ appeared to His disciples walking on the sea "in the

fourth watch of the night," it must have been some time between 3

and 6 a.m.

Let us now say a few things about the big, bald clock face, with

no hands, with which we have furnished those who are jogging along

with us on our chronological quest. Our clock makes a bold attempt

(the first, so far as we know) to fix a Scripture event on to each

hour of the twenty-four. We do not profess that the proofs which

we can offer for the time of each event are equally sound, but we

have made it a rule that sheer guess-work should never be employed.

Consequently, there is a partial failure. We have succeeded in

discovering no reasonably probable event for 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. May

we console ourselves with the reflection that in Eastern countries

most people during those hours are asleep? Except as regards the

particular incidents we are about to consider, we will leave our

big clock to tick his own tale. Whatever his faults, he is not half

as much of a story-teller as another of his kind would be, who had

been neglected in a lumber room for over twenty centuries. Let

us, however, just defend one or two selections which might seem

groundless or arbitrary. What authority have we for alleging that

our Lord's friends endeavoured to arrest Him, as being "beside

Himself," at 11 a.m.? This. St. Mark shows us in his minute and

vivid way that owing to the insistency of the crowd the Master and

His disciples could not take their meal. The usual hour for this

would be about eleven in the morning. Then we have ventured to place

the feeding of the five thousand about 4 p.m.; for the month was

April, and St. Luke tells us that "the day began to wear away." We

cannot, therefore, be very far out. Again, Jairus would hardly have

come to our Lord before late in the afternoon, for Christ had had a

long day and a voyage over the lake; the people also were waiting

as though they expected Him earlier. And since the two Maries and

Salome would be all eagerness to procure their spices for the

anointing of Christ's body, and could not buy them till the Sabbath

ended at six, they would not accomplish their shopping later than 7

p.m.

Now let us take out our watches and check them by our big clock.

We will picture for ourselves some scenes in Old and New Testament

history at the hour in which they happened. For such hours the

evidence is in most of our instances good, and in the rest more than

tolerable. Our selections shall start from 2 a.m. and go on in due

order up to midnight.

[Illustration: 2 A.M.]

At this hour, when the stay-at-home often awakes for a little after

his "first sleep," and the modern roysterer is thinking about his

pillow, St. Peter stood in the glare of the coal fire, while

darkness still shrouded the most dreadful night in history. St.

Luke (xxii. 59) clearly tells us that there was an hour's interval

between the denials. We may well believe that the nerves of the

sturdy but emotional apostle were all on edge from the surprises and

horrors through which he had already passed. Scared or nettled by

the inquiry of a sharp maid-servant, he takes the primary step in

a sin of which the very blackness is a beacon for aftertime of the

far-reaching power of divine forgiveness.

[Illustration: 4 A.M.]

"The musky daughter of the Nile, with plaited hair and almond eyes."

This is how Oliver Wendell Holmes prettily, if too fancifully,

describes Hagar. The pathetic dismissal by the patriarch of this

ill-starred Egyptian and her son Ishmael, has always been a theme

dear to poetry and art. We are not astray in shedding over the

picture the grey tints of earliest dawn. "Abraham," we are told,

"rose up early in the morning," and it seems probable, from the

narrative, that the unhappy business was concluded before Sarah was

about. The wife of an Arab sheik would rise betimes.

[Illustration: 5 A.M.]

We are fairly secure in fixing this for the hour on that memorable

Sabbath when, after the six days' single investiture, Joshua ordered

the seven priests, with the seven trumpets of rams' horns, to bear

the Ark seven times round the walls of Jericho. "They rose early,

about the dawning of the day." The date, calculating from the

previous Passover, was about April 23rd. The dawn at this season

would bring us roughly to 5 a.m. Jericho was a city of considerable

extent, and allowing that it took the procession an hour and a half

or more to finish each of the seven circuits, it is not likely that

the leader would be able to exclaim, "Shout, for the Lord hath given

you the city," and to command the massacre, till 6 p.m., when the

Sabbath would be over.

The old method of the commentators, which made St. John reckon his

hours like the other three evangelists, would place the call of

himself and St. Andrew at 4 p.m. The theory that St. John counted

his hours as we do is supported by the high authority of Bishops

Wordsworth and Westcott, and many others. It surely gives a more

natural sense to this passage: The two apostles abode with their

Master, after their call, "that day." It would be a short day which

began at four in the afternoon, instead of ten in the morning, and

St. Andrew's search for his brother, together with St. Peter's

subsequent call, are recorded in "that day" besides.

[Illustration: 10 A.M.]

It was at noon, upon the knees of his mother, that the son of the

Shunammite lady died. We remember how the little boy, the cherished

child of many prayers, toddled out to meet his aged father in one

of those rich harvest fields which nestled round the base of Mount

Carmel; and how, smitten by the fierce Syrian sun, he called out

to his father, "My head, my head!" and a lad carried him home to

his mother. The picture is none the less fresh because we look upon

it blurred by the tears of many generations, and the simple story

ends in smiles, for God, through Elisha, graciously gave back the

treasured life.

[Illustration: 12 NOON.]

[Illustration: 3 P.M.]

The hour of prayer at the Temple. Here we are chronologically as

secure as if we had heard three o'clock struck by the clock at

Westminster Abbey, where the week-day service is held at the same

hour. When we read this account of the miraculous healing, at the

Beautiful Gate, of the cripple who was over forty years old, we may

recall the story of Pope Innocent III. and St. Thomas of Aquinum.

"You see, son," said the Pontiff, as they surveyed the massive

ingots being carried into the Vatican, "the day has gone by when

the Church need say, 'Silver and gold have I none.'" "Yes, holy

father," responded the honest saint, "and the day has gone by, too,

when the Church could say to the paralytic, 'Arise, take up thy bed

and walk.'"

[ILLUSTRATION: 6 P.M.]

"God is a Spirit" was the sublime revelation made by Christ to the

woman of Samaria by Jacob's well at Sychar. If St. John counted his

hours according to the Jewish habit, the sixth would, of course,

be noon, but a woman would be more likely to come to draw water,

according to Eastern custom, ancient and modern, in the cool of the

day, than during the burning heat.

[Illustration: 9 P.M.]

Nine o'clock at night was a judicious hour for the dispatch of

St. Paul, under an armed escort, from Jerusalem to Cæsarea. The

apostle's young nephew had bravely divulged to the Roman captain,

Lysias, a plot on the part of some Jews to assassinate his uncle. In

this matter, Lysias acted as a man of wisdom and honour.

[Illustration: 11 P.M.]

With the exception of noon and midnight, there is no hour so exactly

marked as this in the whole of the Old Testament. The noble and

heroic Gideon and his three companies blew their three hundred

trumpets, and crashed their pitchers, and flashed their firebrands,

"in the beginning of the middle watch, and they had but newly set

the watch." The middle watch, as we have said before, lasted from 10

p.m. to 2 a.m. This terrific signal for the attack on the Midianites

must have been given, therefore, about 11 p.m.

Of the many midnight scenes that are available, we will choose one

that is remarkable, not for its profound ethical teaching, its

tenderness, its tragedy, but, if we may say so with reverence, its

humour. Samson lifting the gates of Gaza upon his back, and carrying

them up "to the top of the mountain that is before Hebron" (R.V.),

is one of those stories which delighted our childhood, and which

will never be displaced by any recital of the glories of latter-day

athleticism. The gist of this incident is to be found in the

cleverness with which the Philistines, proverbial then as now for

their stupidity, are outwitted by the prisoner, whom they fancied

they had trapped so securely.

[Illustration: 12 MIDNIGHT.]

It may be that, as we lay our big clock aside, and return our

watches to our pockets, some scenes of the sacred Long Ago will

shape themselves more clearly and definitely for the future in our

remembrance, because we shall associate them with the hour at which

they occurred. We have not sought to disguise the fact that, so far

as time goes, a mist of incertitude must always cling round events,

however momentous, which took place in any Oriental country, and at

a remote age. But we shall understand our Bible all the better, and

its unchangeable and imperishable essence will be the more vital to

our souls, as we realise that the Almighty was pleased to reveal

Himself to a people whose modes of thought and whose ways of life

were widely different from our own.

As might be expected, the languorous and unpractical Orient soon

lost the impress of Roman preciseness in the matter of hours. The

average native of Palestine to-day is as careless about time as he

was when Abraham completed his pilgrimage from Ur of the Chaldees.

Nor is this truth without its curious analogy in that life immortal

into which we believe those holy men of old are entered, with whose

earthly deeds we have been concerned. There is no time where they

have gone. In the sight of the King before Whose presence they

stand, "a thousand years are but as yesterday, seeing that is past

as a watch in the night." And we think, too, of that Dial, hidden

somewhere in the archives of the Eternal, whose awful Hand points to

the Hour, unknown even to the angels in heaven, "when the Son of Man

cometh."

[Illustration: Their Little Manouvre]

_A LOVE-STORY._

By Evelyn Everett-Green.

The _Auguste-Victoria_ was steaming with dignified deliberation into

the harbour of Gibraltar. The exquisite lights of a clear February

morning were shining over land and sea; and Dulcie, at her port-hole

window, was gazing with eager eyes over the smooth, shining ripples

of the sea, and longing for a run on deck and a good look about her.

But Dulcie's cabin-companion, a frail invalid, who had been

wintering in Madeira, and was on her way to the Riviera, where the

spring months were to be spent, was still lying prostrate and wan

in her berth. She had suffered severely during the thirty hours'

passage from Funchal to Gibraltar; and Dulcie would not leave her

till she had had some breakfast and had been made comfortable for a

quiet sleep.

She crossed the cabin and bent over her.

"We are in now, Aunt Mary. There, do you hear? That is the rattle

of the anchor chain going down. I have sent for your tea and toast.

They will be here directly. Let me make you comfortable; and after

you have had something to eat you will get off to sleep, and wake up

quite brisk. We have no more Atlantic to face now. Only the blue,

blue Mediterranean. Oh, it does look so calm and beautiful!"

Dulcie fairly danced about the floor as she waited on the invalid.

This cabin was in itself a luxury--not just a gangway, with berths

on one side and lounge on the other; but a small room with space

to walk about, and a fixed wardrobe in which to hang clothes--as

different as possible from the accommodation on the mail-boat

which had taken them from Southampton to Madeira in October. This

was a great pleasure steamer, which had left New York ten days or

so ago, touched at Madeira, and was bound on a cruise through the

Mediterranean to the Orient.

Dulcie had come out with a party of rich relations, mainly to

take charge of Miss Martin, the semi-invalid "Aunt Mary." The

Meredith party had wearied of Madeira by this time, and Miss

Martin unspeakably dreaded the return journey in the mail, with

the horrors of the Bay of Biscay and the perils of Ushant to face.

They had eagerly availed themselves of the chance of returning by

this splendid German-American pleasure steamer; and Dulcie's heart

was all in a flutter at the prospect of what she was to see. To-day

Gibraltar, to-morrow Malaga; and thence a trip up to Granada, the

place, of all others in the world, that she longed to see! Then

Algiers, then Genoa; and so to the Riviera, whence she was to be

sent home; as, when once in Europe, and with no more sea voyage

to face, her company could be dispensed with. But what a lot of

the world she would have seen by that time! Certainly there were

compensations sometimes in being a poor relation whose services

could always be commanded.

Just as Miss Martin was sipping her tea, and finding relief at last

in the steadiness of the great vessel at anchor, handsome Arabella

Meredith came bustling in, in travelling trim, with a light cloak

over her arm.

"Oh, Dulcie," she said, "we find that we leave for Granada at once.

We do not do it from Malaga; but only join the boat again there.

It is an affair of three nights. I'm sorry you will miss it; but,

of course, Aunt Mary cannot be left all that time, and before she

has got over her sea-sickness. Good-bye; we'll tell you all about

it when we meet. I daresay you'll manage to join a shore-going

party here and at Malaga, and you'll have the boat nice and quiet.

Everybody's off on shore for Granada."

She was gone. There was trampling and calling overhead. The agent

who arranged the shore excursions was marshalling his recruits.

People were rushing down for wraps and hand-bags; all was hurry

and confusion. Mrs. Meredith just ran in to kiss her sister and

warn Dulcie to look well after her. Then she, too, disappeared, and

Dulcie was left biting her lips to keep back the tears. She realised

that Miss Martin could not be left for so long, and that before she

had recovered the tossing in the Atlantic. But to miss Granada! Oh!

it did seem hard when she was so near, and Aunt Mary had promised to

pay the expenses of the trip for her.

Miss Martin settled to sleep, the sleep of exhausted nature.

Dulcie went on deck to find the huge boat almost empty. Even those

passengers who had not cared for the fatigues of the Granada

expedition had gone to spend the day ashore. The steamer was not to

leave the anchorage till seven o'clock that night, and then only

steam gently under lee of the shore to Malaga.

Dulcie's was a happy nature; despite the keenness of her

disappointment, the beauty of the scene before her eyes did much to

chase sorrow away. Was she not looking upon one of the grand sights

of the world? Was not that the lion-faced rock she had longed to

see? And oh, how glorious were those solemn African mountains! and

what an exquisite view she had of the wonderful harbour, the town

climbing up the steep heights, and the white Moorish city crowning

one of the low hills! There was Algeciras; she recognised it from

its position, but she longed to know more of her surroundings. Oh,

if Mr. Carlyon were but here, what interesting things he would tell

her!

Dulcie felt her cheek suddenly glow, and she leaned over the rail,

looking down into the water and growing dreamy. How was it that it

was always that face which came between her and the page of her

book when she read, or intruded itself into her visions, waking and

sleeping, at night? Why was it that the thought of missing _that_

companionship on the Granada trip was the real trouble to her,

though she scarcely dared admit it? What was Mr. Carlyon to her?

He had only been three weeks in the hotel with them at Funchal;

he had come from the Cape, and it was rumoured that he had made

a fortune there. He was evidently a great traveller. He seemed

acquainted with every land under the sun. His thin face was very

brown; and the dark hair was silvered at the temples, though

the fine silky moustache was still quite black. He was tall and

well-knit in figure, with regular features and very penetrating eyes

of a rather dark blue; a handsome and distinguished-looking man,

said to belong to a good old family. But he had lived a life of

travel and adventure, and had known hard times. If he had made his

fortune now, at the age of forty or under, he had known plenty of

buffeting about in his earlier life.

"I wonder if he will come back engaged to Arabella?" mused Dulcie;

"I know the people, at the hotel talked about it. He was so much

with us. Does Arabella care for him? He attracts her. That very

gentle chivalrous way he has with all women is so different from

what one meets with generally in these days. Oh, I do hope, if it

is to be, that she really cares. I think he is a man who would give

everything without reserve, if once he loved. And she? Oh, it is

not for me to judge; perhaps I am a little jealous. Sometimes she

seems to have so much--more than she can use. But I must not let

myself think unworthy thoughts. I have had a lovely time. A winter

of sunshine and happiness, and now this wonderful trip home. To let

things be spoiled for me, just because _he_ has gone with them and I

am left behind! Oh, that would be ridiculous! ungrateful! horrid!"

[Illustration: That day was like a dream to Dulcie.--_p. 322._]

With a brave effort Dulcie flung away disappointment. After her

sleep and dinner Miss Martin was well enough to come and lie out

on deck, wrapped up in rugs, and enjoy the sunshine; and, hearing

of a party of American ladies going for an hour or two ashore in

the afternoon, she sent Dulcie off with them; so that, if she did

not see what others did, at least she wandered up the narrow, busy

main street of the town, saw the jostling crowds of semi-Moorish

and mixed European nationality; drove out to Catalan Bay and

Europa Point, and sipped delicious chocolate in a delightfully

Moorish-looking restaurant before getting back to the ship.

"We have had a perfectly charming afternoon," she told Miss

Martin when she got back. "We had not time or energy for the

fortifications; but I don't think I mind that. That great lion rock

is enough for me. I have seen Gib'; and made a few little sketches.

I am quite, quite happy and content."

II.

"How perfectly exquisite!" exclaimed Dulcie.

The great vessel was lying at her anchorage in the beautiful harbour

of Malaga. The smooth water lay almost without a ripple, dreaming

beneath the misty glories of the spring sunrise, the delicate opals

melting into the deeper green and blue of the ocean away towards the

horizon, but nearer at hand so tender and pearly in tint that Dulcie

held her breath to watch; and seemed as though she would never move

again.

"A penny for your thoughts, Miss Grey!"

Dulcie wheeled round with a great start, the colour flushing her

face from brow to chin.

"Mr. Carlyon!" she almost gasped.

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

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

"I started off yesterday, certainly, with that intention; but I

found I could not stand being one of three hundred tourists! I

had not realised that sort of travelling before. It has wonderful

advantages for untravelled folk, but somehow it did not suit me. I

went with them to Ronda; I wanted to see that. But Granada is an

old friend of mine. I did not want its memories desecrated. I think

I am not exactly a gregarious animal. I made my way to Malaga by

night, and found the _Auguste-Victoria_ had already arrived. So,

you see, I have turned up like a bad halfpenny, and, if Miss Martin

is well enough, I should like very much to be allowed the pleasure

of showing her and you what there is to see in Malaga. It is not a

great deal--not enough to be fatiguing; but, if you have not been in

Spain before, it will give you an idea of a pleasant Spanish town."

Dulcie's face was all in a glow; her heart seemed dancing with joy.

The sunshine took a new brightness, the flocks of white sea-gulls

circling round the vessel and about the harbour seemed to be crying

joyously one to the other. The soft breeze blew the loosened

tendrils of hair about her happy face and sparkling eyes.

The thin face of the traveller brightened as he watched.

"Let us see if we cannot get some breakfast first. We will make love

to the head steward and ask if they will not let us have it in that

little boudoir, as they call it, on the top deck. I hate going below

on a morning like this, and I am just starving after my night's

travel."

Mr. Carlyon was one of those men who always get things done in their

own way. The beauty of the morning and the news of Mr. Carlyon's

plan quite roused Miss Martin, who had now recovered from the

effects of the Atlantic, and after her day's rest was disposed to

bestir herself. She was quite ready even at that early hour to let

Dulcie dress her, and help her up the many stairs to the upper

deck; and there in the pleasant little "boudoir" was an appetising

breakfast awaiting them.

That day was always like a dream to Dulcie, and, indeed, so were

those that followed, for Mr. Carlyon proved himself the most

charming and entertaining of companions. They had a boat ashore,

and then a carriage, and they drove through the white town, and

over the wide stony bed of the almost empty river to some exquisite

gardens, belonging to Spanish grandees, now absent in Madrid, and

wandered about them, whilst Miss Martin rested in the many arbours,

seeing beautiful views and delighting in the flowers, which, if not

so plentiful now as they would be later on, were fair and sweet and

abundant.

On the day following they visited the grand cathedral and examined

its many pictures, some of which were of no small interest, and

drove out to the red buildings of the great bull-ring, and saw

the curious structure and the weapons and saddles of the riders.

Everything was empty and deserted at that time of year, for the

bull-fights only begin in April. But Dulcie could picture the scene

in all its splendour and horror, under the golden Southern sunshine,

and gave a little shudder, feeling glad when her companion told her

that he had never seen a bull-fight, though he had lived for a time

in Spain.

"They are always on Sunday, for one thing," he said, "and I--well,

I have had a rough-and-tumble life, and there have been times when

Sundays have been strange days with me. But I could never bring

my mind deliberately to go to such a scene on such a day; even if

I could have made up my mind to witness the brutal spectacle as

a matter of curiosity, or from the feeling that it was one of the

sights of the country."

And Dulcie liked and respected him the more for this confession. It

seemed to make a fresh link between them.

Miss Martin watched them as they paced to and fro upon the long deck

at such times as they were not ashore; and sometimes a sparkle would

come into her eyes as she observed the way in which Mr. Carlyon's

glance would dwell upon Dulcie's bright face.

"It looks to me very much like----And really I should not be sorry.

Poor child! she is so much alone in the world; and I can do nothing

for her. All my money goes to Arabella and her brothers--that's the

worst of being an unmarried woman; one has no control over one's

money; if I had, I would have made a little provision for the child.

She is a good little thing. But I don't think Janet will be best

pleased. Arabella, with all her good looks, does not go off. As I

tell Janet, it is her temper--she has been so spoiled. Everybody

can see it; she is absolutely selfish. I did begin to think that

Mr. Carlyon was attracted; but I suspect now the attraction was

in another direction. Well, I only hope there won't be a terrible

rumpus when they get back. They were reckoning, I know, on this

trip. They meant to make him their special escort; and when they

learn what has really happened! Well, they can't bully him, that is

one comfort; and I'll try to protect Dulcie. But Arabella is a minx

when her blood is up; and Janet knows how to make me afraid. It's

ridiculous to be afraid of one's sister; but sometimes I am."

Just about sunset that evening the shore became black with hurrying

forms, and the harbour was crowded with boats. The Granada party

was returning to the _Auguste-Victoria_, to the strains of "Home,

Sweet Home" played by the band; and Mr. Carlyon with Dulcie stood

laughingly watching the embarkation of the weary, travel-stained

tourists.

"I expect they have only enjoyed it very moderately; Granada would

be bitterly cold at this season, April or May is the time to see

it. Ah! here comes your party! They don't look very happy in their

minds. I'm not sure, after all, Miss Dulcie, that we unenterprising

people haven't had the best of it!"

"I have had a perfectly lovely time!" cried Dulcie with one of her

sweet, direct glances; "you have been so kind to me!"

[Illustration: Arabella swept fiercely past, carrying Dulcie with

her.--_p. 324._]

His face lighted; it was such a kind one when it did, though it

could be stern, too, on occasion.

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

"Ah me! I fear not!" answered Dulcie, with a little laugh. "But

never mind; one can't be more than perfectly happy!"

"Dulcie, is that you? Do take my bag; I'm so tired I don't know what

to do with myself. Oh, Mr. Carlyon, there you are! I wonder you have

the face to speak to me again, after your base desertion in our hour

of need!"

She tried to speak archly; but temper and spite were in her tone,

and the gleam in the eyes that rested first on Dulcie and then on

him was not at all pretty to see.

"I left you under most capable guardianship; but I found my own

enthusiasm unequal to the demand made upon it. There is such a thing

as making a labour of a pleasure. Old fellows like me get beyond

that in time."

Arabella swept fiercely past him, carrying Dulcie with her.

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

"On Tuesday morning," answered Dulcie quietly.

Arabella, red and pale by turns, cross-questioned her as to every

event of the past days, which Dulcie gave truthfully, though with a

sense of coming trouble.

Then the storm burst. She had seen Arabella angry before; but this

was a unique outburst, and before it she stood dumb.

III.

"Oh, Dulcie, my dear, we are in sad disgrace," cried Miss Martin,

half laughing, but distinctly agitated as well; "really, Janet is

unreasonable. As if we had anything to do with Mr. Carlyon's change

of plan! As if a man like that would not have gone with Arabella if

he had wanted her! But Janet can never see things fairly, and, oh!

the scolding I have had! And now, my dear, there is only one thing

for us to do, if we don't want our heads snapped off. We shall weigh

anchor almost at once, and they say it will be rather rough when

we lose the shelter of the Spanish coast. I am just going to bed

quietly at once, and you are to stop down and take care of me, and

not show yourself above deck at all until to-morrow midday, when

everybody has got off at Algiers, and Janet has made sure of Mr.

Carlyon's escort."

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

"What have I done that I should be mewed up like this? Of course, as

long as you are ill and want me, auntie, I don't mind anything, but

you are not ill yet, and I do love seeing the ship move off, and all

Malaga is collecting upon the two great breakwaters to see us steam

away!"

"Oh, my dear child, don't begin to argue. My nerves won't stand

another scene with Janet. If we do as she says we shall have peace,

and 'Peace at any price' is my motto. We shall be at Algiers

to-morrow midday; they will go ashore with Mr. Carlyon. He will take

them to Mustapha Supérieur, and they will all stay the night there.

We can do our little sight-seeing quietly by ourselves, and be back

on board and out of sight before the rest get back. The crossing to

Genoa takes from Saturday evening to early Monday morning, and I

shall be glad enough to lie down all that time. I am afraid it will

be dull for you, poor child! but it's no good crossing your Aunt

Janet. You had better keep quietly here with me, and then at Genoa,

as you know, you are to take the train back to England, and we go

on to the Riviera. I should have liked to keep you all the while. I

shall miss you sadly; but Janet----"

Dulcie was busying herself over her aunt's belongings, to hide the

tears that would come welling up. She had so looked forward to

seeing something of the life on board the big boat during the days

at sea in the peaceful Mediterranean; but here she was compelled

to remain a prisoner in the cabin, dependent upon the port-hole

for light and air; and all because----But that would scarcely bear

thinking of: it was humiliating, unbearable.

Pride, however, and a sort of maidenly shame kept Dulcie below, and,

as the passage to Algiers was really rather rough, she had her time

taken up by attendance on her aunt. Miss Martin was not well enough

to get up till they had been two hours or more at anchor, and then

did not feel equal to going ashore that day.

But, at least, Dulcie could pace the almost deserted deck from end

to end, and gaze her fill at the beautiful town built up and up

against the side of the hill. She could see the Arab dresses of

the motley crowd upon the quay and along the handsome boulevard in

full view, and distinguish between the fine houses and towers and

spires of the French town, and the white walls and minarets of the

Arab quarter away on the right. She longed for the next day to come,

when they would go ashore and explore the wonders of the place.

Miss Martin was quite recovered by the morrow, and anxious to see

something of the town. They procured a carriage and a guide, and

drove for many hours, and, though the elder lady did not feel equal

to the exertion of walking through the native quarter, whose streets

were far too steep and narrow for the carriage, she sent Dulcie

with the guide, who showed it to her very well, and she gazed about

her with breathless interest at the strange veiled women, and brown

turbaned men, and the little dark-eyed children playing in the

gutters.

Yet throughout the day Dulcie was conscious of a heaviness at heart,

a sense of unsatisfied longing which she was afraid to analyse or

think about. All that she saw was wonderful, much more so than what

she had seen in Malaga, but to compare her pleasure in the two was

impossible. One day seemed all sunshine; this other was overcast and

dull by comparison. She was conscious of being always on the watch

for one face--a face of which she caught no glimpse the whole day.

She found herself constantly wondering what the rest were doing,

and whether Arabella was finding out what a delightful guide and

cicerone Mr. Carlyon could be.

They went back to the _Auguste-Victoria_ before the bulk of the

passengers; for Miss Martin was really tired, and Dulcie agreed with

her that it might be well for her to go to her berth before the

vessel started, since there was the prospect of a mild tossing when

they were once outside the harbour.

Mrs. Meredith came in presently, a good deal more gracious than

before, but still a little tart in her manner towards Dulcie.

"We shall meet a head-wind when we get out of harbour," she

observed. "You must take care of your aunt, Dulcie, and remain with

her. With her weak heart, she should not be left alone when there is

any fear of sickness coming on. When we reach Genoa, I will put you

and your baggage into the hands of some competent guide or porter,

who will take you to the train, and you will book yourself straight

through to England."

Dulcie understood perfectly. Arabella had thought her in the way. It

was a planned thing that she should not see Mr. Carlyon again, even

to say good-bye. And she was quite helpless. She could not seek

him out--her girlish pride and modesty alike prevented that; nor

could he try to see her. He would be told that she was either laid

low herself or attending upon one who was in such case. Upon that

crowded boat, when its complement of passengers was on board, there

would be only a remote chance of encountering him even were she to

steal up for a mouthful of air. At meals she might have met him;

for he was certain to sit in the same saloon with her relations,

even though the pleasant "boudoir" might not now be available; but

to meals she was practically forbidden to come. And, indeed, Miss

Martin was sufficiently ill during the whole of the next day to keep

Dulcie in pretty constant attendance upon her.

Nearly all that night Dulcie lay awake in her berth, thinking

strange yearning thoughts; and wondering whether she would ever

cease to feel that weary sense of heartache. Miss Martin slept

soundly at last--so soundly that she heard none of the noises of the

vessel's slow approach to its moorings in the magnificent harbour

of Genoa; was not aware when Dulcie slipped out of her berth and

dressed herself with dainty precision in her neat blue travelling

costume. She slept on and on so peacefully that the girl felt

no scruple in leaving her. She must get a little fresh air and

have her breakfast above deck. She must watch the entrance of the

stately vessel into the wonderful historic harbour. The hour was

very early yet. Nobody else would be astir. It was her last chance

of seeing the world. She slipped out of the cabin, ran up the many

flights of steps to the promenade deck, and looked about her with

wide, wondering eyes at the forest of shipping by which they were

surrounded, and the buildings of the town stretching away in all

directions.

"Dulcie!" She started and faced about, the colour flooding her face;

he was close beside her, holding out both his hands. In his eyes

there was a look of purpose she had never seen there before; her

own fell before it, her heart was beating so fast she could find no

voice in which to answer.

He came and took her hands in his; he bent over her and spoke in

quick, vibrating tones that thrilled her through and through.

[Illustration: "Dear me--how things do turn out!"]

"Dulcie, forgive me if I am too hasty--too bold; but what am I to

do? They have kept you away from me, child; and I have tried in vain

to get speech with you. There is so little time to say what I would.

I would have spoken it all so differently if I could. But yet I can

say it all in a few little words. I love you, Dulcie--I love you.

I cannot live my life without you. You are young, child, and I am

getting old; but I think, with you beside me, I could learn to be

young again. Dulcie, will you give me something to hope for? Do you

think you could let me come and try to win your love?"

She looked up at him for one dazzling moment, and in that moment

read the half-discovered secret of her own heart.

"I--I--love you already," she answered very simply; and then she

felt herself being drawn, close, close to his side.

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

her name.

"Dulcie, Dulcie, where are you? Is your luggage ready? Have you had

your breakfast? Be quick. Oh----"

Mr. Carlyon stepped forward, smiling.

"Congratulate me, Mrs. Meredith. Your niece has done me the

honour to promise to be my wife. Would it be possible under the

circumstances for her to remain with you at Mentone? I know Miss

Martin favours that plan."

Mrs. Meredith was woman of the world enough to know when she was

beaten; and, after all, was it not better to have such a man as her

niece's husband than as a mere acquaintance? Besides, her hopes of

securing him for a son-in-law had materially diminished during the

past eight-and-forty hours.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, "how very interesting and romantic!

Dulcie, my dear, I congratulate you. Yes, certainly, you shall

remain with us. I will go and speak to Mary about it. I am sure she

will be pleased. Dear me--how things do turn out!"

_American Country Parsons and their Wives._

By Elizabeth L. Banks.

"The parson's coming!"

I remember well the pleasurable excitement that announcement used to

cause in our farming neighbourhood. We children, sometimes swinging

upon the topmost railing of the wicket gates, from which height we

could espy the parson's "buggy" afar off, were often proud to be

the first bearers of the tidings of his approach. But it was not

always we who saw him first. There were times when, obeying the

commands of our elders that we must never swing on the "front yard

gate because it loosened the hinges," we felt chagrined over the

fact that, though we were good, obedient children, we were denied

the privilege of first noting the parson's horse round the hedge,

in his slow, safe, jog-trot style--a style, by the way, that we all

thought the proper equipment of a minister's horse. There were days

when our fathers and our brothers and the "hired men," ploughing in

the farm fields, hastily dropped their work, tying their horses to

the fence-posts, and strode hurriedly to the house with the bit of

always welcome news that the parson was making his quarterly round

of country visits and might shortly be expected at that particular

house, which must forthwith be "tidied up" most especially in his

honour. Orders were straightway given that the manufacture of

mud-pies in the back yard must be at once abandoned. There was a

scurrying to the garden pump or the wash-basin, hands and faces were

scrubbed, straying locks were plastered back from our foreheads;

soiled, dark gingham aprons were exchanged for clean, stiffly

starched, light print ones; and then we were led into the "parlour"

and bidden to "sit still and quiet and nice and tidy" in readiness

for the parson's visit. If, when the parson was espied, it was near

the noon dinner-hour or the night supper-time, extra preparations

were made for the approaching meal. Slices of highly valued "pound

cake" were brought from the larder, the cellar was ransacked for

the choicest jar of home-made jam, and, if time allowed, an unlucky

chicken was chased into a corner of the barn-yard and assassinated,

to help provide a feast deemed worthy to set before the parson.

[Illustration: There was a scurrying to the garden pump.]

The parson lived in the village, some five miles distant. He

preached every Sunday morning and evening in the village church to

a congregation of perhaps fifty souls, and received from them a

salary of five hundred dollars a year. Once in two weeks he drove

out to our school-house on the Sunday afternoon to preach to the

farmers and their families, who did not attend the village church

because they considered it a cruelty to horses that had worked all

the week to be obliged to carry the family to church on Sunday. We

in our district added one hundred dollars "and a donation party" to

the minister's salary. The inhabitants of another farming district,

six miles on the other side of the village, rewarded the parson in

the same way for preaching to them on the alternate Sundays when he

did not come to us; so the minister had, all told, seven hundred

dollars a year (£140), _and_ two "donation parties"--not a large sum

on which to support a family of five, yet considerably more than

Goldsmith's village preacher, who was "passing rich on forty pounds

a year."

[Illustration: A WEDDING FEE!]

Four times a year the minister visited all his country parishioners.

It generally took him two or three days to go the rounds in one

neighbourhood--a neighbourhood, I may say, extended over several

miles. He would leave "town" (there were six hundred inhabitants in

the place where he presided over the only steepled meeting-house of

his three charges!) early in the morning, and reach the first house

where he was to call at about ten o'clock. At noon he would have his

dinner with some one of the farmer folk, being careful to select for

his noon call a family with whom he had not partaken bread on his

previous visit of three or six months back; for to have the parson

to dinner or supper or to "put him up for the night" was an honour

for which there was great rivalry, and he tried to be impartial

in his distribution of such favours. During the meal hours, the

minister's horse fared as sumptuously as did his good master. Apples

and sugar and turnips and carrots and all the luxuries that the farm

produced were given to the animal by the children of the place,

while the farmer or his hired help brought out their choicest corn

and bran and oats and fragrant hay. Nothing was too good for the

minister and his horse. Indeed, even the "buggy" would be washed up

and made "fit" during the interval of the meal hour.

Happy was that house and its dwellers with whom the minister elected

to call late in the evening. The "spare bedroom," which adjoined the

parlour and was only opened and aired on great occasions, was given

over to him, and he slept upon the softest feather bed, amid the

snowiest linen, and beneath a white-fringed canopy. In the morning

the usual six o'clock breakfast would be delayed on his account

until 6.30, and an hour later the minister was jogging along in his

buggy to the next farmhouse.

I have written this much about the country parson with whom my

own childhood was associated, because he was a typical American

country parson then, and he is typical now. His round of duties

and pleasures during his country visits are identical with that of

hundreds of others of our country parsons. The practice of taking

charge of a village church and then preaching on Sunday afternoons

in the neighbouring country schoolhouses, is followed to a very

great extent throughout the United States. The salary received is

sometimes more, sometimes less, than what I have mentioned. What

these men and their wonderful wives are able to do for themselves

and their children on salaries ranging from six hundred to a

thousand dollars a year is little less than miraculous. I have

spoken of the "wonderful wives" of our country parsons. Here is a

description of the wife of the country parson who preached in our

school-house. She was not and is not unique. There are very many

like her.

When she married the parson, she was a graduate of one of our best

"mixed colleges." She took her diploma on the day that the man

whom she afterwards married took his. She had taken the course in

Greek and Latin, the higher mathematics, French, and German. When I

knew her as the parson's wife, she gave lessons in French, music,

and painting. The young mother of three children, she not only had

no nursemaid to look after them, but she had no servants in her

kitchen. She did all the housework, including the family washing

and ironing, and the baking of the bread and cakes and pies. She

made her children's dresses and her own. The parson's shirt front

and his spotless white lawn ties were "laundered" by her. At ten

o'clock in the morning she presided over the wash-tub, and at three

in the afternoon she read Cicero, perhaps in the same kitchen

while waiting for the bread to bake in the oven. She never looked

untidy, our parson's wife! Even when hanging over the wash-tub or

the bread-tray, she wore a smart-looking stuff dress, kept always

clean by the donning of an immense bibbed apron. She had not an

"at home" day, nor even an "at home" hour. She was always at home

when she was in the house, at whatever hour of the day or night a

visitor might knock at her front door. If, while in the kitchen,

she heard the knocking that announced callers, the bibbed apron

was thrown off, and in less than a minute later she appeared at

the door, well-dressed and smiling. She was the confidante of all

those in trouble; she gave advice to those married and those about

to marry; she was president of the Ladies' Aid Society; she led the

sewing circle, she played the church organ every Sunday morning and

led the singing of the choir as well; she taught a class in the

Sunday-school, and then went home and got dinner in time for her

husband to start for his school-house preaching. Sunday night she

presided over the young people's prayer meeting which preceded the

regular preaching service. Twice a year she gave her own children a

"party," to which all the other village children were invited. She

formed "Bands of Mercy" in all the country round, and wrote little

stories for the children to read at their meetings on the subject of

kindness to dumb animals.

[Illustration: OUR PARSON'S WIFE.]

Her house was often the scene of weddings, for those young women

who could not be married at home (church weddings were a rarity),

went to the parsonage to be married. There was always cake in the

parsonage, and on these occasions the lady of the house would bring

forth a bit of it from the larder for the bride and groom, for whom

it served as the "wedding cake."

Country parsons--indeed, I think I may say nearly all American

clergymen in both city and country--give the fees they receive at

weddings to their wives. It is understood that the wedding fee is

the perquisite of the minister's wife. Five dollars (£1) is looked

upon by the ordinary country parson as a liberal fee. The very

rich village grocer or country farmer occasionally astonishes the

officiating clergyman with ten dollars, but such a happening is

an event that could not be expected to occur oftener than once in

a country parson's lifetime. The young man for whom the parson

performs the all-important ceremony usually gives what he thinks he

can afford. He may give two dollars. He would scarcely give less

than that amount in money.

Then there is "payment in kind." A young couple frequently drive

up to the parsonage in a "lumber waggon" filled with potatoes,

or turnips, or firewood, or flour, beans, pickled pork--in fact,

anything of an edible nature that grows on the farm. I have a

schoolgirl friend married to a village clergyman, who recently

regaled me with a story of a young countryman, who, with his bride,

drove up to the parsonage with a large chicken coop, full of

cackling hens, which he proudly delivered over to her husband as

his fee for performing the marriage ceremony, with the information

that "them was as good layin' hens as ever lived, and calc'lated to

pervide eggs for a year an' more!"

There are numerous instances of enthusiastic and grateful

bridegrooms who have presented the officiating clergyman with live

pigs as wedding fees.

But it is not only as a reward for performing the marriage ceremony

that the country parson is "paid in kind." Sometimes he receives

a large part of his salary in this way. The members of his

congregation each subscribe a certain amount of money towards the

salary that is guaranteed the minister. Farmer Brown will, he says,

contribute four dollars as his share. In the winter, when Farmer

Brown should hand over his four dollars to the church treasurer, he

finds himself short of ready cash, but with an abundant supply of

wood on hand, having in the autumn felled many trees in his forest.

Nothing can be more certain than that the minister needs fuel in the

winter; therefore, Farmer Brown loads his waggon with logs of wood,

drives to the parsonage, and deposits it in the minister's back

yard, announcing to the minister that he "reckons thar 's mor'n four

dollars wirth of wood in that thar load!"

The minister can, perhaps, make use of that one load of wood very

conveniently; but when, as is frequently the case, a dozen frugal

farmers among his parishioners are struck with the same sort of

notion--that of paying their subscriptions in wood instead of

money--the unfortunate parson has more wood than he can burn for

many winters to come, and his back yard is entirely taken up with

it. He needs sugar, and paraffin, and rice, and butter, as well as

a cheerful fireside. Did I say butter? Well, sometimes he gets more

butter than he wants, too. Says the farmer to his wife: "Jane, I

promised to pay three dollars towards the parson's salary. Bein' as

you're makin' fine butter this summer, you jes' take him a couple

o' pounds a week till you've made three dollars' worth." Two pounds

of fresh yellow butter weekly from the dairy of a parishioner would

be appreciated by the parson's family. They would rather have it

than the stale butter from the village shop; but since butter is

made on all farms, and many farmers' wives send the parson butter

to pay off their subscriptions, the parson's larder overflows with

butter, while many other necessaries are scarce. It is the same with

potatoes and cabbages and beetroots, with eggs, and with hay for the

minister's horse, which, by the way, is not forgotten when the time

for paying subscriptions comes round. The minister loves his horse,

and is glad to have plenty of hay and oats for it to eat; but to

have in his barn enough of these articles to last a horse through

several lifetimes, while the children are needing boots and coats

for the present winter, is not a state of affairs that appeals to

his sense of the fitness of things. Some of our country parsons,

with an instinct for business, not inborn, but thrust upon them

by a stern necessity, have been known to become dealers in wood,

potatoes, hay, and other things of which they have an over-supply,

selling their surplus stock off to their neighbours. In this way

they are able to get a little ready cash with which to purchase such

necessary commodities as do not "grow on the farm."

In the beginning of my article I have referred to "donation

parties," and have said that some ministers are guaranteed a certain

number of dollars _and_ a "donation" as a yearly salary. The

donation party is, I believe, a strictly American institution, which

originated about a century ago in the very thinly settled regions

of the United States among the pioneers. It is still extremely

popular in country towns and farming neighbourhoods. Say that a

clergyman receives eight hundred dollars a year and a "donation," or

it may be that he is promised two donations. That means that besides

his money, he will be surprised one night or two nights in the year

by fifty or a hundred, or perhaps two or three hundred, people

marching into his house with bundles of every size and description.

His visitors will bring with them pounds of sugar, barrels of flour,

jars of pickles, bags of salt, tinned meats and vegetables, remnants

of calicoes, muslins, cloths, and silks, from the village "general

store," white lawn neckties, cooking utensils, bed-clothing,

pictures to hang upon the wall, patent medicines (including soothing

syrups for the babies), shoes and stockings, a few live chickens--in

fact, everything that the minds of his parishioners can conceive of

his needing. Besides all these things, a "proper" donation party is

expected to carry along its own supper, during which, sometimes, a

collection is taken up and a purse of money presented to the parson.

A good donation party, given by a generous lot of church people,

is a thing not to be despised by the recipient. Store-cupboards,

cellars, and wardrobes are frequently stocked for a whole year to

come, and the minister is thus able to put by, for the education of

his children, a goodly sum of money out of his cash salary.

[Illustration: A DONATION PARTY.

(_Bringing the parson's "stipend."_)]

But there is another kind of donation party that is by no means

welcome at the parson's house. There are country churches who

promise the pastor seven hundred dollars a year, without saying

anything about a donation party. But in midwinter the donation

party makes its appearance, the members of it bringing along

anything they happen to have on hand which they do not want for

themselves. Sometimes the things are useful, sometimes not. They do

not bring along their own supper; instead, they eat up everything

the minister has in the house, often necessitating his sending out

to shops for a sufficiency of provisions. When they have enjoyed

their suppers, a man who is designated as the "donation spokesman"

stands on a kitchen chair, and in a loud voice "appraises the

value" of each article that has been "donated": a pair of boots

so much, a few yards of calico so much, a jar of jam so much, a

bale of hay so much; and thus the list of things is gone through.

Then the appraised values are added up and the sum deducted from

the ministers salary. If the appraiser considers that one hundred

dollars' worth of things have been "donated," he then and there

declares that sum to have been paid on account of the salary.

Perhaps an etching, handsomely framed, has been among the articles.

The poor parson does not stand in particular need of an etching, yet

nevertheless the picture is counted as fifteen or twenty dollars

towards his salary! A clergyman's wife who, during the first years

of her married life, had been the victim of such donation parties,

once told me this pathetic story. A young woman invalid, a member of

her husband's church, hearing that a donation party was to be given

to her pastor, and not knowing of the existence of such a personage

as a donation "appraiser," wove a watch-guard from her own black

hair that had been cut off during her illness; the guard was mounted

in gold, and sent to the minister on the evening of the donation

party. It was placed among the other articles, and at the end of the

evening its value was appraised at ten dollars!

[Illustration: A DONATION SPOKESMAN.

(_Appraising the value of each article._)]

One of the things about our small-salaried country parsons that has

always excited my surprise and admiration is the way they contrive

to give their children the benefits of a college education. No

matter what their own struggles, no matter that the parson's wife

must be her own cook and housemaid and washerwoman, no matter

that her husband wears a shiny coat and a frayed shirt-front, a

little sum of money is always laid by--an "education fund"--to be

devoted to the education of the boys and girls of the family. In

a great many of our colleges, especially those which are known

as "denominational schools," a minister's daughter is charged

only half the usual yearly college fee, which, of course, greatly

facilitates matters. Then, at the colleges where the domestic system

prevails--that of allowing the students to pay a part of their

expenses by working in the domestic department, the minister's

daughter, along with the farmer's daughter and the mechanic's

daughter, helps to wash and wipe dishes and thus pays a part of her

own expenses.

[Illustration: REAL PROPERTY.]

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

Congregational Union.

In the original Law of Moses it would seem that the most favoured

tribe, the tribe of Levi, had no landed property. Even in that code

of the law which came into operation at the end of the seventh

century B.C., the regulation still ran: "The priests, the Levites,

even all the tribe of Levi, shall have no portion nor inheritance

with Israel: they shall eat the offerings of the Lord made by fire,

and his inheritance. And they shall have no inheritance among

their brethren: the Lord is their inheritance, and He hath spoken

unto them." (Deut. xviii. 1-2). The Lord was their inheritance.

Better than cities, and fields, and the gratifying sense of landed

proprietorship, here was the notion of real property, the possession

of the Eternal God, a personal part in the One Person, who is the

Author and Giver of all possessions temporal and eternal. In the

book of the Law this really magnificent idea is not developed. It

seems rather to be a hint, a type, a suggestion for more spiritual

times. The only application of it actually made, that certain parts

of the sacrifices should belong to the priests (Deut. xviii. 3),

a portion gradually in the process of time increased (see Lev.

vii. 34, and Num. xviii. 12-24), gives but a poor and starved idea

of what might be implied by "The Lord is their inheritance." As

between a solid portion of the land, yielding its regular dues of

corn and wine and oil, and the joints of meat, and first fruits

of the crops and of the fleece, appointed for the priests, they

might be pardoned for choosing the more substantial and permanent

provision. But under the phrase "The Lord is their inheritance" lay

hidden a mystical truth, which possibly priests and Levites as such

never appropriated. It requires the Psalmist, or inspired poet, to

liberate the promise from its merely official reference, and in

liberating it to deepen it into a universal religious truth. In the

sixteenth Psalm a far richer meaning is given to the notion that

God Himself may be a portion preferable to broad acres and secured

rents. This poet, some landless saint, we may surmise, in the time

when the land of Israel was taken away from the people that they

might learn to find a more inalienable property elsewhere, turns to

his God in unreserved confidence: "I have said unto the Lord, Thou

art my Lord"--that is the note of personal possession--"I have no

good beyond Thee"--that is the note of a sufficient and satisfying

possession. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance and of my

cup; thou maintainest my lot"--that is the renunciation of outward

possessions and sacraments in favour of the inward personal relation

with God which suffices. This spiritual heritage is all that heart

could wish; it is a prompter of blessing and thanksgiving even in

the night season. Nay, more than this, in times of tumult when

others are moved, and in the hour of death, when prosperity is

stripped away, the saint is rejoicing with joy unspeakable, because

the path of life is plain through the grave; the presence of God who

is his portion cannot be taken from him, and that is joyful, and for

ever (Psalm xvi. 5-11).

Here we enter upon a truth which well repays a careful study. First,

we have to seek a definite meaning to the idea that the Lord is the

portion of those who trust in Him. Then we have to observe how and

by whom this portion is secured.

No idea is at the first blush so definite as that of property, or

at least of real property. Here is a stretch of country, accurately

delimited on the ordnance map; I say of it, it is mine. I may build

on it or I may till it; I may grow what I will, or what the soil

allows, or I may turn it into pasture. I may sell it or give it or

leave it to my heirs. So definite is the idea, that a nobleman is

called after his estate--he is So-and-so of So-and-so. He belongs

to the land in something of the same sense that the land belongs

to him, a small human entity so identified with the big estate

that he becomes great; the lord, but also the product of these

thousands of acres; a man with a stake in the country, a personality

realising himself in this territorial way. You look at him and you

see the vast and solid domain latent in him. You find it difficult

or impossible to think that he and his landless valet are in any

sense equal. The valet stands for six feet of flesh and blood,

and his monthly wage. The lord stands for a considerable slice of

the earth's surface in fee-simple, with royalty rights over what

underlies of mineral or other wealth down to the centre. It is not

my desire to cast any suspicion on the value or reality of this

kind of property. I do not dwell on the fact that it cannot become

part of the man, nor he a part of it until he is buried in the

family vault at the centre of it. I do not wish even to remember

that a trifling accident to his sensitive organism puts him out of

possession for ever. Rather I desire to enlarge on this perfectly

definite and distinct idea, which is nowhere so absolute and

unquestionable as in England. We can have no difficulty in fixing

the thought of a man's estate, his property, his possessions. Now

we have to transfer this clear idea to God as the inheritance or

portion of the soul. "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance."

Possibly we may all have known a person, rich or poor, who has

given us much the same impression of the estate in God which lies

behind him as the landed proprietor gives us of his unseen spreading

acres. The person may be like the poor woman who held up to Bishop

Burnet the crust, exclaiming with gratitude, "All this and Christ!"

Or think of David Elginbrod, or of that more real Scottish saint,

the father of David Livingstone, bequeathing to his children on

his deathbed no property, but the fact that in the generations of

the family preserved in memory there was no dishonourable man.

Such a person as I am speaking of is far more secure and serene

than the owner of large estates, seems to find far more enjoyment

in the beauty and interest of even this passing world, and dwells

in the perpetual contemplation of an unseen domain which cannot by

any possibility be taken from him. This is the person who has made

the Lord his portion, and we want to realise what it is that has

happened to him, the lines which have fallen to him in pleasant

places. God is real to him, as landed property is to the landowner,

not limited as the estate is, suggesting always a land-hunger for

the fields beyond, but definite and certain. So definite and

certain, that it is possible to say, "This is my God," very much as

the landowner says of his estate, "This is my land."

But God presents to him also a security of salvation and of life,

of progress and of joy. He finds in God a subject of endless

contemplation, and a source from which he derives all things that

are necessary for this world and for a world to come. God is his

occupation. The will of God is his delight. The universe presents

itself to him as the works of God, history as the development of a

Divine thought, man as the shadow or image of God, religion as the

relation between God and man, heaven as the goal of the knowledge

and love which relate God to man.

If he is a thinker, like Spinoza, all things are seen in God. If he

is a poet, God Himself appears the best poet, and the real is His

song. If he is a man of science, he studies everything in nature, as

thinking the thoughts of God after Him.

But if he is a plain man, innocent of abstract thought, none the

less his business and his pleasure, his family and his friends,

all present themselves as material furnished by God in which he is

to work out the Divine will, and win the Divine approval. Nothing

is dissociated from God, whom he recognises everywhere, and at all

times. But as God who is thus all in all to him is Light and Life

and Love, the problem of his own and of the world's existence is

implicitly solved for him. God is all he wants, more than all in

God he finds. Every question is brought up into the presence of

God; in His light he sees light. Death disappears; for God is seen,

the possessor of immortality, imparting life to him who possesses

God. And as God is absolute love, there can be no question that all

things are working together for good to those who love Him.

This sovereign presence and power of the Divine will make earthly

possessions and station and success quite indifferent. They do not

lose their value; but they find their value only in relation to God

and His will, so that, if only a man's ways please God, and he lives

in the reconciliation and obedience to the will of God, he must be

sure that he has as much earthly property, as good a station, and as

great a degree of success, as God thinks good for him. If all things

seem taken from him, he reflects, God is my portion, and with Him I

have all things. And if all things are his, he does not feel that he

possesses any more than God; the things are temporary appearances

within the bounds of his inheritance, which is God; they lie latent

there always, appearing or disappearing as the wisdom and love of

God determine.

As this portion is distinct and tangible enough, so it is obviously

both larger and more satisfying than any earthly inheritance. It

leaves none of the aching hunger for things beyond. It brings all

things at once, and leaves to the soul the plain and endless task

of developing the inexhaustible treasures that are contained in it.

But how and by whom is this portion to be obtained? In the typical

arrangement of the Jewish law it fell to an order, the tribe of

Levi. In the psalm it fell to one who trusted in the Lord. That

furnishes the key to the new covenant, in which all that once fell

to a privileged nation, or order, or office, falls to those who

believe. By faith a man becomes a child of Abraham. By faith the

believer becomes a priest and a king unto God. By faith the portion

of this Divine inheritance is appropriated, and may be appropriated

by whosoever will!

By faith, however, we are not to understand a vague and general act

of the mind, which simply assumes that it has what it desires. The

faith which appropriates the Divine inheritance is specific, it is

faith which is in Jesus, a recognition and a reception of Christ

as the Son of God entering into the sphere of human life in order

to give to men God as their portion. "He that heareth My word, and

believeth in Him that sent Me," said Jesus, "hath everlasting life."

By faith in Jesus each of us inherits what was promised to Abraham,

to Israel, to David, to Levi. Jesus has said that He will not cast

out any that come to Him; and that who comes to Him comes to God.

Now it is certainly remarkable--considering the universal desire for

property, for real property, for lasting and inalienable property,

and considering the definiteness and certainty of the possession of

God, and the universality of the offer to every human being--that

comparatively few persons exert themselves to become possessed

of God, or bestow anything like the same energy and eagerness of

endeavour on securing God as their portion which men show in the

acquisition of a great earthly property. It is this remarkable

fact to which Jesus alludes when He says that many are called but

few are chosen, or that many walk in the broad way which leads to

destruction, but few will come to Him that He may give them life.

[Illustration: (_Photo: F. Hollyer, Pembroke Square, W._)

R F Horton (hand written signature)]

But the Divine method of thus putting the great possession within

the choice and reach of all, but forcing it on none, is in strict

analogy with God's way of offering all other boons to men. The

kingdom of Nature lies in the same way open for all who will exert

themselves and take possession. The endless interest of the almost

infinite variety of species is an open door which any investigator

may enter. The bewitching beauty of sun and stars, of drifting

cloud and summer skies, of all the changes of the earth and of

the sea, is accessible to all, but it must be owned that only a

few avail themselves of the opportunity. It seems to be the same

with all the gifts of God, Who makes the sun to shine on the good

and the evil alike. And thus His own being as the portion and

inheritance of the soul is proffered--like the wonder and beauty

of His creation--to all who will take and go in to possess it. It

stretches away like the land of promise, a pleasant land flowing

with milk and honey, a land of broad views and of fruitful fields,

of vineyards and oliveyards, and of far distances, luminous in the

fresh glory of sunrise, hazy with softened charm in the hot noon,

transformed under the evening sky of crimson and gold at sunset,

a land which one would have thought all might desire to possess;

but, like the promised land, it is treated with scorn by those who

will not believe (Ps. cvi. 24). To them the flesh-pots of Egypt

are pleasanter; the very dearth and dreariness of the desert are

preferred before it. A thousand excuses, imaginary fears, and

obstinate depreciations are cited to evade the efforts of conquest.

And this great inheritance, the portion of the human soul, God,

remains unpossessed except by a handful of enterprising souls.

It should, however, be frankly acknowledged that entering into

possession of this inheritance is by no means the matter of a

single moment. We annex our property field by field and province

by province. By searching we do not find out God unto perfection,

though every further search gives us a greater joy and hope in the

prosecution of it.

It is for want of this vigorous entrance into the possession that

many have professed themselves disappointed with God as their

portion. They have left their property unexplored and unrealised.

They have neglected to pray--and prayer is the onward march into

the promised land, the exercise by which the being and fulness of

God are appropriated. They have forgotten to worship, and worship

is the relish of possession, the discovery by gratitude and praise

of what is given and what God still has to give. They have omitted

the self-discipline by which the will is kept in harmony with God,

and the thoughts and purposes of God take possession of the soul;

and yet it is only by this kind of sustained discipline that one

can have any feeling of apprehension, and progressive discovery, of

God. They have forsaken the assembling of themselves together for

worship, which is the forming of the host of invasion. They have

ceased to study the Word, which is the chart of the land, showing

all the approaches, the fastnesses to be taken, and the heights

to be won. Or they have given up those good works of charity and

helpfulness, the love of men, the love of souls, which are the very

footsteps by which we come into the possession of God. It is this

which explains the common discontent about that rich portion--God

Himself--offered to the soul. The good land has only been surveyed

for a moment from Pisgah; faith has flashed out as an intuition,

or as a vision; but the actual and determined conquest of piece by

piece, to which faith is intended to lead, has been overlooked.

There are multitudes of persons who seemed to choose God as their

portion in moments of religious excitement and apparent decision,

but never arose to enter into possession; and they remain, in

consequence, disinherited.

But this leads us to a last point which has to be observed. For

one cause or another--the one just named is probably the most

common--men conceive a discontent with their inheritance in God,

and seek to supplement it with possessions which are regarded as

more tangible and immediate. This was apparently what occurred with

the priests, the Levites. Originally, as we saw in the Deuteronomic

code, they were content with the Lord as their inheritance, and

were fed with the meat which came from the offerings of the altar.

But in a later code we find the Levites claiming cities to dwell

in. There were to be forty-eight cities in all, given by the other

tribes, cities of considerable size, with their corn lands and

meadows (the suburbs) extending 2,000 cubits, or between a half

and three-quarters of a mile, on all sides of the city; these were

to be the possession of the Levites. And though six of the cities

were to serve a certain religious purpose as asylums of refuge

for the shedders of blood, the whole forty-eight were to be the

landed property of the priests, the Levites. These forty-eight

domains constituted a territory scattered throughout the tribes, as

solid, and almost as bulky, as the possessions of Dan, or Asher,

or Naphtali. But when we come to the book of Ezekiel, this real

property of the disinherited tribe is found to be increased and

consolidated; a vast district, 25,000 reeds long by 25,000 reeds

broad, was to form the oblation assigned to the priests; this would

be quite as large as the territory of any except the largest tribes

(Ezek. xlviii. 8-30). And thus gradually, they who were to have

no inheritance in the land, because the Lord Himself was their

inheritance, laid claim to as large an inheritance as the rest of

their brethren had.

That is a process to which the whole history of Christianity

presents a series of parallels. We begin in God, in faith, in

heavenly realities; we decline upon the world, and sight, and the

fleeting shows of the earth.

"'Tis the most difficult of tasks to keep

Heights which the soul is competent to win."

When we have got God for our portion and inheritance, we insensibly

slip away, and fix our attention on things below. We would make the

security of God doubly sure, by having earthly property as well; we

would depend upon God, and yet lean on an arm of flesh; we would

have our treasures in heaven--for heaven when we get there; but our

hoard on earth--for earth while we are here.

Poor human nature! This is our delusion. The two portions cannot be

ours. If God is our inheritance, He must be all in all to us. If

He gives us Christ, He freely with Him gives us all things. "All

this and Christ!"--yes, but in the sense that God in Christ is

everything. Never can it mean that our inheritance is partly God and

partly this world, that we lean, one arm on Him and the other on

uncertain earthly riches.

Therefore the choice lies before us all. Can we choose Him as our

portion, can we pray and trust Him to maintain our lot? Can we

renounce the arm of flesh as weakness and vanity, can we disregard

the alluring securities of what is considered here real property?

If so we may have real property indeed: God will be ours, an

inexhaustible mine of life and love, of interest and beauty, of

peace and joy.

MISS CRANE'S FORTUNE.

A Complete Story. By A. B. Romney.

[Illustration: Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.]

Miss Crane lived in No. 13, King's Parade. Doubtless at some remote

period King's Parade was a street of fashion and celebrity, but at

the time we speak of its chief characteristic was that air of shabby

gentility inseparable from houses in whose windows at intervals

appear cards announcing "Furnished Apartments."

Miss Crane was teacher of music by profession, and had what is

termed "a good connection." By turns, music was her chief pleasure

and pain. During the day she patiently listened to endless varieties

of mistakes in the same exercises and scales; in the evening, seated

at her own piano, she forgot all the cares and worries of her daily

round of duty.

Everyone has a sacred ambition, as well as a secret romance, hidden

in his heart. Miss Crane's ambition was to save up enough money to

ensure independence, and she believed that to possess an income of

£100 per annum would be the realisation of her dreams. For many

years she had steadily saved and worked for this purpose, and now,

at the age of forty-five, was not very far from having her desire

fulfilled.

Miss Crane was a little woman, with very pretty hands, small and

white. Years of patient drudgery had left some lines on her forehead

and had taken the colour from her cheeks, but had not been able to

spoil the sweet kindliness of her eyes and smile. She usually wore

black gowns, made simply of soft, fine materials, her lace frill

fastened by a small silver brooch, which she always pinned in with

loving care.

One day, towards the end of the summer term, she came in more than

usually tired, and sat leaning back wearily in her chair, waiting

for the maid to bring in her supper. She heard below stairs the

scolding voice of the landlady and the querulous crying of children.

Through the open window came the strains of a barrel-organ playing

with irritating liveliness. She closed her eyes wearily as the

servant came clattering up the stairs and burst open her door with

noisy familiarity.

"Please, miss," began the servant, laying down the tray, "there were

a gentleman t'see you when you was out."

"Indeed!" cried Miss Crane, opening her eyes with a start and

sitting upright. "A gentleman to see me! Did he leave his card?"

"No, miss," answered the girl. "He seemed disappointed like when

I told 'im you was _h_out, and 'e said e'd call back again in th'

evenin', as 'e wanted to see you particular."

"Very strange," cried Miss Crane. "Well! that will do now. Will you

please come up in about ten minutes to clear away the tea-things,

as I shouldn't like the room to look untidy if the gentleman calls

again?"

Miss Crane drank her tea in great perplexity. A gentleman to see

her! Such a thing had not happened for more than twenty years. Who

could it be? Miss Crane's hand instinctively touched her silver

brooch, as her thoughts turned to days long past.

A knock, a loud and impressive knock, at the hall-door roused her

from her reverie. She stood up, listening eagerly, expecting she

knew not what. The maid came slowly upstairs from the kitchen and

opened the hall-door. There was an indistinct sound of a gruff

voice, and then the footsteps of two people coming up the stairs.

The servant opened the door, saying--

"Mr. Spinner, miss."

A tall, imposingly rotund man walked in, hat in hand, his fat and

rosy face all smiling affability.

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

"Not at all," murmured Miss Crane, wondering greatly who he could

be. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you. I think I will."

He took a chair, sat down, carefully spreading out the skirts of his

frock-coat, and, crossing his legs, looked condescendingly round the

room.

Miss Crane, with heightened colour, waited expectantly.

"I am well aware," began Mr. Spinner presently, "that the name of

business has to ladies a very unpleasant sound; but I venture to say

that Miss Crane will find the little matter which has brought me

here this evening far from being a disagreeable subject."

"Indeed!" murmured Miss Crane.

"But before I proceed further, allow me to consult my notes." Mr.

Spinner took out a spectacle case, placed his glasses carefully on

the bridge of his nose, glanced at Miss Crane through them, then

taking a note-book from his breast pocket, opened it, and taking out

a paper, cleared his throat and continued: "You are, I believe, Miss

Letitia J. Crane, eldest daughter of the late Rev. Joshua Crane,

M.A., formerly curate of St. Mary, in the parish of Tulberry."

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

"Then, madam, without troubling you about details, partly because

business details are unwelcome to ladies, and partly because I am

obliged to catch the 7.25 train up to town, I shall briefly tell you

what I am certain, from my previous knowledge of human nature, will

be welcome news to you, and that is----"

"What?" demanded Miss Crane with some impatience.

"It is that your uncle, the late John Crane, of No. 8, Harbourne

Street, Liverpool, who died on the 27th of last month, has left

you a sum which, invested as it is at present, brings in an income

of £700 per annum--of," reiterated Mr. Spinner with impressive

solemnity, "£700 per annum."

Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.

"It is a fact, I assure you, madam," continued Mr. Spinner, rising

from his chair and placing a card on the table. "Allow me to give

you my card with the address of my place of business. Perhaps you

could find time to call to see me some time to-morrow, when I shall

be most happy to show you your uncle's will, and, in short, make

myself useful in helping you in any way in my power."

"I cannot believe it," cried Miss Crane. "Are you quite sure there

is no mistake?"

Mr. Spinner smiled indulgently.

"None whatever, and if it should be a convenience to you," he said,

with a glance round the neat poverty of the room, "I shall be happy

to advance you any reasonable sum as a proof of the truth of my

statement."

"No, thank you," replied Miss Crane, flushing somewhat proudly. "I

do not require it."

"Quite right! Quite proper!" said Mr. Spinner, taking up his hat.

"Then I may expect to have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow at,

let us say, 11.30 a.m."

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

"Then I may say good-bye, and," he added, shaking her hand with

impressive fervour, "pray accept my heartiest congratulations on

your good fortune."

The bang of the hall-door as Mr. Spinner closed it after him awoke

Miss Crane from her stupor of astonishment.

For a few moments she sat motionless. Then she burst into a fit of

violent weeping. Good fortune had come at last, but had come too

late to bring happiness. All her youth had been crushed beneath the

weight of poverty, and, bitterest remembrance of all! she had seen

those dearest to her die before their time, fading uncomplainingly

away, for want of a little of the sunshine of prosperity. During

all these years she had thought of them as happy to be at rest from

toil and misery. In her poverty she had never felt as lonely as she

did now, in time of her prosperity. Especially, a passionate longing

seized her for her mother. What delight to have been able to gratify

those simple wishes so often repressed! How happy they could have

been together! She had wanted so little, but that little had been

ever denied her.

And Frank Whitman! The force of poverty had swept him far apart. He

had not been strong enough to battle against the stream. She heard

of him sometimes as a man rising in his profession, prosperous

and respected. His marriage with the daughter of a rich shipowner

had been, everyone said, "the making of him." And yet Miss Crane

remembered the evening he had given her that silver brooch, and the

words he had then spoken.

"Instead of thanking God for His goodness to me," sobbed Miss Crane,

"I am wickedly ungrateful, but I do wish I had mother with me now."

* * * * *

Next morning, Miss Crane took a more cheerful view of things. She

sent word to her pupils that she could not see them that day, but

she had not yet sufficient belief in her good fortune to feel

justified in telling them of it. It was so near the end of term that

she did not like putting them to the disadvantage and inconvenience

of changing to another teacher, and besides, she had not courage to

cut herself adrift from her usual routine. Custom is a very strong

rope indeed.

As she travelled up to town, she constructed castles in the air of

all the delights now possible to her--the house in the country, the

really good piano, a silk dress, a thing she had always secretly

desired, for she had an instinctive love of dainty dress, and the

sight of a beautiful thing gave her positive joy.

The further she went, the grander she became: until after her

interview with Mr. Spinner, she actually felt bold enough to enter a

fashionable shop, and, unawed by the magnificence of the attending

maidens, she chose, paid for, and put on "the sweetest little French

bonnet possible."

On leaving the shop, she met an old pupil, who, after a preliminary

stare, greeted her warmly, declaring she had never seen Miss Crane

looking so well, and asked her home to lunch.

Altogether, Miss Crane's day in town was a complete success. She

had been more wildly extravagant than she could have believed it

possible the day before: there was something positively intoxicating

in the fact that there was now no need any more to count every penny.

She knew it was false charity to give money indiscriminately to

beggars, and yet she could not resist brightening, even for the

moment, the face of misery and want. "To-morrow, I shall be prudent

again," she declared, as over and over again she stopped to slip a

silver coin into some grimy hand.

In the evening, she sat, tired but very contented, considering where

she ought to go for her holidays. The world was open to her now;

it was difficult to decide which part to visit first. Entrancing

visions of Italy especially bewildered her, but she felt still too

timid to venture far from home, though that home was but two shabby

little rooms in a cheap lodging-house. Like a bird caged for long,

though the door stood open, she feared to fly away.

Presently a thought struck her, her cheeks glowed--she stood up and

walked uneasily about the room. At length she muttered to herself,

"I shall go there! I should like to see him once again!"

The place she had decided to go to was Stockton, the seaside town in

which Doctor Frank Whitman lived. She had known his wife long ago,

when a girl. She had heard there were a number of children. Perhaps

the family would receive her kindly, and she would find in them the

friendship and companionship without which her money was valueless.

Stockton was by the sea: to sit in the sunshine, on the sands,

looking on the waves, would in itself be a delight. Miss Crane

wished she could start on the morrow, but this, of course, was not

possible. Ten days more of drudgery must be first endured, then

liberty at last!

These last days passed rapidly enough, for they were fully occupied,

and at length, on the 1st of August, Miss Crane found herself

seated in the train, with a ticket to Stockton in her hand, a new

portmanteau beside her, and her heart beating with excitement at

being off at last.

When she reached Stockton and was driving from the station to her

lodgings, she eagerly looked out of the window, half hoping, half

fearing to recognise Frank Whitman in each passer-by.

She remained indoors that evening and the following morning, but

in the afternoon she unpacked the contents of the portmanteau and

dressed to go out.

"After all, how little dress can do!" she murmured to herself, as

she stood critically examining her reflection in the looking-glass.

"I wonder if he will remember me!"

[Illustration: The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face.]

The day was brilliantly bright, with a fresh breeze blowing strongly

from the sea. The shadows of the fleeting clouds passed swiftly by.

The sunshine glittered on the dazzling waters rippling in one long

white line along the margin of the bay. Along the horizon stood the

ruddy sails of the fishing-smacks.

Miss Crane walked on slowly, enjoying the warmth, brightness, and

freshness of the day. She had little difficulty in finding Victoria

Villa, the residence of Doctor Frank Whitman. It was a large

red-brick house, square, well-built and prosperous-looking, standing

in its own grounds, with greenhouses, tennis-grounds, and all the

usual belongings of provincial respectability and wealth.

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

"What shall I do," she thought, "if Frank and Bessie have forgotten

me, or if they should not like to know a poor little music teacher

like me?"

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

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

away.

At this moment, a girl came quickly up the road, a pretty girl of

some eighteen summers, wearing a white dress and shady hat, and

carrying a tennis racket in her hand. As she passed, she glanced at

Miss Crane, and the expression of her eyes was precisely like that

of Frank Whitman's twenty years ago.

Miss Crane started. The thought, "It is his daughter!" flashed

across her brain. She turned and hurried after her. The girl,

hearing the footsteps behind, stopped, and looked inquiringly at

Miss Crane, who hesitatingly began, "Might I trouble you to direct

me to Doctor Whitman's house?"

"There it is," answered the girl smilingly. "And I am almost sure

father is in at present. Will you come with me? I am just going

home."

She spoke with a strangely familiar accent, she smiled with the same

merry glance, quick and soft, which Miss Crane had remembered so

long.

By the time they had reached the hall-door Miss Crane had confided

how she had come hoping to find old friends, and then had felt too

timid to enter their house. "And," she ended, "if I had not met you,

my dear, I believe I should have gone straight home."

The girl laughed merrily, and then warmly assured Miss Crane that

Mrs. Whitman would be sure to be delighted to see her. "And," she

asked, "you said you used to know papa also a little, long ago,

didn't you?"

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

"Here, mother," cried Miss Whitman, as she opened the drawing-room

door; "here is an old friend to see you!"

Miss Crane advanced into the room. A tall, fashionably-dressed woman

came to meet her with outstretched hand.

"What!" she exclaimed. "Letitia Crane! Well! I am glad to see you.

What a time it is since we've met. But you've hardly changed at all.

I should have known you anywhere. Sit down here and let us have a

good long chat about the old days. Ida! go and tell your father that

Miss Crane is here; I'm sure she'd like to see him."

Miss Crane sat down, grateful for being received with such

cordiality. It was difficult to talk, her whole being seemed

concentrated in listening. She heard Ida go downstairs, open the

study door, and then came the sound of a voice she had not heard for

twenty years.

"How silly I am!" she thought, as she tried to concentrate her

attention on what Mrs. Whitman was saying.

Presently footsteps came up the stairs. The door opened, and Ida,

followed by her father, came into the room. The blood rushed to

Miss Crane's face, and for a second she could not see.

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

cordiality.

Miss Crane could scarcely reply, her astonishment was so

complete. Where was the man she remembered? The young fellow with

the merry laughing eyes, the thick curling hair, the careless

dress, the active step! The man who now stood before her was a

portly, middle-aged figure, all immaculate linen and broadcloth;

bald-headed, red-faced, with bland affability smilingly displaying

an excellent set of false teeth. The ideal which Miss Crane had

worshipped so long faded away for ever like some phantasm that had

never had any being, save in her own mind. Only in Ida's eyes and

Ida's smile lingered a mocking image of the past.

* * * * *

Miss Crane's time passed very pleasantly at Stockton. Most of the

day she sat on the beach watching the children bathe and play about

the sands.

Ida came down to bathe every morning, and afterwards used to sit

talking to Miss Crane while drying and brushing her beautiful hair

in the sunshine. One day, after sitting thoughtfully quiet for some

time, Ida, in a somewhat embarrassed tone of voice, began--

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

"Well! my dear, you know that usually I have not time to do so on

week-days. But why do you ask?" replied Miss Crane.

"Because," said Ida, "there is such a sweet little church not very

far from here out in the country, and such a delightful service

every evening, and," she added with heightened colour, "the curate,

Mr. Archdale, preaches such beautiful sermons that I would like you

to hear him!"

"I should like to hear him very much indeed," replied Miss Crane,

smiling. "If you will not expect me to praise him too much!" Then,

pitying Ida's confusion, she continued: "Perhaps, sometimes, he will

allow me to play the organ in his church. It is the only thing I

miss here. At home there is a little church quite close by, where

the organist allows me to practise whenever I choose."

"Oh! I shall ask Cyril--I mean Mr. Archdale," cried Ida, blushing

deeply. "I'm sure he will be delighted to allow you to practise

whenever you like."

Thus it happened that almost every evening Miss Crane and Ida walked

together to the little country church; and then, after service was

over, Miss Crane sat down at the organ and played, while Ida and Mr.

Archdale listened to her, as they sat in the porch or strolled about

beneath the lime-trees; though it was curious, thought Miss Crane,

how seldom it was, for people who professed to love music, that they

remembered what she had played. Then in the increasing twilight the

three walked back to Stockton together quietly, too happy to talk or

laugh much.

The mornings on the beach were spent in talking of "Cyril," for the

subject interested Miss Crane almost as much as it did Ida. She was

touched by the young people's confidence in her, and their love

revealed their characters in the most favourable light to her. Her

love for Ida equalled her admiration of her, and she believed Mr.

Archdale to be almost worthy of her.

* * * * *

The holidays were drawing to a close, and Miss Crane decided that

she ought to delay no longer in telling her pupils of her change of

circumstances; but, always reticent about her own concerns, she put

off doing so from day to day. Even to Ida she had never spoken of

her good fortune.

There was a charming house quite close to the church, which Miss

Crane had determined to buy--quite an ideal old maid's cottage, she

thought it, with its red-brick walls hidden by climbing roses, its

garden sloping down to the riverside, and its cosy little rooms

quaintly furnished with old oak. Its late owner had died and it was

now to be sold, with all its belongings.

Miss Crane determined to buy it, and then, when everything was

arranged, to astonish Ida, Mr. Archdale, and the Whitmans by

inviting them to dinner in her new house, and then telling them the

delightful news of her good fortune.

She felt very happy in anticipation of this coming pleasure.

She was never tired of imagining the joyful surprise Ida would be

sure to show, and the merry days they would have together, arranging

the new house.

On the day fixed for seeing the house-agent and finally deciding on

the purchase, Miss Crane had asked Ida not to expect to see her,

"for," she said gaily, "though but a humble little music teacher, I

have some business matters to see about."

"Then," cried Ida, "I shall come and see you in the evening, for

Cyril has determined to speak to father in the morning, and I must

tell you how everything goes off, though I'm not in the least

afraid, notwithstanding all Cyril's forebodings."

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

"Well, you know," said Ida, in melancholy tones, "Cyril is not very

rich. Clergymen never are, are they?"

"But," remonstrated Miss Crane, "surely he has some means or he

wouldn't think of marrying?"

"He has," answered Ida; "he has £300 a year, which seems to me

a great deal of money, but whether it will do so to papa is the

question."

"Oh!" cried Miss Crane cheerfully. "Your father is a rich man, and

very proud of his pretty little daughter; he will make it all right

for you, never fear."

Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, called her "the dearest

old thing in the world," and at last, promising to come the

following evening, hurried away.

The next day was very stormy. The wind blew in great gusts from the

east, rolling the waves in dashing breakers against the rocks. The

rain descended in torrents. It was one of those days which sometimes

come in autumn, precursor of the deadly tempests of the winter.

Miss Crane sat indoors, a shawl over her shoulders, writing letters

round to her various employers and pupils, announcing the change in

her circumstances. She had just closed the last envelope, and was

putting the stamp on it, when the door burst open, and Ida rushed

wildly into the room, her hair blown about her shoulders by the

wind, and her waterproof cloak streaming with rain.

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

matter?"

Ida threw herself on the sofa, sobbing violently.

"Oh! I don't know whatever I shall do," she began, as Miss Crane

knelt down in alarm beside her. "Papa has been most dreadfully cross

and angry with me, and he called Cyril a----" She stopped, her voice

choked with sobs.

"A what?" demanded Miss Crane.

"He--he called him a----" said Ida, with another burst of indignant

sobs, "a beggarly curate!"

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

Crane soothingly.

"How could anybody object to Cyril personally?" cried Ida, angrily

rolling up her pocket-handkerchief into a tight, wet little ball

and rubbing her eyes with it. "No; it is all on account of him not

having enough money. He says he will never let me marry a man that

has not at least £1,000 a year. And where is Cyril to get all that!

Unless he is made a bishop, and he hasn't a chance of being made

that until after years and years _and years_ of waiting, when he is

old and quite bald!"

At this mournful idea Ida's face again squeezed up into dismal lines

and puckers, and her sobs broke forth with renewed strength.

Suddenly Miss Crane became so motionless, so quiet, that at

last Ida's curiosity overcame her grief; she put down her

pocket-handkerchief and looked at Miss Crane with pained

astonishment at her want of sympathy.

Miss Crane came out of her reverie with a start.

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

forced smile.

"That's what everyone says!" cried Ida in the tone of injured

friendship. "But I did think you would have sympathised with one."

She arranged her hair, put on her hat, and stood up as if to go

away, expecting Miss Crane would make her stay; but Miss Crane sat

motionless, staring fixedly out of the window.

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

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

"I never saw anyone so horrid and unsympathising," muttered Ida, as

she closed the door after her. "I wouldn't have believed it."

Miss Crane sat for more than an hour motionless, thinking. She

sighed deeply now and again.

At length she stood up, and, taking the pile of letters she had

written, tore them all up into fragments; then, putting on her

bonnet and waterproof cloak, she went out and did not return home

until late at night.

"Why, miss!" cried the landlady, as she came in white, tired, and

wet; "you'll get your death stayin' out of doors such a day as this!"

"No," said Miss Crane gently. "It will do me no harm. I was obliged

to go to town on business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I

must leave you on Saturday."

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

suddint like?"

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

On Saturday, as Miss Crane was packing her trunk, suddenly Ida came

bounding up the stairs into the room, all radiant with smiles and

gaiety and flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, exclaiming--

"What do you think has happened I Oh! it's just too delightful.

Somebody has given Cyril £700 a year--somebody who refuses to give

his name. We're all dying with curiosity to find out who it can be.

I'm certain it is somebody who has heard Cyril preach. Don't you

think it is?"

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

"And now," continued Ida, "everything is settled so nicely, and

we're to be married at once. I only wish we had room at home to ask

you to stay with us for the wedding. You dear old thing! I believe

I was cross and horrid to you the other day, but really I was so

distracted that I didn't know what I was saying. And now, dear, I

must be off, for Cyril is waiting for me."

She kissed Miss Crane and hurried off.

[Illustration: Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck.]

Miss Crane stood in the window watching, with dim eyes, the young

pair walking down the street. A kitten came and, mewing, rubbed its

soft little head against her foot. She stooped, stroked it gently,

saying--

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

PARABLES IN MARBLE.

A story is told of a late Bishop of Peterborough, to the effect that

at a public dinner he said that he once bought a picture of a sunset

on a river, which he hung in his study; it was a bad picture, but it

had a beautiful influence over him, and he confessed that when he

looked at the picture "a curate might play with him."

[Illustration: FAITH.

(_By Alfred Drury._)]

The Bishop without doubt knew a good work of art when he saw one,

and his knowledge informed him that technically his "sunset on a

river" was bad; but it appealed to his sentiment and occupied its

place on the study wall in spite of its defects. In this respect,

most people are with the Bishop; it is not so much the quality of

a work of art that makes it popular, but the particular strain of

sentiment it contains that touches a responsive chord in the hearts

of those who look at it. The English public are sentimentalists

first and foremost in art, and the artist who receives the greatest

acclamation is he who is most skilful in this direction. And if this

is so in respect to painting, how much more so is it with regard to

sculpture. Public enthusiasm is rarely roused by the sculptor's art.

Next to the architectural room at the Royal Academy, the sculpture

hall is the least frequented, and we fear it must be said that the

majority of those who do go there go because it is the coolest place

in the exhibition.

This, of course, is matter for regret, for there are as ennobling

and inspiriting works of art to be seen there as in the picture

galleries. The sculptor has the power to appeal to our ideals and

aspirations to as great an extent as the painter, limited though he

be by his materials. (It can at once be realised that the worker in

marble has not the same freedom as he who uses paint and canvas--he

has greater difficulties to surmount, less subjects to choose from,

and far narrower scope in which to express his thoughts.) We have

had "sermons in stones" which have been quite as powerful as any

preached by painter or poet.

The classical tradition has undoubtedly affected the sculptor more

than it has his brother-artist of the brush; it has weighed him

down, and made his work cold and lifeless; and men and women of

to-day want art that is living, helpful in their daily straggles,

responsive to those aspirations which every one of them possesses in

a measure. As a distinguished member of the Royal Academy, now dead,

once wrote, "We have aspirations, we reverence something more than

the ordinary life of mortals; we have before our eyes an ideal of

truthfulness, piety, honour, uprightness, love, and self-sacrifice

greater than any which exists on earth." To appeal to these

emotions by a beautiful and living art should be the object of our

artists, and those who do can be sure of receiving the approval and

the gratitude of the toilers of the world. This has been proved

over and over again by the votes taken at Canon Barnett's picture

exhibitions as to the most popular works shown, when men like Mr. G.

F. Watts, R.A., and the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones have been first

favourites. And this probably accounts in a measure for the public

indifference to works of sculpture. The sculptor has for the most

part neglected subjects which appeal to the hearts of the people of

his day, and based his work on classic models and precepts.

In saying this we do not in any wise belittle the great works of the

past. It is impossible to look on the mighty works of the ancient

Egyptian workers in stone without feeling the sense of awe which

the people of those days must have experienced--and were intended

to experience--when gazing upon them. Mystery is the keynote of

Egyptian sculpture, mystery deep and unfathomable. Look upon those

inscrutable, gigantic faces in the British Museum; coldly inhuman;

giants of stone, indifferent to the passions which pulsate in

the human breast. Mighty works indeed--parables impossible of

interpretation!

Look, too, at the works in the Assyrian galleries of the same

collection. Marvellous of execution, they again draw forth

admiration for the skill of their creators, for their dexterous

records of the life of those far-off days, for the massive and

imposing decorativeness of the semi-human lions and bulls. And then,

coming down the ages, consider the beauty of form of the works of

the sculptors of classic days; the wondrous productions of the

Greeks, the perfection of line and grace of these representations in

stone of the "human form divine." Masterpieces of the world which

will never be excelled as works of art, they, nevertheless, do not

appeal to the hearts of the people, and in adhering to the style of

ancient Greece our sculptors have themselves to blame for the lack

of popular sympathy.

[Illustration: MOTHERHOOD.

(_By Alfred Gilbert, R.A. In the possession of Sir Henry Doulton._)]

The sculptors of Italy who shared in the revival of art in the

fifteenth century understood this. Without sacrificing in the least

the beauty of the classic artists, they infused into their work

that touch of sentiment--either religious or frankly human--which

won for them the admiration of their contemporaries, and enables

them, though long since dead, to speak to us through their art. The

charming creations of Donatello, the delightful child-forms of Lucca

della Robbia, the gigantic creations of Michelangelo--gigantic both

in conception and execution--appeal to us primarily for the humanity

which they reflect: admiration for their beauty follows in due

course.

[Illustration: THE SISTERS OF BETHANY.

(_By Warrington Woods._)]

Until comparatively recent years English sculptors have failed to

appreciate this public taste, and the public work all through our

country has been deplorably lacking either in sentiment or art.

The ghastly figures which are exposed in London streets rouse no

enthusiasm, and only claim attention because of the men of which

they are memorials. Curiously enough the only really beautiful piece

of allegorical sculpture in our city is the work of a Frenchman, and

that is smothered under a hideous cupola! I refer to the charming

little group symbolising "Charity," on the drinking fountain by the

Royal Exchange. This beautiful figure of a woman and two children

the work of Dalou, was originally shown in stone, but the ravages

of the London climate destroyed the features of the figures, and it

was only when replaced by a bronze cast of the original model a year

or two ago that its full beauty could be appreciated by the present

generation. The symbolism is not intricate, the parable can be read

by the most ignorant, and understood by all, but it is "a thing of

beauty," and therefore a joy for ever.

The English sculptors who are claiming attention to-day are men

influenced largely by the spirit of "modernity." They are giving

us works which appeal to our sentiment as well as to our sense of

beauty. Look, for instance, at the charming group by Mr. Alfred

Gilbert, R.A., which is illustrated on page 345. One wishes that the

original could be placed in position where people could see it every

day. It is a simple subject, but what greater lesson can be enforced

upon us than that of the holiness and purity of a mother's love and

solicitude for her child? There is in one of the public squares of

Paris a group very similar to this by Delaplanche. A mother is again

giving her child its first lesson in reading. Tender and pure in

sentiment, it is an object lesson to all who behold it.

The nobleness and dignity of labour provide our sculptors with

a manifold variety of subjects, but there are not many English

artists who have availed themselves of it. Among these, however,

is the distinguished Royal Academician, Mr. Hamo Thornycroft. "The

Sower Scattering Seed" is but the representation of an English farm

"hand," but it would be difficult to find a piece of work among

English sculptures to excel it in grace and beauty of line. The

artist has executed another work of "A Mower"--again an English

farm-labourer, leaning on his scythe--which is another example of

his skill in the adaptation of a subject which can be understood and

appreciated by every man, down to him who actually wields the scythe.

[Illustration: ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST.

(_By W. Goscombe John._)]

[Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN OF FAME.

(_By A. C. Lucchesi._)]

Biblical subjects have found exponents in sculpture to a very

large extent from the days of the Renaissance downwards. The old

Italians decorated their churches with such to almost as great an

extent as the painters of their time did; and many sculptors to-day

find their inspiration in Scripture in like manner. We have chosen

some for illustration in this paper--two by living artists, and

one by Warrington Woods, a sculptor who lived some years ago, when

"classic" style and subject were deemed necessary by the workers

in the sculpturesque arts. "The Sisters of Bethany" is infected by

this spirit, but is, nevertheless, pleasing to a certain extent.

The "Faith" of Mr. Alfred Drury, is, on the other hand, distinctly

pictorial and frankly illustrative of the subject. The "St. John the

Baptist," by Mr. Goscombe John, another of our rising sculptors, is

a beautiful figure which belongs to the Marquis of Bute, and stands

in the centre of a fountain basin in the garden of St. John's Lodge,

Regent's Park.

[Illustration: THE SOWER.

(_By W. Hamo Thornycroft, R.A._)]

On page 347 is the most ambitious of the allegorical works among

our illustrations, and is the work of Mr. A. C. Lucchesi, a young

sculptor of whom great things may be expected. "The Mountain of

Fame" represents a warrior, who, struggling to acquire the laurel

wreath, has in his efforts thrown away sword and shield and is

reaching after the honour which is held temptingly before him by the

figure of Fame. Almost within his grasp, it yet eludes him, and the

rough path up which he has stumbled has not yet brought him to the

summit. His weapons, cast aside in the assurance of victory, are

left behind; but the wreath is still not his, and he is helpless

against further dangers which may await him; the eagerness for fame

may prove his ruin and all his strivings end in disaster. Readers

of Miss Olive Schreiner's "Story of an African Farm" will remember

the beautiful parable upon this subject, and I asked the sculptor

if this had influenced him at all in the work. The suggestion was

almost a revelation to him, for, although he had read the book

and remembered vividly this particular passage, yet confessed that

it was quite out of his mind when he modelled this group. But the

influence of the story is distinctly visible.

[Illustration: (_Photo: York and Son, Notting Hill, W._)

THE NIGHTINGALE MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

(_By Roubiliac._)]

Memorial sculpture, of course, forms a large part of a sculptor's

work, and the example by Mr. Armstead illustrated on this page

is typical of a great many of the kind. The most beautiful and

dignified monument we possess is without doubt Alfred Stevens'

great work in St. Paul's Cathedral in memory of the Duke of

Wellington--one that can never be sufficiently admired, contrasting

as it does with the grandiose monuments of the last century in the

same building and at Westminster Abbey.

We illustrate on this page one of the most curious monuments in the

latter building. It is the work of Roubiliac, a Frenchman who worked

in England in the eighteenth century. The tomb is that of Joseph

Gascoigne Nightingale, of Minehead, Somersetshire, and of the Lady

Elizabeth, his wife, who died soon after her marriage. From the dark

recesses of the tomb below issues the skeleton form of Death, in

the act of hurling his lance at the wife, while the husband leans

forward with extended arm to ward off the fatal blow from his loved

partner, who is sinking to rest beside him.

[Illustration: MEMORIAL TO AN ONLY DAUGHTER.

(_By H. H. Armstead, R.A._)]

Death, however, can be represented far better than by a ghastly

skeleton, as Mr. George Frampton, A.R.A., has proved in his

dignified "Angel of Death" which stands in the Camberwell Art

Gallery. This figure of a young man, carrying the traditional scythe

across his shoulder and an hour-glass in his hand, reminds us of Mr.

Watts' constant representation of the "grim messenger"--no longer

"grim," however, but beautiful, erect, inviting--the harbinger of

the land where there shall be no more tears, neither sorrow nor

sighing.

ARTHUR FISH.

[Illustration: PLEDGED]

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

CHAPTER X.

STRANGERS IN A STRANGE LAND.

London was under drizzle when the four-wheeler containing Mr.

Graydon and Pamela drew up at Lady Jane Trevithick's house in Brook

Street.

As the time came for saying good-bye to her father, Pamela's heart

sank lower and lower. By the time the cab stopped it was a mere dead

weight of foreboding and depression.

One minute she looked at her father with blank despair. It was in

her heart to put her arms about his neck and cling to him and refuse

to leave him, as she had done when a small child and insubordinate

to nursery rule. But the minute's glance checked the impulse. He was

not thinking of her: he was wholly preoccupied: as she watched him,

his lips moved as if in conversation with someone.

"'Ere you are, sir. This is the 'ouse," said the old cabman, not

offering to budge from his box.

Mr. Graydon jumped out and knocked at the door. While his hand yet

held the knocker the door was flung open by a pompous servant.

"Here, my man, lend me a hand with this lady's luggage. The jarvey

seems old and incapable," he said brightly to the functionary.

The man came out unwillingly into the rainy street. The sight of the

four-wheeler with its poor little trunk brought a look of amazed

contempt to his face. But Mr. Graydon was not thinking of him.

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

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

followed Pamela up the steps.

"Her ladyship is in the drawing-room, sir," said the servant,

impressed, despite himself, by the shabby visitor's easy air of

command.

"Ah, thank you, I am not coming in. Good-bye, Pam, darling. I'll get

the night-mail back. Be sure and enjoy yourself, and give Lady Jane

my kindest regards."

He kissed her hastily, unconscious of the supercilious eyes of the

footman. Then he turned towards the wet street.

Pamela stood in the hall, looking after him with her miserable heart

in her eyes. He went down the steps with his hands deep in his

shabby overcoat pockets--for he carried no umbrella--and his soft

hat pulled down over his eyes. Another minute and he would be out of

sight. A wave of intolerable loneliness rushed over his daughter's

heart as she saw him vanishing and leaving her alone among strangers.

"Papa, papa!" she cried.

The genial, kind face was turned back to her for an instant. Her

father's hand waved a farewell. Then he was out of sight, and she

became conscious that the weary footman, forcedly polite, was

holding the door open for her.

"Her ladyship is in the drawing-room," he repeated, and there was

rebuke in his voice. Pamela drew back, and he shut the door.

"Poor little Pam!" said her father as he walked along briskly. "She

will be home-sick to-night; to-morrow she will be better content,

and the day after she will begin to enjoy herself."

"And now, let me see," he said. "This turn is it, for Hill Street?

I ought to know the way, though it is so many years since I took

it. I hope I shall catch his lordship before dinner. If I'm obliged

to disturb him, he'll be in a horrible rage, and things won't be

propitious. Anyhow, at the worst, I'll have time to eat something at

the station before I catch the mail. Perhaps his lordship will ask

me to dinner if things go well."

He smiled so cheerfully, showing a row of even white teeth, that

a wretched girl, carrying an infant, was moved to beg of him. He

handed her a shilling, to her unbounded amazement.

"There goes part of my dinner," he said to himself. "Never mind:

she needs it." And then to the astonished beggar: "Go home, my

girl, with that poor little chap. It is no night for him--or you

either--to be out."

Presently he came to a huge house, showing a dim light here and

there in its black front. He knocked with a tremor of heart. When

last he had knocked there he had stood at the threshold of new life

and joy. The rain dripped from his soft hat and hung in beads of

moisture on his grey moustache. It soaked unheeded into his thin

overcoat.

The door was opened by an old man-servant. He peered in wonder at

the shabby-looking stranger, who stepped so unquestioningly within

those gloomy portals.

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

is surely Thorndyke?"

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

sir. Let me see."

He turned on the electric light into the front part of the hall, and

brought his dim old eyes nearer to Mr. Graydon's face.

"Why, it is Master Archie!" he said quaveringly. "Master Archie

after all those years! And how are you, sir? Are you well?"

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

to see him."

"He's none too pleasant," whispered the old man. "He has a touch

of gout, and the little master's been ill. They've ordered him to

Cannes."

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

"So he was, so he was, till a few months gone. He's never recovered

a heavy chill he took at the beginning of the winter. His lordship's

bound up in him, and it do fret him to see Master Lance dwindle."

"Ah! I am very sorry," said Mr. Graydon, and a cloud came over his

face. "I am sorry for the boy and for his lordship, too. Health is a

great blessing, Thorndyke."

"It is, indeed, sir. I am glad you have yours. Come in here, sir,

and I'll let his lordship know."

He opened the door of a room lined with books in heavy bindings,

and motioned Mr. Graydon to enter. The atmosphere was close and

warm, though the fire was low in the grate. But Mr. Graydon did not

notice that his wet coat was steaming, and that he felt damply and

uncomfortably warm. He had other things to think of.

[Illustration: "Papa, papa!" she cried.]

Presently the door was sharply opened, and a red-faced,

irascible-looking old man came in. He glared fiercely at his

visitor as he hobbled to a chair.

"Well, Archibald," he said, using the name as if it were distasteful

to him. "To what am I indebted for the honour of your visit after

all those years?"

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

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

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

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

forgiveness."

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

"You chose your own lot in life. I have not interfered with it. Why

do you come here?"

[Illustration: "Go!" said the old lord.]

The old man grinned fiercely as if he had had a spasm of pain, and

bit his under lip hard.

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

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

Mr. Graydon took up his soft hat.

"I came partly out of hard necessity, partly because I hoped that

after all the years you would have forgiven me. But there is no use

in my staying, I see. I am sorry to have troubled you, sir."

"Say out what you have got to say, man. I don't know whether you

know that I have an heir in your place? You have buried yourself so

that you may well not know."

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

The old lord grunted.

"Your business, man, your business. I can't wait on you all night,

and in five minutes the dinner-bell will ring."

"My business is very simple. I have three girls. One of them would

marry after my own heart and hers; but poverty stands in the way.

I was brought up as your heir. I thought perhaps that, remembering

that fact, you would help my girl."

"You mean by giving her a dowry?"

"You are very rich."

"The time was, Archibald, when I would have given ten years of life

to have heard you ask this and to have refused you. I refuse you

now, but it is because everything is for the boy. I am old, and even

my appetite for revenge has deserted me."

"You owe me no revenge, sir."

"We think differently. Why did you cross my path? Why didn't you

marry that woman who wanted you--Dunallan's daughter?"

Mr. Graydon looked thunderstruck.

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

Trevithick."

"Because she couldn't marry you. He was an idiot to marry her.

Everyone saw her infatuation but he and--am I to believe?--you."

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

thought of her."

The old lord waved away his words contemptuously.

"She had no money, but she had connections, and she would have had

ambitions if she had married you and not Trevithick. The woman was

head over ears in love with you, man."

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

years ago."

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

"Yes, sir."

"Are they strong--are they healthy?"

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

"Ah! you have scored again. You married the woman we both desired.

You have strong children, and I--my boy is not strong."

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

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

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

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

"But you've outwitted me. I married a peasant--almost a

peasant--that my heir in your place might be strong. He is--not

strong."

Again the bitter spasm crossed his face, and the sight of it wrung

Mr. Graydon's kind heart.

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

"Anyhow," cried the old man with sudden fury, "I shall not break up

his inheritance. If he lives to do that himself one day, let him.

It is like enough he would. He does not take after me. But he is my

only son."

The dinner-bell pealed loudly through the house.

"Go!" said the old lord. "You have upset me. I shall not be the

better of your visit for a week. Go back to your girls, and come

here no more. Be thankful they are strong. Money is not everything."

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

"Show this gentleman out, Thorndyke," he said, and went without a

word of farewell.

"Let me get you a little refreshment, Mr. Archie," said the old

servant. "Do, sir! Dear, dear! you are very wet, and to think you

have to turn out again without your dinner!"

"No, thank you, Thorndyke. I shall do very well till I get to

Euston. I shall have some dinner there before the train starts."

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

"Yes, Thorndyke, I must."

"Dear, dear! and you are very wet. Can we do nothing for you, sir?

My wife--I married Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper; you remember,

sir?--would be so fretted to see you going off like this. Do let me

get you something, sir?"

"Nothing, thank you, Thorndyke, nothing. But it is very kind of you,

all the same. I remember your wife very well. She was good to me in

old days. Give her my love, Thorndyke, and good-bye."

"Good-bye, till happier times, sir," said the old servant, as Mr.

Graydon went out in the streaming night.

The lights of a hansom blinked through the rain as he turned

north-eastward. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a few

coins, and looked at them.

"No," he said, "I can't afford it. I must walk part of the way, and

'bus the rest. I shall just have time to do it."

But by the time he got to Euston he could only snatch a few

fragments of food. And so it was wet, chilled, and half-fed that he

made his return journey.

His uncle's suggestion about Lady Jane disturbed him oddly, though

he tried to thrust it from him as impossible; but it recurred again

and again.

"After all," he thought at last, "it might explain why she sought

us out, and why she wanted Pamela. If I unwittingly did her the

injury that she should have cared for me, who had no love to give

her, it would be like a woman's generosity to repay me in that way.

Ah! but women are better nowadays. She must have been a happy woman

with Gerald, happier than with a worthless fellow like me, who could

bring her neither honour nor glory. Ah! if it is true, and she

should repay my Pam with happiness, how wonderful it would be! And

there is no goodness which is impossible to a woman, praise be to

the Source!"

Despite the damp and discomfort, his thoughts made him fall asleep

with a smile on his face.