(_Photo supplied by the Society for Promoting Christianity amongst

the Jews._)]

Tyranny and dispersion have failed to exterminate the Jews. In the

name of patriotism, the king of Egypt made their life a burden.

In the name of religion and reverence for the Holy Sepulchre, the

Crusaders brought horrible calamities upon them. In the name of

uniformity, but with special reference to the Jews, the machinery

of the Inquisition was set at work in Spain. Yet the 3,000,000

slaves who came out of Egypt have increased, as far as it can be

calculated, to four times the number. Their affliction has been

a refining furnace. From the day when Moses, himself a Hebrew

fugitive, turned aside to see why an insignificant mimosa bush was

not consumed by a devouring fire, the history of the chosen people

has been a witness of the unchangeableness of God's Word: "I am the

Lord, I change not; therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed."

D. L. WOOLMER.

[Illustration: Henry]

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 I.

A LETTER OF APOLOGY.

The afternoon's summer sun shone in on the chestnut head of a

girl, bent sedulously over a book. She was Marjorie Bethune, only

daughter of one of the minor canons of Norham. She was hard at work

constructing a sonnet, to the accompaniment of the great organ in

the cathedral, where her father was taking the service. The words of

the psalms and anthem were almost audible, as well as their music,

through the open windows, stimulating the girl's reluctant fancy.

There were other helps, too, to her imagination--the twitter of

birds in the flowering trees near the further window, the hum of the

bees in the lime-trees, the scents of syringa and lilies.

The room in which she sat had a much-lived-in air and a pleasant

old-fashioned shabbiness of aspect. There was a large round table

covered with papers and books, calf-bound and large for the greater

part--the books and litter of a scholar. Books also were heaped on

the quaint spindle-legged side-table with deep drawers, ornamented

with carving and brass Tudor roses; and wherever in the room was

any wall-space low bookshelves of a peculiar pattern filled it. The

wall-colouring above was a rich tan and red, the whole making a

harmonious background to the girl's burnished head and brilliantly

fair complexion.

A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She lifted her eyes to the

further end of the room, where on a sofa near the pretty window lay

a fragile-looking woman. The extreme youthfulness of her appearance

was not contradicted by the brilliancy of the beautiful dark eyes

she turned now on Marjorie.

"Mother, I wish you would tell me exactly what father said when he

proposed to you. I suppose he did propose?" questioningly, gazing in

doubtful sympathy at the colour flooding her mother's face at her

question.

"You will know for yourself some day, Marjorie," Mrs. Bethune said

softly.

"I? But I want to know now. Just the facts. You can't make up things

on nothing," disconsolately. "Our literary guild next month wants

a poem--a sonnet by preference--on Love. Such a subject! I could

imagine a lot. But I don't know."

Mrs. Bethune's eyes were full of laughter, but her face was grave as

she looked at her discontented young daughter.

"People's experiences vary," she said reminiscently.

"Do they? But yours would do, mother--just to get a fact for a

foundation. Love seems such a shimmery, slippery thing."

"It was behind the door--at a party first. He had asked me to look

at a picture----"

"Behind the door! Father!" exclaimed Marjorie, breaking in on the

reminiscence. "Oh, mother!"

Mrs. Bethune laughed. "You'll understand some day, Marjorie. That

was the beginning; after that, I kept out of his way----" She

paused.

"Yes?" said Marjorie interestedly. "I don't wonder. Behind the door!

I couldn't put that in a sonnet."

"It was difficult to meet alone," went on the mother. "We lived

four miles apart, And I was afraid. I didn't want him to speak, and

yet----"

"Didn't you love him then? Perhaps I could put that. Or did loving

him make you shy?"

"Perhaps. But he was masterful--he found a way."

"Masterful," mused Marjorie, much exercised at this new presentation

of her scholarly father. "Then love alters characters, if it made

father masterful and you shy. Well, those are at least some facts.

Thank you. What else, mother? Tell me exactly, please."

"One day after lunch, when he had come over, I remembered that I

had dropped my thimble under the table, and I went back to the

dining-room to look for it."

"And he followed?"

"Yes; he followed, and he then and there proposed."

"But, mother," with misgivings, "do you think that was sonnet-sort

of love?"

"Sure of it, Margie."

"It sounds so ordinary. However, I wanted facts," in a tone of

resigned dejection.

Impatient steps sounded in the hall. Hats and books were flung

down outside, and two boys of seven and nine respectively came

into the room. Marjorie's glance fell upon her young brothers

dispassionately, staying her reflections on love.

"You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked, as a

certain air of agitation conveyed itself to her perception.

"Yes; and found out, too," said Sandy, the seven-year-old,

disgustedly.

"You know that new man at 'The Ridges,' mother," burst in the older

boy. "He's had the cheek to say we're not to go that way any more."

"But have you been, David, since the General died?"

"Of course we have, mother; why not? I'd got the keys."

"As if keys mattered anyhow!" put in Sandy. "Anyone can climb over

that wanted to. It's the nearest way."

"But it's private ground, not a public path. Only the General was

kind to you."

"Yes, and this man's a beast," viciously.

Then he went on, with a pretty little lisp between the two lost

teeth left on a field of battle: "But we've had some fun all these

weeks, mother, dodging the work-people. They couldn't find out how

we got in and out," delightedly, "even when we forgot the keys;

there's always holes, somewhere. We didn't let 'em know; we just

'peared, and walked past the house, riling them. And if they ran us,

didn't we just dodge 'em down the hill!"

"And now he says," put in David, "that he's written to father, and

that he'll have no trespassing. Trespassing, indeed!"

"An' Dave called back that he was the trespasser, 'trudin' where he

wasn't wanted," said Sandy gleefully, "an' that he'd better go back

to Blackton, an' not fink he could come here and be a gentleman, cos

no one would look at him!"

"Oh, David," said his mother reproachfully, "how could you? He will

think we don't grow gentlemen here."

"Don't care for his thinks," muttered David. "Heard Charity and Mrs.

Lytchett say it."

"No, David," put in Marjorie. "Charity said anyone from Blackton

would feel like an intrusion, and all Mrs. Lytchett said was, that

if he didn't like it he could always go back."

"That's exactly what I said, too, on'y the words came different."

"If he finks we're goin' all that way round twice a day, he's jolly

w'ong," remarked Sandy injuredly. "We'd have to start hours an'

hours earlier--not us!"

Again the door opened, and a tall man came in, whose first look of

anxious inquiry was directed towards the table where his papers

were lying. Sandy's impatient elbow was dug into the middle of

them, as he fidgeted about on one leg. Mr. Bethune sat down in the

three-cornered chair before the table, and rescued his papers, at

the same time keeping Sandy by his side.

"So you two have been in mischief again?" he said gently, looking

gravely at his sons.

"I'm afraid David has been rude, too," put in the mother, a little

anxiously.

David, with a put-on air of unconcern, looked out of the window,

where two more sturdy boys, younger, but made after the same pattern

as the two inside, were now visible on the garden path. They were

dilatorily obeying a call from Marjorie, and making for the window.

"I have had a letter," went on Mr. Bethune. "It's a nice letter, and

what Mr. Pelham says is reasonable."

"Bounder!" muttered David, and Sandy said "Beast!"

The father lifted his eyes from the letter.

"You will have to apologise. Mr. Pelham is quite right. You have

no business there. I will write a letter, and you will take it.

Marjorie, will you see if tea is ready?" in a fatigued tone. "Mother

looks tired out."

"Come, boys," said Marjorie. And the clamour that immediately ensued

round the tea-table in the next room showed that rebellion and

anarchy were in the air.

When they had gone their father laughed quietly.

"It is a nice letter. I expect they will find he will give them

leave, if they behave themselves. But they have been playing tricks

on the workmen--and on his servants, as I gather."

"They are always in mischief," said their mother, and her tone was

not the tone of one who lamented. "But they are not generally rude.

I am afraid they have heard the things that are being said against

this man. Perhaps Marjorie had better go with them? He will not be

rude to her?"

"No. 'This man,' as you call him, is one of the Pelhams of Lente.

Yes, she can take them. Mrs. Lytchett was suggesting to me just now

that she was growing up, and that she ought to have some lessons----"

"I wish Mrs. Lytchett would mind her own business!" flashed out the

mother. "Marjorie is as well educated as she is, though I should be

sorry to see her so meddlesome."

Then her ill-temper vanished, and she smiled serenely.

"Marjorie was writing a sonnet on Love whilst you were at church.

She seemed quite equal to the composition, but lacked facts."

"Marjorie's lack of facts doesn't often curb her imagination," her

father said. "I do not think it was her education that Mrs. Lytchett

thought wanted improving--though it does--but her deportment,

whatever that is, and--and manners."

"She carries herself like a queen," asserted her mother, "even

though she is thin and awkward yet. And her manners--should you wish

them altered, father?"

"She is ours, my dear," he said tenderly; "and I think her

simplicity natural and charming. But perhaps she has said

something--she does sometimes--to Mrs. Lytchett."

"She does often. Mrs. Lytchett was here yesterday. I know she is

good, but she is irritating, John. She condoled with me about your

litter, and wondered if I couldn't arrange a room for you up in the

attics. And she said she was sure all the boys were behaving badly

in church on Sunday afternoon--and why didn't Marjorie sit between

them, instead of at the end of the pew, where the corner was a

temptation to her to lounge? And then she made a set at the stocking

basket, and criticised the darning, and pitied us dreadfully for so

many boys, all with knees, as well as red heads. And then Marjorie

broke out. She thought the heads were beautiful, also the knees,

and that the boys behaved in church like saints; and that you'd be

miserable in the attics without me--though she could understand that

with a nagging woman always about a man must have somewhere to hide

himself."

"I hope Marjorie won't turn into a virago," her father said

anxiously, after a pause. "That was rude, even if it were true. She

is cramped here--it is a cramping place; and we are to blame--we put

too much upon her."

He sighed, and rose to take his wife's cup, and then stretched

himself before the fireless grate. "She has a dangerous gift of

imagination. Will she ever be satisfied with Warde? I have told him

he may speak now. But she is a child still, she has no idea----" he

paused.

An inroad of boys, come to be inspected by their mother before

starting on their errand, brought their father back to the table and

the letter they were to take. Sandy, balancing on the arm of his

chair, superintended its composition.

"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'" he announced

aloud to the others. They were standing round the table; the

smallest of them, aged three, could just rest his chin upon it, and

was listening in solemn admiration of Sandy's sentiments.

"Are you going to take all this horde with you, Marjorie?" her

mother asked, her observant eyes glancing from collar to collar and

from boot to boot.

"Yes, mother; I thought it would economise matters. They're all

mischievous, and will need apologising for some time; it is such a

convenient way to school."

"'My little sons will, I hope, make their 'pologies in person for

their rudeness. I am extwemely sorry----'" sang out Sandy, raising

himself on his elbows, dug into the table, the better to see what

his father was writing.

"Don't put 'little,' father," he pleaded; "he'll think it's Ross or

Orme, 'stead of us."

"I suppose you know what an apology is, Sandy?" Mr. Bethune

bethought himself to inquire as he finished writing, and looked down

at the curly head bobbing across his arm.

"Ought to," grunted Sandy, panting in his efforts to plant his toes

between the spokes of his father's chair. "Never do so no more--till

next time."

"If it is that, I shall be sorry, Sandy, in this case, because this

gentleman's a stranger."

"Oh," said Sandy, dropping to the floor and glancing up into the

grave blue eyes, of which his own were an exact reproduction,

without the gravity.

[Illustration: "You look as if you had been in mischief," she

remarked.--_p. 67._]

"'Pologies is funny things," he said, pensively. "Mrs. Lytchett said

we ought to be whipped when we made the peacocks scream, an' we

'pologises; and Charity boxed Dave's ears for treadin' on her fine

new frock, an' he 'pologised--an' the Dean 'pologised back for

her crossness. An' now, seems as if 'pologies did 'stead of leavin'

off doin' what you want. Them peacocks screamed again to-day at

dinner-time, an' to-morrer we----"

A quick frown from his elder brother stopped the admission that was

coming.

"Your morality, your deductions, and your grammar are equally

matched, Sandy," said his father. "Who is going to carry this

letter?"

"Me, me!" implored the baby, advancing a chubby hand, plucked from

his mouth for the purpose. He looked like one of Sir Joshua's

cherubs--nothing visible of him over the edge of the table but a

round moon face of exquisite fairness, with a large background of

soft white hat instead of cloud.

"You'll see that the boys behave and apologise properly, Marjorie,"

her father said, sinking back into his chair with such an expression

of peace on his face as quite compensated his young daughter for

the annoyance of the errand on which she was conducting her young

brothers.

CHAPTER II.

ANTONY PELHAM.

The surroundings of Norham Cathedral were the great attraction

of the little town to Antony Pelham. Large, airy houses, set in

gardens to match, with here and there a field running down to the

street, formed one side of the main thoroughfare of the town. It

was wide and shady, bounded on its other side by the Canons' Walk,

a gravelled terrace, extending the whole length of the cathedral

graveyard, over-arched by "immemorial elms," where the rooks, year

after year, cawed their noisy affairs into the ears of those below.

At the eastern end of the cathedral the Canons' Court terminated the

Walk, and provided residences for the minor canons almost under the

cathedral walls. The Deanery stood at one end of the Court, and the

gardens of all the houses extended southwards to enclosed fields

called the Parks, on which also the grounds of the old palace, on

the southern side of the cathedral, abutted.

Beyond the boundaries of the Cathedral Precincts the town developed

into a small, compact area of shops, and then sprawled on into

suburbs. These, called respectively Easton and Weston, had little to

do with each other, and less with the exclusive Precincts. They had

a church and parish apiece, served by two of the minor canons.

The spacious houses round the cathedral had been built originally to

serve as town houses for the county families. They were now often

used as dower houses, or pleasant homes to retire to from the active

work of life. Their owners formed a sufficiently large circle to

make society pleasant, but they admitted no one into their midst who

was not "one of them."

When old General Orme died, he left no one to occupy the fine old

house on the hill called "The Ridges," beyond which the "Green,"

with its complement of houses--also old, but filling the more useful

_rôles_ of Grammar School, Sessions House, and such like--descended

into the valley. Here, as far off as possible, the necessary lock-up

and railway station hid their commonness out of sight.

It was with amazement, and incredulity at his audacity, that the

news gradually was received of the purchase of "The Ridges," by

Antony Pelham, a lawyer from the big town of Blackton, eight miles

away. This manufacturing town had superseded Norham as the county

town--since which it was scarcely ever mentioned, much less visited,

by the Norhamites. Not only had he bought "The Ridges" but, with

an extraordinary fatuity, he meant to go on with his business and

travel backwards and forwards.

After hearing this, nobody troubled to make any further inquiries

about him--he was beneath notice. It was stated by the neighbours

whose grounds adjoined his that an army of workmen had been sent

from somewhere, and were, of course, making a wreck of the beautiful

old house. But no interest was taken in their proceedings, except by

David and Sandy Bethune, who rapturously availed themselves of the

kindly circumstances attending his advent. The short cut to school

on the Green, up a gravelled path on the edge of the field, which

the old General had put at the service of his friends who wished

to visit the Green, had become lately to the Bethune boys a way to

bliss. Marjorie and her brothers now slowly ascended the hill to

"The Ridges" by this path.

As they walked along, more like owners than suppliants for

forgiveness, David pointed out to his sister the hiding-places

they had found convenient. Marjorie's own conscience was asleep on

the matter, and she did not put herself out to rebuke him. The man

was angry. Her father had written that his boys would apologise.

She supposed they would. They were generally able to do so when

necessary, without in the least considering themselves bound thereby

as to future action.

Marjorie looked with interest at the places pointed out to her on

the way up. She even enlarged a hole in the undergrowth to admit

Sandy's plump body. But a vague irresolution and faint sense of

discomfort came into her mind as the old red-brick house came in

sight, and a blaze of colour from the flower-beds before the windows

struck upon her vision.

"Boys," she said, softly, "David, you will be nice, even if this

man is a cad. Do you hear, Sandy?" she said more sternly, as Sandy

panted to her side, returning from some exploration.

"All right," said Sandy; "there he is!"

They had emerged from the shrubbery path and had reached the

edge of the lawn, which was divided from the long field by some

white palings. Steadying herself by these, and an occasional grip

at her father's trousers, as he walked beside her, was a little

two-year-old girl. Her nurse was visible at some distance, sitting

at needlework under the trees.

[Illustration: "Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'"

he announced.--_p. 68._]

Undecided whether to advance on to the lawn, or to go further and

ring at the front-door bell, Marjorie paused. The man's back was

towards her. It did not present the appearance she had somehow

expected. Why her imagination should have invested the new-comer

with the attributes of a vulgar old man she could not afterwards

recollect. But she had expected this. Instead, the back was young,

and slim, and well-coated; and the finely poised head above it was

adorned with a crop of short dark curls. Seeing him thus, Marjorie

was conscious of a little embarrassment. A filtering doubt, creeping

through her mind, made her give a hasty glance round at her young

brothers.

David's eyes were glaring at the figure of his enemy, his face

wearing an expression of deep disgust. Sandy had put on the air of

jaunty unconcern with which he always met a difficulty. Ross, aged

four, was looking distrustfully at the baby, whilst only on little

Orme's cherubic face was there any appreciation of the situation. He

gave an exclamation of delight, unloosed his hand from the relaxing

grasp of Marjorie, and hurried over the grass, head foremost, as was

his wont when in a hurry. This youngest Bethune, like his brothers

before him, had a sociable disposition; and was apt at making

friends of every person, especially every infant person, he came

near. From the private study of the Bishop--whereto his way was by

a friendly window--to the cottage hearths he occasionally visited

through convenient open doors when on his rambles--Orme Bethune was

a welcome guest. To him girl-babies were a special fascination. He

made advances to this one immediately.

Sitting down on the grass, to accommodate his three years to her

two, he essayed to draw her nearer. She responded femininely. First

she hid her face behind her father's legs. Then she unloosed his

trousers and steadied her approach by the big brim of Orme's hat.

With the other hand she rained blows upon his face. Bashing her

dolls' heads was, with this baby, a preliminary to loving them.

Finding this one to be flesh and blood, she crowed with glee, and

sat down suddenly beside him.

Mr. Pelham had advanced a step or two on beholding Marjorie, her

face an unexpected marvel of youth and fairness, against the dark

background of the trees. Then his eyes fell on David's scowling

countenance; he stopped, and his face flushed.

"Father has sent you a letter," Marjorie began. "Which of you has

got it?" turning to the boys.

"Not me," said David sullenly, his manner conveying that no power on

earth could have induced him to touch it.

"Nor me," said Sandy cheerfully.

"Surely you brought it?" Marjorie asked, a certain severity in her

tone. "You, Ross?" hopefully.

Ross's face had just lighted up with the intention of making a trio

of the charming duet on the lawn. He was slower than his more agile

brothers--but sure, and none the less mischievous, for that his

mischief was better matured beforehand. He opened his hands to show

his innocence, and, murmuring "Me go find it!" he joined Orme.

Marjorie's eyes were lifted in an appealing fashion, the prettiness

of which she would have been the last to believe, to the dark eyes

somewhat haughtily questioning hers.

"My father wrote," she was beginning, when a skirmish and a squeal

made her stop. Ross was rifling his little brother's pockets with an

air of business. Orme was wriggling and fighting, and the baby was

kicking and screaming in his defence, a vivid little vixen.

"Here," said Ross proudly, as having overturned Orme and left him

prostrate, he held up Mr. Bethune's letter.

Marjorie's colour rose at the aspect of the dishevelled note. Its

appearance, indeed, was not that of a missive calculated to appease

the anger of an offended man. She watched a little amusedly the

expression of the long fingers which daintily received and opened

the crumpled paper. Then it struck her that in the character of

suppliants they were not behaving properly.

She looked at David. His face now wore an expression of absolute

vacuity. She wondered if by any possibility it would be taken for

penitence. She hoped it might, as it certainly expressed nothing

else. Laying her hand on his shoulder--after all, he was only nine,

and could not have done much mischief, even if he had behaved

badly--Marjorie gave him a gentle push forward.

"My little brother is sorry," she began, as the dark eyes, smiling

now, were uplifted from the note.

But David, beating off her hand, said fiercely, "I'm not!"

"Oh, David!" said Marjorie, helplessly. "Then, if you aren't, why

did we--you come?" a sudden passion in her tone.

"Margie! Margie!" called the cheerful voice of Sandy. And Marjorie

turned her eyes hopefully to the speaker. He, at least, would not

fail her in this emergency--he was always ready to say something

nice.

Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby. His cap had

fallen off, and she was alternately thumping his tight curls and

laying her face down upon them in gurgling delight. This living

head, with its silky adornments, was quite a new sort of toy in her

hitherto child-solitary life.

Mr. Pelham made an alarmed step forward. He expected nothing less

than the sudden destruction of his baby. But Sandy, grasping her

tightly with both sturdy arms, eluded his outstretched hand and went

on to Marjorie.

"Ain't she a nice baby, Margie? She's a girl. Don't you wish

we'd got a girl 'stead of on'y boys? Can I take this'n home?" he

demanded, suddenly fixing brilliant blue eyes on the baby's owner.

"Oh, Sandy, Sandy! are you as artless as you seem?" thought

Marjorie, watching with sympathy the magnetic change on the father's

face as he looked down at his child.

"I am sorry. I can't spare her," he said gently, looking kindly at

the eager beggar.

"Can't you?" disappointedly; "I should like her ever so."

"Me, too," cried Orme, standing by with straddled legs and wide-open

eyes fixed on Mr. Pelham.

"Me yike her ever so," chimed in Ross, ambling up and joining the

group, murmuring, as no one attended to him, that he would carry her

in his two arms.

[Illustration: Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the

baby.]

In her dark, flashing beauty this baby, with her vivid face, her

quick movements, her vitality, her curious coquetry of advance and

withdrawal, was a revelation to the little boys. Only David--silent

and superior--still held aloof, till the baby suddenly saw him and

claimed him for another slave.

"Up!--up!" she called, in the imperious monosyllables by which she

declared her will, holding out her arms to David and beating an

impatient tattoo on Sandy with her toes. No boy could have resisted

the flattery--least of all David, whom his mother often set to

"mind" the babes because he was so good to them. And David--a sudden

flush and smile illumining his face--took her from Sandy's unwilling

clasp.

* * * * *

No apologies were made that day. In David's arms the baby

accompanied her new friends--all clamouring, all seeking to

amuse--down the hill to the gate.

Marjorie and Mr. Pelham followed slowly. If the man found the young

girl interesting, he was to her equally so. She had come across no

one like him before. He had come out of a world of which she knew

nothing--of which, until to-day, she had never thought. Not many

working people had hitherto come under her notice.

"Have you pictures?" she had asked, in surprise at a remark.

"A few--I wish I had shown them to you, as you care for them."

"But you have altered the old house?" There was a world of reproach

in her tone.

"Not for the worse, I hope. It has been most carefully restored."

"Ah, yes--restored!" said Marjorie slightingly. The word was an

abomination, savouring of destruction, in Norham.

Mr. Pelham smiled. "Come and see some day," he said. "I should like

Mr. Bethune's opinion. My friend, the architect, wondered that I had

not claimed his counsel."

"Why didn't you? People do."

"I realised my--presumption," he answered, pausing a moment for a

word.

Marjorie turned to look at him.

"My father----" she began; "you are laughing at us. I know what you

mean. We are old-fashioned, behind the times, prejudiced, narrow--I

wonder you came."

He laughed. "It was just for that I came. I wanted my little one to

have, a beautiful home, and all beside that you have said."

"But you, of course, despise old things! Do you?" she asked--"even

that!"

They had reached in their descent of the hill an opening in the

trees whence across the field stood out blackly against the luminous

western sky the stately cathedral. Fore-shortened against the sky,

the great length of the building was not perceptible. But the twin

spires, the great central tower, the dome of the chapter-house, and

the length of the northern transept, suggested a building raised for

all time, if not for eternity.

"That is old," said Marjorie, a world of possessive delight in her

voice.

"You share your father's love for it?" he said, turning to look at

the face beside him, its fairness accentuated by the evening glow.

"How do you know? You know my father?" And a man less acute than

this one would have seen the way straight before him into the girl's

heart.

"Don't you think you can know a man in his books?" he asked. "Even

if I had not heard him read the paper, I think I should have

understood by that little book how he loved the cathedral."

"I did not know you were that sort," she said slowly, as into her

eyes there crept a friendliness, which the man, recognising, found

very pleasant to meet.

"But I am afraid I am not that sort," he said. "I am ignorant and

he is learned. But I can feel the fascination of it. And I want my

baby to grow up amongst it all--amongst you all," he corrected.

"You remember what Ruskin says about homes? That passage after

he has described what houses, homes, should not be, 'tottering,

foundationless shells of splintered wood and mutilated stone,

comfortless, unhonoured dwellings which men build in the hope of

leaving.' Instead, I would have our homes like temples, built to

last, and to be lovely, something God has lent to us for our life,

and that our children will love." He paused. "That is the sort of

home I want to make for my little one."

They had reached the iron gate leading into the road. Sandy, with

an air of possession, drew forth his key and threw it open, and the

action brought recollection back to Marjorie.

"Oh!" with a sudden start, "we came to apologise, and I forgot.

Sandy, give Mr. Pelham his key, and remember----"

Sandy came forward, holding out the key with a twinkle in his merry

eyes. "I 'pologise," he said.

Mr. Pelham laughed. "Keep the key, and come in and see my baby as

you go backwards and forwards; she has no playfellows."

[Illustration: The baby flashed her smiles and kissed her hands.]

The baby from her father's arms flashed her smiles and kissed her

hands, as the two stood watching through the gate the receding

figures of the Bethunes.

CHAPTER III.

THE BEGINNINGS OF LOVE.

"Marjorie, I've met the new man."

"What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the

polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age,

the Dean's only child.

"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father

ask him in the train. Oh--don't think I did it out of charity," she

said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead--you know we've been

there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up

the three-year-old and kissed him.

"He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been

making mud-pies in their hovel."

"Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging

at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.

Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by

all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of

nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her

thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in

her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.

"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but

it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd--I gathered that from

mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran

back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast

as their fat legs would allow.

"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and

wearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd

got back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie."

"You look very silvery and cloudy," Marjorie said. "It suits you,

but it wouldn't stand much work."

"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie--hateful word! Don't distil Mrs.

Lytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely--a sort of

baritony tenor, that floats, and melts--I can't describe it. What

stupids we've all been about him!"

"How?"

"Thinking him so deep down in Blackton smoke. He knew all the people

at Oldstead. Blackton seems the fashion there, like an East-End. It

was too silly having to be introduced, when he lives on the other

side of the road. He seemed to know you, Marjorie."

"Yes--I went there."

"You went there? To call?"

"To apologise, as usual," laughing; "the boys had been in mischief."

"Why, he said what jolly boys they were, and that his baby was quite

happy with them; and he was so glad she should have some companions.

I thought he little knew.'

"Yes--he forgave them."

Her visitor laughed. "Now, Marjorie, don't be so hoity-toity. Why

did you go if you didn't want to be forgiven?"

"Why? To save father bother." Unconsciously, the young voice took

a pathetic tone. "Do you think we would have demeaned ourselves

otherwise?"

There was the sound of the clatter of voices. Marjorie sprang up to

try and stop an excursion into the drawing-room. Her friend leant

back in her chair, and looked after her.

"If Marjorie were well-dressed," she thought, "she'd be a beauty.

That girl they were fussing after isn't in with her--only she's got

clothes; clothes mean so much. Why, Sandy, what have you got there?"

Sandy panted to her side, both his arms laden with a baby. She did

not appear to mind her uncomfortable position; but when deposited

upon Charity's lap, bent her brows in a scowl, as she studied Miss

Francklin's dainty finery.

"It's the baby from 'The Ridges'--she's got a name a mile long; we

call her Barbe. We found her, so we brought her. We wanted a girl

down here."

"You don't mean," said Marjorie, overhearing, and turning to David,

"that you've brought her without leave? Oh, David!"

"She was sittin' in her carriage, all silks and satins, and we saw

the nurse's petticoats whisk in; so we just ran the pram down the

hill, and left it inside the gate. That nurse finks a deal too much

of herself," explained Sandy.

"You'll have to go this very minute and say where she is," said

Marjorie. "Go, David, both of you--run!" she urged, remembrance

coming of the father's face as he looked at his child.

"I'll go with you," Charity exclaimed good-naturedly, springing up.

"Come, boys--hadn't we better take her back with us, Marjorie?"

"Perhaps you had," said Marjorie. "But why should you trouble?"

"It's no trouble. I wanted to go to the Green, and I am ready."

The four disappeared, chattering and laughing, and Marjorie once

more applied herself to her poem. Her eyes rested vaguely on the

flowers before her. Her thoughts would not come. Instead, came

others--on dress, and the inequalities of life. Charity looked

very fluffy and soft--very different her dress was from Marjorie's

green linen. Marjorie looked down on her skirts disparagingly, not

exactly envying the soft summer dress of her friend, but seeing the

contrast. Charity could have everything she wanted. Money was never

lacking, and she had an indulgent father. Marjorie's father--here

the girl's face took on a tender look--had no money to spare. The

two boys at Winchester cost so much, and there were the others to

follow. But not for a moment would Marjorie have parted with one of

them--pervasive, noisy, unsettling, costly, too, though they were.

Her thoughts ran on, finishing at last with: "You've got to face

facts. Charity is Charity, by herself. And I am I, one of seven. I

had better brush my frock."

[Illustration: The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.]

The Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated

his choice of companions for his little daughter.

"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage," said Mrs.

Lytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. "They've

had no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their

mother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just

left off mischief herself--if she has. There's nothing they're not

capable of--nothing!"

"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys," the Bishop said

in his kind tones, later. "They brought her to see me this morning.

Oh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary," in reply to an

anxious question, "if they aren't led away by their adventurous

spirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar

manner. And their sister--ah! there she is!"

The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise

he was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them,

gathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well,

distinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful,

soft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness.

Charity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress

and ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been

dining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her

arm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that

sort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang,

knowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of

the world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew

him to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. "Just like

that"--the unspoken wish arose in his heart--"may my little one grow

up!" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.

He was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.

"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants

some music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead

of only Mr. Warde. That is he," she said softly, directing his

glance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.

"Who is he?" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering

handshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.

"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see,

good-looking, and fancies himself a little." Charity laughed

lightly. "Also," lowering her voice, "he is said to fancy Marjorie.

I believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but

she was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you

wouldn't think it, would you?"

Mr. Pelham, as he turned with Charity to the piano, felt a sudden

wrath at the man--a man much older than himself--who had the

insolence to pretend to claim that slim girl.

A little later he made his way to the sofa, where Marjorie was

sitting with Mrs. Lytchett. That lady, full of kindliness to

Marjorie, fully intending to chaperon her during the winter to all

the festivities, yet liked to remind her pretty frequently of her,

as yet, unintroduced and unimportant condition. The skirmishes

between them were hot; and Marjorie had just flashed out, "After

all, mother has her wits, even if she has to lie on her sofa," when

Mr. Pelham said:

"The Bishop has asked me to persuade Miss Bethune to play to us."

"Yes, Marjorie, go and play one of your little pieces," Mrs.

Lytchett said, dismissing Marjorie and her flash of temper as she

would have sent off a child.

Marjorie got up immediately.

"No, thank you," she said, sitting down before the piano, and

smiling up at Mr. Pelham standing beside her. "My little pieces are

here," lifting slightly the slender hands resting on her knee.

Wondering what this girl could have to say in such a language,

unwilling to hear anything crude or jarring that should spoil the

perfection of simplicity he was beginning to see in her, Mr. Pelham

moved aside, his eyes resting disappointedly on her bent head. She

raised her hands, and struck the opening notes.

The Bishop sank down into a large chair near, with a soft sigh. The

buzz of conversation slowly died away. A delicate melody, in some

unaccustomed minor mode, stole through the vaulted room, and Mr.

Pelham drew a breath of relief. He need not have feared. There was

nothing crude or jarring here.

After a few minutes her hands fell, with the lingering soft

repetition of an unfinished phrase, and Marjorie lifted her eyes,

liquid and dreamy with the thoughts that filled her mind. They

met a look from dark unfamiliar eyes, never again through all her

life to seem to her as the eyes of a stranger. They held her own,

fascinated, arrested, almost like a voice speaking through the

silence.

Her lips parted, as with a soft little sigh, her eyes fell.

[Illustration: Remembering she had stood there with him.]

"Is that all?" the Bishop asked, disappointedly.

"Yes, that is all."

Antony Pelham's heart, as he walked up the hill in the moonlight,

was full. He was only twenty-eight, and desperately lonely, after

the year of brightness and delight he had shared with his young

wife. Marjorie reminded him of her in some strangely familiar

way--in her simplicity, her immaturity, her withdrawals. He

turned to look at the cathedral, shining white in the moonlight,

remembering that she had stood there with him, and that their talk

had been about a home.

"I will win her," he said, as he turned, and set his face to climb

the hill.

END OF CHAPTER THREE.

[Illustration: A NEW CREATION]

A NEW CREATION

By

The Rev W.W. Tulloch, D.D.

"In Christ--a new creature."--2 CORINTHIANS V. 17.

I fancy that we have all felt the need of a change of air, of life,

of our physical surroundings, our mental and moral environment; and

we have experienced the good that such a change has done us. We have

toiled on through the bad weather, the hard work, the much worry

of a long winter; or we have been kept at our post and laboured

listlessly through a hot and oppressive summer. The wheels of life

have dragged slowly. We have felt below par. Everything has been

more or less a trouble to us. The routine of daily duty has become

dismally monotonous. The zest has departed. Our very sleep is not

refreshing. We lie down with our weariness and trouble about us and

in us, and when we awaken we are still surrounded and dominated by

it. The burden seems no lighter for our repose. No new strength

seems to have been gained to face the calls of the new day--a day

which it is a trouble even to think about.

Well, we are ordered a change, or, driven by our instincts, we seek

one, or the blessed holiday season comes round at last. We go away,

and in fresh air, in a change of occupation, amid new interests and

associations, we begin to feel quite different. The old lassitude

and weariness have passed away. We have not been long in our changed

place of abode, when we begin to say to ourselves and to write home

that we feel quite new persons--a different man, a different woman.

And when we return our very appearance, our talk, the whole attitude

in which we regard life, the eagerness with which we take up the

old task, tell to all who are interested in us how much improved we

are, how much healthier and better we look. More to the purpose, we

ourselves feel better in every way. The change has done us ever so

much good. In it we have found our old self and yet a new self, and

we rejoice and are glad.

A somewhat similar experience often comes to us after reading some

book which has influenced us strongly. It has opened to us a longer

vista and a higher reach of life. It has given to us new views, new

ideas, new aspirations, and made us live with a higher ideal before

us. "It has made a new man of me," we say. Old things have passed

away. Or we have come under the influence of some pure love, some

self-sacrificing devotion, such as made the late Professor Tyndall

say in writing of his wife to a friend that she had given him quite

a new idea as to the possibilities of human nature. Or in daily

association with some active brain, some large-hearted companion, we

have formed at once new motives and new interests. All things have

become new.

Or, again, we have found a new vocation. The consciousness of the

possession of higher powers, of perhaps our real powers, has come to

us. We have discovered that we have been endowed with the possession

of some gift of which we were not aware. Some power has been lying

dormant. It has now been awakened, and upon the very threshold of

what we feel must now be a better and a higher life, we realise that

we are new creatures.

I was lately reading the life of a famous singer, Jenny Lind, "the

Swedish Nightingale," as she was called. She had been singing in

public for some time, but she had only been feeling her wings, as

the saying goes. But on a certain day there came the moment of

moments. "I got up that morning one creature," she herself often

said; "I went to bed another creature. I had found my power." And

all through her life she kept that day with a religious solemnity.

She would ask to have herself remembered on it with prayers. She

treated it as a second birthday. And rightly, for on that day she

awoke to herself. She became artistically alive. She felt the

inspiration and won the sway she now knew she was given to hold.

And this consciousness was not merely the recognition that she was

singing better than ever. It was more of the nature of a new fact

in her life, a disclosure, a revelation. "It was a step," says

her biographer, "into a new world of dominion. She knew at last

where it was that she stood and what she was to do upon the earth.

She learned something of her mission. For to her religious mind

the discovery of a gift was the discovery of a mission. She saw

the responsibility with which she was charged, through the mere

possession of such a power over men." The singer with the gift of

God--that was what she became on that evening. She became a new

creature.

Well, all these are only illustrations of the greatest truth in

the world--that in Christ we may all become new creatures or a new

creation.

We are prone by nature to do what is wrong rather than what is

right; we are born with passions wild and strong, and early give the

reins to evil desires. By the strength of our animal propensities

we are often carried to ruin unless we are arrested in our headlong

and miserable career. Sometimes--nay, thank God, often--we are thus

arrested. For a time, the voice of conscience may have been hushed.

Our heart is cold and dead, and there is no spring of life in it at

all. But something happens. We are led to think. We come to see the

evil of our ways, the ruin that we are bringing on others as well

as ourselves--on the wife whom we swore to love and cherish, the

children whom we are neglecting, perhaps starving.

And then, all at once, it is borne in upon us that we must change

our life's course. A bolt from heaven descends on us in the shape

of some punishment or affliction. Our darkness and distress are

revealed to us.

We seek the only refuge for the sinner. We flee to Christ, as the

belated and weary traveller would flee to a hiding-place from the

wind, a refuge from the storm, a covert from the tempest, the shadow

of a great rock in a weary land. We become converted. In Christ we

become a new creation. Oh, happy is it when we do so! Appalling and

terrible it is when we do not. How sad and awful is the fate of one

given over to the slavery, the bondage, the tyranny of some wicked

habit! Unless such an one is visited by the grace of God, unless the

heinousness of his guilt is brought home to him, unless divine light

strikes in upon his darkened life, he will sink deeper and deeper

into degradation, until, perhaps, he is driven to self-destruction

like one of whom I lately read, and who left these terribly touching

words behind him. "I am now about to finish a revolting, cruel, and

wretched existence by an act of my own. I have broken every law of

God and man, and can only hope that my memory will rot in the minds

of all who knew me. Drink has brought me to this fearful end. I am

dying hopeless, friendless, penniless and an outcast." And it might

have been so different! Oh, that all who are giving way to any sin

would listen to these terrible words of warning, that they would

close at once with Christ's offer to make their lives different, to

make them new creatures--once more fresh and fair creatures of God,

that the old man with his corrupt affections and desires, be put

off, and the new man in Christ Jesus be put on, that they would be

in Christ!

To be in Christ--you know what is meant by that. You are in Christ

if you are living in and by His Spirit; if you are breathing it

into your life; giving it forth again, if your life is engrafted on

His life as a branch is engrafted upon a tree. He is the Vine; we

ought to be as the branches which thus derive their vitality, their

beauty, their power of bearing leaf and fruit from the tree. The

same soil nourishes it; the same dews feed it; the same breezes fan

it. So we ought to have our life fed through Christ from God. If

we are in Christ, we shall have the same hatred of sin as He had.

We shall be removing ourselves further from evil; we shall ever

be getting more like Christ, ever increasing in personal holiness

and helpfulness to others, ever also willing to accept whatever

He sends us, subordinating our weak, wayward wills to His holy

and perfect will. If we let these words of charm, "In Christ," be

written over our lives, we shall feel the old fetters fall off, the

old unhappiness disappear, the old insubordination cease to assert

itself.

[Illustration: (_Photo: J. Moffat, Edinburgh._)

THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.]

We shall hardly know ourselves, the joy of the new life is so great.

It is a joy, too, which we cannot keep to ourselves; we wish others

to share our happy experience. We are constrained to wish this by

the new and imperial impulse by which we are dominated. Because we

carry heaven in our hearts we wish that others should do so, too.

We look upon the sinner as upon some streamlet of water which is

dwindling away day by day and will soon be dried up and the rocky

channel left bare. Why? Because it is cut off from the fountain

head, from the source away up in the hills near God's sky. And what

we wish to do is to open the connection between the two, so that

the stream may be fed and do what it is intended to do--flow along

in full volume, making melody as it goes and fertilising the region

through which it passes. In Christ, we are like the stream connected

with its source: like it, we live melodious days and carry music

to others. Or look at that branch separated from its parent stem;

it is withering, it is dying. Again, a planet cut off from the

central force and power--the sun--rushes through the dark night and

is lost. So--if we be not in Christ, if we be separated from the

true fountain, the living root, the centrifugal force--we shrivel

up, we wither, we go to ruin here and hereafter, we die to all that

makes existence tolerable and of value; and it might have been so

different!

Shall we for the future, if need be, try to make life different to

ourselves and others?

Then, if any of us become new creatures, the fact is at once

recognised. People ask--What has come to So-and-so? His very

appearance is changed; his gait, everything about him is altered

for the better. He is regularly at his work and in his place in

church. He has a pleasant smile and a kind word for everybody. His

wife, who used often to look dull and unhappy, is now bright and

cheerful. His children are better dressed than they were; they are

more frank and free with him; they take his hand; they go to meet

him when he comes home; they consult him about their little joys

and sorrows. He is altogether quite different. What has come over

him? Oh, the explanation is a very simple one: he has ceased to do

evil, he has learned to do well. He has left some course of sin;

he is following after a life of holiness. He has left the service

of a bad master--the worst of all masters; he is now serving a new

master--the best of masters. He has made the friendship of the best

of friends; Christ is his master, his friend, his example. He is

in Christ. That is the reason of the change, of the new creation.

That is the reason of the sunshine he carries about with him, and

which he scatters on others. He is like Christ Himself, for all

true Christians carry Christ with them, wherever they go; just as

every leaf we take off some plants, put into soil, will become a

plant exactly like the parent stem from which it is taken, so the

Christ-life in a man, if it be genuine, will reproduce its source

and origin. The least tiny speck of musk, carry it where you may,

diffuses the same kind of fragrance as the plant from which it came.

So lives thus hid in Christ with God will be redolent of Him in all

places and at all times.

Let us, then, if we would be happy in our present lives--happy in

the memories we leave behind us--happy in the great Hereafter--see

that we are now in Christ, that we now know the glory and joy of

feeling a new creature. It is a great joy to think that old things

have passed away, that all things have become new. Then the very

earth upon which we live will have a new beauty for us. We shall

look upon it as the creation of our Heavenly Father, as the place

in which we are to work for Him, making our little corner of it

better, happier, more blessed than we found it. Then, too, we shall

regard our fellow-men and women quite differently. We find that they

are related to us in new ways and with holier, more sacred ties;

they are our veritable brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus. We can

do them no harm, injure them in no way; rather shall we find it

to be our highest duty and privilege to be helpful to them. Then,

too, will pain and sorrow assume a different and new aspect. They

cease to be altogether evils; they are seen to be blessings in

disguise--crosses, indeed, but only sent to bring us nearer to God

and to Christ; bitter medicine, indeed, but needed for our spiritual

health.

Lastly, death itself, the old foe of the human race, as he is

supposed by many to be, takes a new form. The awful and awesome

shroud in which he seems to be enveloped falls off, and what we

recognise is not the spectral skeleton with the hollow eyes coming

to consign us to darkness and to death, but a radiant angel, a

sweet, blessed messenger from the Father, bidding us come with him

to our happy and eternal Home to meet our loved and lost, to be in

Christ and with Christ for ever, with no chance any more of breaking

off from Him or losing Him. And, recognising this, we shall go with

him with the eagerness of a child to begin a new life, to enter upon

a higher existence, to do nobler work with a more untiring zeal and

energy, to love with a greater love; and as we stand for a moment

to look back upon our earthly life, in the freshness of the Eternal

Morning, in the beauty of our new Home, we shall realise that in

Christ's Heaven, which through His great mercy and sacrifice we have

reached, we are to be new creatures for evermore.

[Illustration: W. W. Tulloch (handwritten signature)]

[Illustration: decorative]

_Told in Sunshine Room._]

[Illustration: Donkey Boy to the Queen]

Donkey Boy to the Queen.

A True Incident. By Alfred T. Story.

One dull though calm afternoon, when the century was younger by

nearly half its years than it is to-day, two bright-faced, handsome

boys, dressed in Highland costume, were quietly fishing in a

mountain stream, when they were disturbed in their contemplative

pastime by the piteous cries of a dog. Barely had they time to look

round before a poor, miserable little cur ran past them, followed

by an irate youth brandishing a stout cudgel. As the dog turned and

cowered behind their creel, and seemed to crave their protection,

the elder of the brothers--for such they were--stepped between the

poor brute and its tormentor, asking the latter what the dog had

done that it should be so ill-treated.

Said the lad gruffly, resenting the boys' interference:

"What's it to ye? She's ma dug, an' I'll do what I like wi' her."

"You shan't hit her with that stick," replied the sturdy youth, who,

though tall for his age, was not so thick-set as his opponent, and

was evidently a couple of years his junior.

"Mebbe I will, mebbe I willna," returned the lad, who, though not

ill-looking, was poorly clad, and, for the time being, ugly with

passion. "But I'll hae th' dug," and with the word he tried to push

past the obstructer. A scuffle ensued, in which the younger boy

wrested the cudgel from the dog's tormentor, but, as his share,

received a blow on the nose which brought blood.

"Gie me ta stick," said the owner of the dog, surprised that he had

so far underrated his antagonist.

The latter's answer was to cast it into the stream.

This still more astonished the peasant lad, who seemed as though

he would again fall upon his antagonist. But there was something

about the youth's straight, well-knit figure, his handsome face,

and flashing eye that caused him to reflect; whereupon he lowered

his fists, which had risen to the bravado of attack, and, in a less

defiant tone, said:

"Weel, let me hae Meg, an' I'll say naethin' aboot ta stick."

"Promise me not to beat her then."

The young callant gave the required undertaking, and the next minute

he had the shrinking little animal in his arms and was walking away

with it the way he had come. But, turning round when he had gone a

few rods, he saw the youth who had withstood him bending over the

stream, laving his face in the cool water.

Now, for the first time, Tam, as he was called, noticed something

about the boys which in his anger he had failed to mark. It was

not their dress--though that betokened rank above the common; it

was something more intimate than that; something in the air, in the

manner, of them which made him uneasy in his mind, and caused him to

steal home with lagging gait and eyes that sought the ground.

His home was a little bracken-thatched one-storey cottage, or hut,

with stone walls, planted in a green oasis of a few yards square,

amid a wilderness of rock and shingle, overgrown with moss and

heather and other rough vegetation, from which a few stray sheep

and stunted cattle gathered a scanty subsistence. These were Tam's

charge. For not far from the little two-roomed cot which he called

his home were other huts like it, inhabited by poor, hard-working

people like his grandparents, each having a few sheep, or a cow or

two, and one or another a donkey or wild-looking Highland pony; and

he, having to look after his grandfather's little stock, was paid a

trifle by the others to tend theirs too.

Tam Jamison had done this since he was five, at which age he was

left an orphan by the death of his mother, who died broken-hearted

at the loss of her husband, fighting in a distant land against

Britain's foes.

He was now twelve; and though he loved the braes and the mountain

streams, he was beginning to chafe at his narrow life, wanting to

be off now with the drovers, now with the sportsmen and gillies,

or the coachmen who drove their teams daily in the season past his

grandfather's croft. It was a hard task for the old folks, Donal

and Yetta Jamison, to retain him at home, impossible to make him

content. They did their best to keep him under control; but it was

chiefly done by coaxing, a good deal by petting. This in the end

did not lighten their task. Every day Tam became more wayward and

difficult; every other day there were complaints of his negligence

on the one hand, of his mischief on the other; and then, to cap all,

it came to the old people's ears that their Tam--it could be no

other--had dared to raise his fist against one of the princes of the

blood, no less than the Prince of Wales.

That very evening the news was all over the country-side. The next

morning there was such a hubbub as never was heard. Everybody said

Tam would certainly be sent to jail, if no worse thing befell him.

Tam, braving the thing out, said he "didna mind"; but the old

folks, greatly caring, put on their Sunday best, and set out to

walk to Braemar to see and intercede with the Queen on the boy's

behalf. They found her not at home, and so had their long trudge for

nothing. However, one of the domestics drew from them what their

business was; and the next day a little lady, very plainly dressed,

riding on a wee, shaggy pony, stopped at the door, and, being helped

to dismount by a man who was with her, entered the hut and asked for

Tam's grandparents.

[Illustration: A little lady on a shaggy pony stopped at the door.]

They were not afraid of the little lady, because she looked so

good and kind, and spoke so gently, but when they discovered that

she was from Braemar, and that it was to learn all about Tam that

she had come, they were almost tremblingly anxious. Thinking that

the Queen had sent her, they apologised very humbly for the boy's

misbehaviour, saying it did not arise from any badness in him so

much as from wilfulness and daring. They hoped the Queen wouldna be

severe on the laddie; he was little more than a child, and though

masterful and not to be said, he had not a bad heart. It was partly

their fault, no doubt, as Tam, having no parents, had been left to

them very young, and they, perhaps, had spoiled him just a little.

So the old folks went on, the tears often in their eyes.

In a few minutes the good lady from Braemar had made herself

acquainted with all the circumstances of Tam's birth and rearing,

had heard the catalogue of his faults and shortcomings, and been

posted as to his restlessness and discontent. It was a long and

interesting human inventory, wound up with the declaration,

tearfully attested by both Donal and Yetta, that "he wasna sae bad

as wilfu'"; albeit they confessed to being greatly afraid, if he

went away from them, as he wished, lest his masterfulness should

lead him into evil ways.

"And where is this masterful one, this Tam?" asked the Lady of

Braemar. "One would like to see him."

Tam, however, could nowhere be found. The old man looked up and down

for him, neighbours joined in the search; but it was only too plain

that Tam had hidden himself away somewhere.

"Well," said the Lady, at length, "I cannot tarry any longer.

But the boy cannot be far away; so when he is found bring him to

Braemar, and we will see what can be done."

Donal and Yetta promised that such should be their care, and, as

a last word, ere the Lady rode away, they begged that she would

intercede on Tarn's behalf "wi' the gude and gracious Queen."

The Lady promised to do her utmost, and so departed.

The next day, the "sodger's laddie," as Tam was called, having in

the meanwhile been found, the grey-headed old crofter and his wife,

both of them bent with toil and drooping with care, once more made

their way over the hills to Braemar; Tam, downhearted, demure, and

in his Sabbath claes, padding the turf by their side.

Arrived at their destination, Tam hung a low head; for in front

of the house was congregated a little party, chiefly of children,

preparing to set out for a ride; among the number being the two

young gentlemen whom he knew.

The elder of them, the Prince of Wales, at once recognising his

antagonist of three days ago, stepped up to him and said, with a

frank and kindly smile:

"Good-morning, Tam! You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

Tam uttered a barely audible "Nae."

"And you hold no grudge against me for throwing your stick in the

river, do you?"

Another demure "Nae" found its way between Tam's half-closed teeth;

but this time he allowed his blue eyes to meet the young Prince's in

a surprised gaze.

"Then let us shake hands and be friends," said the Prince.

Tam extended his brown paw, and they clasped in token of mutual

goodwill.

The little scene transacted itself almost as quickly as it can

be read--so quickly, indeed, that Tam's grandparents witnessed

it in mute astonishment; and before they had recovered their

self-possession, the Lady who had called at the hut on Tam's account

issued from the house, looking much as she had done the previous

day, with the exception that a broad-brimmed straw hat covered her

head in place of a sun-bonnet.

"So you found the little runagate, did you?" said she, addressing

the old folks.

"Yes, madam," replied Donal. "Mister Fargus found him at night in a

cave in the birch-wood above the burn."

"What made you run away, Tam?" said the Lady, turning to the youth.

Tam was silent.

"Tell me. You need not be afraid."

"I thought mebbe I had hurt him"--with a nod in the direction of the

Prince.

"Oh, you didn't hurt me! You only brought a little of the red juice

out of my nose, and that can hurt nobody," said the Heir-Apparent.

Prince Alfred, who was standing by, smiled at his brother's sally,

as did also the Lady in the straw hat.

Tam laughed outright. He had never heard or known of a bleeding nose

being treated so lightly, and at the same time so funnily. His poor

grandparents, however, were shocked at his levity, and Yetta gave

him a vigorous nudge to recall him to a due sense of his position.

"If you like," said the Prince, "I'll give you one of my sticks in

place of the one I threw away," adding, with nice diplomacy, "but I

can tell you it's too proud a stick to hit a dog."

Tam smiled, and said he would not use it in that way.

"And I think we must ask you to promise not to think of ever

running away from your grandparents," said the Lady.

That seemed to strike Tam as a large order.

"I wouldna like to bide on the croft when I get bigger."

"Why, what do you wish to be when you grow bigger?"

"I want to be a soldier, like my father."

Yetta drew a pained breath; Donal's lips twitched.

"You would not like him to go for a soldier?" queried the Lady.

"Baith my sons focht and deed for their kintra," said Donal.

"And you would like to keep your grandson to comfort you in your old

age?"

The old folks bowed; their trembling lips could hardly frame an

audible "Yes."

"It is quite natural. You hear that, Tam? You would not like to go

away to the wars, as your father and your uncle did, and be killed,

and so grieve your poor grandparents."

"I dinna want to grieve 'em," replied Tam. "But I'd like to be a

soldier and fight for the Queen."

At this answer there was more than one moistened eyelid in the

little group, whereof Tam, for the time being, constituted the

central figure.

After a brief pause, his interlocutor continued:

"But, my boy, there are other ways of serving the Queen than by

becoming a soldier--many other ways."

That was a new aspect of things to the boy, and his eyes, when he

lifted them up to meet the Lady's, contained each a large note of

interrogation.

"For instance," she continued, "the Queen wants a donkey-boy now,

to attend her or the children when they drive about in their little

phaeton." The boy's eyes brightened, then fell.

"You think the care of a donkey beneath you?"

[Illustration: "Then let us shake hands," said the Prince.]

"Nae, but I doubt that the Queen wouldna hae me to be her

donkey-boy."

"Why not?"

"'Cos I hae nae bin a donkey-boy, an' I might do things wrang."

"But you could learn--everybody has to learn. And if you did your

best there could not be much fault-finding."

"I'd do my best."

"Nobody could say better than that," replied the Lady.

"Ah, if your leddyship," faltered Yetta, "could get her Majesty to

mek' him her donkey-boy, or to 'point him to any sic position, he

would still be near to us, an' a comfort in our old age."

"Ay, an' he would think nae mair o' running away," added Donal.

"You may be sure the matter will be taken into her earnest

consideration," said the Lady. "And now, after you have had some

refreshment, which I will ask them to give you, you had better

go home, and in the course of a few days you will doubtless hear

further."

TO BE CONCLUDED.

The Jeshurun[1] of Christ.

[1] "All the tribes are here summed up in one name, derived from

_jasher_, righteous. All the blessings of the Israel of God are

concentrated here in Him, through Whom alone we are justified before

God, Christ Who is the Lord our Righteousness."--_Bishop Wordsworth

on Deut. xxviii. 26._

"There is none like unto the God of Jeshurun."--DEUT. xxxiii.

26. "Peace--upon the Israel of God."--GAL. vi. 16.

_AN ORIGINAL HYMN_

_By the_ REV. S. J. STONE, _Author of_ "_Lays of Iona_," "_The

Church's One Foundation_," _&c._

_Music specially composed by_ SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.

(_Organist of St. Paul's Cathedral._)

_mf moderato_

1. On, o'er the waste, Jeshurun! Thy Help rides on the sky;

On, when thy hope seems farthest, Sure that thy LORD is nigh.

Sure of the sacred fountain, The mystic corn and vine;

On through thy "days," Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.

2. All things the sun makes precious! All fulness 'neath the moon;

The buds and blooms of morning, The fair fruits of the noon;

All chief things of the mountains, All wealth of shade or shine;

These are for thee, Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.

3. He is the shrine about thee,

His arms beneath thee spread;

His Excellence and Glory

The shield above thine head;

What tempests rave around thee,

What foes and fears combine--

Still thou art safe, Jeshurun,

There is no GOD like thine.

4. Bethink thee how from Sinai

His Law was seen as flame;

How, as He shone from Paran,

His saints in thousands came:

How these are thine ensample,[2]

Of fear and love the sign--

On then, in love, Jeshurun,

There is no GOD like thine.

5. Thine is sweet Hope made perfect;

On thee her ends have come;

Of all her silvern shinings

Thine is the golden sum;

The Church the vesture human

Wears now the robe Divine!

On through the years, Jeshurun,

There is no GOD like thine.

6. O Israel of JESUS,

O happy in thy King!

His Righteousness thy surety,

His Peace thy covering,

His Grace thy Fount of cleansing,

Thy food, His Bread and Wine--

On to the end, Jeshurun,

There is no GOD but thine. Amen.

[2] Cf. I Cor. x. 1-12. From this passage it is clear that a

warning, as well as an encouragement, is part of the admonition to

the Israel of God.

TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.

By a Leading Temperance Advocate.

No apology is needed for opening a temperance department in THE

QUIVER, for in the story of the temperance reformation the name

of John Cassell will assuredly always hold an honoured place. At

the time when he was enlisted in the ranks--1835--as a youth of

seventeen, the movement had few friends and many opponents. Having

once signed the "teetotal pledge," Cassell never deserted, but, on

the contrary, became one of the most persuasive advocates the cause

has ever had. He itinerated through the length and breadth of the

land, and, under the name of "The Manchester Carpenter," gained

a large number of adherents, some of whom subsequently achieved

great reputations as temperance leaders. Even before Cassell had

settled down in London as a publisher, he had learnt to value the

printing press as an aid to temperance work, and not a few of the

pamphlets, tracts, and broadsheets which played such an important

part in the early days of the propaganda, owed their origin to

his enterprising initiative. By-and-by he was in a position to

command his own printing machines, and as early as March, 1846, he

launched the _Teetotal Times and Monthly Temperance Messenger_,

which was followed in July, 1848, by the _Standard of Freedom_, of

which a temperance column was a leading feature. Anyone who takes

the trouble to look over these early publications cannot fail to

be struck by the comprehensive and statesmanlike grip of the drink

difficulty which they present. It was to John Cassell that Richard

Cobden wrote in 1849:--"I don't know how it is that I have never

made the plunge and joined the teetotallers. Nobody has more faith

than I in the truth of your doctrine, both from a physical and moral

point of view, for the more work I have had to do the more I have

resorted to the pump and the teapot. As for the moral bearings of

the question, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that all other

reforms together would fail to confer as great blessings upon the

masses as that of weaning them from intoxicating drinks." Cassell

passed away at the early age of forty-eight, on April 2nd, 1865, on

the same day as Cobden himself, whose friendship he had enjoyed for

nearly twenty years.

[Illustration: JOHN CASSELL.

(_Temperance Leader and Founder of "The Quiver."_)]

COMING EVENTS.

Among the important events fixed for this month may be named two

meetings convened by the National Temperance League for November

2nd, in Oxford, to be addressed by His Grace the Archbishop of

Canterbury and Professor Victor Horsley, F.R.S., the distinguished

surgeon. One meeting is specially intended for undergraduates,

while the other will be open to the townsfolk. On November 4th by

permission of the Lord Mayor of London, the Mansion House will

extend its hospitality to the Police Court Mission of the C.E.T.S.,

and Bishops, Members of Parliament, and Police Court Magistrates

will plead the cause of this deserving charity. On November 27th the

Nonconformist Churches will observe their annual Temperance Sunday,

and on November 30th a function anticipated with keen interest, the

first Lees-Raper Memorial Lecture will take place in the Church

House, Westminster.

[Illustration: MR. A. F. HILLS.

(_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)]

SUNDAY CLOSING.

Thanks to the munificent generosity of Mr. Arnold F. Hills, who has

promised a donation of £5,000, conditional upon temperance friends

making up another £5,000, a determined effort is to be made to press

forward the Sunday Closing question in view of the reassembling

of Parliament early in the new year. The whole-hearted ardour and

enthusiasm which have marked Mr. Hills' temperance labours during

the past ten years have made his name a household word. He started

out with the settled conviction that the greatest need of the

time was the union of the temperance forces; and in the face of

difficulties and obstacles which would have disheartened ninety-nine

men out of a hundred, he has ceaselessly concentrated his energies

to this end. The United Temperance Council, with its network

of county councils and district councils throughout the United

Kingdom, is the creation of his active brain; while the Temperance

Parliament, which has given an opportunity to all the friends of

temperance legislation to discuss their various projects, is another

child of Mr. Hills' parentage.

AN IRISH EXAMPLE.

Visitors to Belfast cannot pass along the streets of this

thriving, go-ahead city without being brought face to face with

the practical efforts of the Irish Temperance League to counteract

the public-houses. The League has set up nearly twenty attractive

coffee stands in various parts of the town, and these do a very

large business and are extremely popular. The movement was commenced

in 1874, the first stand being opened on a site granted by the

Harbour Commissioners, for a nominal rent, near to the berths

of the cross-Channel steamers. As many as 10,000 persons have

patronised the stands in one day. The hours of opening and closing

are regulated according to the locality. No intoxicating liquors

are allowed to be consumed on the premises; the best of food is

provided; the most scrupulous cleanliness is observed; and no

bills of any kind are exhibited, or anything likely to jar on the

religious or political feelings of the customers.

[Illustration: STREET COFFEE STAND, BELFAST.]

THE LEES-RAPER MEMORIAL.

It will be a long time before temperance folk will forget the shock

which was occasioned in May, 1897, by the sudden deaths within ten

days of each other, of Dr. Lees and Mr. J. H. Raper. These two

devoted workers were known in both hemispheres, and it would be

impossible in such limited space to give an adequate appreciation

of their marvellous gifts. Dr. F. R. Lees was ever a fighter. From

his boyhood up to his honoured old age he was always eager for the

fray. As a keen controversialist he was literally without a rival.

The winning personality of James Hayes Raper carried all before

it. He was unquestionably a platform king. Nothing could be more

charming than the extraordinary facility with which he rapidly

placed himself in touch with an audience; and he possessed in a rare

degree the gift of being able to make an acceptable "last speech" in

a programme. The Committee charged with the promotion of a memorial

to these temperance worthies is to be congratulated upon having

raised nearly £1,700. Of this amount, £1,500 has been invested in

a terminable annuity for a period of twenty years. A Lees-Raper

lectureship has been founded, and, as already stated, the inaugural

lecture will be given by Dean Farrar, of Canterbury, at the Church

House, Westminster, on November 30th. The Archbishop of Canterbury

will preside, and the Dean has chosen as his theme "Temperance

Reform as Required by Righteousness and Patriotism."

[Illustration: J. H. Raper.

(_Photo: Lambert, Weston and Son, Folkestone._)]

[Illustration: DR. F. R. LEES.

(_Photo: William Coles, Watford._)]

[Illustration: The House Beautiful]

The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "We Wives," Etc.

"In the fields of taste it is always much easier to point out paths

which should be avoided than to indicate the road which leads to

excellence."

Such are the words of a well-known artist of the present day. I

feel them to be true as I begin this paper on the House Beautiful.

Taste differs so widely that it would be futile to try to set up a

positive standard of beauty. Furniture has its fashions, too, though

they change but slowly. So we can only lay down broad general rules

with regard to the plenishment of our homes. We cannot insist on

detail.

There is no single point on which a gentlewoman is more jealous of

disparagement than the question of taste. Yet it is a lamentable

fact that this very quality is often--I may say generally--deficient

even amongst the most cultured classes. The bubble of fashion is

blown in our drawing-rooms just as surely and even more foolishly

than elsewhere. Individuality is seldom seen.

In order to have lovely homes inside four commonplace walls we

must remember that _simplicity_ is one true element of beauty. The

best and most picturesque furniture of all ages has been simple in

general form. Next, good design is always compatible with sturdy

service, and can accommodate itself to the most fastidious notions

of convenience. Thirdly, every article of manufacture to be really

beautiful should indicate by its general design the purpose to which

it will be applied. In other words, shams and make-believes must be

utterly tabooed.

Taking these three principles as the basis of our plans for our

own particular House Beautiful, let us consider how best we may

secure such. Our halls and kitchens are perhaps the best instances

of simplicity of design. In them we seldom have more utensils or

articles than we need. Parquetry, or inlaying with various-coloured

wood, is an ideal floor covering, even for our modern narrow hall.

Next to it ranks tiling, and a plain linoleum is admissible. All

these secure cleanliness. Warmth must next be suggested. To obtain

this, we lay down rugs of various colours and hang heavy curtains.

An oak chair, solid to look at (N.B.--Curves in furniture should

suggest repose, which is out of place in a passage), a chest to hold

rugs and cloaks, a small, narrow mirror to lighten up the gloom, and

you have all that is necessary. A few brass dishes on the wall, a

tall palm by one curtain, elks' antlers, etc., are permissible where

space is obtainable. Do not, however, ever be tempted to hang muslin

in the alcove or to drape with flimsy materials. Leave plenty of

room for visitors to pass in and out, without finding entrance or

exit blocked with exasperating detail. Colour is what really redeems

a hall from monotony. This the wall-paper and curtains and rugs

should give without help from trivial ornamentation.

Our kitchens are perhaps the most really beautiful spots in our

homes, if we take true beauty to consist of absolute fitness for the

work to be done therein. The severe wooden dresser, with its wide

undershelf and commodious cupboards, is as picturesque an object as

can be found. From time immemorial its shape has been unaltered, and

its beauty consists in its suggestions of utility. Traditional work

is mostly beautiful, as evidenced by the fact that the lines of a

plough have always been the admiration of artists. Plainness is not

ugliness, and the dresser, glorified, is now one of the necessary

beauty spots even in our drawing-rooms. Then those Windsor chairs,

with their slightly sloping backs and hollowed seats, are restful

to both eye and body. The bright steel or copper range fitted with

necessary knobs and useful doors is another example of the beauty

of fitness. In fact, both stove and dresser are forms of truth and

realism.

The two great faults to be avoided in the dining-room of our

House Beautiful are dreariness and overcrowding. The French

_salle-à-manger_ is really an ideal to work towards. Unfortunately,

few of us can consecrate the parlour to meals alone; this

living-room has to serve many purposes. We should have it as

spacious, thou, and airy as possible. Round tables have gone out

of fashion, unfortunately; yet the claw-leg pedestal table is the

most convenient, and consequently the most decorative, of its kind.

It economises space, and is easily beautified. I have in memory a

dining-room I should like to see reproduced in many a home. Just

an ordinary square chamber, with two straight windows looking out

on a lawn; a round table, its centre encircled with flowers; a

plain sideboard, guiltless of plate-glass, but enlivened by old

silver wine coolers, napkin rings, and goblets; a wide brass-bound

fireplace with hobs; a high mantelpiece, surrounded with a brazen

grating; a screen, and a few fine chairs. The beauty of it--and it

was very beautiful--consisted in fitness for the end for which it

was designed. The walls were covered with a light-tinted background

for pictures (not with ornamental garden stuff in perspective). Its

heavy, rich curtains hung by visible rings from a real pole; its

coal-scoop was of copper, not papier-maché tinware; its cupboards

full of glass that might be wanted, and silver often called for;

its napery and napkins fine and fair; its thick carpet guiltless of

grating greens and crude crimsons; its windows made to open, and

its iron-flanged door made to shut. There was no meaningless or

characterless ornamental work about this old room; no inappropriate

decoration spoiled its well-designed and well-constructed _tout

ensemble_.

As I have sketched an ideal parlour, so would I limn a bedroom I

have seen. It was a queer-shaped room, with rather high windows set

over some panelling in a little, crooked, dome-shaped alcove, a tiny

dressing-room opened off it. The paper was yellow; the paint all

white. A bed with plain brass spindles and rails stood away from

draught and light, headed with creamy chintz sprinkled with Scotch

rosebuds and lined with gold. The curtains of shiny chintz hung

from half-inch brass rods only to the window-sill. A wide box couch

under them formed a restful seat. Crossways stood a dressing-table,

its toilet glass flanked with brass candle-holders, and its jewel

drawers fitted with old beaten drop handles; it, as well as the

wardrobe, was enamelled white. A frame screen of the same purity,

its yellow silk curtains dependent by tiny rings from tiny rods,

stood before the dressing-room door, and effectually shut away all

washing apparatus. The floor of this room was polished all over

(kept in order by weekly applications of beeswax and turpentine). On

it lay white Kurd and Scinde rugs. The mantelpiece was wooden, and

the chimney corner decorated with shelves painted like wainscotting

and doors. These little shelves supplied vantage-grounds for lots

of blue-and-white china, and though the colour-scheme may sound

monotonous, infinite variety was introduced by the etceteras of the

toilette. Of course, blue or terra-cotta, carried out as faithfully,

would give an equally satisfactory symphony of tint. However we may

decorate our bedrooms, we must not forget that space and head-room

are the two requisites for health therein. Simplicity, careful

keeping, and radiant cleanliness should be the keynotes of every

bedroom in the House Beautiful.

In approaching the drawing-room, I feel I am treading on difficult

ground--in fact, an impossible one. Abundantly diverse in everything

are some of the reception-rooms I should call beautiful. Wide-mouth

pickle jars swathed in art muslin are positively wrong. So are

painted rolling-pins or banjos. As to cardboard plaques representing

china, and paper frills cut out to look like lace--away with them!

A plain brown jug full of real daisies is far more beautiful than a

glass bottle covered with varnished pictures and filled with paper

or silk imitations. One bit of quaint crackle or Venetian ware on

our chimney-piece is restful to the eye; highly coloured shams

are distressful. "Although we may tolerate insipid prettiness in

perishable confectionery, we ought not to do so in objects which

become associated with our daily life." Power of design and power of

imitation are the two widely divergent qualities of mind required

to produce a beautiful drawing-room. Ostentation of money should be

avoided here.

In concluding this paper, I should like to remind my readers that

all yearnings after the beautiful are legitimate and right. God has

placed a love for the lovely in every human heart. He Himself--in

all reverence be it spoken--has led the way. When designing

furniture for the Tabernacle built for glory and for beauty in the

far-away desert, He made it in the most artistic, most serviceable,

and most simple of forms. Look at the description of those golden

candlesticks, with their golden almond-shaped knops and elegant

branches. Think of the curtains of scarlet and blue and purple, and

fine twined linen. Think of the snuffers and spoons and ouches, and

bolts and rings and staves, all of pure gold. Truth and grace were

evermore wedded together in these patterns of the heavenly things.

"Go, and do thou likewise."

[Illustration: Scripture Lessons]

SCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME

INTERNATIONAL SERIES

With Illustrative Anecdotes and References.

NOVEMBER 20TH.--Manasseh's Sin and Repentance.

_To read--2 Chron. xxxiii. 9-16. Golden Text--1 St. John i. 9._

Manasseh, son of good King Hezekiah, yet for many years very wicked.

Must have been taught to do right by his father; good seed sown, but

choked by tares of sin and worldliness; a long time before bore good

fruit--not till tares pulled out.

I. =Manasseh's Sin= (9-11). Only a boy of twelve when began reign.

Many would flatter and spoil. Just an age to need good advice and

guidance. But many to lead him wrong, as other kings had been led

before him (xxiv. 17, 18). So he chose wrong.

_Idolatry._ Undid all Hezekiah's work by building up again altars

for Baal (ver. 3); even set up idol in house of God itself (ver. 7),

besides seeking counsel from witches, etc. (ver. 6), instead of God.

Sinned worse than heathen, for he knew right, which they did not.

_Punishment._ God tried remonstrances, probably by prophets, but in

vain. His heart and his people's hardened against God by sin; so God

sent captains of King of Assyria, who took him prisoner, and carried

him bound in chains to Babylon, capital of Assyria.

II. =Manasseh's Repentance= (12-16). _The captive._ The King,

far from home, in strange land; what does he think about? His

_father_--how little he has copied his example; his _home_--how

he has forfeited it; his _life_--how wicked it has been; his

_companions_--how they have led him astray; his _God_--he has sinned

too deeply--can he possibly be forgiven?

_The repentance._ What does he do? He humbles himself--first step in

true repentance, he confesses his sin as David did (Ps. xxxii. 5);

he asks forgiveness; he promises amendment. Was such prayer ever in

vain? (Golden Text).

_The restoration._ Sent back to his throne; became prosperous;

fortified the cities. Best of all, put away idols, repaired Temple,

offered sacrifices; did all in his power to undo effects of his

former sin. Commanded the people to serve God.

=Lesson.= How to repent. Ask for true sorrow. Confess to God all

sin. Seek grace to change life.

Repentance.

A man of the world, who had spent the greater part of his

life in dissipation, was converted to God. He gave up all his

property, and went to live with a well-known clergyman in

Cornwall. There he devoted himself entirely to the service of

Christ. One day he met a miner whom he had long been trying to

bring to repentance. He persuaded him to enter the church; and

there, kneeling side by side, they prayed for a long time, not

ceasing till the miner felt a sense of the greatness of his sin

and of the pardoning love of God. Many other souls was he the

means of bringing back to God. There was joy in heaven over that

repentant sinner as there was over Manasseh.

NOVEMBER 27TH.--A Temperance Lesson.

_To read--Prov. iv. 10-19. Golden Text--Ver. 10._

This book, written by Solomon, contains a selection of his numerous

"proverbs" or wise sayings. The early chapters are especially

intended for the young, and are in praise of "wisdom," the practical

carrying out of knowledge.

I. =The Blessing of Wisdom= (10-13). _Long life_ often promised

as the result of a godly life, _e.g._ to those who honour parents

(fifth commandment); also to those who obey God (Deut. xxx. 20).

_Right paths_, _i.e._ right dealing with men, _e.g._ Abraham paying

for burying-place (Gen. xxiii. 13); David in all his life (2 Sam.

xxii. 21).

_No stumbling._ Life like a narrow path. A man burdened by sin

walks, as it were, with shackles on legs. A Christian is held up by

God's arms (Deut. xxxiii. 27); kept from stumbling to his ruin.

_Eternal life._ Wisdom (i. 20) personified as Christ, the Divine

Word, in Whom is all knowledge (Col. ii. 3). To know Him is

everlasting life (St. John xvii. 3).

II. =The Folly of Wickedness= (14-17). _Sin to be avoided._ Remind

of Eve: of Lot choosing to live in wicked Sodom. The disastrous

results: Eve turned out of Paradise--Lot losing home and wife.

_Sin grows._ Evil takes such hold that some prefer it to good--day

and night plan evil, _e.g._ thieves, drunkards, etc., and take

pleasure in leading others wrong.

III. =Results.= _The just._ A Christian's course like the light,

increasing from early dawn till full light of noon. Perfection, not

all at once. Good seed brings forth fruit "with patience," _i.e._

gradually (St. Luke viii. 15). Christ increased in wisdom as He grew

taller and older (St. Luke ii. 52). So we must "grow in grace and

knowledge." The more a Christian knows of God, the more clearly does

God's light show itself in him.

_The wicked._ Are in darkness, and so stumble. Sin blinds their eyes

(St. John xii. 35); they confuse right and wrong. Example: Saul,

blinded by prejudice against Jesus of Nazareth, thought he did God

service when he persecuted the Christians.

=Lessons.= 1. Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the dead, and

Christ shall give thee light!

2. Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy

law.

The Toil and Folly of Sin.

There was a man in a certain town who used, till he was caught,

to steal all his firewood. He would get up on cold nights and

prowl around, helping himself from the well-stacked piles. A

calculation was made, and it was found that he had worked harder

and spent more time to get fuel in this way than if he had

earned it honestly by hard work. One day he was caught in the

act of theft, and was sentenced to three months' imprisonment.

"The way of transgressors is hard."

DECEMBER 4TH.--The Book of the Law Found.

_To read--2 Kings xxii. 8--20. Golden Text--Ps. cxix. 2._

JOSIAH, grandson of Manasseh, like him, began to reign very young

(eight years), but, unlike him, began well. Now about eighteen years

old. Already been two reformations since his succession (2 Chron.

xxxiv. 3--7). Now Temple being repaired.

I. =The Book Found= (8--14). _The place._ Temple found in great

disorder. Amon, the last King, in two years had done much

evil--idolatry again. Now Temple cleansed under superintendence of

Hilkiah, high priest. Rubbish turned over; large "roll of a book"

discovered. What can it be? The authentic copy of Law of God, _i.e._

books of Moses, kept near the Ark in the Holy of Holies. What a find!

_The scribes._ Two scribes, readers and keepers of the Law, with

Hilkiah when the roll was found. They read it themselves; one of

them, Shaphan, takes it to the King; reports the collection made for

the repairs, how the work is going on, and the discovery. He reads

the book aloud. The King much moved by the words of the Law and

God's wrath against sinners (Deut. xxix. 27). Sends to Huldah the

prophetess to inquire further of the Lord. He sees how little the

words of the book have been obeyed.

=Lesson.= The Word of God is quick and powerful.

II. =God's Message to Josiah= (15--20). As in time of Judges, when

Deborah was prophetess (Judges iv. 4), God speaks by a woman; double

message.

_To the people._ A terrible punishment, as foretold in the Law,

because of their sin. Had forsaken God--turned aside to other gods.

Had not repented, therefore His wrath kindled against them.

_To Josiah._ His heart was humble; attended to God's message; he did

weep for the people's sin. God has heard him--he shall be spared.

The judgment shall not come in his time; his end shall be peace.

=Lessons.= 1. God ever the same. He _must_ punish sin. He _will_

deliver the just.

2. As then, so now, He sends warning by His Book, His ministers, and

teachers.

3. Why will ye die? Return unto the Lord.

The Bible a Delight.

One day, when walking through Wales, Mr. Hone, the author,

stopped at a cottage door and found a little girl reading the

Bible. He asked for a glass of water, which was quickly brought

to him. Getting into conversation with the girl, he asked her

how she liked learning her task out of the Bible. "Oh," she

said, "it is not a task to read it; I love it." Seeing his

surprise, she added, "I thought everybody loved the Bible." The

arrow went home. Hone pondered over her remark and began to read

the Bible for himself, and from that time read the sacred book

constantly. Before long, instead of being an opponent of the

Bible, he became one of its strongest defenders, for he, like

the child, had learned to love it.

DECEMBER 11TH.--Trying to Destroy God's Word.

_To read--Jer. xxxvi. 20-32. Golden Text--Isaiah xl. 8._

JOSIAH the last godly King. At his death Jerusalem fell back

into corruption. Jeremiah the prophet warns in vain of coming

destruction--is hated by nobles--imprisoned by King; bids Baruch

write God's words in a roll of a book (ver. 6).

I. =The Roll Read= (ver. 20). Hitherto Jeremiah spoke his

prophecies. Why written now? To be read in various places while he

was shut up (ver. 5), and kept for our instruction. Great excitement

this day in Jerusalem. Large assembly of people heard--princes heard

and were afraid (ver. 16); King Jehoiachim is told of it. Courtiers

round the King tell him what they recollect of the warnings; he

is interested--perhaps alarmed. Sends for the roll, hidden in the

council chamber.

II. =The Roll Burned= (21-26). Picture the King sitting in his

study; bright wood fire on the hearth in the winter-house. Jehudi

sent to fetch roll. Nobles and other courtiers stand around; the

roll is read. The King is angry; after hearing three or four columns

he stops the reader, cuts the roll into pieces with penknife, flings

them on the fire. Some of princes approve; three try to stop him.

The parchment crackles, roll is destroyed. Baruch the scribe and

Jeremiah ordered to be imprisoned. Is all over? King could destroy

roll, but not God's Word.

III. =The Roll Re-written= (26-32). King's efforts all in vain. Man

fights in vain against God. King despises the prophecy. Another

roll written; more severe judgments. God laughs him to scorn. This

is his punishment:--The King shall have no heir to succeed him. He

shall have a dishonoured death--no burial. The whole nation shall be

severely punished. King of Babylon shall take the people captive.

=Lessons.= 1. God's Word shall not return void.

2. The folly of trying to resist God.

3. The certainty of coming judgment for sin.

God's Word True.

A man and his wife became possessed of a Bible, which they had

never read before. The man began to read it, and, one night, as

he sat by the fire with the open book, he said, "Wife, if this

book is right, we are wrong." He continued reading, and a few

days afterwards he said, "Wife, if this book is right, we are

lost!" More eager than ever to see what the Word of the Lord

was, he continued to study the book, until one night he joyfully

exclaimed, "Wife, if this book is true, we are saved!" This is

the glory of God's Word; it tells of sin and punishment, but it

tells also of salvation. King Jehoiachim, hearing God's Word,

tried to destroy it and was lost; but King Josiah, hearing it,

turned to God and was saved.

[Illustration: Short Arrows]

Short Arrows

Notes of Christian Life & Work.

Two County Medallists.

We have pleasure in presenting our readers with the portraits of two

recent Silver Medallists in connection with our Roll of Honour for

Sunday-school Teachers. Miss Susan Hammond is the veteran of the

county of Essex, having completed fifty-four years' service at the

Wesleyan Sunday-school, Bradfield; whilst to Mr. William Fletcher

belongs the honour of being the doyen of the Sunday-school Teachers

of Lincolnshire, he having to his credit the magnificent record of

seventy years' service at the Scamblesby Sunday-school.

[Illustration: (_Photo: W. Gill, Colchester_).

MISS HAMMOND.

(_The Essex County Medallist._)]

The Real Winners.

A hurried and unceremonious burial is often all that can be given to

the dead after a great battle. They are the harvest of war; but the

dead, though in comparison to the living victors they may be said

to be at least unhonoured, have often been the real winners of the

battle. It was over their dead bodies or over the way they made that

the survivors rushed to victory. So it is that when we allow self to

die we accomplish most Christian work and win the fight of faith.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Carlton and Sons, Horncastle._)

MR. WILLIAM FLETCHER.

(_Who holds the Lincolnshire Record for Seventy Years' Sunday-school

Service._)]

For Prizes or Presents.

There are already many indications that the Christmas festival is

slowly but surely drawing near, and not the least significant is

the deluge of new stories suitable for presents and prizes which

has already commenced. To many a boy and girl Christmas would lose

half its charms if it did not bring with it a new story from old

favourites, such as Gordon Stables, Emma Marshall, or G. A. Henty,

and the young people will not be disappointed this year. Messrs.

Nisbet have just issued Dr. Stables's latest story, which he has

entitled "Off to Klondyke." Its very title is suggestive of exciting

experiences at the fascinating goldfields of the Yukon, and many

boys--both young and old--will follow with breathless interest the

numerous wonderful adventures which are related therein. From the

same publishers comes an equally interesting story of an English

boy's adventures in the great French War under the expressive title

"Face to Face with Napoleon." There is plenty of romantic incident

in this story, and as the author, Mr. O. V. Caine, has carefully

verified the historical portions of the work, it will serve the

double purpose of entertaining and instructing. Our old friend,

Mrs. Emma Marshall, is to the fore with an excellent story for

girls, entitled "Under the Laburnum Tree" (Nisbet and Co.), which

will be eagerly welcomed in many a home and school.--The last

volume before us is entitled "Yule Logs," and is edited for Messrs.

Longmans by Mr. G. A. Henty. Unlike the books previously mentioned,

this does not contain a single long story, but is made up of a

series of short stories by such well-known writers as Henry Frith,

Manville Fenn, John Bloundelle-Burton, and, of course, the editor

himself. The stories deal with extraordinary adventures on land and

sea, in both ancient and modern times, and are of such variety as to

satisfy the most exacting reader.

"Mousie."

A poor little lad died a few weeks ago in a narrow and crowded

street of Central London after four years of terrible suffering

from hip disease. His sweet and uncomplaining nature endeared him

in a particular way to the friends who visited him, and one of them

has taken a picture of him, as he sat up in bed, surrounded by his

flowers and small comforts, not long before his death. "Mousie" got

his pet name from the doctors at a big hospital, who were so struck

by his gentleness, and by the quiet courage with which he endured

his painful operations. He had been originally knocked down by a

cab, and his feeble constitution never recovered from the accident.

Once, to his great delight, he was well enough to attend a meeting

of the Ministering Children's League, of which he was a member. He

was supported on a table, and helped to make a cushion for a sick

old woman. But he was soon obliged to keep to his room and his couch

altogether. Even then "Mousie" was often thinking of others. "Can't

I do a toy for some poor child who has none?" he would say, and with

the wool that was given him he would make balls for babies. "It is

not Jesus who sends me this pain," he once explained to the friend

who pens this brief memory of him; "He is far too kind: it was my

own fault for getting in the way of the cab." Poor "Mousie"! he was

only ten years old, but he had his own solution of the mystery of

pain. He loved to hear hymns. Someone sang "There is a Happy Land"

to him the night before he died, and a little later those who were

watching him were surprised to hear him croon the first verse all

through in quite a strong clear, voice. Then he sighed pitifully,

"Lord Jesus, do take me!" and said to his mother, "I shan't have a

bit of pain _there_, you know!" And after a few unconscious hours

"Mousie" knew why God had permitted his pain.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Mr. W. T. Piper._)

"MOUSIE."]

Always Rejoicing.

When, in 1849, the American author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, was

dismissed from being a surveyor, his wife thus writes of the

supposed calamity in a letter to her mother: "It has come in the

way of an inevitable providence to us (whatever knavery some people

may have to answer for who have been the agents in the removal),

and I never receive inevitable providences with resignation merely,

but with _joy_, as certainly, undoubtedly, the best possible events

that can happen for me." Surely this is the right way to regard the

changes and so-called chances of this mortal life, if we believe

that our Heavenly Father orders the lives of each one of us with

individual care.

[Illustration:

(1) THOMAS BROWN.

(_Gordon Boys' Home._)

(2) HARRY CASTLEDINE.

(_Orphan Working School._)

(3) CLARA A. LANGDON.

(_Orphan Working School._)

(4) FLORENCE ANDERSON.

(_National Refuges._)

(5) EDWARD M. NYE.

(_Reedham Orphanage._)

(6) CHARLES E. SMITH.

(_Reedham Orphanage._)

THE QUIVER GOOD CONDUCT PRIZE WINNERS, 1898.]

An Interesting Group.

The Quiver Prize has long since become an annual institution in

several representative orphanages, and as our object is to encourage

honesty, industry, and general good conduct, it is awarded each

year to those inmates who have shown greatest progress in these

respects during the preceding twelve months. We publish a group of

the winners for 1898, who represent respectively the Orphan Working

School, the Reedham Orphanage, The Gordon Boys' Home, and the

National Refuges.

THE QUIVER FUNDS.

The following is a list of contributions received from September 1st

up to and including September 30th, 1898. Subscriptions received

after this date will be acknowledged next month:--

For _"The Quiver" Waifs' Fund_: J. J. E., Govan (130th

donation), 5s.; A Glasgow Mother (100th donation), 1s.; M. G.,

Leeds, 1s.; Oxford, 5s.

For _Dr. Barnardo's Homes_: An Irish Girl, 12s. 6d.; N. L. E.,

10s. We are also asked to acknowledge the following donations

sent direct:--J. E. D., 10s.; Inasmuch, 4s.; H. M. H., 5s.

For _The British and Foreign Bible Society_: A Thank-Offering,

1s.

ROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL WORKERS.

The =Special Silver Medal= and =Presentation Bible= offered

for the longest known Sunday-school service in the county of

=Northumberland= (for which applications were invited up to

September 30th) have been gained by

MR. THOMAS C. HINTON,

Fame Bank,

Gosforth, Newcastle,

who has distinguished himself by =fifty= years' service in the John

Knox Church Sunday-school, Newcastle.

As already announced, the next territorial county for which claims

are invited for the Silver Medal is

=LEICESTER=,

and applications, on the special form, must be received on or before

October 31st, 1898. We may add that =Sussex= is the following

county selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being

November 30th, 1898. This county, in its turn, will be followed

by =Wiltshire=, for which the date will be one month later--viz.

December 31st, 1898.

The names of members recently enrolled will be found in our

advertisement pages.

THE QUIVER SANTA CLAUS.

The children's festival--as the Christmas season is rightly

called--is already within the horizon of preparation. A

few weeks more, and our young people will be enjoying the

delights of Yule-tide, not the least of which is the perennial

Christmas Stocking. Most of us remember the eager--almost

feverish--anticipation with which we tied up our little stocking at

the head of our small bed, in the full faith that the mysterious but

kindly visitant of Christmas Eve would cram into it all sorts of

lovely things; and how when morning dawned, our first thought was

to reach it down to our pillow and explore its wonderful recesses.

But there are thousands of little children to whom these raptures

are unknown. They do not appear to have been put upon Santa Claus's

visiting list; and it seems hard that this venerable gentleman

should pass them over. These poor and friendless little ones, to be

found in every town and in many of our villages, want a kind-hearted

neighbour who will mention their names and addresses to that

genial but omniscient saint, and then, presto! there's joy for a

forlorn little chap or maiden "on Christmas Day in the morning." We

therefore earnestly invite all fathers and mothers, and uncles and

aunts, and all who love to see the children glad on the Saviour's

birthday, to co-operate with us in providing Christmas stockings

for those forlorn youngsters, into whose life scarcely a ray of

brightness ever enters. Not much is needed to give them this boon

by way of the Christmas stocking. A few wholesome goodies and a

simple toy will amply suffice to supply them with a fund of innocent

excitement and enjoyment. A sum of one shilling will furnish a

stocking and pay the postage, when combined in a large contract. We

have the happiness to announce that the proprietors of THE QUIVER

have kindly consented to head our subscription list with a sum

sufficient to provide the contents of

=FIVE HUNDRED CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS FOR POOR

AND FRIENDLESS CHILDREN.=

This is a good start, but this number will be quite inadequate

to the innumerable demands which are sure to be made upon us.

We therefore earnestly ask for further contributions from all

child-lovers who would sorely regret to see any tiny mite left

disappointed on Christmas Day.

We shall also be glad to receive recommendations from our readers

(as before in the case of our Christmas Hamper Fund) of suitable

cases for the supply of stockings. The special forms for this

purpose will be supplied in our Extra Christmas Number, and if

filled up in accordance with the directions there given will be

dealt with in the order in which they reach the Editor, as far as

the funds will permit. All contributions to the Christmas Stocking

Fund should be sent to the Editor of THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage,

London, E.C., and all amounts of one shilling and upwards will be

thankfully acknowledged in our pages.

Special Presentation Plate.

A separate large-size reproduction, printed in colours, of Mr. W.

Holman Hunt's great picture, "The Finding of the Saviour in the

Temple," is presented with this part; and, should there be any

difficulty in obtaining it, our readers are requested to communicate

at once with the publishers, giving the name and address of the

bookseller or other agent from whom they purchased the number.

"THE QUIVER" BIBLE CLASS.

(BASED ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCRIPTURE LESSONS.)

QUESTIONS.

1. What action of Manasseh, king of Judah, shows how terribly the

people had sunk into idolatry?

2. In what way did Manasseh seek to protect his country from

invasion?

3. What is remarkable in the latter part of Manasseh's life?

4. Quote a proverb which warns us of the danger of evil companions.

5. In what way does the wise man express the beauty of a holy life?

6. In whose reign do we find the king sending to a woman for advice?

7. What great discovery was made while the Temple was being repaired

in the reign of Josiah?

8. What proof have we that at one time the Jews were

fire-worshippers?

9. In whose reign did God carry out the judgment which He pronounced

against the altar at Bethel which Jeroboam had made?

10. Of what gross act of contempt against God was Jehoiakim, king of

Judah, guilty?

11. What acts of cruelty are recorded against King Jehoiakim?

12. In what way did God punish Jehoiakim for his iniquity?

ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 1147.

133. A tax of half a shekel of silver for every male of twenty years

old and upward (Exod. xxx. 12-14).

134. Joash, king of Judah, in order to obtain money for the

restoration of the Temple (2 Chron. xxiv. 6-9).

135. 2 Chron. xxiv. 8.

136. Isaiah is generally considered to have been the grandson of

King Joash, and thus has sometimes been called the royal prophet

(Isa. i. 1).

137. The altar seen by Isaiah in his vision was the altar of

burnt offering, on which the fire which came down from heaven was

perpetually burning (Isa. vi. 6; Lev. vi. 13; 2 Chron. vii. 1).

138. The effect of the teaching of the Gospel is to bring peace on

earth (Isa. xi. 6-10).

139. Isa. xi. 9.

140. In the reign of Hezekiah (2 Chron. xxx. 2; Numbers ix. 10, 11).

141. Because the Temple was not cleansed until the sixteenth day of

the first month (2 Chron. xxix. 3, 16-18).

142. It was the first Passover after the separation of Israel and

Judah at which any of the children of Israel were present (2 Chron.

xxx. 1).

143. By Sennacherib, whose army was destroyed by God in one night (2

Kings xviii. 17 and xix. 34, 35).

144. In the reign of Hezekiah (2 Kings xviii. 4).

* * * * *

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=).

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.

Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as

printed.

Missing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the

original text.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up

paragraphs.

Mismatched quotes are not fixed if it’s not sufficiently clear where

the missing quote should be placed.

The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the

transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Index page iii "NEGRO CAMP-MEETINGS IN THE STATES By

ELIZABETH L. BANKS 867"--The number 867 is unclear.

Page 67: Letters in [)] refer to a breve over the letter. Letters

in [=] refer to macron over the letter. "Sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la"

and "sunt m[)a]l[)a] pl[=u]ra".

End of Project Gutenberg's The Quiver, Annual Volume 1899, by Various