{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43738/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43738","id":"gutenberg_43738","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43738","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Gender & Sexuality Studies","Category: Health & Medicine","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Reports & Conference Proceedings","Religious newspapers and periodicals"],"text":"Transcriber's note:\n\nText enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\nText enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).\n\nSmall capital text has been replaced with all capitals.\n\nThe carat character (^) indicates that the following letter is\nsuperscripted (example: y^e).\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nThe Quiver 11/1899\n\n\n[Illustration: MOTHERHOOD.\n\n_After the Picture by_ MISS IDA LOVERING.]\n\n\n\n\nLADY DOCTORS IN HEATHEN LANDS\n\nBy the Author of \"The Child Wives and Widows of India,\" Etc.\n\n\nA garrison of snow-capped mountains; a valley smiling in Oriental\nluxuriance; the gorgeous, romantic loveliness described in\n\"Lalla Rookh\"--such are the general impressions of the land of\nKashmir. Dirt, disease, and degradation summed up its prevailing\ncharacteristics in the eyes of an Englishman, who, in October, 1872,\ntoiled wearily over the Pir Panjal, 11,900 feet above the level of\nthe sea.\n\nThis was Dr. Elmslie's last journey. He hardly realised, as he\ndragged his weary limbs over rough but familiar paths, that one\nobject for which he had struggled for years was practically\naccomplished. He sank from exhaustion on the way, and the day\nafter his death Government granted permission for missionaries to\nspend the winter in the Valley of Kashmir. Still farther was he\nfrom knowing of another result of his labours. He had appealed to\nEnglishwomen to bring the gifts of healing to suffering and secluded\ninmates of zenanas. Dr. Elmslie had found a direct way to the hearts\nof prejudiced heathen men. The sick came to him for healing, and\nlearnt the meaning of his self-denying life.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Elliott and Fry._)\n\nTHE LATE DR. FANNY BUTLER.\n\n(_At the time she went to India._)]\n\n\"Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life,\"\nare ancient words of wisdom; but this rule has exceptions. To Hindu\nwomen, at least, caste is dearer than life. It would be as easy\nto restore the down to a bruised butterfly's wing as to give back\nself-respect, and with it all that makes life worth living, to a\nzenana lady who has been exposed to the gaze or touch of a man other\nthan a near relation. Custom of the country debars a respectable\nwoman from receiving ministry to body, soul, or mind, unless it\ncomes from one of her own sex. Dr. Elmslie's appeal resulted in Miss\nFanny Butler's offer of service to the Indian Female Normal School\nand Instruction Society. She was the first enrolled student of the\nLondon School of Medicine, which had just been transferred from\nEdinburgh, and passed second out of one hundred and twenty-three\ncandidates, one hundred and nineteen of whom were men, in the\nPreliminary Arts Examination. She went to India in October, 1880,\nthe first fully qualified medical missionary to women.\n\nSeventeen years after Dr. Elmslie's death Dr. Fanny Butler obtained\nanother concession for Kashmir, the permission for missionaries to\nlive within the city of Srinagar. She saw the foundations of a new\nhospital for women begun within the city, and fourteen days after\nshe also laid down what, an hour before her death, she described\nas a \"good long life,\" in the service of Kashmiri people. The age\nof thirty-nine, she said to the friends who surrounded her, and\nwho felt that she of all others could not be spared, was \"not so\nvery young to die,\" and she sent an earnest plea to the Church of\nEngland Zenana Society, the division of the old society to which\nshe belonged, to send someone quickly to take her place. The new\nhospital was the gift of Mrs. Bishop (Miss Isabella Bird) in memory\nof her husband. She had seen the dirty crowd of suffering women at\nthe dispensary door overpower two men, and the earliest arrivals\nprecipitated head foremost by the rush from behind, whilst numbers\nwere turned away in misery and disappointment.\n\nHospitals and dispensaries have rapidly increased since the day\nof pioneers. Absolute necessity has forced medical work on many\nmissionaries in the field. The most elementary knowledge of nursing\nand hygiene appears miraculous to women sunk in utter ignorance. A\nwhite woman too modest to give them remedies for every ailment is\nusually regarded as unkind. A neglected missionary dispensary is\npractically unknown.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana\nMissionary Society._)\n\nOUTSIDE THE VERANDAH OF THE WOMEN'S HOSPITAL AT TARN TARAN.\n\n(_Showing some of the patients placed out to spend the hot night in\nthe open._)]\n\nAt the time when the Countess Dufferin started her admirable\nscheme for providing medical aid for Indian women a well-known\nAnglo-Indian surgeon stated publicly that, whatever other\nqualification was required in a candidate, two were absolutely\nnecessary: she must be a lady in the highest sense of the word,\nand she must be a Christian, and he proceeded to give good reasons\nfor what he said. The experience of every woman who has taken up\nthis work would bear out his sentiments. Without courtesy and\nready intuition of the feelings of others it would be hard to\nget an entrance into zenanas, and nothing but love and devotion\nto her Master would enable a woman to persevere in spending her\nlife amongst sick heathen women, in spite of sights, scenes, and\nvexations beyond conception in England.\n\n[Illustration: (_From a Photograph._)\n\nTHE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL, PESHAWUR.]\n\nThe greatest difficulties are probably met in high-caste zenanas.\nThere, in the midst of unhealthy surroundings, the friends and\nneighbours have grand opportunities of undoing any good that may\nhave been accomplished. It is grievous to a medical missionary to\nfind her fever patient dying from a douche of cold water, because\nthe white woman has defiled her high caste by feeling her pulse.\nIt is enough to make her give up a case in despair if, after she\nhas explained that quiet is absolutely necessary, the friends and\nneighbours decide that the evil spirit supposed to be in possession\nmust be driven out by the music of tom-toms. A Hindu man is said\nto \"sin religiously,\" and a Hindu woman excels him in devotion to\nher creed. A fever patient in the Punjab refused to drink milk--the\none thing of all others that her medical woman ordered her--because\nshe said, if it were the last thing she swallowed, her soul would\npass into the body of a cobra. One medical missionary found a\nwoman, who was in a critical state, lying on a mat, whilst an old\nwoman, supposed to be learned in sickness, stood on her body, or\npatrolled up and down like a sentinel, as far as the length would\nadmit. This was kindly meant. Another found one suffering seriously\nfrom the effect of a linseed poultice. She had carefully explained\nthe mysteries of making and applying it, but in her absence the\npatient's friends had spread dry linseed over her chest and poured\nboiling water over it.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Baness Bros._)\n\nWAITING THEIR TURN.\n\n(_Patients outside the Tarn Taran Hospital Dispensary._)]\n\nHappily, all the women in India are not secluded in zenanas. By\nfar the largest proportion live in the villages, but their notions\nof propriety are very strict. The hard-working field-women will hide\nthemselves on the suspicion of a _sahib_ being within reach. When\nonce they are satisfied that the visitor belongs to their own sex\nand is harmless, crowds beset the missionary encampments. Many tales\nof suffering are poured into sympathising ears.\n\n\"I am blind from crying for my only son\" is not an infrequent\ncomplaint. Nothing can be done in this case.\n\n\"There is no god or goddess to love a Hindu woman. Whatever\nofferings we make her, the goddess of small-pox smites us, and then\nthe men say the women have not offered enough, and are angry.\" This\nwas the reply of a Punjabi woman, who spoke for her friends and\nneighbours.\n\nOne Bengali woman told a missionary of the death of a precious baby\nboy. There did not seem much the matter, but the _hakim_ (a native\nquack) first gave him something burning to swallow, and then applied\na red-hot iron to each side in turn; and the child only drew one or\ntwo breaths after this treatment. This also, one hopes, was kindly\nmeant. The Hindus are by no means wanting in humanity, but ignorance\nis often as fatal as cruelty.\n\nMany patients find an excuse for coming again and again to the\ndispensaries. There they hear of blessings in this world and the\nnext which they say seem too good to be true. They see love shining\nin the earnest faces, and feel it in the touch of hands that will\nnot shrink from dressing repulsive sores.\n\nThe majority of cases in dispensaries are ordinary fevers or skin\ndiseases resulting from dirt, and other scourges that follow\ndefiance of elementary rules of health.\n\nPatients discharged as cured often return. \"Tell me again that Name\nthat I can say when I pray,\" one of them asked, to explain the\nreappearance of her shrivelled old face; \"I forget so soon.\" And she\nwent on her way repeating the Name that even some of the heathen\nrealise must be exalted above all others.\n\n\"I know that your Jesus must reign over our land,\" a Punjabi woman\nsaid to a lady who had opened a dispensary at Tarn Taran, a sacred\ncity of the Sikhs; \"I know it, because your religion is full of\nlove and ours has none at all.\"\n\nThe mission hospital at this city, with the name which literally\nmeans \"The Place of Salvation,\" and the dispensary seen in the\nillustration, came mainly into being through the determination\nof the inhabitants. A suffering baby might claim a share in its\nexistence. This infant's mother brought it to a missionary whose\ntraining as a nurse had made her a friend in sickness. The child's\nsight was hopelessly gone. The mother said that the _hakim_ had told\nher alum was good for sore eyes, so she had put it under the lids.\n\n\"You have used it in such a way as to blind your baby,\" the\nmissionary said; \"and I could have told you what to do.\"\n\n\"How should I know?\" the woman replied, using a common phrase to\nexpress helplessness or lethargy; but she told the story to her\nfriends, and other mothers, whose babies' eyes were suffering, soon\nproved that the white woman had made no empty boast. Ophthalmia\nis terribly common in India, and its marvellous cures began to be\nfamous.\n\nOne day a family party carried an invalid into the verandah of the\nTarn Taran mission house. The missionary looked inside the _doolie_;\nshe was not a doctor, and declined to undertake such a serious case,\nand told the men to take their invalid to the Amritsar Hospital.\nThey were determined to take no such trouble. To show that she was\nequally determined to make them, she went inside the house and shut\nthe doors and blinds. Who would hold out the longest? The result was\na foregone conclusion. The Punjabis, armed with a greater disregard\nfor a woman's life, gained the victory by the simple method of\nbeating a retreat, leaving the helpless woman behind them. In common\nhumanity she could not be left to die. In a few days her family\nreturned to inquire, and were gratified to find her progressing\ntowards recovery. The white woman's celebrity was now secured, and\nto her consternation and embarrassment she found her verandah full\nof patients, and, from overwork, was soon herself added to the\nnumber. The people of Tarn Taran afterwards gave the building for a\nWomen's Mission Hospital, and a new one is now in the charge of a\nfully qualified lady doctor.\n\nHospitals are by far the most satisfactory part of medical\nmissions. In zenanas and dispensaries it is one thing to prescribe\nand give advice, and another for orders to be obeyed, especially\nif they are contrary to rules of caste or custom. It is well known\nthat a Hindu soldier, who will follow his British officer into the\nfiercest _m\u00eal\u00e9e_, and, if necessary, die for him, if true to his own\ncreed, will not receive a cup of water at his hands. When wounded\nhis parched lips will close tightly, lest his caste should suffer.\nThe same principle debars his womenfolk from accepting physic in\na liquid form from Englishwomen. They may, however, take powders.\nWritten directions are generally useless, and verbal ones often\nmisunderstood. It is little wonder if dispensary patients make slow\nprogress.\n\n\"Are you sure you took the medicine I gave you?\" inquired a medical\nmissionary of one who made no advance at all.\n\n\"Quite sure, Miss Sahiba.\"\n\n\"How did you take it?\"\n\n\"I ate the paper and threw away the dust.\"\n\nThis mistake was not astonishing under the circumstances. One\nMohammedan specific is to swallow a paper pellet with the name of\nGod written in Arabic; another, for the _mullah_ to write an Arabic\ninscription on a plate, and for the water that washes it off to be\nthe dose.\n\n[Illustration: A GROUP OF WORKERS AT THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S\nHOSPITAL.\n\n(_Dr. Wheeler stands at the left-hand side of group._)]\n\nIt is well when superstition and misconception stop short at\nswallowing paper and inky water. A woman, seriously injured from\nan accident, was carried into the Duchess of Connaught Hospital,\nPeshawur. Her husband accompanied her, and saw the medical\nmissionary in charge carefully attend to fractures and bruises. Rest\nand sleep and quiet were doing their work, and the man was left to\nwatch. A sudden crash startled the ward. The husband had turned\nthe bedstead over on its side, and flung his wife down. He fancied\nshe was dying, and said it would imperil her soul if it departed\nwhilst she lay on anything but the floor. He had the satisfaction\nof knowing that she died where he placed her. This was a case\nof a Hindu \"sinning religiously.\" It would be harder to forgive\nthe frequent sacrifice of life to superstition, if there were no\nennobling element underlying it of honest desire for some vague\nspiritual good.\n\nThe Duchess of Connaught Hospital is a permanent memorial of her\nRoyal Highness's kind interest in the women of India. Whilst on the\nNorth-Western Frontier she went through the Dispensary and Nursing\nHome which represented the first effort to bring medical aid to the\nAfghan women, and allowed it to be called after her name. A new and\nmuch larger building, of which a drawing has been reproduced, has\ntaken the place of the native quarters, where Mohammedan bigotry\nwas by slow degrees overcome. For years the ladies of the Church of\nEngland Zenana Missionary Society, who had charge of this hospital,\nwere the only Europeans living within the walls of Peshawur.\nEvery night the great city gates closed them in, and separated\nthem from other missionaries and from Government servants. They\nchose to be in the midst of their work, and though outbreaks of\nMohammedan fanaticism repeatedly checked teaching in schools and\nzenanas, ministry to the sick continued, and never lost the friendly\nconfidence of Peshawuris.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana\nMissionary Society._)\n\nSTAFF AND PATIENTS OF ST. CATHERINE'S HOSPITAL, AMRITSAR.]\n\nIn its early and humbler days, the fame of this hospital reached\nfar-away Khorassan. A lady of that country who was suffering\nterribly, caused herself to be carried the fifteen days' journey to\nPeshawur. Miss Mitcheson, who opened the first dispensary, and is\nnow the head of the hospital, saw that her case was critical and\nrequired an operation of a far more serious kind than she had ever\nattempted, and begged her to allow the civil surgeon to see her.\n\n\"I would rather die,\" the patient answered. The combined forces of\nsuffering, fear of death, and persuasion, were powerless to move\nher. The Englishwoman, of whose powers she had heard in her own\ncountry, might do what she liked with her, but no man should come\nnear her. Happily Miss Mitcheson successfully accomplished what was\nnecessary, and the Khorassan lady made a good recovery. When the\ntime came for parting from her new friends, she promised to use in\nher own country the knowledge she had gained in Peshawur. She kept\nher word, as more visitors from Khorassan testified, and they said\nshe had not forgotten the benefits she had received in the mission\nhospital.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society._)\n\nBACK VIEW OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW.]\n\nDuring Miss Mitcheson's absence in England Dr. Charlotte Wheeler,\nwho with her fellow-workers, in the illustration on p. 102, stands\nin the verandah of the old building, superintended the medical work.\nOn Miss Mitcheson's return, Miss Wheeler opened a medical mission\namongst the women in Quetta. This work extended rapidly on and\nbeyond the frontier, so that in November, 1896, when it was a year\nold, eight different languages were spoken on the same day in the\ndispensary waiting room.\n\nInstitutions for training Christian girls of India as doctors or\nnurses have come into existence as the number of candidates has\nincreased and the necessity has arisen. The North India School\nof Medicine has been established at Ludhiana with this object.\nMany of the mission hospitals also have training classes. St.\nCatherine's Hospital, Amritsar, under the superintendence of Miss\nHewlett, who has had nineteen years' experience, has provided very\nvaluable assistant medical missionaries for stations in the Punjab\nand Bengal. At the last census a hundred Christian women--counting\nmissionaries, assistants, patients, nurses and students--were within\nits walls. An illustration shows the inmates mustering before going\nto church.\n\nOne student in St. Catherine's Hospital, who had gained a\nscholarship, gave promise of a brilliant career. Before the time\nof study in which she delighted was over, the lady superintendent\nbecame suspicious of what this young girl described as broken\nchilblains on her fingers. A doctor was called in, and confirmed\nher impression that it was leprosy. An Eastern girl knows, what in\nEurope is only faintly imagined, of the horrors of this loathsome\ndisease. One cry of anguish only escaped her when she was told\nthe verdict. Then she rose above the trial, and resigned herself\ncheerfully to the will of God. She was prepared to start the next\nday for the Leper Settlement near Calcutta without meeting her\nfriends or fellow-students for a word of farewell.\n\n\"What comforts me,\" she said to the Clerical Secretary of the Church\nof England Zenana Missionary Society, who was in Amritsar at the\ntime, \"is that I may go as a missionary rather than as a patient.\"\n\nShe went to that place of death and banishment, to live out the rest\nof her days in ministry for others. In her case the days lingered\ninto years, and the disease took a severe form, but her devotion\nand courage never failed. When death came to her as a friend, and\nher work was done, the memory of the \"superior girl,\" who had lived\namong the afflicted people as a missionary rather than a patient,\nremained. Perhaps her fellowship in suffering gave her the final\nqualification to be a missionary to lepers.\n\nIndia is the land which above all others cries out for lady medical\nmissionaries; but other Eastern countries have also a claim.\nWherever Islam has planted its iron heel, women are jealously\nguarded in harems, and it is very unusual for a man to be allowed\nentrance on any pretext. In China, also, women of superior class are\nhidden within the high walls that surround their houses. Those free\nto go out gain little but suffering from the barbarous attentions of\nnative surgeons. In the East the knowledge which brings relief from\npain is a power to overcome obstacles to Christianity that resist\nevery other force.\n\nThe Church of England Zenana Missionary Society has sent out a\nqualified lady doctor to Foochow, and in 1894 the Church Missionary\nSociety opened a hospital for women in Hangchow with one large\nand six smaller wards. One patient who was brought into this\nbuilding--of which two views are given--suffering from diseased\nbones, has gone out to devote her recovered health and new knowledge\nto the service of God and her own countrywomen.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society._)\n\nINTERIOR OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW]\n\nThere is scarcely a mission hospital or dispensary that cannot\ntell of similar results of the double ministry to body and soul.\nEach year justifies the increased number of women with medical\nqualifications sent into the mission field. Some, like Mrs.\nRussell Watson, of the Baptist Mission at Chefu, are the wives of\nmissionaries, others have been sent out by various missions, such\nas the Zenana Bible and Medical Mission, or by the women's branches\n(added during the close of the present century), to the more\nvenerable societies.\n\nDr. Henry Martyn Clark, of Amritsar, once asked a friendly Hindu\nwhat department of foreign missions his people considered most\ndangerous.\n\n\"Why should I reveal our secrets to the enemy?\" the Hindu responded.\nBut he yielded to persuasion. \"We do not very much fear your\npreaching,\" he said, \"for we need not listen; nor your schools, for\nwe need not send our children; nor your books, for we need not read\nthem. But we do fear your women, for they are gaining our homes; and\nwe very much fear your medical missions, for they are gaining our\nhearts. Hearts and homes gone, what shall we have left?\"\n\nWhat may be expected when medical and women's missions are combined?\nAccording to the friendly Hindu, the very citadels of idolatry and\nsuperstition might tremble at the advance of this double force to\nrescue the captives.\n\n  D. L. WOOLMER.\n\n[Illustration: OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDS]\n\nThis month we devote our space to a pictorial representation of an\nheroic act by James Williamson, a fisherman of Whalsay, Shetland.\nDuring a heavy storm he waded out to the succour of two companions,\nwho had been pinned on the rocks by their capsized boat and were\nin imminent danger of drowning. Williamson was at first carried\naway by a heavy sea, but was returned by the next. Then with an\nextraordinary effort he lifted the side of the boat, seized the men,\nand, with one under each arm, fought his way through the boiling\nsurf to dry land. For this conspicuous act of bravery Williamson was\nawarded the Silver Medal of THE QUIVER Heroes Fund.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: PLEDGED]\n\nPLEDGED\n\nBy Katharine Tynan, Author of \"A Daughter of Erin,\" Etc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nYOUTH AT THE PROW.\n\n\n\"And then, old fellow,\" went on Sir Anthony's letter to Jack Leslie,\nof the Blues, his particular chum, \"I stood staring, with my eyes\nwatering and a little scratch on my nose bleeding where the old\nrooster--for a rooster it was--struck me with his spurs as he flew.\nHe might have knocked out my eye, the brute! The second missile (an\ninvention they call a sun-bonnet, I believe, made of pink calico and\nhorribly stiffened) lay crumpled at my feet. And there in front of\nme stood the culprit herself, looking half-ashamed and half-inclined\nto follow the example of the other sun-bonnet which had buried\nitself in a big chair at the end of the room, and made scarcely a\npretence of stifling its peals of laughter. I felt no end of a ninny\nI can tell you, especially as the owner of the first sun-bonnet was\nby long chalks the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen.\n\n\"I'm no good at describing a girl's charms, but even at the first\nglance her beautiful violet eyes struck me. Blue eyes and black\nlashes and eyebrows--it is a thing happens over here sometimes,\nthey tell me. Then, though she'd been rushing about after the\nancient barnyard fowl who was to have graced the table in my honour,\nshe had no more colour than a white rose; and yet she looked the\npicture of health and life--so different from fine ladies. This was\nMiss Pamela--Pam for short--as I discovered later. To finish her\ndescription, her charming head is covered with a mass of short black\ncurls. She had a very shabby frock on, which didn't take a bit from\nher loveliness. I couldn't help wondering what the mater would have\nthought if she could have seen her. She would surely have called her\n'a young woman,' with that superb contempt of hers.\n\n\"However, the breeding tells. Nothing could have been finer than the\nlittle air with which she pulled herself together, and said, as if\nit were an every-day thing to blind and maim your visitors:\n\n\"'You must be Sir Anthony Trevithick. I am so sorry. That wretched\nfowl flew in through the open window, and we've been three-quarters\nof an hour chasing him round. It was so unfortunate his flying out\njust at that moment, and still more unfortunate that I should have\nflung my bonnet after him. But you've no idea how he had aggravated\nus.'\n\n\"I assure you the mater couldn't have done it better, if one could\nconceivably imagine the mater under such circumstances.\n\n\"I could think of nothing to do but to pick up the bonnet and hand\nit to her, muttering some idiocy about it not mattering a bit. While\nthis was going on the laughter in the chair was dying off in sobs of\nenjoyment.\n\n\"But before we could get any further Mr. Graydon himself made his\nappearance. I suppose something about my looks struck him--for a\ncucumber wasn't in it for coolness with Miss Pam--because he said,\n'Why, bless me, Sir Anthony! what's the matter? What's the matter,\nPam? Why, Sir Anthony, your nose is bleeding!'\n\n[Illustration: \"The old rooster struck me with his spurs.\"--_p._\n107.]\n\n\"'Why, so it is!' said Miss Pam, calmly. 'Sir Anthony was trying\nto catch the red cock, papa, with a view to his dinner, but he's\nescaped, I'm sorry to say, and the dinner with him. It will be\ndays before he comes home after the alarm we've given him. I'm\nso sorry you're wounded, Sir Anthony. Can I get you a little\nsticking-plaster?'\n\n\"'I never know where I shall find the fowls in this house,' said\nMr. Graydon, a little irascibly, I thought; 'but the drawing-room\nat least ought to be kept free from them. Why, Sylvia, what are you\ndoing there, child? Come here, and speak to Sir Anthony.'\n\n\"I expected a small child to come out of the big chair in answer to\nthe summons; but, lo and behold! out of the sun-bonnet there looked\nanother satin-cheeked damsel, almost as beautiful as the first. She\nmade her bow demurely, and, I assure you, there wasn't a feather out\nof her after her fits of laughter at my expense. She had rather an\necstatic look, and her eyes were a bit moist--that was all. I can\ntell you I never felt so small in my life as when I stood up before\nthose impudent girls, for I could see that the pair of them were\nhugely delighted at the whole affair.\n\n\"'Get some tea for Sir Anthony, girls,' said the father, 'and see\nthat he has hot water taken to his room; he's had a long journey.\nSit down, my lad--that is, if there's a chair in the room without a\ndog on it. Here, Mark Antony, you lazy animal, come off that sofa.'\nThis to the fattest bulldog I ever saw--with such a jowl. He's Miss\nSylvia's, and an amiable dog, despite his looks.\n\n\"Then the eldest daughter came in--not a patch on the others for\nbeauty, but a Madonna of a creature, with a beautiful voice and a\nrather sad expression. She was greatly concerned about my scratched\nnose. But all the time she was talking I noticed that she looked at\nher father steadily reproachful. At last he noticed it too, for he\nsuddenly blurted out:\n\n\"'Why, bless my soul! Molly, I forgot all about it,' and then he\nstopped and laughed. Miss Pamela has told me since that they had\ninstructed their father to keep me on the way as long as possible.\n\n\"You'll gather that it is a rather rummy place. It is. The windows\nin my bedroom are mended with brown paper, and there are holes in\nthe floor you could put your foot through. Not that my father's son\nneed mind little hardships. But I am amused to think of what the\nmater would say, with her notions of things.\n\n\"By the way, if you're in Brook Street any time, don't repeat\nwhat I've told you. The mater hated my coming here. She has some\nextraordinary prejudice against Graydon, though he scarcely seems\nto remember her. But as I've given up my desire for soldiering to\nplease her, it's my turn now to please myself by reading for this\nForeign Office grind with my father's old friend.\n\n\"A word more and I am done. You'll think me as long-winded as\nsome of those old women at the clubs. But their ways here are too\ndelicious. The establishment is managed by one old woman--Bridget,\nwho seems mistress, maid, and man rolled, in one. Well, the morning\nafter I came, when I rang for my shaving water there was no\nresponse. At last I heard a foot go by my door, and I looked out\ncautiously. It was Bridget, and to her I made my request. 'Why,\nbless the boy!' she said, staring at me, 'You haven't been pullin'\nthat old bell that's never rung in the memory of man?' I assured her\nI had. 'Well, then,' she said, 'goodness help your little wit! An'\nso ye want shavin' water, do ye? Sure, I thought ye wor a bit of a\nboy, that never wanted shavin' at all, at all!' However, she brought\nme the water obligingly, in an extraordinary piece of kitchen\ncrockery. 'I suppose you're used to valetin',' she said. ''Twas\nMisther Mick spoiled me entirely for other young gentlemen. He'd\ndart down for his shavin' water--aye, many a time before I had the\nkitchen fire lit.' Mr. Mick was apparently a former pupil; I often\nhear of him.\n\n\"There's any amount of sport here, but I won't tantalise you. I like\nGraydon better every day; he's a dear old boy, and though he's in\nthe clouds half the time when he's supposed to be coaching me, I can\nsee that he knows more than half the tutors in London put together.\nHe's a delightful companion out of doors, a good sportsman, and as\nyoung as the youngest.\n\n\"It's a mystery his being buried here. But I've no time to try to\nunriddle it now, and you'll never get as far as this, I expect.\nGood-bye, old fellow--I'm extremely well satisfied with my present\nquarters, and pity you in Knightsbridge. I suppose town is getting\nempty.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen this enormous epistle was finished and sealed, the young\ngentleman put it in his pocket and went downstairs. His pace was\nhastened by the fact that he could hear the joyful yelping of dogs\nin the hall, from which he gathered that someone besides himself was\nbent on outdoor exercise. Indeed, as he reached the hall and caught\nhis hat from one of the dusty antlers, he saw the two younger Miss\nGraydons setting out amid their leaping and yelping escorts. He\nhurried after and overtook them.\n\n\"May I come with you?\" he asked eagerly. \"I've a very important\nletter to post, and if you're going to the village you might perhaps\npoint out the post-office. I'm such a duffer at finding out things\nfor myself.\"\n\n\"But we're turning our backs on the village,\" said Miss Sylvia,\n\"going in exactly the opposite direction.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, then, it doesn't matter; the letter can wait till another\ntime.\"\n\n\"Though it is so important. Oh, but you must post it. We'll put you\non the way for the village. You turn to the right and we to the left\nwhen we reach the gate; then you'll walk straight into the arms of\nthe post-office.\"\n\nPamela, who had not yet spoken, turned her heavenly-coloured eyes\non her sister, but without speaking. Something in the look made the\nyoung fellow's heart throb suddenly.\n\n\"Ah, Miss Sylvia,\" he said imploringly, \"don't put difficulties in\nmy way. I want to come for a walk, if you will have me, and the\nletter can wait. I'm not contemplative enough to enjoy a country\nwalk alone; and it will be a pleasure to walk with you and your\nsister.\"\n\n\"And the dogs?\"\n\n\"And the dogs. The joys of a country walk are doubled in the society\nof dogs.\"\n\n\"I hope you'll think so when you have the felicity of fishing them\nout of a bog-hole. They will chase every beast they see; and our\nneighbour, Jack Malone's black cow, Polly, always leads them such a\ndance, ending up deservedly in a bog-hole.\"\n\n\"I'll try to endure even that, Miss Sylvia.\"\n\n\"Then if Mark Antony gets a thorn in his paw, as he almost\ninvariably does, you'll have to carry him home.\"\n\n\"He must weigh three stone, Miss Sylvia.\"\n\n\"About that, Sir Anthony.\"\n\n\"Then it is better I should carry him than you.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you're bent on it, Sir Anthony.\"\n\n\"If you're not bent against it, Miss Sylvia.\"\n\n\"Well, come along then, for this is the parting of the ways.\"\n\nThey had arrived at the gate by this time.\n\n\"Sylvia should have told you, Sir Anthony, that though we turn our\nbacks on the village, yet we pass a wall letter-box, which the\npostman empties on his way to Lettergort.\"\n\nIt was Pamela speaking for the first time, and in this less\nhoydenish mood of hers she had a likeness to her gentle elder sister.\n\n\"I'm not surprised to hear it, Miss Pamela. I guessed Miss Sylvia\nwas only piling up the difficulties to tease me. But I was not to be\nput off.\"\n\n\"You are really a most persistent person, Sir Anthony.\"\n\n\"I know when I want a thing and mean to get it, Miss Sylvia.\"\n\n\"Did you ever see anything more beautiful than the rose-light on\nthat mountain, Sir Anthony?\"\n\n\"I have seen more beautiful things, Miss Pamela.\"\n\nHe spoke with the utmost simplicity, but the girl blushed\nnevertheless, and was furious with herself for blushing.\n\n\"See how rosy the peak is,\" she went on in some confusion, \"but the\nwoods are purple at the base. If we were over there where the road\nwinds round the hill-foot, we should hear nothing but the singing of\nlittle streams. They are chattering through the bracken everywhere,\nand spilling into the road, where they make little channels for\nthemselves, clear as amber.\"\n\n\"They make your boots very wet and your skirt draggle-tailed,\"\nremarked Sylvia.\n\n\"I see chimneys rising above the wood,\" said Sir Anthony. \"Is there\na house there, then?\"\n\n\"There is, but it is empty at present. It belongs to Lord Glengall,\nwho is away just now. It has a queer story attached to it.\"\n\n\"Indeed?\"\n\n\"Yes. Lord Glengall went to Australia as a boy, and was unheard\nof for years. His mother lived there, with one old servant, in\nthe bitterest poverty. She was so proud no one dared to interfere,\nuntil, it having been noticed that the chimneys were smokeless\nfor days, the house was entered by force, and mistress and maid\nwere found dying of starvation side by side. The house was full of\nvaluables--lace and plate, and all kinds of lovely things--but they\nwere heirlooms, and the old lady would rather starve than sell them,\nand the old servant was quite of the same mind.\"\n\n\"What happened then?\"\n\n\"They were taken off to the Rectory by old Mr. Rogers, who died last\nyear. And in the nick of time Lord Glengall, whom everyone said was\ndead, turned up safe and sound to nurse his old mother. 'I kept the\nthings together for you, my boy,' she said as soon as she recognised\nhim.\n\n\"And the next thing she said,\" went on Sylvia, taking up the tale,\n\"was, 'Where's that cat?' The faithfulness of animals, Sir Anthony!\nOld Tib, with whom they had shared all their short-commons, had, it\nseems, stolen the very last drop of milk that stood between them and\nstarvation, and had then escaped through a window into the woods. 'I\nshould like to give him a good hiding before I die.' That was the\nsecond speech of the indomitable old lady.\"\n\n\"What a chance for the novelist this country of yours presents!\"\nsaid Sir Anthony.\n\n\"But that fortunately he never comes our way,\" replied Pamela.\n\n\"Your father promised me you would take me fishing one day.\" He\nspoke to Sylvia, but his eyes turned from her to Pamela.\n\n\"So we shall,\" said Sylvia readily.\n\n\"The river runs quite close to the house?\"\n\n\"Yes, but if you want the pleasantest fishing, you must climb for\nit. Up there in the hills are little golden-brown trout-streams\nrunning through the valleys under the shadow of woods, and they are\nfull of trout spoiling to be caught.\"\n\n\"You know the best places, Miss Sylvia.\"\n\n\"Don't let her guide you, Sir Anthony. I'll tell you a story about\nher. She was always tantalising Mick St. Leger, an old pupil of\npapa's, who is in India now, with stories of a wonderful pike which\ninhabited one of the big holes in the Moyle. Well, poor Mick used\nto sit and fish for hours, now and then catching a little fish by\naccident, for his heart wasn't in it for thinking of Sylvia's big\npike. And Sylvia used to sit by watching him, apparently full of\nsympathy. One day he was fishing the big hole as usual, when he\ngave a long whistle. 'What is it, Mick?' Sylvia cried, running to\nhim. 'It feels like a twenty-pounder,' said poor Mick, very red in\nthe face. 'Oh, Mick, do let me help!' cried Sylvia. And then, with\nan immense deal of carefulness, and poor Mick holding on like grim\ndeath, they reeled up an old tin can full of stones, in the handle\nof which Mick's line was caught.\"\n\n\"Mick would never have known,\" said Sylvia dispassionately, \"if\nlittle Patsy Murray hadn't come running after me a week later,\ncalling out, 'Where's that apple ye promised me for sinkin' me\nmother's ould can in the river?' Mick never believed in me as an\nhonest angler afterwards.\"\n\n\"No wonder! But to think your father should have suggested you as my\nguide, Miss Sylvia!\"\n\n\"Pam's just as bad, Sir Anthony. I generally do the things, but Pam\nencourages me.\"\n\nPamela again turned those eyes of heaven's own colour in mute\nreproach upon her sister.\n\n\"I'll have faith in you, Miss Pam,\" said Sir Anthony impulsively,\n\"no matter what your sister says to the contrary.\"\n\nAnd he meant his rash promise.\n\n[Illustration: \"The letter can wait till another time.\"--_p._ 109.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE WISHING WELL.\n\n\n\"My friends generally call me Tony,\" said a voice, the youthful\ngrowl of which was subdued to all possible softness.\n\n\"We have known each other such a little while,\" replied Pamela,\nlooking down at the ground, which had begun to cover itself in the\nflying gold of the autumn woods.\n\n\"As the calendar counts; but we--'we count time by\nheart-throbs'--doesn't somebody say that?\"\n\nA colour, like a pink rose-leaf, warmed in Pamela's clear cheek.\n\n\"We have become very good friends,\" she said, \"seeing that it is\nonly six--or is it seven?--weeks ago since we met.\"\n\n\"It is eight,\" said the youth. \"I came in mid-July, and now it is\nmid-September. But it sometimes seems to me that I have always been\nhere, and that my life elsewhere was but a dream.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Tell me what you wished for?\"]\n\n\"If that were so,\" she said demurely--and for a moment the violet\neyes looked up at him under their shadow of night--\"if that were so,\nthen I might really call you by your name, Sir Anthony. But it is\ntoo soon.\"\n\n\"Then you will one day, Miss Pamela? How many days must go by first?\nYou called that other man--St. Leger--by his name. It is 'Mick' with\nall of you.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Pamela, again with the bewildering glance; \"but Mick was\nMick, you see.\"\n\nA sudden irrational anger kindled in the young man's eye, and his\nexpression stiffened.\n\n\"Oh, I see,\" he said. \"This paragon had special privileges which no\none else may hope to share.\"\n\n\"He certainly had,\" said Pamela. \"For no one else would endure them,\npoor dear!\"\n\n\"Now, what do you mean by that?\" he said doubtfully. \"Do you mean\nthe privilege of being called by his name?\"\n\n\"No, but the privilege of my society and Sylvia's.\"\n\n\"He must have been jolly hard to please.\"\n\n\"He wasn't, then. He was as easily pleased as a child. I should\nlike to have seen you in some of the situations in which Mick\ndistinguished himself.\"\n\n\"I daresay I'd be very undistinguished. I make no pretence of being\na paragon.\"\n\n\"It would be useless to, Sir Anthony.\"\n\n\"I don't dispute it, Miss Pamela. I suppose we'd better be making\nfor home?\"\n\nHe turned and walked sulkily along the forest path with the girl by\nhis side. For a second there was silence; then Pamela broke it by\nsaying softly:\n\n\"I often have thought that one reason why Molly fell in love with\nMick was because she pitied him so much. He came to the wall in all\nour escapades. Of course, he was always in love with Molly, but I\nbelieve it was in protecting him from us that she became so fond of\nhim.\"\n\n\"He is your sister's lover, then?\" incredulously.\n\n\"Why, _of course_ he is. Whose did you suppose he was?\"\n\n\"Yours, Miss Pamela.\"\n\n\"Mine! why, he'd never look at me when Molly was by. Besides, you\ndon't know how horribly we ill-used the poor dear fellow.\"\n\n\"Miss Pam, I wish you'd ill-use me.\"\n\n\"You wouldn't like it at all, Sir Anthony.\"\n\n\"Yes, I should, Miss Pamela. So Mick is engaged to your sister. What\nan ass I have been!\"\n\n\"Yes, poor dears, they are engaged, without the remotest prospect\nof ever being married that I can see. Mick's a subaltern in a line\nregiment, with just his pay--he got in through the Militia--and\nMolly, needless to say, hasn't a penny.\"\n\n\"He's a lucky fellow, all the same. And now, Miss Pamela, what have\nwe been quarrelling about?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know, Sir Anthony. Have we been quarrelling?\"\n\n\"_I_ have.\"\n\n\"But I haven't. I did think you were a little cross about something.\nBut here is the Wishing Well that I told you about.\"\n\nThey had come on a little glade of the forest, in the midst of which\nwas a brier heavy with blackberries. The bush hooded a little space,\nand, looking underneath, one saw, as in a cup, a still depth of\nwater over pebbles of gold and silver.\n\n\"You are to drink, Sir Anthony, without spilling a drop, and think\non your wish at the same time.\"\n\n\"Drink from what, Miss Pamela?\"\n\n\"Why, from your hands, of course.\"\n\n\"I couldn't; the water would all run away.\"\n\n\"No, it wouldn't. See how I manage it.\"\n\nThe girl scooped the water into her rosy palms and drank it slowly.\nThen she looked at him, and again the wave of rose flowed in her\ncheek.\n\n\"I never could manage it; I'm such a duffer at things. Miss Pamela,\nwould you let me drink from your hands? _Do!_\"\n\nWithout a word she stooped and lifted the water and held it to him.\nHe drank from the rosy cup to the last drop. Then he suddenly caught\nthe hands that had served him, and pressed them to his lips. For a\nmoment they were yielded to him, and then the girl drew back. He\nthought she trembled a little, and the ardour in his gaze grew.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" he said, \"but I couldn't help it. You are not angry,\nMiss Pamela?\"\n\n\"I am going home, Sir Anthony,\" she said.\n\n\"Not till you tell me one thing----\"\n\nHe barred her way, putting himself in front of her. \"Tell me what\nyou wished for.\"\n\nHer eyes fell before his, and as she stood with her hands clasped,\nand her head bent, she was a different creature from the wild Pamela\nof a few short weeks ago. The sunlight through the thinned branches\nfell on her short curls, for her hat--which she had been swinging by\na ribbon--had fallen to her feet.\n\n\"Look at me,\" he said; \"I want to see what is in your eyes.\"\n\nShe lifted them obediently, and then let them fall again.\n\n\"Ah, that is enough,\" he said, with exultation in his voice. \"You\nhave answered me, Pam. That is enough just for the present. Some day\nI shall tell you what I wished for, and we shall see if our wishes\ncome true. A double wish should have double force to induce its\nfulfilment. Isn't it so, Pam?\"\n\nShe said nothing, and he looked at her with triumph shining in his\neyes. Blent with it was the tenderness of a lover when he knows he\nis loved, and just a shade of shamefacedness as well.\n\n\"We must be wise, little beautiful Pamela,\" he said presently, in a\nlow voice. \"We must be wise and wait. I mustn't ask yet all I would\nask, but I will one day--one good day, Pamela. You will trust me,\nwon't you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Pamela, hardly knowing what she was asked.\n\n\"It will not be for long. Indeed, I could not endure it for long.\nShall we be friends for a little while longer, Pamela darling?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Pamela, forgetting to rebuke him.\n\n\"After to-day I will not call you darling till I have the right\nbefore all the world. After to-day. I meant to have held my tongue,\nbut you bewildered me, Pamela. You are not angry with me?\"\n\n\"No,\" came almost in a whisper.\n\n\"Lift up your eyes to me and say it. That is right. How beautiful\nyour eyes are, Pamela! Say 'Tony,' now.\"\n\n\"Tony!\"\n\n\"Dear Tony.\"\n\n\"Dear Tony!\"\n\n\"How sweetly you say it! It is like silver in your voice. But, come\nnow, we will go home. I have to be wise, you know. Ah, Pamela,\nPamela! why did you bring me to the Wishing Well?\"\n\n\"You wanted to go.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know; but it was an accident that we were alone, or it was\nFate--yes, it was surely Fate that sent Miss Spencer's carriage for\nyour sister at the last moment, so that we had to take our walk\nwithout her. Shall we go now, and talk no more about love to-day?\"\n\nPamela hesitated, and then said:\n\n\"Poor Sylvia! She has spent this lovely afternoon shut up with an\nold lady and a dog.\"\n\n\"She wouldn't mind the dog, I fancy, Pam.\"\n\n\"Nor the old lady. Sylvia is fond of Miss Spencer, strange as it may\nseem.\"\n\n\"Why is it strange, Pam? I can't help using the sweet little name.\"\n\nHe had taken her hand by this time, and they were walking like\nchildren down the aisle of golden trees.\n\n\"You haven't seen Miss Spencer. She is a little mad and a little\ngrotesque to most people. But she is devoted to Sylvia, and Sylvia\nto her. She is not mad to Sylvia.\"\n\n\"How does it come that I haven't seen Miss Spencer?\"\n\n\"She has been abroad. You'll see her one of these days, I expect.\nShe was crossed in love in her youth, and it seems to have made her\nstrange in ways. She's immensely wealthy, and gives a good deal in\ncharity, but mostly among single women. She seems to think that\nthose who have husbands and children don't need pity.\"\n\n\"She's quite safe for your sister to be with?\"\n\n\"Oh, quite. She has all her senses, only that she's a trifle\npeculiar. She's a splendid business woman, everyone says.\"\n\n\"It is a curious friendship. I should never have supposed it of Miss\nSylvia.\"\n\n\"No. One funny thing is that Miss Spencer's full of sentiment--wait\ntill you hear her sing 'She wore a Wreath of Roses'--whereas\nSylvia's quite without sentiment, and laughs at everything\nsentimental.\"\n\n\"I feel sorry for the poor old thing,\" said Sir Anthony, with a\nhalf-ashamed laugh, \"because she was crossed in love. I shouldn't\nlike to be crossed in love myself, Pamela.\"\n\n\"It was cruel,\" said Pamela simply. \"The man made her love him, and\nthen went away and never came back. She was poor then. She inherited\nDovercourt quite unexpectedly.\"\n\n\"What a sweep he must have been!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Come along, Trevithick,\" he cried, rushing away.]\n\n\"Poor Miss Spencer always thinks he will come back, though people\nsay he married abroad and died there. I tell you all this so that\nyou won't be the least bit in the world inclined to laugh when you\nsee her. I daresay it's funny enough to see a pink silk coal-scuttle\nbonnet on top of a grey head; but then, you know, you don't feel\nlike laughing.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, darling.\"\n\n\"Sylvia says it's made a man-hater of her. That's how she excuses\nherself for treating her admirers so outrageously.\"\n\n\"I'd have fallen in love with Sylvia myself, only for you, Pamela.\"\n\n\"It's lucky you didn't, Tony.\" The name came with soft hesitation.\n\n\"Why, Pam?\"\n\n\"She'd have laughed in your face.\"\n\n\"I'd rather have your way, Pam.\"\n\n\"My way?\"\n\n\"Though it made me behave worse than I intended. But never mind. A\nlittle time will unravel the tangled skein. Now we are nearly out of\nthe wood. Ah, Pamela! kiss me once--I shall not ask you again till I\nhave the full right.\"\n\nWithout a word the girl lifted her face to meet his kiss. To her it\nwas the kiss of betrothal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\"I WILL COME AGAIN, MY DEAR.\"\n\n\n\"I wish my friend, Glengall, were at home,\" said Mr. Graydon,\nleaning back in the chair by the study fire. \"He'd give you a mount\nwhile you were waiting for Johnny Maher's little mare. The hounds\nmeet at Lettergort to-day.\"\n\nHe looked wistfully through the bare trees on the lawn, as though\nhe saw in imagination the scarlet horsemen pounding away after the\nstreaming line of hounds.\n\nHis pupil thrust into a book a sketch of Pamela which he had been\nmaking absent-mindedly.\n\n\"Why don't you hunt, sir?\" he asked, with sympathy.\n\n\"So I do, my lad, when I can. But I can't afford to keep a horse,\nand there aren't many mounts to be had here. Glengall is going to\nset up stables when he comes back, and I'll have the run of them, I\nsuppose. He's a good fellow--one wouldn't mind being obliged to him.\"\n\n\"The mare'll be a good one when she's broken,\" said the young man.\n\n\"The best in the world for Irish fences, if she does look a bit\nroughish.\"\n\n\"You'll ride her for me, when I am away at Christmas, to get her\nmouth in?\"\n\n\"Thank you, my lad; I should like to.\" Mr. Graydon's eye kindled\nwith pleasure. \"But I didn't know you were going. It seems a longish\nway to go home for Christmas.\"\n\n\"My mother would like to see me.\"\n\n\"To be sure, to be sure. I quite understand, and, of course, there\nare friends in London you naturally want to see.\"\n\n\"No one very particularly, sir.\"\n\n\"Ah, well! it will be a holiday from this dull place.\"\n\n\"No, I assure you, sir. It is partly because I have some--some\nbusiness I want to settle. It is really true that there is no one\nI go to see whom I regard more than the friends I shall be leaving\nbehind.\"\n\nSir Anthony blushed hotly over this avowal, but his unsuspicious\nhost only saw in it the shamefacedness with which a man, and\nespecially a young man, makes a display of his feelings.\n\n\"Now, that is kind of you,\" he said, looking at his pupil\nbenignantly. \"I am sure our Christmas will be dull without you. Do\nthe girls know you are going? They won't like it, eh? And they will\nbe disappointed that you will not be here for the Vandaleur affair.\"\n\n\"I am coming back for that, sir.\"\n\n\"I am glad. It is really the children's first outing. It is a dull\nenough affair for young people, but then they will wear their pretty\nfrocks and see strange faces. We are such quiet people, Trevithick,\nthat even Vandaleur's big dinner and reception, which comes off\nregularly whenever there is a general election in sight\"--Mr.\nGraydon broke off to laugh and rub his hands--\"is an event for us.\nBut we are forgetting our Tacitus, my boy. Let us get back to the\nold fellow.\"\n\nAt that moment there was the sound of a horn, and, with the shout of\na boy, Mr. Graydon was up.\n\n\"Come along, Trevithick,\" he cried, rushing away, hatless and\ncoatless. \"We shall get a glimpse of them. What a day for a scent!\nThey are sure to find at Larry's Spinney.\"\n\nHis words came back to his pupil, who was getting under weigh more\nleisurely.\n\n\"Dear old boy!\" he muttered to himself. \"It's not surprising my\nfather never forgot him. I wonder why the mater regards him with so\ndeadly a hatred, though?\"\n\nAt lunch Mr. Graydon announced that Sir Anthony was going home for\nChristmas. There was a shrill expostulation from Sylvia, and even a\nmild protest from Mary, but Pamela said nothing. Perhaps it was not\nnews to Pamela.\n\n\"You will not be here for the skating,\" said Sylvia aggrievedly;\n\"that is, if there's going to be any. And I've promised them at\nthe Rectory that you'd recite at their penny reading and give away\nthe presents at the Christmas-tree, besides managing the magic\nlantern. And, oh!\"--the magnitude of the misfortune coming full upon\nher--\"you're not surely going to miss the Vandaleur dinner?\"\n\n\"No, Miss Sylvia, I shall be here for it certainly. I wouldn't\nmiss it for anything; but I object to your engagements for me with\nthe Rectory people. I'd rather be shot than recite, and--the other\nthings are beyond me,\" laughing.\n\n\"Never mind, then,\" said the young lady airily. \"Lord Glengall will\ndo just as well. I shall like to see him distributing the articles.\nBesides, he will please the people better than a 'baronite,' and be\nof the rale ould blood, too.\"\n\n\"Sylvia!\" said her father, with a rebuke in his voice.\n\n\"Never mind, papa dear. Sir Anthony understands all about his being\nonly a 'baronite.' Bridget told him the other day that if the master\nhad his rights 'tisn't teaching a 'Sir' he'd be.\"\n\n\"So she did,\" said Sir Anthony.\n\nMr. Graydon laughed.\n\n\"Ah, well, my boy! you mustn't tell your mother what odd people\nyou've found among the wild Irish--will you?\"\n\n\"She wouldn't understand a bit, but I'll tell her what dear friends\nI have found and made at Carrickmoyle.\"\n\nHe blushed again, and Mr. Graydon thought how well his modesty\nbecame him.\n\n\"Ah, well!\" he said, \"I suppose we must make up our minds to spend\nChristmas without you. What are you going to do this afternoon?\"\n\n\"I'm going to Maher's to see the mare, and put her through her\npaces. I'd like to have her stabled here as soon as possible. If\nshe's ready, she can come at once.\"\n\n\"To be sure. There's stabling for twenty horses here, though the\nstalls are bare--worse luck! But we won't let Sheila starve. Shall\nwe, girls? I'll go bail these children will make a fine pet of her,\nTrevithick.\"\n\n\"I shall be all the fonder of her, sir, though I'm well pleased with\nher at present.\"\n\n\"She's a sweet little bit of horseflesh,\" assented Mr. Graydon. \"I\nthink I shall come with you, if you don't object to my company. I've\na bit of business with Johnny myself.\"\n\nWhen they returned in time for the afternoon cup of tea, they found\nan old yellow barouche standing before the door.\n\n\"Ah, Miss Spencer is here,\" said Mr. Graydon. \"She's rather an\noddity, my boy, so prepare to meet one.\"\n\n\"I heard her story from Miss Pamela. It is very sad.\"\n\n\"When I was a boy of thirteen or fourteen I remember her a\nbrilliantly lovely young woman. That was before that scoundrel came\nin her way.\"\n\nWhen they entered the drawing-room Miss Spencer was sitting with her\nback to them, almost hidden in a deep armchair. The three girls were\nsitting or standing about her, all evidently much interested.\n\n\"Here is papa, and our guest with him, Miss Spencer,\" said Mary.\n\nThe little old woman came out of her chair with a sudden darting\nmovement like that of a bird. Her gaze went from Mr. Graydon to the\nyounger man.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried. \"Whom did you say?\"\n\nShe looked at the stranger for a moment with an agony of expectation\nin her yet bright eyes, while she fumbled nervously for the\nlong-handled glasses at her side. When she had found them she peered\nat him through them; then dropped them, the expression of her face\nchanging to indifference.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,\" she said. \"I am expecting a friend, and\nfor a moment I thought you were he.\"\n\n\"How do you do, Miss Spencer?\" broke in Mr. Graydon. \"I see you have\nStella under the barouche again. I'm glad she has recovered from her\nlameness.\"\n\n\"The foot has come all right, thank you,\" said Miss Spencer,\nassuming quite an ordinary manner. \"You weren't hunting to-day?\"\n\n\"No; I must wait till Glengall sets up his stables.\"\n\n\"Ah, Glengall is coming home soon?\"\n\n\"He expects to reach Plymouth on the eighteenth. He will be at home\nfor Christmas.\"\n\n\"There'll be nothing in order for him in that old barrack of his.\"\n\n\"He'll stay here while he's getting things straight. He is going\nto make a grand place of Glengall. He has plenty of money, and the\nheart to spend it, and the practical wit to direct it.\"\n\n\"What will he do with it then? He has neither chick nor child.\"\n\n\"There is always time, Miss Spencer.\"\n\nThe slightly mad, brooding look came back to the little wizened\nwhite face.\n\n\"Yes, of course, there is time,\" she said, dreamily. \"I remember\nsomeone--who was it?--who knew Glengall when she was a young woman\nand he was a little boy. Glengall can't be old, of course, and any\nday people may return--mayn't they?\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure they may. Glengall did, though he was twenty years\nout of the reach of civilisation.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wasn't thinking of Glengall. It was of someone much younger,\nsomeone about the age of that young gentleman there.\"\n\nTrevithick stood in the background and watched her with honest eyes\nof wonder and pity. She was smoothing the pink silk of her gown,\nwhile her eyes watched the fire as if she saw something very happy\nin it. Her skin was waxen white, and her features sharpened, but the\nbrilliant eyes kept their beauty, and her little old hands, covered\nwith rings, were delicately shaped. Her hair was half-white through\nthe original black, and very oddly her pink bonnet, with its wreath\nof roses inside, sat on the streaked hair and over the white face.\nShe had thrown off a large sable cloak on to the back of her chair.\n\n[Illustration: Trevithick watched her with wonder and pity.]\n\nSylvia now broke in on Miss Spencer's half-mad mood. She touched one\nof the hands tenderly. Trevithick, as he noticed it, thought that\nit was the first time he had seen Sylvia's face really soft; and\nwonderfully the new expression completed the girl's beauty. So she\nwill look, he thought, some day, when she is in love, like--like\nPamela. But Pamela's serious face was hidden from him now with a\nfire-screen she held in her hand. He had noticed of late that she\nseldom looked at him, nor was he displeased. He knew the secret she\nwas afraid to reveal.\n\n\"We are all going to the Vandaleur affair, Miss Spencer,\" Sylvia\nwas saying. \"It will be on the thirtieth. There are to be great\ndoings--acres of marquees for the diners, and the winter garden lit\nby electricity, and I don't know what besides.\"\n\nMiss Spencer came back to every-day life with a start.\n\n\"To the Vandaleur affair, child! Why, who is going to take you?\"\n\n\"Papa, of course. He loves a little outing, though he won't admit\nit. He says he'd rather stay at home and have a quiet night's work\nat his book, and get some hot tea ready for us by the time we come\nhome.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't I take you?\" said the old lady. \"I'm hardly old\nenough for a chaperon, of course, still I've the carriage, and\nI'd enjoy the function. I haven't been at one since the time Tom\nCharteris was master of the hounds. How long ago is that?\"\n\nMr. Graydon, to whom she spoke, answered her without looking at her.\n\n\"A goodish few years ago.\"\n\n\"It can't be,\" said the old lady; \"not more than four or five at the\noutside. I wore white satin and pearls. That reminds me: what are\nyou going to wear, minx?\"\n\nThis to Sylvia, at the same time softly pulling her ear.\n\n\"We've got pattern-books of silk stuffs from Dublin. They're\ndirt-cheap; but the dressmaking will be the bother. However, I\ndaresay we'll manage. Mrs. Collins' Nancy, who is a lady's-maid, is\nexpected home for Christmas. She'll cut the frocks out, and we'll\nsew them ourselves. She'll know the fashions.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"I must go, to unravel a tangled skein.\"]\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense, child! Your first public appearance, too.\"\n\n\"It's Pam's also. But you'll see we'll look very nice. I shouldn't\nbe surprised if the prince fell in love with me.\"\n\n\"What prince? Oh, I see, Cinderella's. But Cinderella went\nmagnificently to her evening party--not in cheap and nasty stuffs\ncobbled up anyhow.\"\n\n\"The prince wouldn't see that. He'd be disconsolate when I\ndisappeared at twelve o'clock, and he'd send all over the country to\nfind the fit of my glass slipper, and Molly and Pam would cry tears\nof rage because it wouldn't even fit on their toes.\"\n\n\"You're not ball-going, minx.\"\n\n\"It will be just as good. There'll be a beautiful dinner, and\neveryone in the county there, and afterwards there will be acres of\nbeautiful things to see. It is a thousand pities Mr. Vandaleur is an\nabsentee.\"\n\n\"If he wasn't, he wouldn't have to remind you of his existence now,\"\nsaid the old lady cynically. \"But am I to be chaperon?\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you what, Miss Spencer,\" said Mr. Graydon. \"If\nyou'd take charge of these children, I'd be greatly obliged to\nyou. The fact is that I've to attend a sort of unofficial meeting\nof Vandaleur's supporters in the afternoon, and he has hospitably\noffered me a bed. So I thought I'd take my bag over and dress there\nafter the meeting.\"\n\n\"And stay all night? I knew it,\" cried Sylvia. \"Papa pretended it\nwas such a bother, and all the time he was longing to be in for\nevery bit of it. Only he didn't know what to do with us.\"\n\nMr. Graydon laughed.\n\n\"Maybe you wouldn't like it yourself. I shall be button-holed by\nMusgrave and Frost and Clitheroe, and every man in the county who\nthinks he has a head for politics and wants a patient listener.\"\n\n\"And you will go at it hammer and tongs with the best of them, and\nforget you have daughters. I don't suppose you'll even remember at\ndinner-time to see whether anyone is asking us if we've an appetite.\"\n\n\"The young fellows will do that. Every boy in the county will be\nthere, including the 300th from Dangan Barracks.\"\n\n\"I daresay,\" said Sylvia: \"you're always ready to shift your\nresponsibilities. Never mind, Miss Spencer; I daresay we shall be\nable to find someone who will look after us, if it's only a waiter.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed, you'll find someone to befriend you, never fear. And so\nwill Pam. And so shall I. But what about Molly?\"\n\n\"Never mind me, Miss Spencer,\" said Mary. \"It would never do to have\nyou chaperoning three girls, and I shouldn't enjoy it a bit. I shall\nstay up and have tea for you after your cold drive.\"\n\n\"I don't know what girls are coming to,\" said Miss Spencer; \"I\nshouldn't like to have to stay at home myself.\"\n\n\"We don't mind Molly,\" cried her sisters; \"she really likes to stay\nat home and write her perpetual letters.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't mind having the three of you,\" went on Miss Spencer;\n\"we'd pass for four sisters.\"\n\n\"We should never look as lovely as you in that white satin and\npearls,\" said Sylvia, fondly.\n\n\"I was much admired,\" said Miss Spencer, complacently. \"But now I\nmust be going. I've letters to write before dinner: I don't want to\nlose my beauty-sleep sitting up to write them.\"\n\nWhen Sir Anthony came into the drawing-room before dinner, he found\nonly Pamela stretching her hands to the wood fire in the low grate.\n\nThe lover stooped down and kissed them.\n\n\"Have you been out?\" he asked in a whisper.\n\n\"Only to the stables with Sylvia. Your Sheila has come. She is a\ndear thing.\"\n\n\"You like her, Pam?\"\n\n\"Who could help it? She looks so wild and shy, and she is so gentle\nat the same time.\"\n\n\"Do you like her because she is mine, Pam? Do you, just a little\nbecause of that? Say you do, Pam.\"\n\n\"Just a little,\" whispered Pam.\n\n\"Why, if you like, she shall be yours, when--when everything has\ncome right. I think she would carry a lady beautifully. What do you\nsay, Pam? Would you like her, _then_?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Pamela, with her eyes very bright.\n\n\"You didn't seem to mind my going away at Christmas, Pam. You were\nthe only one who didn't protest.\"\n\n\"I know you wouldn't go if you could help it.\"\n\n\"Wise little woman. I must go, darling--to unravel a tangled skein.\nAfterwards it will be paradise, Pam. I will come back as soon--as\nsoon as ever I can. I shall be in a fury of impatience till I come\nback.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said Pam, lifting her eyes to her lover, and flooding him\nwith their light.\n\n\"Sweetheart! you were a coquette when I knew you first, Pam. Now you\ndon't try me as many girls try their lovers.\"\n\n\"I have only love for you now. Ah! what should I do if you did not\ncome back?\"\n\n\"I will come back, 'though 'twere ten thousand mile.' I shall be\nhere for your great function. Do you think I would have you go\nwithout me?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't care for it without you.\"\n\n\"There will be other men there, Pamela, to see how beautiful you\nare. I must be there to guard my own.\"\n\n\"There is no need for that.\"\n\n\"I believe you, my love, you are as much mine as if you were my\nwife. And I am as much yours.\"\n\n\"Love can only mean that.\"\n\n\"Ah, my darling! how sweet you are! You wouldn't care for the\nadmiration of other men, Pam?\"\n\n\"Only for one.\"\n\n\"It is hard to be wise, Pam, when I am with you. You are too sweet.\nIt is fortunate I am going.\"\n\n\"When you come back it will be different.\"\n\n\"Yes; you will have to make up to me for my prudence all these\nmonths. I have been good, Pam; I have never asked you for a kiss.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have been good.\"\n\n\"And you, you are a girl in ten thousand. You have never asked me\nwhat stood between us--a shadowy barrier, Pam, but even that must go\nbefore I claim you, my queen. When I come back, Pam! Ah, when I come\nback!\"\n\n\"Here is Molly,\" said Pam, in a low voice, as her sister entered the\nroom.\n\n  END OF CHAPTER SIX.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: GREAT ANNIVERSARIES]\n\nGREAT ANNIVERSARIES\n\n_IN DECEMBER._\n\nBy the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling\nHospital.\n\n\nDecember is a month of great names. On December 21st, 1117,\naccording to some authorities, there was born, in a house that stood\non the site of the Mercers' Chapel in Cheapside, Thomas \u00e0 Becket.\nWhether men side with Church or State, and are for or against\nBecket, they will hardly deny him the right to be remembered as an\noutstanding figure in our history. On the last day of the month died\nanother great Englishman; like Becket, an Oxford man, and a potent\nfactor in the religious development of our nation. On December 31st\nthere passed away at Lutterworth John Wycliffe. His bones, thirteen\nyears after burial, were dragged from their resting-place and cast\ninto the River Swift. Thomas Fuller turns that shameful act of\necclesiastical malice to good use. \"Thus,\" he says, \"this brook did\nconvey his ashes into the Avon, the Avon into the Severn, the Severn\ninto the narrow sea, and this into the wide ocean. And so the ashes\nof Wycliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which is now dispersed\nall the world over.\" On the 13th of the month, many generations\nlater, there came into the world Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, an\necclesiastic of still another type. No modern dean ever identified\nhimself with his cathedral as Stanley did with Westminster Abbey.\nIts national character was always present to his mind. His simple\npiety, his good works, his sympathy with Nonconformists, all helped\nto make the Dean himself rather a national possession than merely an\necclesiastic. He died in 1881.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN WYCLIFFE.\n\n(_From the Portrait at King's College._)]\n\nWe have had the Church, let us come to the State. It is a rich\nmonth that claims the birth both of William Ewart Gladstone\n(December 29th) and of his great rival, Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of\nBeaconsfield (December 20th). They began their careers under very\ndifferent auspices. Eton and Oxford prepared the one for immediate\nentry, under favouring circumstances, into Parliamentary life. The\nother was educated privately, designed for the law, and first caught\nthe public eye as an author when he burst upon the world with the\nnovel, \"Vivian Grey.\" Mr. Gladstone survived his rival seventeen\nyears.\n\n[Illustration: DEAN STANLEY.\n\n(_Photo: The London Stereoscopic Co._)]\n\nThere died on December 14th one whom the British nation can only\nnumber amongst its own worthies by adoption. The death of the Prince\nConsort in the prime of life, and just when his very considerable\npowers and great devotion were beginning to be understood by those\nwho at first regarded him with doubt because he was a foreigner,\nplunged our Queen into sorrow which long darkened the life of the\nCourt and was felt by the whole nation. The pure, unblemished life\nof the Prince Consort, his sincere desire to advance the welfare of\nthe people, his ready promotion of the arts and sciences, as well\nas his tender devotion to the Queen, have long been understood and\nvalued by the nation which he served.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN MILTON.\n\n(_From the Miniature by Samuel Cooper._)]\n\nTo come to other fields: there was born in London on December 9th,\n1608, John Milton. Educated at Cambridge, he early gave free play to\nthe powers which in their issue have made his name familiar wherever\nthe English language is spoken. Few remember him as a writer of\npolemical treatises on affairs of the State and the Church, or even\nas Latin Secretary to Cromwell; but he was an old man and blind when\nhe gave the world \"Paradise Lost.\"\n\nOn the 12th there died Robert Browning, a poet who spoke to his\nage as few men have ever done, and spoke of God and the soul, of\nthe here and the hereafter, with a clearness of faith which was as\ndistinct as the robust manliness of his character.\n\n[Illustration: SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN\n\n(_From the Portrait by Sir Godfrey Kneller._)]\n\nDecember 28th is given as the date upon which Westminster Abbey was\nconsecrated in 1065; and on December 2nd that other minster, St.\nPaul's Cathedral, was opened in 1697. Legend says that the same\nKing Sebert who founded the original St. Paul's also founded the\nAbbey at Westminster, whilst another story invokes the aid of King\nOffa. There is, however, clear testimony to the establishment of\na Benedictine abbey at Westminster in the time of Edgar; that is\nantiquity respectable enough to satisfy most of us. A cathedral\non this site is mentioned by the Venerable Bede as early as 604;\nbut the actual fabric of St. Paul's has, according to Mr. Loftie,\nundergone greater vicissitudes than that of any other cathedral in\nEngland. The present St. Paul's was begun in 1675 and finished in\n1710. Its cost was \u00a3736,752. Sir Christopher Wren, its architect,\nreceived for his services \u00a3200 a year. What were then called \"the\nnew ball and cross\" on the cathedral were completed in this same\nmonth in 1821.\n\n[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING.\n\n(_Photo: Cameron and Smith, Mortimer Street, W._)]\n\nAn old calendar assures me that on the 15th of this month, in the\nyear 1802, \"societies for abolishing the common method of sweeping\nchimneys\" were instituted.\n\nOn the 20th of this month, in the year 1814, Samuel Marsden landed\nin New Zealand--a missionary anniversary worth recalling.\n\n[Illustration: W. E. GLADSTONE\n\nPhoto: Samuel Walker.\n\nTHE EARL of BEACONSFIELD.\n\nPhoto: Hughes-Mullins, Ryde. I.W.\n\nTWO EMINENT STATESMEN BORN IN DECEMBER.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The Limits of Human Genius]\n\nThe Limits of Human Genius\n\n_Pulpit at Gloucester Cathedral._\n\nA Sermon Preached by the Very Rev. H. Donald M. Spence, D.D., Dean\nof Gloucester, at the Opening Service of the September (1898)\nMeeting of the Three-Choirs Festival in Gloucester Cathedral.\n\n     \"As for Wisdom, what she is, and how she came up, I will tell\n       you, and will not hide mysteries from you, but will seek her\n       out from the beginning of her nativity, and bring the knowledge\n       of her into Light, and will not pass over Truth.\"\n\n\nThe surroundings of a custodian of a medi\u00e6val cathedral, beautiful\nthough they are, at the same time are unutterably pathetic. They\ntell him, do the pages of the old solemn Book of Stone he is never\nweary of turning over and of pondering upon, that the genius of\nman has its limits, which it may never pass; that the story of\nhuman progress to higher and ever higher levels is often a delusive\none; that in past ages his forefathers were perhaps as noble and\nchivalrous--aye, nobler, more chivalrous than the men of his own\ngeneration--that their imagination was more brilliant and their\nhands more cunning; that if in some respects progress is visible, in\nothers the movement is retrograde.\n\nAgain, a great medi\u00e6val cathedral like our own glorious Gloucester,\ninimitable in its fadeless beauty and matchless strength, surely\ndeals a very heavy blow to human pride, and it teaches humility to\nthe most competent and ablest of our number, for it is a conception\nbelonging to a past age. A great gathering, however, like the\npresent, numbering some six or seven thousand persons, is for varied\nreasons an inspiring one and bids us be trustful--even hopeful.\n\nDwell we a brief while first on our surroundings. Of all works\ndevised by human ingenuity and carried on by human skill, the\ntriumphs of architecture are among the most enduring, afford the\nmost genuine and purest delight to the greater number of men and\nwomen, are confessedly the most attractive, perhaps the most\ninstructive, as they are among the most enduring of human creations.\nThe glories of Luxor and Karnak, which for several thousand years\nhave been mirrored in the grey-green Nile; the white and gleaming\nshrines of Athens the bright and happy, the mighty ruins of Eternal\nRome, are splendid instances.\n\nBut perhaps the conspicuous examples of this architecture, the\nmost loved of human arts and crafts, are, after all, the medi\u00e6val\ncathedrals. The first object of interest for the modern traveller in\nsearch of health or rest is a cathedral. All sorts and conditions\nof men find delight in its contemplation. The delight, of course,\nis varied, but the strange and witching beauty appeals to them all.\nThis appeal to the higher and devotional side of our nature speaks\nto every soul, to the unlearned as to the learned, to the mill-hand\nas to the scholar. The wanderer from the New World beyond the seas\nat once seeks them out, conscious that in them he will find a\nbeauty and a joy such as he will never see or feel outside their\ncharmed walls.\n\nI have said that to the custodian of such a cathedral the\nsurroundings are, if not sad, at least pathetic, for these\nmagnificent and loved creations of human genius belong to a somewhat\nremote past, and, as far as these exquisite buildings are concerned,\nsave for purposes of necessary repair--repair simply to arrest the\nravages of time--for nearly four hundred years the clink of trowel\nand pickaxe has been hushed.\n\nIt is scarcely an exaggerated statement which speaks of\narchitecture, in its noblest sense, as a lost art. Very significant\nare the words of one of the greatest of modern architects, who,\nafter dwelling on the decadence of his loved art, tells us how \"It\nis a somewhat saddening reflection--but there is no escaping from\nthe conclusion--that the art which created the glorious abbeys and\nminsters, the beautiful parish churches so plentifully dotted over\nour country--abbeys, minsters, and churches which the churchmen of\nthe second half of the nineteenth century so reverently and wisely\nrestore and seek to copy stone by stone, arch by arch, window by\nwindow, down to the smallest bit of ornament--is a lost art! Men\nhave come sorrowfully to see that medi\u00e6val architecture is the\nlast link--perhaps the most beautiful as well as the last link--of\nthat long chain of architectural styles, 'commencing in far-back\nages in Egypt and passing on in continuous course through Assyria,\nPersia, Greece, Rome, and Byzantium, and thence taken up by the\ninfant nations of modern Europe, and by them prolonged through\nsuccessive ages of continuous progress till it terminated in the\nbeautiful thirteenth-and fourteenth-century Gothic, and has never\nsince produced a link of its own.... Alas! it is the last link\nof that mighty chain which had stretched unbroken through nearly\nfour thousand years--the glorious termination of the history of\noriginal and genuine architecture.'\" Well may men love it and seek\nto preserve the examples they possess of it, and aim at copying it\nas well as they can. These remarkable and melancholy words above\nquoted were deliberately spoken by Sir Gilbert Scott, R.A., LL.D.,\nin his first lecture on Medi\u00e6val Architecture delivered at the Royal\nAcademy some years ago.\n\nSo much for my note of sadness. Now let me strike a different chord.\n\nSuch a gathering as the present, I repeat, is an inspiring one, for\nit tells me that if one great art dies, He who loves us and has\nredeemed us at so great a price, gives His children something in its\nplace. Now it is strange that amidst all the gorgeous and striking\nceremonial of the medi\u00e6val services, with their wealth of colour\nand ornament, with all their touching and elaborate symbolism,\nmusic, as it is now understood, was unknown and comparatively\nneglected. In the noblest cathedral of the Middle Ages, in the\nstateliest Benedictine or Cistercian abbey, while the eye was filled\nwith sights of solemnity and beauty, each sight containing its\nspecial and peculiar teaching, the ear was comparatively uncared\nfor. Strangely monotonous and even harsh would chaunt and psalm\nand hymn, as rendered in the mighty abbeys of Westminster, Durham,\nor Gloucester in the days of the great Plantagenets, of the White\nRose or Red Rose kings, sound to the musically trained ears of the\nworshippers of the second half of the nineteenth century. Indeed,\nmusic as a great science was unknown in pre-Reformation times. The\nmost complete anthem-book may be searched through by the curious\nscholar, but scarcely a musical composer of any note will be found\nin these collections of a date earlier than the reign of Queen\nElizabeth. It would seem as though, when architecture ceased in the\nsixteenth century to be a living craft, a new art was discovered and\nworked at by men.\n\nA new art! I say these words, strange to some, with emphasis.\nOne who has indeed a right to speak of music[1] thus voices my\nassertion. While telling us that certain grand forms of music loom\nout of the darkness of the earlier centuries of our era, the famous\nmusician to whom I refer adds that little of what we understand of\nmusic existed before the later years of the fifteenth century. It\nwas no mere renaissance, for that which had never been born could\nnot be born again.\n\n[1] Professor Hullah, in his \"Lectures on the History of Modern\nMusic,\" delivered at the Royal Institution of Great Britain,\npublished 1884. See, too, Professor Hullah's Royal Institution\nLecture on the Transition Period of Musical History (1876).\n\nIn case some should think that too strong expressions are here\nused, it may be well to quote some of Professor Hullah's own\nwords, which he used in the above-mentioned lecture at the Royal\nInstitution:--\"Music is a new art.... What we now call music ...\nwhat answers to our definition of music, has come into being only\nwithin comparatively few years; almost within the memory of men\nliving.\" \"I should say that in the scholastic music there was no\nart, and in the popular music no science; whence it is that the\nformer has ceased to please, and the latter has for the most part\nperished utterly.\"\n\nIt was a new art which charmed and delighted men as they listened to\nthe magic of the sounds evoked by the majesty of the compositions\nof Palestrina, or by the sweetness of the music of Marenzio. It is\ntrue, as I said, that certain grand forms of music loom out of the\ndarkness of the remote past--shadowy forms--and the rare composers\nand writers of the music of the past are, as far as music is\nconcerned, but the shadow of names now. I allude, as famous examples\nof these shadows of names, to names such as Gregory and Isidore,\nHucbald and the eleventh-century _maestro_, Guido Aretino.\n\nWith extraordinary rapidity developed the new craft. To give here\nsome familiar landmarks--\n\nHenry VIII. was reigning before Josquin Depr\u00e8s, whom all musicians\nrevere as one of the earliest, certainly the most renowned, of the\npioneers of modern music, became generally known in Europe. Josquin\nDepr\u00e8s was born somewhere about the year 1466, dying about 1515,\nsome ten or fifteen years before Palestrina was born. Luther said of\nhim, \"Other musicians do what they can with notes; Josquin does what\nhe likes with them.\" The Abbate Baini alludes to him as \"the idol of\nEurope\"; and again writes, \"Nothing is beautiful unless it be the\nwork of Josquin.\"\n\nThe famous Roman School of music only dates from 1540. The oratorio,\neven in its more simple forms, made its appearance some seventy\nyears later.\n\nNot until the last years of our Queen Elizabeth were the names of\nPalestrina and Marenzio, those great early composers, conspicuous,\nand the Queen so loved of Englishmen had long fallen asleep before\nCarissimi, the earliest master of the sacred cantata in its many\nforms, gave his mighty impulse to the new-born art; while the works\nof his world-famed pupil Scarlatti, and of our own English Purcell,\nbelong to the art-records of the days of William and Mary and Queen\nAnne. See how the whole of the marvellous story of music--as we\nunderstand music--belongs to quite recent days!\n\nAll through the eighteenth century, when the Georges reigned,\narchitecture slept its well-nigh dreamless sleep. But the new art of\nmusic grew with each succeeding year, while the men whose names will\nnever die lived and wrote.\n\nIt was this eighteenth century which saw a Beethoven, a Handel, a\nBach, a Haydn, and a Mozart. As masters of the new-born craft none\ncan be conceived greater.\n\nThe century now closing boasts, however, a long line of true\nfollowers and worthy disciples of those great ones, men whose names\nare household words in every European city.\n\nBut my brief record, necessarily dry and bald, of a momentous\nchange in the teaching of the world would be incomplete without one\nword on the glorious instrument--the voice, so to speak--of these\nmasters of a new art, the organ. The first organ known in Western\nEurope traditionally was sent to Pepin in France by the Emperor of\nConstantinople in 759, but Aldhelm, Bishop of Sherborne, in his poem\non Virginity, some half a century earlier, apparently describes\nwhat appears to have been the organ. Elphege, Abbot of Winchester\nin the tenth century, is said to have caused a very large organ to\nbe constructed; but, with this solitary exception, all the medi\u00e6val\norgans seem to have been small and comparatively unimportant\ninstruments. The oldest organ-cases preserved do not date back\nfurther than the last years of the fifteenth century, and these by\nthe side of modern organs are insignificant in size. Viollet le Duc,\nin his great work, gives us a picture of the Perpignan organ, one of\nthe earliest (early in the sixteenth century). From this date the\nsize rapidly increased.\n\nIn the \"Rites of Durham,\" where a great medi\u00e6val church is described\nat the period of the Dissolution (1530-40), there were three organs\nin use in the abbey church, the principal one being only used at\n\"principall Feasts,\" the pipes being \"very faire and partly gilded.\"\n\"Only two organs in England,\" says the \"Rites,\" \"of the same\nmakinge, one in Yorke and another in Paules.\"\n\n[Illustration: LISTENERS AT THE THREE-CHOIR FESTIVAL.]\n\nThe most magnificent organ-case in Europe is the one in St.\nJanskirk at Bois le Duc, and, like the vast majority of the great\norgan-cases, is Renaissance in style. Viollet le Duc sums up the\nquestion in the following sentence:--\n\n\"It does not appear that great organs were in use before the\nfifteenth century, and it was only towards the close of the\nfifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries that the idea of\nbuilding organs of dimensions hitherto unknown was first conceived.\"\n\nThe organ, as we now know it, was born among us at the same date\nwhen architecture died. Like the music of the Middle Ages, in the\ndays when these vast and peerless buildings arose, it is true the\norgan was not unknown; but, like medi\u00e6val music, it was a small,\npoor thing compared with the stupendous instrument we know and love.\nThere was no great organ before the last years of the fifteenth\ncentury, when the Tudors reigned. The sixteenth and seventeenth\ncenturies witnessed its development, and acknowledged its surpassing\ngrandeur, and recognised its fitness as one of the chief handmaids\nof the new great art.\n\nNow the secret of the men who built this lordly abbey is lost; never\nagain will such a triumph of, alas! a dead art arise to charm and\nto delight, to instruct and inspire the children of men. But we\nmay still preserve and reverently use this rare and noble legacy\nof a vanished age as a shrine and a peerless teaching-home--a\nprayer-home, in which are taught the great evangelical truths\nby which Christian men live and breathe and have their being,\nthe saving knowledge of the work of the Precious Blood, the glad\nRedemption-story, the story loved of men; the story which never\nages, never palls, but which, like dew, descends on each succeeding\ngeneration of believers, and gives them new stores of faith and hope\nand love. This--these things--we try to do, and not without success,\nfor as God's bright glory-cloud once brooded over the sacred\ndesert-tent and the holy Jerusalem Temple, so now upon our beloved\nand ancient cathedral, with its almost countless services of praise\nand prayer and teaching, God's blessing surely rests.\n\n\"It sleeps,\" does our cathedral, as one has lately said in words\nbeautiful as true--\"it sleeps with its splendid dreams upon its\nlifted face.\" But it has, too, its many wakeful working hours. Not\nthe least memorable of these will strike this week, when the charmed\nstrains of Handel and Haydn, Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Beethoven, and\nof the great Englishmen, Gibbons and Boyce and Walmisley and Wesley,\nand last, but not least, of Hubert Parry, peal through these fretted\nvaults, \"lingering and wandering on\" among these wondrous chambers\nof inspired imagery; while the almost prophetic words of that truest\nEnglish song-man Wordsworth become history:--\n\n    \"Give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore\n     Of nicely calculated less or more;\n     So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense\n     These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof\n     Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,\n     Where light and shade repose, where music dwells\n     Lingering and wandering on as loth to die--\n     Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof\n     That they were born for immortality.\"\n\n[Illustration: Decorative]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A Hero in Disguise]\n\nA HERO IN DISGUISE\n\nA Complete Story. By M. Westrup.\n\n\nThe girl was little, slender, insignificant--only her love made her\nheroic. The man was big, broad, one to be noticed in a crowd, and\nhis love made him as helpless as a little child.\n\nThey stood opposite each other in the poor, shabby little room. His\neyes devoured her face wildly, incredulously, but her eyes were\nfixed on a great hole in the faded carpet.\n\nHer mind was chaotic, for with his eager words of love rang others,\nbewildering her. Side by side with his passionate outpouring of his\nlove for her, his longing to have her for his own, to live for her\nand work for her, were other words--words of ambition and great\naspirations, words of intending travel into far-away countries, of\nhardships and discomforts to be borne for the sake of the book that\nwas to be written--the book that was to bring fame and satisfaction\nto the writer of it.\n\nAnd these words rang with a deep note of earnestness and strength,\nand overpowered those eager, present tones that were pleading to her\nso wildly.\n\n\"I called you Kathleen Mavourneen last night, you remember, and you\nsmiled and blushed!\" he protested, roughly. \"Why did you do it?\nKathleen, you _do_ love me, you do! Why don't you speak to me? I\ntell you, I have seen it in your eyes. Why do you deny it now?\"\n\nShe shook her head, and her heart cried in agony, \"How long? How\nlong?\"\n\n\"Won't you try, then?\" with a humbleness that was not natural to\nhim. \"Oh, Kitty, little Kitty, I cannot live without you!\"\n\nHe held out his arms to her despairingly.\n\n\"I have a singing lesson to give at one o'clock,\" she said.\n\nHis arms fell to his sides. The sun streamed in on to the pretty,\npale, downbent face of the girl, and on to the white, haggard face\nof the man who stood opposite.\n\nThere were no shadows in the little room--it was all glare and\nshabbiness.\n\n\"I will go,\" he said, and then his eyes caught fire; \"but you are\na flirt! Do you hear, a paltry, heartless flirt! You have led me\non--played with me. You have made your eyes soft, your lips sweet,\nto amuse yourself at my expense! How do you do it?\" with a little\ncynical laugh. \"It's really clever--of its kind--you know----\"\n\nHe moved towards the door.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" he said icily. \"I should not have spoken so to\na woman. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"You will begin your travels now?\" she said.\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"Why keep up the pretence?\" he said; \"it's rather late now to\npretend any interest in my life.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\nAt the door he paused.\n\nHe was a proud man, and he had an iron will.\n\nBut his love made him helpless and weak as a little child.\n\n\"Kathleen,\" he breathed, \"you are sure?\"\n\nA moment she stood still and rigid as a statue.\n\n\"Little one, I love you so----\" His voice was soft and caressing;\nbut her love made her heroic. She raised her head. \"I am sure,\" she\nsaid steadily.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe girl sat in a corner of the warm, gorgeous drawing-room, and\nwished vaguely that people would not nod and stare at her so\nenergetically. She was used to it now, and tired of it.\n\nShe had never liked it, but fame brings notoriety in its train, and\nnotoriety brings nods and whispers and stares.\n\nShe was dressed beautifully. She had always liked pretty things, and\nnow she could have as many as she wanted.\n\nThe man stood over in a doorway and watched her with cynical eyes.\n\nHe had not seen her for five years, and as he stood there another\nman lounged up and spoke to him.\n\n\"Looking at _la belle Philom\u00e8le_?\" he said; \"she's quite the rage,\nyou know. Ever heard her sing? You're only just back from the wilds,\naren't you? Oh, well, of course you'll go to St. James's Hall\nto-morrow? She's going to sing, you know. Her voice is splendid. I\nnever go to hear her myself--makes me feel I'm a miserable sinner\nsomehow--does, 'pon my word. I've heard her twice, and then I\ndropped it. Don't like feeling small, you know.\"\n\nHe lounged away again, and the man with the cynical eyes still\nwatched her.\n\nHer head was turned away from him--only a soft, fair cheek and\nlittle ear nestling in a soft mass of hair, a white throat, and a\nlot of pale chiffon and silk, could he see. And suddenly the cheek\nand even neck were flooded with a red blush, and then they looked\nwhiter than before. He wondered, and smiled bitterly as he did so.\n\nAnd the girl's eyes remained fixed, eager, fascinated, on the long\nlooking-glass before her.\n\nBut she was not looking at herself.\n\nAfterwards he sought her.\n\n\"You were wise,\" he said mockingly, and her eyes grew dark with pain.\n\nHe took the seat beside her and played with the costly fan he had\npicked up.\n\n[Illustration: \"You were wise,\" he said, mockingly.]\n\n\"I must congratulate you,\" he said indifferently. \"This\"--with\na comprehensive wave towards her dress and the diamonds at her\nthroat--\"is better than the old days.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"But perhaps you have forgotten so long as--what is it?--ten--no,\nfive years ago?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe furled and unfurled the fan in silence, and wondered who had\ngiven her the Parma violets in her hair.\n\n\"Your--book?\" she said timidly.\n\nHe stared at her blankly.\n\nShe reddened slowly.\n\n\"You--you--were going to--to travel, and write about it--strange\nplaces----\" she faltered.\n\n\"Oh, ah! yes, I believe I was--five years ago.\"\n\nHer face was white again now.\n\n\"You _have_ travelled?\" she ventured at last.\n\n\"Oh, yes! I've done nothing else for five years. I've shot tigers,\nbears--I've lived with Chinamen and negroes--chummed with cannibals\nonce--oh!\"--with a laugh--\"I've had a fine time!\"\n\nHer eyes were wistful.\n\nHer hostess brought up a man to be introduced, and when she turned\nagain, the chair was empty.\n\nShe did not see him again for two weeks.\n\nThere was an added pathos in the beautiful voice.\n\n_La belle Philom\u00e8le_ brought tears to many thousands of eyes, but\nher own were dry and restless. It was dawning on her that she had\nmade a mistake--five years ago.\n\n\"Seen Hugh Hawksleigh?\" she heard one man say to another. \"Never\nbeen so disappointed in a chap in my life. Years ago he promised\ngreat things. Those articles of his on 'Foreign Ways and Doings'\nmade quite a sensation, you know. And there was some talk of wild\ntravels and a book that was going to be _the_ book of the day. The\ntravels are all right, but where's the book?\"\n\n\"The usual thing--a woman,\" drawled the other. \"Didn't you know?\nSome pretty coquette--the usual game--but the cost was heavier than\nusual--to him. It knocked it out of him, you know. I never saw a\nfellow so hard hit. That was five years ago, and he's never written\na line since. Poor fellow!\"\n\nThe knowledge that she had made a mistake five years ago was growing\nplainer to her.\n\nAt the end of the fortnight she met him and asked him to come and\nsee her.\n\nHe smiled, and did not come.\n\nHer eyes grew too big for the small, sad face.\n\nShe met him again, and asked him why he had not come.\n\nHe looked down into the sweet, true eyes, and his love weakened his\nwill again.\n\nHe promised he would come. He came, and stayed five minutes. He\nlooked at her sternly as he greeted her.\n\n\"Why do you want me?\" he said, and watched the colour come and go in\nher cheeks with pitiless eyes.\n\n\"We--used--to be--friends,\" she whispered.\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"Never! I never felt friendship for you,\" he said, \"nor you for\nme. You forget. Five years is a long time, but I have a retentive\nmemory. I forget nothing.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" she murmured.\n\n\"No? Then why do you ask me to come and see you?\"\n\nShe did not answer.\n\nHe looked round the pretty shaded room.\n\nHe laughed again.\n\n\"There is a difference,\" he said, \"in you too.\"\n\nShe looked up quickly.\n\n\"I am the same,\" she said, knowing her own heart.\n\n\"Are you?\" His eyes grew stormy. \"Listen,\" he said, in a low, tense\nvoice: \"I am five years wiser than I was--then. I will not be a tool\nagain. You have ruined my life--doesn't that content you? I would\nhave staked my life on your goodness and purity--once. I dare not\nbelieve in any woman since you, with your angel's eyes, are false.\nI was full of ambition and hope once; you killed both. I tried to\nwrite--after. I could not. I shall never do anything now--never be\nanything. I despise myself, and it's not a nice feeling to live\nwith. It makes men desperate. I love you still. Do you understand? I\nhave loved you all the time, and I loathe myself for it.\" His voice\nchanged. \"You may triumph,\" he said, \"but now you understand--I will\nnot come again.\"\n\nShe stretched out her arms after him, but he was gone. And she knew\nnow quite clearly that she had made a mistake five years ago.\n\nFor three weeks and a half she did not see him.\n\nThen she saw him when he thought he was alone.\n\nShe studied his face with eyes that ached at what they saw. Then she\nwent forward and touched him gently on his arm.\n\n\"Well?\" he said.\n\n\"Will you come,\" she said in a low voice, \"to see me----\"\n\n\"Thanks, no.\"\n\nHis eyes rested bitterly on her rich gown.\n\nIt came across him again how wise she had been. Tied to him, she\ncould not have been as she was now.\n\n\"I have something I must say to you,\" she said tremulously; \"will\nyou come--just this once?\"\n\nHe looked down into the soft eyes with the beautiful light in them.\n\n\"I would rather not,\" he said gently.\n\nThe weariness in his eyes brought a sob to her throat.\n\n\"Ah, do!\" she entreated; \"I will never ask you again.\"\n\nHe looked at her with searching incredulity.\n\nThen he turned away.\n\nJust so had she looked five years ago.\n\nShe laid a small, despairing hand on his.\n\nThe iciness of it went to his heart.\n\n\"I will come,\" he said gently, and went away.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen he came, he wondered at the agitation in her small white face.\n\nHer eyes were burning.\n\nHe waited silently.\n\nShe twisted her hands restlessly together, and he saw that she was\ntrembling.\n\nHe drew a chair forward.\n\n\"Won't you sit down?\" he said.\n\nShe sat down in a nest of softest cushions.\n\n\"I--I----\" she began, and put up her hand to her throat, \"I want\nto--to--to explain.\"\n\nHis face darkened.\n\nShe got up restlessly and faced him.\n\nHe thought of that time when they had faced each other before--in\nthe shabby, glaring little room--and his face hardened.\n\n\"When you----\" she began; \"I thought it was for you--I had heard you\nsay----\"\n\n\"Are you going back five years?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then would you mind _not_?\" he said. \"There can be no good in it,\nand to me at least it is not a pleasant subject.\"\n\n\"I must!\" she burst out. \"Oh! cannot you help me? It is so hard!\"\n\nShe held out her hands pathetically.\n\nA deep colour came into his tanned face, and he stood still, looking\nat her strangely.\n\n\"I think I will go,\" he said; \"there is no use in prolonging this.\"\n\n\"Do you--love--me still?\" she cried suddenly.\n\nHe turned on her in a white passion of anger.\n\n\"Not content yet?\" he breathed. \"What are you made of? Do you\nwant me to show you all my degradation? Why? Oh, Kitty, Kitty, be\nmerciful! Be true to those eyes of yours----\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly and moved over to the door.\n\n\"Hugh, I love you!\"\n\nIt was the veriest whisper, but it stayed his steps, and brought a\ngreat light leaping to his eyes.\n\nThe light died down.\n\n\"It is too late!\" he said, and turned away.\n\n\"Hugh, listen--I loved you always--five years ago. It was for your\nsake----\"\n\nHe turned again.\n\n\"Kitty?\" he said uncertainly.\n\nShe went on bravely, always heroic through her love.\n\n\"I was poor--insignificant; you were ambitious--clever. I had heard\nyour longings after greatness. Hugh, how could you travel into those\nwild countries with me? I knew you would give it up, and how could I\nbear that? To be a drag, a hindrance to you! And in the coming years\nI thought you would regret---- Hugh, you were poor, too, though not\nso poor as I. I did it for you--it nearly killed me, Hugh. I was ill\nafter, but it was for you!\"\n\nHer voice died away into silence.\n\nHe stood very still, and his face was white and bloodless.\n\nBut in his eyes there was a great reverence.\n\n\"Forgive me!\" he said.\n\nShe smiled softly.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she said.\n\nThe cynicism had gone from his face, and the hardness and bitterness\ntoo.\n\n[Illustration: \"Oh, cannot you help me? It is so hard!\"]\n\nShe looked at him wistfully. He turned away from her eyes and hid\nhis face in his hands.\n\n\"It was a mistake,\" he said, slowly, dully.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nStill she waited.\n\nHe looked up, and she strove to read his face in vain.\n\nSad it was, and set, and yet there was a light there too.\n\nHe took her hands gently in his.\n\n\"Kathleen,\" he said earnestly, \"God knows what I think of you. I can\nwork now. Good-bye, dear.\"\n\nShe raised her eyes to his--mystified and anxious.\n\nHe answered them, very gently, but with a firmness there was no\ngainsaying.\n\n\"You are famous,\" he said; \"when I have made a name I will come to\nyou. Will you wait, Kitty?\"\n\n\"For ever, Hugh,\" she answered, understanding him so well that that\nwas all she said.\n\nHe bent and kissed her hands.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe knelt at the side of his bed, heedless of the presence of the\nnurse at the other end of the room, and her tears wetted his hand.\nThe right hand and arm were swathed in bandages.\n\nHe smiled sadly as he looked at her.\n\n\"I am a failure,\" he said.\n\n\"Ah, no, no! All England is ringing with your name. Hugh\"--she\nraised a face all alight with a proud joy--\"you are famous now!\"\n\nA little flush rose to his white face.\n\n\"Pshaw!\" he said, \"rescuing a woman and a few children from being\nburnt to death. Anyone would have done it.\"\n\n\"Ah, no, Hugh! Brave men shrank from that awful sea and burning\nship!\"\n\nHe was silent, looking at his bandaged hand.\n\n\"I must learn to write with my left hand,\" he said.\n\nShe bent nearer.\n\n\"Let me write for you,\" she whispered; \"let me finish your book,\nHugh, while you dictate it to me. I do not sing now in public, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know.\"\n\nHe drew her closer to him and rested his cheek against her soft hair.\n\n\"I said I would not come to you till I had made a name,\" he said. \"I\nam a wreck now! I shall be a wreck for a long while----\"\n\n\"Ah, dear, but you are famous!\" she interposed lovingly.\n\nHe sighed.\n\n\"I cannot do without you any longer, Kitty. I am beaten at last.\nWill you take a wreck?\"\n\n\"I will take _you_, Hugh, a famous----\"\n\n\"A famous wreck,\" he finished with a smile.\n\n[Illustration: \"Let me write for you,\" she whispered.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE PULPIT MANNER]\n\nTHE PULPIT MANNER\n\nCHARACTERISTIC GESTURES OF GREAT PREACHERS.\n\n=By F. M. Holmes.=\n\n\nFirst let us look at Dr. Joseph Parker. His sermons are constantly\nattended by ministers of all denominations, including clergymen of\nthe Church of England; and no stronger testimony, we take it, could\nbe given to a man's extraordinary preaching power than that year\nafter year he continually attracts other preachers.\n\nDr. Parker, it is almost needless to explain, is the eminent\nCongregational minister of the City Temple in London, and he\noccupies the unique position of having maintained for thirty years\na noonday service every Thursday in addition to his usual Sunday\nservices. To this Thursday service come persons from the ends of the\nearth, and ministers and laymen of various religious persuasions. On\none occasion the sittings of a conference belonging to one of the\nminor Methodist bodies seemed seriously imperilled because so many\nof the delegates desired to go and hear Dr. Parker.\n\nWhat is the secret of his widely attractive power? The answer comes\nin a word--he is intensely dramatic. We do not mean theatrical.\nHe chooses a clear message to deliver, and that message--that\nparamount thought--is driven home to his hearers in a manner that\nforces itself upon every mind, no matter how reluctant. He uses\nshort, pithy sentences, and heightens and emphasises their effect by\nsuitable modulations of voice, by deliberate or rapid utterance as\nthe words may require, and by vigorous and appropriate gesture. He\nspeaks only the very pith and point of what he has to say, and then\nsays it in the clearest and most suitably effective manner that he\ncan possibly command. It is the thing itself we hear, rather than\ntalk or argument all round and about it.\n\n[Illustration: DR. PARKER.]\n\nThus, on one occasion, his theme was found in the text, \"Jesus in\nthe midst.\" \"Where is the midst?\" he asked in a clear and striking,\nsonorous voice that commanded attention at once. These were his\nopening words, and after a pause he proceeded in the same manner and\nin similar short, striking sentences to point to different ideas of\n\"the midst,\" and to declare that Christ was, or should be, in the\nmidst of the literature, science, philosophy, and business of the\nday. Unless ministers preached Christ, said he, they had better be\nsilent.\n\n[ILLUSTRATION: BISHOP OF RIPON. ARCHDEACON SINCLAIR.\nDEAN LEFROY. BISHOP OF STEPNEY.]\n\nThere is nothing new in this, you will say. No doubt Dr. Parker\nwould tell you that he does not wish to preach anything new; but no\none can watch him critically without concluding that he constantly\nstudies not only what he shall say, but how he shall say it in the\nmost striking and effective manner.\n\nAs a dramatic preacher, we might also instance the Rev. J. H.\nJowett, who has succeeded the late Dr. Dale at Carr's Lane\nCongregational Church, Birmingham. To his Oxford scholarship Mr.\nJowett has united an assiduous cultivation of a fine voice and\nvigorous yet graceful and suitable gesture, which render him a most\nstriking and fascinating preacher.\n\nBut turning now to other styles, if Dr. Parker is one of the most\ndramatic, Dr. Boyd Carpenter, the learned Bishop of Ripon, is one of\nthe most eloquent of preachers. He is also one of the most rapid.\nHe seems so fully charged with his subject that the words pour from\nhis lips like a torrent; his body turns first to one side and then\nto the other, and anon leans forward in front, as though propelled\nby the energy of the thought within. His hand is often held up\nbefore him with the index finger pointing, as though to lead his\naudience on to the next thought, and to prevent their interest or\nattention from flagging. But, rapid and fluent as he is, it must\nnot be thought that he is superficial; on the contrary, there is\nevery evidence that the discourse is well thought out, and based\non a solid framework of reason, while the language is eloquent and\nrhetorical. And it is, as it were, to mark the network of logical\ndeduction within the words that the index finger is brought so fully\ninto play. We judge that his voice is naturally somewhat thin and\npoor, but by careful use and perhaps assiduous cultivation, and by\nthe most beautifully clear articulation, Dr. Boyd Carpenter can make\nhimself heard in St. Paul's with what appears to be perfect ease.\nThere is no straining of the voice and no shouting; but in a quiet\nthough forcible manner he sends his voice round the huge building.\nFurther, it has been pointed out to me that he will not commence his\ndiscourse until the congregation have settled themselves down into\nabsolute quietness, and all the rustling of dresses, and coughing,\nand fidgeting are stilled. Under these circumstances his voice\nwould, of course, carry far better in a large church.\n\nSomewhat similar in manner is Canon Barker, of Marylebone,\nwho, in the energetic expression of the thought with which he\nseems surcharged, bends forward sometimes so deeply towards the\ncongregation as to give, the impression that he is about to dive out\nof the pulpit. But his style is that of the special pleader, the\nadvocate and the debater; it is as though he desires to argue out\neverything to its logical conclusion, rather than to sway or move\nhis audience by eloquence and emotional appeals.\n\n[Illustration: PREBENDARY WEBB-PEPLOE.]\n\nDean Lefroy of Norwich is also a debater; perhaps, a more keen\ndebater than Canon Barker, and he is also a rhetorician. He delights\nto preach a strongly evangelical \"Gospel\" sermon, and to embellish\nit with rhetoric and declaim it with passionate earnestness. It is\nevident he thoroughly believes in his theme, he seeks to impress it\non his audience by vigorous, earnest, passionate utterance, in which\nhis energetic gestures are often of the most decided character.\nA curious characteristic of his preaching has been related to me\nby a friend. \"You cannot listen to Lefroy for five minutes,\" said\nhe, \"without violently taking sides either for or against him. You\nare either intensely in favour of him or find yourself becoming\nalmost vehemently opposed\"--a testimony, we take it that the Dean\nis a decided, downright, assertive and aggressive preacher rather\nthan persuasive and emotional. He has instituted a Nave service at\nNorwich Cathedral, at which he often preaches himself, and attracts\nenormous congregations.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN MCNEIL.]\n\nStill continuing to glance at those whom we may call rapid and\nfluent preachers, Prebendary Webb-Peploe comes to mind. He is not\nso energetic as some others, but the rapidity of his utterance, the\nfluency of his expression, and his great command of language, would\nrival that of almost any speaker. He and many others would probably\nutter three times as many words in a given time as Dr. Parker or\nArchdeacon Sinclair.\n\n[Illustration: IAN MACLAREN\n\n(_Dr. John Watson._)]\n\nThe latter is slow, deliberate, and dignified in his utterances,\nrarely using gesture and affecting a grave and somewhat sonorous\nvoice; but the Archdeacon's sermons are always most carefully\nprepared, and indicate considerable study and research.\n\nAmong the grave and sedate preachers we might also place Dr. John\nWatson (\"Ian Maclaren\"), of Sefton Park Presbyterian Church,\nLiverpool; his sermons are full of thought, and, as might be\nexpected, exhibit an excellent literary finish.\n\nNow, if we take Archdeacon Sinclair and Dr. John Watson as examples\nof more deliberate and sedate preachers, we may regard the Rev. John\nMcNeil, the well-known Presbyterian minister, as an instance of the\ncolloquial preacher.\n\nNot that his voice is low-pitched, as used in conversation. Mr.\nMcNeil has done what few preachers could physically undertake: he\nhas preached twice a day for a fortnight in the Albert Hall at\nKensington, the largest hall in London, and capable of holding\nabout ten thousand persons; and he has repeatedly filled the huge\nAgricultural Hall at Islington, numbers being turned away from\nlack of room. His voice, indeed, seems capable of filling the\nlargest hall without effort. But his style is easy, unaffected,\nconversational, though sometimes, with both arms outstretched, he\nbursts forth into loud and impassioned appeals. There is no doubt a\nlarge section of the public who like this easy and colloquial style,\nespecially if it come quite naturally to the speaker.\n\n[Illustration: DR. MCLAREN.]\n\nAnd now another celebrated figure rises on the scene, the\neminent Baptist minister, Dr. McLaren of Manchester. Refined,\nscholarly, brimming over with knowledge, and a master of beautiful\nillustration, there is no doubt that he takes rank as one of the\nvery greatest preachers of the day. Like other great speakers, he\nhas evidently studied the art of preaching.\n\n[Illustration: DR. HORTON. HUGH PRICE HUGHES. J. R. JOWETT.\nSILVESTER HORNE.]\n\nAt a meeting at the Holborn Restaurant to celebrate his ministerial\njubilee in April, 1896, he said he had determined, at the outset of\nhis career, to concentrate his mind on the work of the ministry and\nnot fritter away his energies over many minor engagements. He had\nalways endeavoured to make his ministry one of Gospel exposition; he\nhad preached Christ because he believed that men needed redemption,\nand he had preached without doubts and hesitations. It was Thomas\nBinney who had taught him how to preach.\n\nUndoubtedly Dr. McLaren has succeeded in his aim as an expositor\nof the Scriptures, for that is regarded as one of his chief\ncharacteristics. A favourite gesture of Dr. McLaren's--at all events\nin his earlier days--was to squeeze up a handkerchief, no doubt\nquite unconsciously, in his right hand by the nervous energy he was\nputting forth in his discourse, and then suddenly his hand would\ndart out to mark some emphatic passage as though he were about to\nthrow the handkerchief at the congregation; but needless to add the\nhandkerchief was never thrown.\n\nLike Dr. McLaren, Dr. Whyte, of Free St. George's, Edinburgh, has\na great command of beautiful and striking illustrations. \"He is\nthe most wonderful preacher in Scotland,\" declared an enthusiastic\nScot to me on one occasion. \"Mr. Gladstone used often to hear him,\nand Lord Rosebery does now.\" Dr. Whyte makes great use of the\nimagination in his discourses and employs frequent gestures, but\ngraceful, emphatic and always to suit the action to the word and\nthe word to the action. \"One illustration,\" said a gentleman, \"I\nremember some time ago. Dr. Whyte was preaching about tribulation,\nand he showed that the word came from _tribulum_, which is a Latin\nname for a roller or sledge for thrashing out corn, and in the same\nway tribulation sifted men as wheat.\" How like a platitude this may\nsound when summarised down to a line; but the point is that the idea\nof the beneficial purpose of tribulation had been so firmly fixed in\nthe hearer's mind that he remembered it, and perchance in some dark\nhour it had been to him a \"cup of strength in some great agony.\"\nIs not that, after all, one of the great aims and one of the great\ntests of good speaking--to fix some idea, some truth firmly in the\nhearer's mind so that it is never forgotten?\n\nAs a robust, manly preacher few, if any, we suspect, can surpass\nDean Hole of Rochester. He has a tall, commanding presence--he is\nover six feet high--a bright, animated countenance, and a most\ngenial manner. When some years ago he held the living of Caunton,\nNotts, he used to journey periodically to Liverpool, where his\nmidday addresses to commercial men were most successful and\nexercised great influence. He does not employ much gesture, but his\nfine voice, sparkling eye and manly, straightforward utterances,\nbased on reason and logic, always command deep attention.\n\n[Illustration: DR. WHYTE.]\n\nHis appeal is rather to reason than to the emotions, and by way\nof contrast we may glance at Canon Wilberforce, who is fluent and\nfervent, and affords one of the best examples of the emotional\npreacher. It would seem as though he set himself to arouse and stir\nup all the feelings of his congregation and lead them into what\nhe conceives to be the right channel. Often choosing most unusual\ntexts, he can yet make direct and pointed appeals from the pulpit,\ntouching the greatest hopes and deepest trusts of human nature,\nand yet can employ as illustrations the greatest events and the\nnewest discoveries of the day. He uses but little gesture, in this\nrespect being somewhat different from the eminent Wesleyan, the Rev.\nHugh Price Hughes, who might also be classed as an emotional--we\nhad almost said passionate--preacher. In fluency and fervour he\nis probably surpassed by none. Possessed of a remarkably clear,\nvibrating, and penetrating voice, which seems as though it could\nthrill through any building, however large, there is no chance of\nanyone dozing when he is in the pulpit. When pleading some cause or\ndenouncing some wrong, his feelings seem to get the better of him,\nand he slashes away with his voice in a perfect hurricane of verbal\nblows.\n\n[Illustration: DR. CLIFFORD.]\n\nQuite as emotional and quite as fluent is Dr. Clifford of Westbourne\nPark Baptist Church. His command of language is extraordinary,\nand with a mind less clear and well-regulated this great fluency\nmight prove a snare; but his discourses are always remarkably\nwell-arranged, his \"points\" are clear, and his meanings driven home\nwith remarkable emphasis. His congregations are immense, and his\nhearers are devoted to him. His gestures often follow his words,\nand one--probably quite unconscious--is, it must be confessed, not\ngraceful, even if forcible: it is a drawing back of his arms, and\nthen shooting them out both together as if appealing to the people.\nHis voice is exceptionally clear, penetrating, and resonant; and in\nall very popular preachers much is due to the voice.\n\n[Illustration: DEAN HOLE.]\n\nThe Bishop of Stepney, who may be described as bearing all the\ncharacteristics of the highly cultured Oxford man, has in addition\na deeply sympathetic musical voice. He does not use much gesture,\nbut such as he does employ is well suited to the words, while his\nillustrations are often drawn from his social and religious work in\nthe East End. He used frequently to preach in Victoria Park, where\nhe has readily acknowledged his best supporters were Nonconformists.\n\n[Illustration: CANON BARKER. CANON WILBERFORCE.]\n\nAnother eminent preacher whom we may also describe as exhibiting all\nthe characteristics of Oxford culture is Dr. Horton of Lyndhurst\nRoad Congregational Church, Hampstead. Possessed, like the Bishop\nof Stepney, of a remarkably sympathetic voice, he modulates and\nvaries it to suit the subject and the words, and his gesture,\nnever redundant, has lately been reduced almost to extinction. At\nthe sermon which he preached before the Congregational Union at\nits autumnal assembly at Birmingham in 1897, his style was almost\nseverely quiet, but the effect of his thrilling voice and sometimes\nawesome whispered tones, his polished literary language, and his\nintense earnestness--as he declared that the ideal Christian must be\nin constant touch with God, and yet in constant touch with men--was\nvery great, and appealed both to reason and emotion. Indeed, both\nof these find their place in his sermons. Dr. Horton has mastered\nthe art of always being interesting, no matter what his theme; and\nit would seem as though in his discourses he makes an effort to\nreally interest and to reach all sorts and conditions of men.\n\nAnother Congregational minister who exhibits much of the Oxford\nmanner is the Rev. Silvester Horne, of Kensington; but, in addition,\nhe seems possessed of a fiery zeal and fervent enthusiasm that will,\nit is feared, wear him out physically before his day is fully spent,\nunless he carefully husbands his nervous energy. Already, although\na young man, he has had to take rest for a whole year because of\nill-health. That inner fire, that mental energy, that disciplined\nenthusiasm, which light up his face so brilliantly and animate his\nsuitable and graceful gesture, are far too precious a possession to\nbe quenched too quickly; but there are few or none of the younger\npreachers of the day who have promise of a more brilliant future.\n\nAnd now a word in conclusion for one who is perhaps the greatest\nphilosophical preacher of the time--Dr. Fairbairn of Mansfield\nCollege at Oxford. His memory is marvellous, his power of choice\nand accurate verbal expression is wonderful; he can speak for hours\nwithout a note, and though sometimes a sentence should appear\ninvolved and complicated, it will finish admirably, and, if read\nin a verbatim report afterwards, will have all the finish of a\nliterary production wrought out in the quiet of the study. He uses\nbut little gesture, an occasional opening out of hands and arms, as\nthough to present and lay before the audience the thought which he\nis uttering, seems nearly all. In fact, it would appear that he is\nso absorbed in the abstract thought, the argument, the philosophy he\nis working out before you, that he thinks nothing of the manner in\nwhich he utters it.\n\nWe do not pretend to have exhausted the list of famous preachers, or\neven to have glanced at all the different types; but these will be\nsufficient to indicate the variety that prevails, and to show that\nthere is an art of preaching which, like other arts, needs to be\nassiduously cultivated, and well repays those who intelligently do\nso.\n\n\n\n\nA MOTHER'S BIBLE.\n\n  A pathetic incident occurred some years ago in connection with one\n    of our wars abroad. A youth who had been wounded, and who died in\n    the field hospital, clutched in his last hours an old worn copy of\n    the Bible, on the flyleaf of which were inscribed these touching\n    lines:--\n\nTO MY BOY.\n\n\n    Remember, love, who gave you this,\n      When other days shall come,\n    When she who had thy earliest kiss\n      Sleeps in her narrow home.\n    Remember! 'twas a mother gave\n    The gift to one she'd die to save.\n\n    A mother sought a pledge of love,\n      The holiest, for her son;\n    And from the gift of God above\n      She chose a godly one--\n    She chose for her beloved boy\n    The source of light and life and joy.\n\n    And bade him keep the gift, that when\n      The parting hour should come\n    They might have hope, and meet again\n      In an eternal home:\n    She said his faith in that should be\n    Sweet incense to her memory.\n\n    And should the scoffer in his pride\n      Laugh his fond faith to scorn,\n    And bid him cast the pledge aside\n      Which he from youth had borne--\n    She bade him pause and ask his breast\n    If he or she had loved him best.\n\n    A mother's blessing on her son\n      Goes with this holy thing,\n    The love that would retain the one\n      Must to the other cling.\n    Remember! 'tis no idle toy,\n    Thy mother's gift! Remember, boy!\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: ROGER PETTINGDALE]\n\nROGER PETTINGDALE\n\n_A RUSTIC LOVE-STORY._\n\nBy H. A. Davies.\n\n\nAcross the fields from the church--through the clover meadow first,\ninto the broad wheat-field next, and thence over the pasture lands,\nall yellow with the glint of buttercups--you will come to the\nPettingdale farm. A thrill and a song and an aching went through\nmy blood all together when I looked on the block of buildings the\nother day. How sweet-and-bitter is remembrance; how musical to the\nheart, and yet how sad with yearning! For the sight of that rugged\nold chimney standing square and grim and familiar upon the grey\nroof of the house; the red-tiled barns clustering behind, plain and\nprosperous; the sweep of the waving corn-fields towards the setting\nsun; caused my heart to surge with swift memories, long since buried\nand forgotten beneath the stress of life. How peaceful were the old\ndays amidst these very fields! When the heart is young, ah! then's\nthe time for music; and what echoes of far-off melodies--songs\nof old summers past and gone--does the scene awaken! There's the\norchard where I spent such rare hours. Here are the hedges where we\nwent a-nutting. Yonder is the oak-tree which we used to climb, Frank\nPettingdale and I. It is still the same sturdy tree, keeping gnarled\nand knotted guard over the same creaking gateway, just as in the old\ndays!\n\nWherever my eyes fell there were thorns and roses for the heart all\nin one moment. It was in the old upland field that Clara Pettingdale\nand I as children used to wander, hand in hand, amongst the\nbuttercups. She has long slept, poor Clara, in that corner of the\nchurchyard where lie generations of Pettingdales past and gone--a\nlong line of sturdy yeomen.\n\nThe full light of the sun falls upon the courtyard of the farmhouse.\nIt has a broad frontage, long and low and quaint, with irregular\ngables and overhanging eaves and deep, mullioned windows. The\nhouse runs queerly on two sides of the courtyard, one wing being\nat right angles to the other. It is beautifully clean and prim,\nwith its whitewashed walls, its freshly painted woodwork, and\nits geraniums growing in green boxes on every window-sill. On\nthe third side of the yard run the granary and the cider-house;\nwhile the fourth, save for an ivy-covered wall, which gives way to\nthe entrance gates in one corner, is open to the gentle vista of\ncountryside which stretches away before the house. What a pleasant\nold courtyard it is--so cool in the summer that the panting dogs\nlove to throw themselves upon its stones; so sheltered in winter\nthat the blustering nor'-easters touch it not; so prosperous-looking\nalways, with its well-kept flags laid from end to end, as level and\nsmooth as a billiard-table, and as spotless as the floor of the\nfarm kitchen. How the polished milk-cans glisten and blink upon\nthe wall! How the white sills of the old-fashioned windows gleam\nin the sunlight! The whole place seems to breathe of scouring and\nbuckets, and scrubbing brushes and vigorous arms. Every morning the\nyard is washed down by the house-boy (it used to be Elijah in my\nday, but he is now a bearded man, and labours outside, and a young\nEzra is the present knight of the bucket); every morning the cans\nare scoured and the tubs are scrubbed, and the step before the door\nis free-stoned, and the flowers are watered, and the house seems to\nsmile a glistening, watery smile, as though it had just lifted its\nhead from its morning dip to bid you the time of day. There was ever\na charm to me about Pettingdale and its paved courtyard. I mind me\nwell what a brave and romantic sound to my young ears was that of\nthe horse's hoofs ringing and clamping upon the stones as he was\nbrought up to the door on market days with the high yellow dogcart\nbehind him; or the clatter of the wheels across the yard as Roger\nPettingdale drove out through the broad gateway, a fine old figure\nwith his white hair, and his aquiline nose, and his broad, well-set\nshoulders.\n\n[Illustration: His hair went snow-white early in life.]\n\nHe is still outwardly the same. One could hardly detect a single\npoint of change in him, save that his face is more furrowed and his\neyes deeper set. His hair went snow-white early in life. Generations\nof Pettingdales have been subject to the same peculiarity. Thus it\nis that the long step from forty to sixty-five has wrought little\ndifference in Roger Pettingdale. His body is as erect, his step as\nfirm, his voice as sonorous as ever. He was ever a well-known figure\nat all the county markets and agricultural meetings, and it might be\ntwenty-five years agone for all the change that one can see in him.\nAmong other men he was always noticeable, with his tall figure, his\nwhite hair, his clean-shaven, well-cut face, and that wide-rimmed\nsilk hat which he always affected. As he moved amongst the crowd I\nhave heard men say, \"Who is that?\" and others answer, \"Don't you\nknow him? Why, surely everybody knows _him_? He's Roger Pettingdale.\"\n\nHe is elected on all the local bodies. Thus he is a guardian of the\npoor, a member of the School Board, vice-chairman of the County\nCouncil, and the people's churchwarden at the parish church. There\nis no man amongst all those he meets in these capacities whose words\nare listened to with more respect. That solid weight, that hallmark\nof sound judgment which always attends upon sheer common-sense, is\napparent in every opinion he utters. He forms his judgments first,\nand speaks afterwards. While other men are impulsively throwing\nthemselves into useless controversy on this or that vexed question,\nRoger Pettingdale is silently weighing the _pros_ and _cons_ of\nthe matter in his own mind; and when he speaks there is usually\nnothing more to be said. He chops no logic; he simply argues\nwith the sledge-hammer of common-sense, backed up by the blunt,\nuncompromising sincerity of an honest and fair-dealing mind. His\ntolerance, his breadth of vision, his power of seeing the other side\nof the question, his scorn of all shams and pretences, have made his\nname a password for integrity and sound judgment. \"You will always\nget a fair hearing from Roger Pettingdale,\" people say. \"Does Roger\nPettingdale think so? Oh, then, there must be something in it.\"\n\nIn his home life, in the control of his farm, in his own daily\naffairs, there is the same straightforwardness, the same sincerity,\nthe same well-balanced judgment and acumen. \"There never was a\nyear, as I remember, when we didn't have plenty of hay to begin\nconditioning on,\" said one of his labourers the other day. \"Now,\nat the next farm they've never got enough.\" That is only a small\ninstance of the perfection of method which marks every department of\nthe prosperous farm.\n\nAt home he is essentially a plain man, this sturdy farmer. There\nis no nonsense about him, although he can claim blood with one of\nthe oldest families in the county. Yet he has a proper pride, in\na manly, direct kind of way, as you shall see. He has had four\nchildren, two boys and two girls, in giving birth to the youngest\nof whom his wife died. James, the eldest, is his right hand in the\nfarm management, and will some day be head of the family, as the\nPettingdales have succeeded, son to father, for generations out of\nmind. Mary, the second, you shall hear more of anon. Frank, the\nthird, my old playmate, early in life took the fancy that he would\nlike to be a soldier. Roger Pettingdale has ever been a wise and a\ntolerant father, studying well the nature of each of his children.\nHe unerringly knew Frank's proud and stubborn character.\n\n\"You want to be a soldier?\" he said. \"Well, I could have wished it\notherwise, Frank. It would have been a pleasure to me to see you\nsettle down on the farm. But we will not argue the point. Let it\nstand for twelve months, and then talk to me about it.\"\n\nTwelve months did not change Frank's resolve. When he mentioned\nit again, a drawn look passed over Roger Pettingdale's face for a\nmoment--a look of keen pain--for he loved his children. Then he drew\nhimself up to his full height.\n\n\"You are still of the same mind, Frank! Then I have nothing more to\nsay. I am not going to attempt to dictate to you what your calling\nshould be. You have to live your own life, and as you make your bed\nyou must lie on it. Remember that, my lad. If you decide to go as a\nsoldier, you shall go in a proper fashion, lad. You shall have your\ncommission. No son of mine shall enter the ranks.\"\n\nAnd have his commission Frank did. I looked at the tablet in the old\nchurch the other day with a surging heart. It is a brass tablet, the\nlettering of which has been recently renovated.\n\n       TO THE MEMORY OF\n  LIEUTENANT FRANK PETTINGDALE,\n    WHO FELL IN ACTION IN THE\n     BATTLE OF TEL-EL-KEBIR.\n\nThat was all. There was no vainglorious recounting of the brave\ndeed in the performance of which Frank was cut down. He fell \"in\naction.\" That was all. It was Roger Pettingdale all over--simple and\ndirect and manly. And were not the laconic words far more eloquent\nthan all the ornate elegiacs that poets might have written, just as\nRoger Pettingdale's silent grief when the news reached him was far\nmore eloquent than all the passionate outbursts of frenzied sorrow\nthat one could conceive?\n\nThe fourth child, Clara, as I have already said, sleeps in the\nchurchyard. She died when she was a fair-haired girl of ten--as\nbright and promising a maiden as one could wish to see. But she was\never fragile, like her mother, and suddenly she faded away, leaving\na great gap in the home life at the Pettingdale farm.\n\nAs to Mary, the second child, she was nineteen years of age, and\nnewly returned from school, when Edward Leigh, the son of old Squire\nLeigh, of the Hall, came home from his travels round the world.\nThese two, who had only distantly known each other as children,\nmet for the first time after many years--she a sweet-looking,\nfresh-coloured girl, in the first blush of womanhood; and he a\nmanly, well-set young fellow with a pleasant, sincere face and\nstraightforward blue eyes. It was the old story! Twang goes the\nbow of the roguish little archer, and to some heart or another the\nworld all at once becomes rose-colour. The old story! They saw each\nother on a Sunday morning across the church. She, sitting in the\nPettingdale pew, mentally noted that there was a young man at the\nSquire's side who could be no other than his newly returned son; and\nhe, from his corner underneath the dingy, ponderous coat-of-arms\nof the Leigh family, looked upon her in her simple dress of white.\nThe sun, striking through the window to her right, glinted upon her\nbrown hair, which always curled so prettily about her forehead. He\nthought, as he looked, that she was the sweetest, daintiest maiden\nhe had ever seen, and he fell in love with her.\n\nHe made no secret of his passion. Beating about the bush was\nentirely foreign to Edward Leigh. The choleric old Squire went\noff into a fit of apoplectic rage when he heard how things stood.\nThe veins swelled in his forehead, and that pugnacious under-lip\nof his stood out and drew itself over the upper lip and the teeth\nwith a tight grip. But Edward had all the old Leigh blood in him.\n\"I love her, father,\" he said quietly, looking the Squire straight\nin the face, and the old man's heart sank within him as he met the\nsteady glance of those blue eyes. Fits of passion, threats, fiery\ndenunciations--they were all of no avail. Edward was never once\nother than respectful. He would stand with shoulders squared and\nhead uplifted, bearing the storm in perfect calm and silence, and\nthen would look his father in the face and say--\"Father, I love\nher\"; and the Squire would clench his fist and march to and fro,\nfuriously stamping his feet upon the floor.\n\n[Illustration: \"Father, I love her.\"]\n\nIn one culminating fit of choleric rage the Squire rode over to the\nfarm. He found Roger Pettingdale in the corn-field, looking at the\ngrowing wheat.\n\n[Illustration: \"Forgive me!\"]\n\n\"Look here, Pettingdale,\" he burst forth fiercely. \"This nonsense\nmust be stopped. Are you an idiot, that you cannot see what is going\non, or are you in the scheme to entrap my----\"\n\nRoger Pettingdale turned round upon him.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Squire Leigh?\" he said quietly, as one who had\nnot heard aright.\n\n\"Tut! Nonsense!\" retorted the Squire. \"Don't 'beg-your-pardon' me!\nYou know full well what I mean. Are you blind? I say it must be\nstopped! You know full well that that precious son of mine has gone\nstark mad over that chit of a girl of yours!\"\n\n\"And what of that, Squire Leigh?\" replied Roger Pettingdale, drawing\nhimself to his full height and looking at the Squire from underneath\nhis heavy eyebrows. \"If that precious son of yours has gone stark\nmad over my daughter, what of that?\"\n\n\"Why, this,\" thundered the Squire: \"that it must be stopped!\"\n\n\"Very well, why don't you stop it?\" replied Roger Pettingdale.\n\nThe retort, perfectly cool and natural, laid bare all the Squire's\nimpotence at one stroke, and drove him well-nigh to frenzy. His eyes\nshot fire, and those veins in his forehead swelled as though they\nwould burst.\n\n\"It is not my daughter who is coming to the Hall after your son,\"\nRoger Pettingdale went on. \"It is your son who is coming here after\nmy daughter. You seem to forget that point. You say it must be\nstopped. And I repeat--Why don't you stop it?\"\n\n\"It is as I thought,\" shouted the enraged Squire. \"You are all in\nit--all of you. All in the scheme to entrap him! A pretty plot,\ndon't you call it, for a man who poses as a Christian?\"\n\nIn a blind access of fury he took a step forward and raised his\nriding-whip. And then his shaking arm fell to his side, for Roger\nPettingdale had laid a hand upon his shoulder, and was confronting\nhim with grave, kindly, pitying eyes.\n\n\"You are in anger, Squire Leigh,\" he said, with simple dignity,\n\"else I should take your words as an insult. Be sure that the\nPettingdales have not fallen so low, nor their womenkind either,\nthat they need to trap the son of Squire Leigh. But I tell you this,\nas man to man: if your son truly loves my daughter, and if she\nloves him in return, I will put no bar before my child's happiness;\nno, not for you, nor for all the Leighs in the world. We come of\nas good a stock as you, Squire! Remember that! More money and more\nland maybe you have--but not more pride of family. I care naught\nfor your money or your land. Thank God! I have prospered beyond all\nexpectation. And I tell you again, straight to your face, if your\nson comes to me and asks for my daughter's hand, and I find it is\nfor her happiness, I shall say 'Yes.'\"\n\n\"I shall disinherit him!\" burst forth the Squire; \"he shall not have\na penny--not a brass farthing!\"\n\n\"I shall tell him,\" continued Roger Pettingdale, \"that if he would\nwin my daughter, he must first make a position for himself in the\nworld, independently of aught you can do for or against him; and\nthat shall be the test of his sincerity.\"\n\nThen he turned away, and the Squire, his face livid with passion,\nmarched off, savagely cutting at the wheat-ears with his\nriding-whip. And when he mounted his horse at the corner of the\nfield, he dug his spurs so viciously into her that she bounded and\nreared, and almost threw him.\n\nWell, the long and short of it was that Edward Leigh was not found\nwanting in the test which was imposed upon him.\n\n\"You are quite right, sir,\" he said to Roger Pettingdale; \"the\ncondition is a reasonable one. I ask for nothing more than the\nchance of proving that I am in earnest.\"\n\nHe went to London, studied under his father's old college friend,\nJohn Wetherell, the well-known Queen's Counsel, and in five years\nwas making fair headway in the courts as a barrister. And the\nstrange part of it was that the choleric old Squire--who has a good\nheart underneath his rough exterior--seeing his son's name in the\npapers from time to time, felt his paternal pride rising within him\ndespite his stubborn resentment. Perhaps, too, he felt lonely in his\nold age. At all events, he went over to the farm one day, and asked\nto see Mary.\n\n\"I shall fight against it no longer, my dear,\" he said, holding\nout his hand. \"The lad has proved his grit, and the woman who\ncan call forth such steady love in a man is more than worthy of\nbeing mistress of the Hall. I am an old man, and have no time left\nfor bitternesses. Forgive me, and you will find me as staunch in\nfriendship as you have found me frank in enmity.\"\n\nMary is now Mary Leigh, of Leigh Hall, and a sweeter, gentler, more\nwinsome mistress you could not find in the whole land. You may often\nsee the old Squire leaning upon her shoulder--a bent, white-haired\nfigure--as they walk in the grounds.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAmong all the seasons of the year, I think there is none that Roger\nPettingdale loves so well as the time of harvest. You may see him\nstanding at the gateway, looking in meditation down the long shimmer\nand sheen of the golden wheat-field as the wind ripples over it.\n\n\"I love to gaze at fields white with corn,\" he said to me once.\n\"They seem to breathe rich promises of that full fruition to which\nour own lives shall come if we live them well and uprightly.\"\n\nAt the last harvest thanksgiving service in the village church I was\npresent for the sake of old times, and from my place behind Roger\nPettingdale I saw him lost in meditation, with eyes fixed upon the\nchancel window. And when he stood up to sing he was still rapt in\nthought; but suddenly he joined in the sweet old hymn so lustily and\nwith such a full heart that it did me good to hear him.\n\n    \"The valleys stand so thick with corn\n     That even they are singing.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF READING.\n\nBy the Ven. Archdeacon Diggle, M.A.\n\n\nReading aloud is more commonly regarded as an accomplishment than\nan art. In truth, it is both. It is an art in that it cannot be\nleft to its own guidance, but requires both an acquaintance with\nrules and familiarity with their practice to bring it to perfection.\nIt is an accomplishment in that it is a means of completing our\nequipment for happy social life. Good reading yields not only profit\nbut pleasure to others. It is one means of throwing brightness into\nhome-life to gather the children together and read really well to\nthem. And what a sweet delight it is in the ward of a hospital, or\namong the inmates of a workhouse, or by the bedside of some dearly\nloved invalid, to be able, by reading in soft, gentle, refreshing\ntones, to charm away the monotony and the weariness, perhaps for\nawhile to relieve even the pain, of the lonely and the suffering! We\nmight shed sunshine into the darkness of many a life if, instead of\nspending our leisure hours in _ennui_ on ourselves, we devoted them\nto reading aloud to others.\n\nReading aloud is good for ourselves both physically and morally. It\nis good morally, for if we never read anything unfit for reading\naloud we shall not be likely to read anything morally deteriorating.\nAnd physically, reading aloud is a benignant exercise. It widens\nthe chest, opens the lungs, strengthens the throat, and does good\nto all the breathing organs. It is a mistake to suppose that using\nthe voice weakens it. Abuse or misuse of the vocal organs, as of any\nother organs, injures them; but by proper use and exercise they are\nstrengthened and improved. Speakers and preachers have bad throats\nnot because they use their throat too much, but because they use it\nbadly. They force and torment it, instead of training it to natural\naction and giving it free, full play. And who shall blame them? At\nschool they were taught to spell and mind their stops; but how to\nbreathe and manage the voice when reading, they probably were not\ntaught a single rule. In many instances teachers themselves are\nwholly ignorant of the art and therefore incapable of teaching it.\nAnd so it comes to pass that, unless either outward circumstance\nor innate common-sense turn our attention in later life to the\nmanagement of the vocal organs, we never learn to read aloud without\nweariness and with pleasure. It is mainly through lack of early\ntraining that, of all useful and delightful accomplishments, the art\nof reading aloud is one of the least practised and most rare.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W._)\nARCHDEACON DIGGLE.]\n\nYet it is an art which, in some degree, may be acquired by the\nmajority of people; very many could, by a little training and\nperseverance, even excel in it. Of course, the art admits of many\ndegrees of excellence. But without reaching the splendid summits of\nthe art, attainable only by the highly gifted few, ordinary persons\nmay learn to read sufficiently well to gratify both themselves and\nothers, if they will take pains to learn and practise a few simple\nrules.\n\nThe first requirement is to master the physics of the art: to learn\nto breathe in through the nostrils and out through the mouth,\nnever to speak on an inflowing breath, quickly to fill the lungs\nand slowly to empty them, never to gasp or strain after sound, not\nto attempt the higher notes until the lower have been completely\nmastered, to rely more on the lower than the higher notes, to teach\nthe lips and front portion of the mouth to do their fair share of\nwork equally with the larynx and the vocal cords. A moustache is an\nimpediment to easy and distinct reading. It hinders the air from\npassing in free, full flow up the nostrils, and it troubles the\nwaves of sound as they issue from the mouth; causing indistinctness,\nmore or less flat and thick, in enunciation.\n\nClearness of enunciation ranks next in importance after easy,\nnatural, flexible production of voice, and largely depends on it,\nfor there can be no clear, crisp, distinct enunciation of words,\nunless the tools by which words are made, viz. the organs of voice,\nare kept sharp and well burnished. Moreover, for the attainment\nof limpid and finely articulated enunciation careful training is\nrequired both in the melody and modulation of sounds.\n\nPrecision and beauty of enunciation are much assisted by habitual\npractice of the graduated series of all the tones from the keynote\nto its octave. Do not sing when you are reading, but, in order to\nread well, first learn to sing; otherwise your reading will be flat\nand monotonous, without light and shade, instead of being fresh,\nrichly modulated, and melodious.\n\nThe next requirement of good reading is to learn the relative value\nof the letters, and the right handling of the syllables, of which\nwords are composed.\n\nThis study is both interesting and attractive, for, as Plato\nobserves, letters themselves have a clear significance. The letter\n_r_ is expressive of motion, the letters _d_ and _t_ of binding and\nrest, the letter _l_ of smoothness, _n_ of inwardness, the letter\n_e_ of length and the letter _o_ of roundness.[2] Letters run in\nfamilies, and each family has its own characteristic significance of\nsound. Some letters belong to the lips, others to the throat, others\nemploy the whole mouth. Vowels and final consonants are the letters\nwhich demand most care and support in good reading. For the most\npart, vowels should be rich and full, and the final consonant well\nsustained.\n\n[2] _Cf._ Jowett's Plato, I. 311.\n\nIf letters in themselves are expressive and significant,\ncollocations of letters in syllables and words are clearly more\nsignificant still. \"By various degrees of strength or weakness,\nemphasis or pitch, length or shortness, they become the natural\nexpressions both of the stronger and the finer parts of human\nfeeling and thought.\" To read well, therefore, it is necessary to\ngive intelligent and ready heed to the relative weight of words,\nto notice whether consonants are massed together to increase their\ndensity, or vowels are freely interspersed to leaven and make\nthem light. True enunciation largely depends on a careful study\nof the natural formation of words and a right appreciation of the\nproportionate value of their several syllables.\n\nReading, however, is frequently spoiled by pedantry and exaggerated\nminuteness. In seeking to avoid slovenliness readers often fall into\nfoppery. Good reading goes at an easy pace, it is neither too fast\nnor too slow; it neither counts the letters nor omits them, neither\njumbles syllables together nor anatomises words. The good reader\nreads so that intelligent listeners can spell his words, but he does\nnot read as if spelling them himself. He avoids the extremes both\nof negligence and nicety, and constantly remembers that whatever is\noverdone is badly done. Avoid ostentation. No rule in reading is\nmore fundamental than this.\n\nNear akin to ostentation is the taint of false and histrionic\nemphasis. Colourless reading, bad though it be, is better than\ntawdry reading. Especially in all reading of a religious or sacred\ncharacter should affectation and dramatic artifices be reverently\navoided.\n\nTo read the Bible in church as if playing a part on the stage is as\ninappropriate and irreligious as to read like one in haste to catch\na train.\n\nEach kind of subject demands its own proper style in reading. Prose\nshould not be read like poetry; nor all kinds either of prose or\npoetry alike. As in writing, each species should be dressed in\nlanguage from its own wardrobe; so in reading, each several kind\nshould receive its own appropriate tone, and travel at its own\nappropriate speed. To read everything alike is to read nothing--or\nat most only one thing--well.\n\n[Illustration: Charming away the monotony and the weariness.]\n\nGreat authors are by no means invariably good readers, even of\ntheir own productions. Lord Tennyson read some of his own glorious\npoems beautifully; but others he read either droningly or with too\nmuch singsong. Dickens read his own works with wonderful power and\nrealisation. Wordsworth read his own verse admirably; but we are\ntold that neither Coleridge nor Southey could read verse well: \"They\nread as if crying or wailing lugubriously.\"\n\nReading, therefore, is an art which doubtless requires, for\nthe attainment of excellence, some degree of histrionic\ngifts--imagination, imitation, fervour, and passion.\n\nSimilarly with oratory and authorship. Both these arts are distinct\nfrom that of reading; as each of these again is distinct from the\nother.\n\nIt is curious, indeed, how few among great authors are great\norators; or, among great orators, great authors. The gifts which\ntell in writing--condensation, terseness, finish--are not the\ngifts which tell most in speaking. In speaking, the essentials are\nclearness of enunciation, sympathy with the audience, copiousness\nof illustration, directness of statement, uninvolved reasoning. The\nmerits which impart value to a book--wealth of fact, niceness in\nbalancing opposing considerations, delicacy of assertion, depth and\nsweep of argument--may easily become ineffective in the delivery of\na speech. Hence, therefore, whereas a good speaker is occasionally\na good writer, owing to his rare combination of different orders\nof talent, it more frequently happens that the one set of talents\nis given to one man to enrich them in seclusion, and the other to\nanother man to use them with publicity.\n\nIn like manner with reading; it is an art by itself. It is natural\nto suppose that no one could possibly read an author's works so\nwell as the author's self, because no one can understand them so\nintimately as their own creator. Yet experience proves this to be\nnot the case; and for a reason which at first sight is not wholly\napparent. It is just because they are his own that, as a rule, he\ncannot read them well. He may have a richly cultivated voice, clear\nenunciation, a varied power of modulation; he may even be able to\nread the works of others well, yet be a failure in reading what he\nhimself has written. Why is this? Partly, perhaps, it is due to\nan unavoidable self-consciousness in reading his own works; and\nself-consciousness is the ruin of good reading. \"Forget thyself\"\nis a necessary condition of good reading. Partly, perhaps, it is\ndue to over-absorption in the memory of sensations and sentiments\nwhich overpowered him when he wrote in the solitude of his chamber,\nbut which are somewhat unnatural and overstrained for exhibition\nbefore a concourse of auditors. But probably the principal reason\nis that one of the greatest charms of good reading arises from the\nco-operation of two spirits toward one end--the spirit of the author\nand the spirit of the reader. The reader of another's works seeks\nactively to express the spirit of his author, yet unintentionally\nhe is expressing his own spirit also. The author enters into him\nand he throws himself into the author; his reading, therefore, is\nthe union, the marriage, the interpenetration and expression of two\nspirits--the author's and his own. However interesting, therefore,\nand delightful it may be to hear an author read his own works,\nyet is there always lacking the dash and force and suggestiveness\nproduced when a great author is interpreted by a great reader. The\nauthor merely reproduces his original meaning in what he wrote;\nthe reader, through the agency of his own independent personality,\nidealises and diversifies that meaning.\n\nIdealisation is one of the most beautiful effects of the fine art of\nreading. The most ordinary poem or piece of prose, when idealised\nby an accomplished artist in reading, grows lovely and sweet. And\none way of learning to read well ourselves is to sit at the feet of\nsome of these great masters of reading. Until we have heard a great\nreader read it is next to impossible to conceive what a fine and\nnoble art true reading is. On the other hand, we can never become\ngood readers by merely listening to others, any more than we can\nbecome good musicians by hearing others play.\n\nIn the art of reading, others may be our models; none but ourselves\ncan be our makers. Listening to others may show us how the thing\ncan best be done, but without doing the thing ourselves the thing\ncan never be truly learned by us. Sometimes, indeed, listening to\nothers has an effect quite the opposite of a model for imitation.\n\"Pausanias tells us of an ancient player on the harp who was wont to\nmake his scholars go to hear one who played badly that they might\nlearn to hate his discords and false measures.\" In like manner, one\nway of learning to read well is to hear others read badly.\n\nThe art of reading aloud culminates in the expression of the\nspiritual through the medium of the physical. As sculpture aspires\nto express its ideals in stone, and painting in colour, and music\nin sound, so reading embodies its ideals in uttered words. A\nwell-trained voice, clearness of enunciation, rhythm and flexibility\nof articulation--these are the physical framework of the art of\nreading aloud. Without first acquiring these the reader is as\nimpotent as the painter without colour or the sculptor without\nstone. But the physics of reading are nothing more than its material\nframework. Unless the reader is inspired with ideals, reading will\nnever rise to the dignity and glory of an art with him. He may be\nas a house-painter with his brush, or a mason with his stone--an\nindustrious and useful artificer, but not an artist in his work.\n\n\n\n\nMIDGET CHURCHES\n\nBy J. A. Reid.\n\n\nThe subject of church architecture is ever a fascinating one.\nMillions of money and an immense amount of time and labour have been\nspent in erecting places of worship, some of which are magnificent\nstructures capable of seating several thousands. On the other hand,\nsmall, humble edifices sometimes suffice to meet the requirements of\nthe worshippers; and it is with these that we here propose to deal.\n\nWhich of the midget churches is the smallest it is somewhat\ndifficult to say; but it is believed that the smallest church in\nEngland is the truly miniature church of Lullington, in Sussex.\nIt is a primitive and quaint building, constructed of flint with\nstone quoins, with a roof of red tiles. It can boast of a little\nweather-boarded turret at its west end; but its bell does not toll\nnow, and the birds of the air have long since found the turret a\nconvenient nesting-place. The church is but sixteen feet square. The\npulpit is a pew, with panelled sides and door, and the furniture is\nof the plainest. Five, narrow, diamond-paned windows throw a scanty\nlight upon the interior, in which there is accommodation for thirty\npersons--quite sufficient for the population of the village.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: H. J. Unwin, Hailsham._)\n\nLULLINGTON CHURCH.\n\n(_Sixteen feet square._)]\n\nA somewhat larger edifice is the very interesting church of\nWythburn, in Cumberland, the dimensions of which are--nave (length),\nthirty-nine feet; height of walls, ten feet; and width, fifteen\nfeet. This was the original church, erected about one hundred and\nsixty years ago, and is of the simplest description. The roof is\nconstructed of old ships' timber, and the windows are square holes\nwith wooden frames. The chancel is eighteen feet long by fifteen\nfeet by ten feet. The beautiful little east window is by Henry\nHoliday, and was put in to the memory of the late vicar. What\na magnificent site for a church! The poets have thus expressed\nthemselves with regard to this humble but beautifully situated\nchurch:--\n\nCanon H. D. Rawnsley wrote:\n\n    \"We cannot stay--for life is but an Inn,\n     A halfway house--and, lo! the graves how near!\n     Yet mighty minds have hither come for cheer\n     Before the upward path they dared begin.\n     Here Gray the pilgrim rested pale and thin,\n     Here Wilson laughed, and Wordsworth murmured here.\n     Here Coleridge mused, and ere he crossed the mere\n     Hence Arnold viewed the Goal he hoped to win.\n     And we who would Helvellyn's height essay,\n     Or climb towards the gateway of the mound\n     Where Dunmail died because his realm was fair,\n     May join their gracious company who found\n     Earth's beauty made Life's Inn a House of Prayer,\n     And speed, refreshed of soul, upon our way.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Wythburn Church as compared with St. Paul's\nCathedral._\n\n(_Photo: T. Dumble, Keswick._)\n\nWYTHBURN CHURCH.\n\n(_Thirteen yards long, five yards wide._)]\n\nWordsworth, too, said:\n\n    \"If Wythburn's modest House of Prayer,\n     As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,\n     Had, with its belfry's humble stock,\n     A little pair that hang in air,\n     Been mistress also of a clock\n     (And one, too, not hung in crazy plight),\n     Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling\n     Under the brow of old Helvellyn.\"\n\nAnd H. Coleridge:\n\n    \"Humble it is, and meek, and very low,\n     And speaks its purpose by a single bell:\n     But God Himself, and He alone, can know\n     If spiry temples please Him half so well.\"\n\nWe have given two instances of very small churches: let us now refer\nto a midget chapel. At Crawshawbooth, a village near Burnley, there\nis an extremely interesting diminutive place of worship known as\nthe Friends' Meeting-House, an old-fashioned building covered with\nivy, and environed by a well-cared-for burial ground. It contains\nhalf a dozen oak benches, on which the worshippers sit. Though these\nbenches are sufficient to provide seating accommodation for about\nsixty, the attendance is rarely more than six. John Bright once\nworshipped here, walking from Rochdale, a distance of twelve miles.\nThis quaint little place is naturally regarded with much interest by\nvisitors.\n\nIt is interesting to point out that there is another Quaker\nmeeting-house in the hamlet of Jordans, in Buckinghamshire, which\nis, if anything, smaller than that already referred to. It has been\ncalled the Shrine of Quakerism, for early in June every year a\ngathering of Quakers takes place. Here lie the remains of William\nPenn, one of the greatest of Quakers. At a cottage in the vicinity\nMilton wrote his \"Paradise Lost.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: R. W. Lord, Little Lever, near Bolton._)\n\nTHE FRIENDS' MEETING-HOUSE, CRAWSHAWBOOTH.\n\n(_Containing six oak benches to accommodate sixty worshippers._)]\n\nTo revert to churches, Kilpeck Church is well worth referring to as\nbeing a lovely little place of worship. The nave is thirty-six feet\nby twenty, and the chancel seventeen by sixteen feet ten inches,\nthe total length being sixty-eight feet and the average breadth\nabout sixteen feet. It is built upon a Saxon foundation, and Saxon\nremains are still to be seen--notably, a \"holy-water\" stoup that\nmust be one thousand or eleven hundred years old. It is not possible\nto do justice to this beautiful church in a few words, but the\naccompanying photograph will give an idea of the quaintness and\nbeauty of the structure. The sculpture is remarkably interesting.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Poulton and Sons, Lee._)\n\nKILPECK CHURCH.\n\n(_Nave thirty-six feet by twenty._)]\n\nAn article on midget places of worship would be incomplete without a\nreference to the little lath-and-plaster church of Essex, consisting\nof nave, chancel, and a small turret. Hazeleigh Church, as it is\nnamed, stands in the near vicinity of Hazeleigh Hall--once the\nhome of the Essex family of the Alleynes, one of whom founded the\nCollege of God's Gift at Dulwich. This little church has thus been\ndescribed by the Rev. H. R. Wadmore, sometime curate:--\n\n    \"... A little church beside a wood\n     Securely sheltered from the sweeping blast;\n     So quiet, so secure, it seems to be\n     A very type of rest and all that's still.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: R. D. Barrett._)\n\nCHILCOMBE CHURCH.\n\n(_Twelve yards long._)]\n\nThis little church of Hazeleigh, owing to its simple character,\ndiffers but slightly from the roadside cottages. It has been styled\n\"the meanest church in Essex,\" owing to its unpretentious character.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nTHE CAVE CHURCH AT LEDAIG, NEAR OBAN.\n\n(_The most primitive church in the kingdom._)]\n\nA pleasing little church is that of Chilcombe, near Bridport,\nDorsetshire. Chilcombe is mentioned in the Doomsday Book, and at one\ntime was the property of the Knight Hospitallers of St. John. The\nexisting church dates from the thirteenth century. It is in the\nRoman style, and possesses a good Norman font. The length of the\nnave is twenty-two by fourteen feet, the chancel being thirteen by\neleven feet. The owner of the parish and the patron of the living is\nAdmiral the Hon. M. H. Nelson.\n\n[Illustration: GROVE CHURCH, NEAR LEIGHTON BUZZARD.\n\n(_Capable of seating fifty people._)]\n\nAnother remarkably small church is that of St. Peter, on the Castle\nRise, at Cambridge, its dimensions being twenty-five by sixteen\nfeet. It is of Norman architecture.\n\nEngland by no means possesses all the diminutive churches and\nchapels, and a very quaint and interesting church is that of Ledaig,\nnear Oban. It is unsectarian, and its congregation numbers, on the\naverage, twenty-five. It was founded by John Campbell, who was more\nfamiliarly known as \"The Bard of Benderlock.\" He converted a natural\ncavern in the cliffs of Ledaig into a place of worship. A portion\nof a trunk of a tree, on which Robert Bruce is said to have rested,\nserves as a table and reading-desk. Trunks of trees around the sides\nof the cavern serve as seats for the worshippers. Mr. Campbell\nofficiated as minister for many years to a band of faithful Highland\nworshippers in this curious church. Mr. Campbell was a remarkable\npersonality. He was postmaster of Ledaig, and he also gained a\nconsiderable reputation as a poet. He was a much respected man, and\nhis memory is dear to many.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: A. A. Inglis, Edinburgh._)\n\nST. MARGARET'S CHAPEL, EDINBURGH CASTLE.\n\n(_For some time used as a powder magazine._)]\n\nI would like to refer to a very interesting midget church at\nGrove, near Leighton Buzzard, which I had the pleasure of visiting\nrecently. It is the smallest in the county, and is a gable-roofed,\nbarn-like fabric, with a door on the north side. In 1883 the little\nchurch was restored throughout, the fine old-fashioned square\npews being replaced by open wooden seats, and it is now capable\nof seating about fifty people. Formerly the edifice contained a\n\"three-decker\"--clerk's desk, reading-desk, and pulpit combined. The\nchurchyard contains many graves, but only one tombstone (eighteenth\ncentury). The dimensions of the church are--length, twenty-nine and\na half feet; width, eighteen feet; height, about forty feet; in\nall probability, the church was formerly larger than at present.\nGrove is generally considered to be one of the smallest parishes in\nEngland, and one could hardly conceive of a smaller. It consists\npractically of a farmhouse and a lock-keeper's cottage.\n\n[Illustration: ST. ROBERT'S CHAPEL, KNARESBOROUGH.\n\n(_Showing figure of a Knight Templar cut in the rock._)\n\n(_Photo: G. E. Arnold, Knaresborough._)]\n\nWe must not forget that at the top of Edinburgh Castle is the\nhistorical diminutive chapel of St. Margaret's, which was the\nprivate chapel of the pious Margaret, Queen of Malcolm III., during\nher residence in the castle. Until very recently it had been quite\nlost sight of, having been converted into a powder magazine and\nfallen into disrepair. In 1853, however, it was \"discovered\" and\nput into an efficient state of repair. It is considered to be\nthe oldest and smallest chapel in Scotland, its dimensions being\nsixteen feet six inches by ten feet sixteen inches. The semicircular\nchancel is separated from the nave by a well-carved double-round\narch, decorated with Norman zigzag mouldings. It is too small to be\nmade available for divine service for the troops quartered in the\ncastle, and the only use that it is now put to is for occasional\nbaptisms and morning Communion.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nSMALL CHURCH AT ST. ANDREW, GREENSTED, NEAR ONGAR.\n\n(_Believed to include the only remaining portion of a Saxon wooden\nchurch._)]\n\nThere are several very small places of worship which are now, alas!\nin ruins. At Iona, for instance, on the west coast of Scotland,\nare the remains of an extremely small chapel, known as St. Oran's\nChapel. It is very near Iona Cathedral. It is constructed of red\ngranite, and its external measurements are sixty feet by twenty-two\nfeet. It is now roofless, and is very old. This little chapel\nis believed to have been built by Queen Margaret in 1080. Its\narchitecture is Romanesque, and it has one low entrance. This humble\nedifice is interesting inasmuch as within its walls is the tomb of\nSir Walter Scott's \"Lord of the Isles,\" the friend of Bruce.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nDIMINUTIVE CHAPEL AT POINT IN VIEW, NEAR EXMOUTH.\n\n(_Containing an organ made by the pastor._)]\n\nThere is another tiny barn-like edifice at Greenloaning, near\nDunblane. The little church is situated adjacent to a farmhouse, and\nseems to have been erected for the benefit of the farm-workers. It\nis remarkably small. The scenery in the vicinity is magnificent, and\nthe church is regarded with much interest by tourists.\n\nSt. Anthony's Chapel is another small building also in ruins. It is\ninteresting owing to its historic surroundings, being in the near\nvicinity of Holyrood Palace. It comprises a hermitage, sixteen feet\nlong, twelve feet wide, and eight feet high, and a Gothic chapel\nforty-three feet long, eighteen feet broad, and eighteen feet high.\n\nOne of the most remarkable of these little churches is that at\nKnaresborough, in Yorkshire, which is a very queer little chapel\nelegantly hewn out of the solid rock, the roof being beautifully\nribbed and groined in the Gothic style. At the back of the altar is\na large niche, where an image used to stand, and on one side of it\nis a place for the \"holy-water\" basin. There are also figures of\nthree heads--designed, it is believed, for an emblematical allusion\nto the order of the monks at the once neighbouring priory. Possibly\nthey were cut by some of the monks. The order was known as Sanct\u00e6\nTrinitatis. A few yards away there is another head. It has been\nsurmised that this is a representation of St. John the Baptist, to\nwhom the chapel is supposed to be dedicated. There is a cavity in\nthe floor, in which some ancient relic was rested. The chapel is\nten feet six inches long, nine feet wide, and seven and a half feet\nhigh. Near the entrance is the following inscription:--\n\n    \"Beneath yon ivy's spreading shade,\n     For lonely contemplation made,\n     An ancient chapel stands complete,\n     Once the hermit's calm retreat\n     From worldly pomp and sordid care,\n     To humble penitence and prayer;\n     The sight is pleasing, all agree--\n     Do, gentle stranger, turn and see.\"\n\nThe chapel is known as St. Robert's Chapel. St. Robert, the hermit\nwho used it for devotions, was born about 1160, and was the son\nof Sir Toke Flouris, who was mayor of the city of York. In his\nyouth he was noted for his piety, and he entered the Cistercian\nAbbey of Newminster in Northumberland. He was only there eighteen\nweeks, however, removing to York, and then to Knaresborough, where\nhe retired from the world to live a life of contemplation in this\nrestful spot. He died in the September of 1218. On one side of the\nentrance to the chapel, under the ivy, is the figure of a Knight\nTemplar, cut in the rock, in the act of drawing his sword to defend\nthe place from the violence of intruders. This is a queer and\nremarkable building, and, though not now used as a place of worship,\nthe reference here made to it may prove interesting.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nINTERIOR VIEW OF PERIVALE CHURCH.]\n\nThe cathedral of St. Asaph, in Flintshire, might be mentioned in\nthis category as being the smallest cathedral in the country. It\nis in the shape of a simple cross in plan, consisting of a choir\ntransept, nave, with five bays with aisles, and a central tower\nforty feet square and one hundred feet high. The choir was built in\n1867-68 from the designs of the late Sir Gilbert Scott, R.A., and is\nof Early English architecture.\n\nPassing references might also be made to the diminutive church of\nWarlingham, in Surrey, which runs the midget church of Wotton in\nthat county very close; and to Grosmont Church, Monmouth, erected\nby Eleanor of Provence, a quaint little structure with an octagonal\ntower. There used to be a church known as St. Mildred in the\nPoultry, which was removed to Lincolnshire. It formerly occupied a\nposition in the eastern end of Cheapside, and in 1872 it was taken\nto pieces and re-erected at Louth. It is generally considered to be\nthe smallest church designed by Wren.\n\nAt St. Andrew, Greensted, near Ongar, there is a very small church,\nand it is a curiosity, inasmuch as it is believed to be a relic of\nthe only church of Saxon origin built of wood remaining.\n\nThere is a small chapel at Point in View, near Exmouth. It is\nCongregational, and it provides seating accommodation for eighty\npersons, and forms one side of a block, the other three sides being\ntaken up by four little almshouses, each consisting of two rooms\noccupied by four elderly maiden ladies. Over the chapel door is this\nmotto:--\n\n    \"One Point in View\n     We all pursue.\"\n\nThe chapel contains a diminutive organ made by the pastor. In the\nvicinity there is a peculiar round house, the property of the\nReichel family. It was a member of this family who founded the\nchapel and almshouses.\n\nThe little church of St. Nicholas at Hulcote should be mentioned.\nIt is near Woburn, the seat of the Duke of Bedford. It is rather\ndifficult to find, at any rate when the foliage is on the trees,\nso surrounded is it by them. It was built about the year 1610 by\nRichard Chernocke. Its measurements are: length, from the tower to\nthe chancel step, thirty-nine and a half feet; chancel, eight and a\nhalf feet from step to east; width, sixteen feet three inches. There\nare carved oaken panels to many of the seats, and on the north wall,\ninside the chancel rails, are some valuable old monuments in memory\nof the Chernocke family. It is now between fifteen and twenty years\nsince the church was used for divine service, but it is still used\nfor funerals.\n\nThere is a little church, near London, known as Perivale. Although\nso near to the great metropolis, it is situated in a peculiarly\nlonely district. It lies in the valley of the Brent amid expansive\nmeadows and hay farms. In 1871 there were only seven houses and\nthirty-three inhabitants in the parish. The midget church is\nsituated at the end of a field near a low, semi-Gothic half-timber\nparsonage and a farmhouse. Although somewhat desolate, the spot is\na restful one, and the hill and spire of Harrow in the distance\nmake the scene pleasing to the eye. The little church is in the\nEarly Perpendicular style, and consists of a nave, a narrow chancel,\na rough wooden tower with short, pyramidal spire at the west,\nand porch on the south-west. The interior presents a well-kept\nappearance. The church was restored in 1875. In the windows is some\nlate fifteenth-century glass containing figures of St. John the\nBaptist and St. Matthew, in fairly good condition, and of Mary and\nJoseph, which are not so well preserved.\n\nThe prettily situated ivy-clad church of St. Lawrence, Ventnor,\nIsle of Wight, is another edifice which might well be described as\na midget church, although some years ago it was found necessary to\nenlarge it. The church originally was thirty feet eight and a half\ninches long, it is now forty feet eight and a half inches; and its\nbreadth was formerly eleven feet, whereas it is now twenty feet.\nThe height to the eaves is about six feet. The architecture is Old\nEnglish, but not at all striking. The church dates back to about the\nyear 1190.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: F. N. Broderick Hyde._)\n\nTHE OLD CHURCH AT ST. LAWRENCE.]\n\nWe have now exhausted our space, but not our subject. There are\nother examples of diminutive churches throughout the country, but we\nhave made a selection of the more interesting ones. However small\nthe church, the worshippers have this assurance from the Founder of\nthe Christian religion: \"Where two or three are gathered together in\nMy name, there am I in the midst of them\"; and with that quotation\nthis little article may fittingly be concluded.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Canon's Daughter]\n\nTHE MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER\n\n_THE STORY OF A CATHEDRAL TOWN._\n\nBy E. S. Curry, Author of \"One of the Greatest,\" \"Closely Veiled,\"\nEtc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nA PREMATURE PROPOSAL.\n\n\nIn the Canons' Court, between Mr. Bethune's and the Deanery, lived\nMr. Warde. He was a pleasant man, well off, artistic, musical--and\nhappy in a life of little work, which left him leisure for his\nartistic pursuits. He had a rosy, kind face and plump figure; the\nBethune children, Marjorie included, went to him before anyone else\nin times of need. He had often shielded them from offended law.\n\nIt was he who set on foot the literary and drawing guilds,\narranged concerts, and was the universal handy man for games and\nsocial festivities to all the county round Norham. He was about\nthirty-five, and had a chivalric devotion to Mrs. Bethune and her\nchildren, since, as a young man, he had first come to Norham.\n\nMarjorie was so accustomed to this that she did not see what was\nmanifest to other eyes, on her return from school in Munich. She\ntook all his kindness as a matter of course, having no more relation\nto herself individually than the Bishop's or the Dean's. Since her\nreturn, he had been sedulously pursuing his courtship in every way\nthat occurred to him.\n\nThis gentleman was standing beside her under the lime-tree at the\ntop of the garden, where Marjorie could superintend the pursuits of\nher two youngest brothers. They were now busily engaged underground.\nFor a whole week every minute of David's and Sandy's leisure had\nbeen spent in digging a deep hole in the corner of the garden\ndevoted to their use. Thence, with infinite patience, passages had\nbeen scooped, and the mound of earth thrown up against the wall had\ncome in useful as a toboggan ground.\n\nThe little boys had received strict orders that morning that all\nthe earth in the passages of the \"cave,\" which, in a frenzy of\nlabour, the two schoolboys had burrowed out before breakfast, was\nto be removed before their return in the afternoon. As it got\ndeeper, steps had been conveyed from the house for the descent of\nthe hole. The utility of division of labour had been impressed upon\nthe children. Orme was to fill the baskets; Ross, being surer of\nhis equilibrium, was to carry them up and empty them. If the work\nwas not done, and done properly, the babies would have to play\nelsewhere; no longer would their presence be tolerated by their\nelders.\n\nMarjorie was enjoying a new book, whose alluring cover was fit index\nto its contents. Now and then, between the pages, dark eyes looked\nat her in a strange and wonderful fashion. When this occurred, she\nwould lift her own, and gaze dreamily over the currant bushes, her\nbreath coming quickly, the colour fluctuating in her cheeks. Upon\none such moment Mr. Warde had intruded.\n\n\"I thought I would come in and talk to you about your sonnet,\nMarjorie,\" he said, looking about for a seat. There was nothing\nhandy except a cleft log--used by the boys as a block for chopping\nsticks. On this uncomfortable seat Mr. Warde poised himself.\n\n[Illustration: The man, looking at her, thought he might take hope.]\n\n\"But that wouldn't be fair, would it?\" asked Marjorie.\n\n\"Oh! we judged the poems yesterday. I didn't propose to alter\nanything. Mrs. Adeane's is the best, and Lady Esther's next.\nBut--your usual imagination was wanting this time,\" he said gently.\n\n\"I thought it was bad--it seemed so prosaic,\" Marjorie said humbly.\n\"You see, father's advice always is, not to let imagination go\nfurther than it knows.\"\n\n\"Have you never imagined, never thought about love?\" he asked softly.\n\n\"Often, lately,\" frankly. \"I thought it was a very silly subject to\nchoose.\"\n\n\"Not silly, Marjorie. The loveliest poetry has been written about\nit, as it is the loveliest subject. Why 'lately'?\" he asked.\n\n\"To get ideas. They don't come, if you don't think--not to me, at\nleast.\"\n\n\"That way of putting it is new,\" he said, considering. \"Well,\nMarjorie, I want you to think of it, to imagine all you can of what\nit means--the new brightness, the new beauty it gives to life;\nhow it transforms all things, even the commonest, so that----\" He\npaused. Marjorie was looking at him in wonder.\n\nWas it something in his glance that brought irresistibly back to her\nremembrance that look in Mr. Pelham's dark eyes, of which more than\nonce that afternoon she had been thinking? She coloured brightly,\nand her beautiful eyes grew soft.\n\n\"Ah! I see you know what I mean,\" Mr. Warde said gently.\n\n\"Oh! I don't,\" said Marjorie confusedly. But the man, looking at\nher, thought he might take hope. He went on:\n\n\"It is expressed in all beautiful music, as well as in the best\nliterature and art. It appeals to everyone, because it is natural to\nall, and answers to something in the heart of every one of us. So\nyou see, Marjorie, knowing you and your gift of imagination, I am\ndisappointed at this bald little verse.\"\n\n\"Father says it is dangerous imagining on nothing,\" Marjorie\nreplied, plucking up her spirit. \"First get facts, absolutely\naccurate. Then build on them.\"\n\n\"Well, Marjorie, don't you realise that the facts are all about\nyou, that I----Whatever's the matter?\"\n\nA yell broke across the summer air, and Marjorie, springing up, bent\nover the edge of the crater-like hole. At the bottom lay Orme, his\nbasket beside him, its contents upon him. In a second Marjorie had\ndescended underground, and Mr. Warde was left gazing into space.\n\nWhen she emerged, Orme was in her arms, muddy tears bedewing his\ncherubic cheeks. \"Fall'd,\" he announced, in a self-pitying tone, to\nthe visitor.\n\nMarjorie reseated herself, her little brother's head upon her\nbreast. As she comforted him, the man observing her grew more in\nlove than ever. Marjorie, soft and gentle, unconsciously rehearsing\nMadonna attitudes, gave him a thrill of delight. Presently the boy,\nhis conscience uneasy over neglected work, slipped from her knee,\nand, with muttered remarks on \"er, nasty ground,\" descended again\ninto its bosom.\n\nHe had learnt the imprudence of engaging in another man's labour.\nResenting the meaner part of filling the baskets for the more stolid\nand surefooted Ross to ascend and empty, he had been promptly\npunished for his ambition. His little soul was now sore with the\ninjustice of things.\n\n\"Er, nasty steps slipped poor Orme,\" he said to Ross, watching his\ncareful ascent.\n\n\"You not big anuff,\" Ross answered importantly. \"Go and fill er\nbasket. Do what David bidded you.\"\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Warde had glanced at his watch. Soon, all too soon,\nthis semi-solitude in which he had been fortunate enough to find\nMarjorie would be invaded by the schoolboys. He was no nearer the\nend for which he had come, and he could not again drag in Marjorie's\nlittle verse for criticism. She glanced at him, as she drew the\nalluring book towards her, and said, not too politely:\n\n\"If you are going to stay, I'll just fetch my work,\" rising as she\nspoke.\n\n\"No, Marjorie, don't go. There's something I specially wished to\nsay, to talk to you about,\" he said, becoming a little confused\nunder her unconscious gaze. Could he, after all, disturb this\nserenity by the suggestion of love and marriage? He felt somehow\nthat the time was not ripe--that they would seem incongruous to her\nin connection with himself. And yet, if he did not speak, and be\nquick about it, another man might step in.\n\n\"I have had a letter to-day,\" he said, \"offering me a college\nliving.\"\n\n\"Have you?\" said Marjorie in a not altogether flattering manner, and\nlooking at him rather as though she were much surprised. She stood\npoised, ready to fetch the threatened work; her attitude altogether\nan unflattering one to a lover who has just made an important\ncommunication.\n\n\"You won't go, shall you?\" she went on, her glance going past him\nto the wall which divided the gardens. Over the top big clusters\nof the roses in which Mr. Warde delighted nodded gaily, whilst\nfurther on the square face of his house was gay with bloom, amid\nwhich the two lines of windows stared a little baldly. The blind in\neach was arranged symmetrically, and in spite of its prim tidiness,\neven its outside showed that no loved woman ruled within. From her\nneighbour's house Marjorie's eyes jumped to her own home.\n\nHere there was no symmetry, but its character as a home stood out\nplain. The nursery windows, distinguished by their guarding bars,\nwere wide open, and the blinds drawn to the top, whilst in the three\nopen windows of her mother's room adjoining the curtains flopped\nlazily, and the blinds had been adjusted to the sun. Somehow the\nsight and the difference brought a feeling into Marjorie's heart\nwhich had not yet stirred it in connection with Mr. Warde. Hitherto\nhe had not seemed to her to need pity. But now, when he went\nback into his house--away from her and the homely garden, where\nvegetables, and currant bushes, and the untidy quarter of the boys,\nwere of more account than flowers, where little feet pattered, and\nboys' voices were never silent--what would he go back to? The blank\nwindows lit up empty rooms, where no foot but his own stirred. He\nwould find no companionship but that of his music and his books.\nMarjorie never guessed of the visions that peopled his fireside.\n\n\"Shall you go?\" she asked, looking at him--then speaking out\nsuddenly the pity her thoughts had called up: \"Won't it be very\nlonely?\"\n\n\"Very. Sit down please, Marjorie, and listen to me.\"\n\nThen, as she complied: \"When first I came here, ten years ago, your\nfather and mother were very kind to me, and I grew so attached to\nthem and theirs, that I wanted nothing more. I felt no need of the\nties other men have or make, because I had--you.\" Then his tone\ngrew tender. \"Do you remember how you used to come round and climb\ninto my study window for your lessons, when the boys began to go to\nschool? You were a bit forsaken then, Marjorie. And then, when you\nwere good--as you weren't always--how a little pony accompanied me\non my rides, and then when the pony and the child who rode it had\neach grown bigger, one day they both disappeared. The child went\nto school, to come back, nearly grown up, with music oozing out of\nher fingers' ends. Well, Marjorie\" (he had risen, and his face was\npaling, his self-control vanishing, as he stood looking down on\nher), \"I have waited a long time for that little girl--who has yet\nseemed always mine--I want her for my wife. Will you go with me,\ndear, if I go?\"\n\nMarjorie gazed blankly into his face. \"I? Of course, it is\nme,\" she said slowly. \"I don't know--I didn't think--how can I\nleave--everybody?\" her voice faltered.\n\nShe rose suddenly, putting aside the hand that would have stayed\nher. There is nothing so cruel as a young thing who has no notion of\nher power and of the devotion she has stirred.\n\n\"I didn't think,\" she said, cuttingly, \"that you wanted payment. I\nthought--I thought----\" And then, not trusting her voice further,\nshe sprang away from his detaining hand, and fled.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nMARJORIE'S TROUBLE.\n\n\n\"Dear Marjorie,--You gave me no answer yesterday, and I am afraid I\ntook you by surprise, and perhaps shocked you. A girl is a tender\nthing, I know. Will you send me just a little line of hope and\nforgiveness? I love you--how dearly you cannot guess--and I want you\nto be my wife. But I will press nothing against your will, and I\nhave written 'No' to the offer of that living. I think you will like\nto stay near home. Whatever you decide, whether you say 'Yes' or\n'No,' believe always that my love is too great to change, and that I\nam ever your attached friend,--W. ST. J. WARDE.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMarjorie was reading this letter with an expression which certainly\ndid not augur well for its writer. She had been seeing to household\nmatters for her mother, and had sat down with an armful of boys'\nclothes to mend, when the note had been handed to her.\n\n\"I do not know what to say to him, mother. I wish--oh, I do so wish\nhe hadn't done it.\"\n\n\"He is a good man, Margie,\" her mother said simply. \"A man, I think,\nto make you happy.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"He is a good man, Margie.\"]\n\n\"Happy, mother? I am happy now. What should I do next door? I should\nalways be running in to see you. And how could you get on without\nme?\"\n\n\"We shall manage. And next door with Mr. Warde would be so much\nnicer than a long way off with someone else. It would scarcely be\nlosing you.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to go, mother?\" asked Marjorie, struck by her\nmother's tone.\n\n\"Not in one sense, dear; but you will go. It is natural for girls to\nmarry. You will marry, I hope; it is the happiest life, with a good\nman you can look up to.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"You have been very good to my boys,\" Mrs. Bethune\nsaid.]\n\n\"But do I look up to him? I think we--Charity and I--often laugh at\nhim.\"\n\n\"But you can laugh, and yet look up, or life would be very dull. Who\ndo you go to when you want to know anything that father can't teach\nyou?\"\n\n\"To Mr. Warde,\" acknowledged Marjorie.\n\n\"And when you want to go anywhere?\"\n\n\"Yes; but only because he has a carriage--and we haven't.\"\n\n\"And when you want to see the picture galleries?\"\n\n\"He can go; he always has time. But all that doesn't mean that I\nwant to marry him,\" she added.\n\n\"But it is just that. You already look to him for most of your\npleasures. That is a long way towards loving him. You would find him\na very kind husband and friend.\"\n\n\"Oh! mother, what must I do?\" entreated Marjorie, the tears\ncoming into her eyes. \"He has spoilt everything. It is Charity's\ngarden-party this afternoon, and I shall be so uncomfortable.\nCouldn't you go, mother, in your chair?\"\n\nMrs. Bethune's face changed.\n\n\"I could, dear. Yes, I will go; perhaps it will be difficult for\nyou.\" She sighed softly; she was hardly as yet reconciled to her\nhelplessness in public, in spite of the cheery spirit which enabled\nher to bear suffering with such courage.\n\nMrs. Bethune's spirit made her the idol and confidante of her boys.\nHer fun was unquenched, even when the fire of life would seem to\nhave gone out for ever; after the terrible fall, when, to save the\ninfant in her arms, she had laid herself upon her back for life. The\nbaby--Orme--was found unhurt, folded round, so it seemed, by the\nbroken body of his mother. Ross, the most thoughtful, she averred,\nof her six sons, once said to her:\n\n\"Mummie, you do laugh mor'n anybody. Is it 'cos you can't walk?\"\n\n\"Yes, little son, perhaps it is; to make up, you know.\"\n\nAnd Sandy, butting his bright head into her knees one day,\ninconsolable about something, was won to laughter by, \"Sandy, laugh!\nLook at me!\"--and he had looked. And the irresistible witchery\nof the beautiful dark eyes had cured his woe. She was always the\nsunshiny centre of the house, and only her husband, or Marjorie in\nrare moments, guessed how sometimes the bright spirit quailed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Dean was popular in the county. When Mr. Pelham came into the\nDeanery garden somewhat late, he found Mrs. Bethune's chair under\nthe chestnut trees, a centre of laughter and conversation. Marjorie\nwas standing by her mother, with a wistful look on her face, he\nthought at first sight, wondering at its expression. Love, when\npresented first to a girl brought up as Marjorie had been, comes\nas a great shock. That it should be Mr. Warde of all men who\nshould cause her this disquiet filled Marjorie with a sense of the\nunsatisfactoriness of the world. It disturbed things that had seemed\nto her as settled as the hills round Norham that this old friend\nshould want to be her lover.\n\nBefore going to the Deanery she had sent a little note in answer to\nhis letter, in which she had said--\n\n\"There is nothing to forgive. But you must not think of me like this\nany more. You have always been so kind to all of us that it grieves\nme to say 'No' to anything you want. Still, it must be 'No.'\"\n\nShe hoped he would not be present at the Deanery. It was his turn of\nduty at the cathedral. She would bring her mother away early, before\nhe arrived. The afternoon was quite spoilt for her.\n\nAnd then Mr. Pelham had come up, and she had introduced him to her\nmother with a tremulousness and agitation quite unlike her usual\nserenity.\n\n\"You have been very good to my boys,\" Mrs. Bethune said gratefully.\n\n\"Your boys have been very good to my little girl,\" he answered,\nadmiring the delicate beauty of the face, scarcely looking older\nthan the unquiet one of the tall daughter beside her.\n\n\"They're very enterprising,\" their mother said. \"I hope she will not\ncome to any harm with them. They're apt to give us surprises.\"\n\n\"I wonder if you will give me some advice about her,\" he went on,\ndrawn by some magic in the dark eyes to appeal to their owner for\nsympathy, \"if I may consult you. It is about clothes,\" he said,\nsmiling. \"My nurse is kind and careful, but surely a baby in the\ncountry does not really need expensive dresses from a Regent Street\noutfitter. I should be so grateful if you would tell me where you\nget those pretty things your little boys always look so nice in.\"\n\n\"Even when they are grubby?\" laughed the mother. \"I do not know\nwhere they could be bought. My nurse, and Marjorie, and I make them.\"\n\n\"Then, if you do, surely my nurse ought to have time. I do not like\nmy baby's over-dressed look; at least, white satin seems to be out\nof keeping with mud-pies and digging. She is great on digging just\nnow.\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" said Mrs. Bethune. \"If you will send your nurse down to\nsee me, I will have a talk with her.\"\n\nThe Duchess of Norham, a very great person indeed now came up to\ngreet Mrs. Bethune. She was not one who troubled about dress.\nTo-day, in her grey silk, and round hat, she was the most plainly\ndressed woman on the Deanery lawn. Charity, by her side, was an\neffective contrast, in soft, shimmering pink.\n\n\"Glad to see you out again, my dear,\" she said to Mrs. Bethune. \"And\nthis is your girl come back to you--grown past all knowledge. I hear\nwonders about her music,\" kindly. \"Charity, may I take her away for\na few minutes, presently? I want to hear this music Mr. Warde extols\nso. Where is he?\" looking round.\n\nMarjorie's cheeks, in spite of her usual self-control, turned\nscarlet. But the Duchess's gaze was arrested by the look on Mr.\nPelham's face. He, still standing with a hand on Mrs. Bethune's\nchair, was looking at Marjorie with a surprised appeal in his\nexpression, as if he, too, was wondering at her sudden flush.\n\n\"Oh!\" thought the Duchess, \"I imagined it was Charity. Was I\nmistaken then? Not about the girl, if those rosy cheeks are to be\ntrusted.\"\n\n\"Why isn't Mr. Warde here?\" she asked of Marjorie, who, in obedience\nto her gesture, turned with her towards the house.\n\n\"He is at the cathedral. It is his week.\"\n\nAnd the Duchess thought she guessed rightly the reason of the\nagitation she detected in Marjorie's voice.\n\n\"The Blackton man will be unsuccessful,\" she settled. \"But Charity\nis pretty enough to console him, and it will be a good marriage for\nthem both.\"\n\nThis great lady was never more happy than when arranging marriages\namongst her friends.\n\nMarjorie did not dream how her sudden flush had betrayed her, and\nforgot lovers and the difficulties they caused when she sat down\nto the piano. But perhaps it was the perplexity in her mind that\nconveyed itself to the listener, through the plaintive melody ending\nin a staccato phrase which fell from her fingers.\n\nThe Duchess sat at a little distance, viewing with approval the\ndelicate face, framed in its bright hair.\n\n[Illustration: \"Hush! Barbe, don't call!\" entreated Sandy.--_p.\n168_.]\n\n\"Good, pure, true, and strong,\" she settled; \"and,\" as a sudden\nconviction struck her, \"she is beautiful, like her mother was ten\nyears ago. Dressed\"--her thoughts following along the same way as\nCharity's--\"well, she would be a success. She is wasted on Mr.\nWarde. Shall I interfere?\"\n\nShe was so deep in thought, working out a sudden plan, that she did\nnot notice when Marjorie ceased playing.\n\nMarjorie, glancing at her, asked softly--\n\n\"Was that too sad? Shall I try something else?\"\n\nBut in a moment the Duchess rose briskly, and put her hand kindly on\nMarjorie's shoulder.\n\n\"No, my dear. I shouldn't like that spoiled by anything else. Mr.\nWarde is right. You have a gift. But a girl like you should not be\nsad or--or perplexed. Forgive an old woman. Is something troubling\nyou?\"\n\nMarjorie looked up into the keen eyes above her.\n\n\"Not troubling,\" she hesitated, \"only things are sometimes\nperplexing.\"\n\nAs she spoke her eyes travelled to the window, through which came\nthe sound of low-voiced chatter and delicate laughter. The older\nwoman, looking at the girl, saw a sudden arrested look come into her\neyes and, following their direction, was again puzzled. Charity,\nstanding by Mrs. Bethune's chair, was smiling up into Mr. Pelham's\nface. She had the manner of one who is pleased, and who wishes\nto please, and her pretty daintiness of pose and dress was very\nattractive. Mr. Pelham's whole attention, as he conversed, was given\nto her. In his courteous attitude were expressed, in the eyes of the\ntwo lookers-on, both deference and admiration.\n\n\"That girl has grown very pretty,\" the Duchess said, \"and Mr. Pelham\nseems to think so. He is quite an acquisition here, though I am\namused to hear you sniffed at him at first.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" agreed Marjorie, a little pang at her heart.\n\nThe keen eyes travelled back again to Marjorie's face.\n\n\"But your mother was prettier than any of you. The sweetest,\nmerriest creature ever seen, with you babies at her feet. I am glad\nto see her so much better, able to do even this little, poor soul,\npoor soul!\"\n\nThe sudden tears welled up into Marjorie's eyes at the appreciation\nand tenderness of the tone.\n\n\"And, my dear--forgive an old woman again--but I think I have\nguessed Mr. Warde's hopes for a long time, and he is a good man.\nThere, there\"--as Marjorie's face grew agitated--\"nothing could have\nhappened better. Your mother will have you at hand, and though she\nis so unselfish and brave, she has missed you sadly; and there is\nplenty of money.\"\n\nMarjorie listened in silence, with a feeling as though chains were\nbeing bound round her. As she walked back by the Duchess's side to\nher mother's chair she strove in vain to recall her courage. In the\neyes of the man who watched her, as she came towards him, the shadow\non her face had deepened with that little excursion into the house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nA MIDNIGHT VISIT.\n\n\nThe boys had seized the opportunity of the attention of their elders\nbeing engaged elsewhere to get into mischief. Although they had\nmade so much fuss about their right of way to school, it was not\nthe only way they used. They had, in fact, several ways. One was\nby train to Baskerton, a village on the river five miles away, and\nthence, by lanes and the parks, home. This, however, required time\nand the absence of authorities. Another way was through Easton and\nthe parks, up the course of the little stream, which at one point\nnearly touched the Court gardens. In this stream, its shallow waters\nsplashing up against their ankles, the boys were walking, and the\nbaby was prancing between them.\n\n\"Should we take Barbe with us?\" David had asked, pausing on the\nGreen.\n\n\"If we can get her,\" Sandy had replied.\n\nThe boys reconnoitred, and the piercing whistle, which set the baby\nall a-quiver with expectation, sounded through the garden.\n\n\"There then, go!\" said nurse somewhat crossly, as Barbe began to\nstamp; and she went. Her education was proceeding apace. Her father\nsometimes listened aghast at the things which, in her baby prattle,\nshe reported herself to have done.\n\n\"See, Barbe, there's a rat!\" Sandy said eagerly, as a flop and a\nsplash made them jump. \"See, it's swimmin' away.\"\n\n\"'Wimmin' away,\" said the baby, stooping to look, her two hands\non her two knees, and the front of her frock sailing on the water\nbefore her.\n\n\"Oh, Barbe, you're all wet!\" David said, as they landed, and\nstrolled up the field.\n\n\"Wet!\" she echoed delightedly. \"Foots--f'ock!\"\n\n\"You'll have to be dried.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Sandy cheerfully; \"we'll dry you by the Bishop's\nfire--almost sure to be a fire.\"\n\nBut the study window, to which they crept warily by sheltered ways,\nwas shut. The Bishop was absent.\n\n\"Now what's to be done?\" said David.\n\n\"I know where there's a fire,\" Sandy said. \"Was this morning, 'cos\nof that lead. Let's take her to the little room.\"\n\nAgain they slipped by leafy ways out of the Palace garden into the\ncathedral yard. The baby's wet skirts flopped round her, and David\nlifted her into his arms.\n\nThe approach of Mrs. Lytchett, returning from the Deanery in\nunwonted bravery of attire, prompted them to seek refuge behind a\ntomb. Here it took the boys' whole attention to prevent Barbe's\nchatter drawing unwished-for notice upon them.\n\n\"Hush! Barbe, don't call!\" entreated Sandy.\n\n\"Barbedie good girl,\" announced the baby in a loud voice, lifting\nherself on tip-toe to see the passer-by.\n\nMrs. Lytchett's ears were good, and, besides, she felt certain at\nthis point that her eyes had seen something fluttering. She stepped\noff the pathway, and examined a tomb near.\n\n\"Hush!--sh--sh!\" cautioned David, holding up his finger to his\nmouth--a movement which so pleased Barbe that she proceeded to copy\nit.\n\nMrs. Lytchett passed on; the danger was over. David lifted up the\nbaby and carried her into a little octagon room near by, built in\nthe wall of the cathedral, and used frequently as a workroom or\noffice.\n\nHere the boys were at home. It was the head-quarters of their\ngreatest friends--the masons engaged on the renovations always in\nprogress at the cathedral.\n\nIn the grate were the slowly dying embers of a fire, and the room\nwas empty.\n\n\"Mr. Galton ain't locked up yet, knowed he wouldn't,\" said Sandy.\n\"He likes his tea punctual--'spects it's time. Now, Barbe, come an'\nget done.\"\n\nWhilst David was holding the baby to the fire, Sandy disappeared,\npresently returning with an excited face.\n\n\"They've nearly done,\" he said. \"It's prime up there. Seems to me,\nwe'd best settle as soon as possible.\"\n\n\"This baby won't get dry,\" said David, gloomily. \"Just look at her!\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Sandy, regarding the bedraggled Barbe. \"We'll take\nit off an' leave it here. An' I'll fetch her somefink. Sure to be\nsomefink stored in Margie's basket--know Orme made holes in himself\nlast week.\"\n\nSo it happened that it was a little blue girl--clad in one of Orme's\nshabbiest overalls--who met Mrs. Bethune's returning chair, and was\nlifted to her knee for a \"yide.\"\n\n\"But what has happened? where are her own clothes?\" Mrs. Bethune\nasked, recognising the substitute.\n\n\"We thought they were just a little damp,\" said Sandy in\nexplanation, climbing up the back of the chair to kiss his mother.\n\n\"Good boy, Sandy!\" said his mother, \"to take care of her.\"\n\n\"But how did they get damp?\" asked Marjorie suspiciously.\n\n\"Just a little water p'raps got on them,\" he replied, feeling the\ntone unkind after his mother's praise.\n\n\"Then you have been in mischief?\" asked Marjorie.\n\n\"Barbedie walked in er water,\" the baby replied, as if she had been\ndoing a good work.\n\n\"You shouldn't have let her,\" Mrs. Bethune said caressingly.\n\n\"Barbe don't want lettin',\" answered Sandy philosophically. \"She\ndoes wivout.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sweets of mischief whetted the boys' appetites for more. They\napplied themselves with zeal to a work they had in hand, and for the\nnext few days little was seen of them.\n\nOne evening they were standing in a disused corner of the Palace\ngrounds, under the ruined window of the old banqueting hall, which\nformed part of the wall enclosing the gardens of the modern wing of\nthe house. The corner where they stood was immediately adjoining the\nwall of their own garden, and was part of an overgrown shrubbery\nbetween the ruins and the parks.\n\nBoth boys were exceedingly dirty. Faces, capless heads, fingers,\nclothes, all bore traces of the underground work from which they had\njust emerged. They had burrowed from their cave, and were mightily\npleased at their point of exit. No place could be more secluded,\nnor less likely to be discovered. And from the ruined wall close\nby, under the shelter of a spreading elder, they were able to drop\neasily either into the cathedral yard or the Bishop's garden.\n\n\"Now the game begins. We've got a base of operations,\" said David\ngrandly.\n\n\"How much?\" asked Sandy.\n\n\"What you work from, and what you fall back upon, if you get\nbesieged. And it's a good base too,\" he added, looking round. \"We've\ngot to make this passage hard and firm, and then hide it from that\nprying gardener.\"\n\n\"An' we can pay back Mrs. Lytchett,\" said Sandy with joy.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Oh, I know! She just hates us going to the Bishop's window. He told\nme he'd just got a new tin of gingerbread, an' now we can get in\nwivout goin' through the gate. She's made that gate so it clicks.\"\n\n\"But you mustn't let her see.\"\n\n\"Not me! If she comes, we'll just run round the house, and she'll\nfink we've come back way. And then she'll run round to catch us, an'\nwe shan't be there.\"\n\nSandy spoke with the certainty of much experience, as, indeed, he\nhad a right to do.\n\n\"Our character is all gone,\" David said thoughtfully, \"so it don't\nmuch matter how bad we are.\"\n\n\"No, s'long as it ain't wicked bad. We'll be highwaymen, but we\nwon't be thieves and robbers.\"\n\n\"We can get into the cathedral, too,\" suggested David.\n\nAnd then, with minds full of revolution and anarchy, the boys bent\nearnestly to the preliminary work of making their passage secure.\n\n\"Ross and Orme, you're never to go along there without us,\" David\nsaid to his young brothers, when he had wriggled back to the cave\nwhence his passage started. Now their services were no longer\nneeded, they were felt to be rather nuisances.\n\n\"If you do, you'll get smacked right hard,\" said Sandy.\n\nBoth children fixed round eyes on their elders, unable to understand\nthis sudden change. They were dismayed at its injustice. For some\ndays they had been treated with indulgent kindness, all their faults\noverlooked, so long as they did diligent work. They were cleaned\nwhen possible, and consoled when their dirty appearance awoke wrath\nin the powers responsible for them. Now, it seemed, all was changed.\nThere was no mistaking Sandy's attitude, as he stood ready to\nadminister the smacks alluded to. Nor were David's frowning brows\nmore encouraging.\n\nRoss tried argument. \"We'se scooped, too,\" he said. \"We'se got\ndirty, ever so,\" he added.\n\n\"Ever so,\" echoed Orme.\n\n\"No matter! You kids must do as you're bid, and if ever you go a\nstep along there you'll catch it. See?\" said David. And the infants,\nwith moody brows, averred that they saw.\n\nBy this time the hole which formed the entrance to the cave was much\nimproved. The wooden steps had been replaced by a flight of mud\nsteps, the making of which had been a joy, not only to the boys,\nbut to the baby. They had required water as well as mud in their\nmaking--endless paddlings and pattings and treadings down of little\nfeet before the staircase was complete. David had engineered the\nproceedings, and Mr. Warde, now and then hovering about the top, had\nconferred advice. He was not encouraged to descend. The boys wanted\nno prying grown-ups to mar their schemes. Marjorie, now and then,\nhad suspicions that some extra mischief was afloat. Never before had\nshe known them to stick to anything for so long. But she recollected\nthe fascination of caves and holes, and was, besides, much engaged\nwith her own concerns.\n\n[Illustration: =The Bishop and the boy.=--_p. 170._]\n\nOne evening the Bishop, on leaving the drawing-room, had gone to\nhis study. It had been a wet day, and the rain had finished in\na thunderstorm an hour or so before, leaving the sky washed and\npellucid under the summer moon.\n\nThe shutters had been closed and a little fire lighted; but\npresently, finding the room warm, the Bishop opened the window, and\nstood gazing over the wide lawn which occupied the space between the\nhouse and the ruins.\n\nThe delicate tracery of the ruined window of the banqueting hall,\nand the many unevennesses of the walls, stood out black against the\nsky. Every object on the lawn--every bush and tree and flower--was\nsharply distinct.\n\nAs he looked, his eye caught a movement among the distant shrubs.\nSome small object was advancing along the gravelled walk surrounding\nthe lawn. Presently, as if attracted by the light, it turned off the\npathway on to the lawn, in a bee-line for the window.\n\nThe Bishop stood watching, wondering a little, when the object\nresolved itself first into a small boy, and then into Sandy Bethune.\n\n\"Why, Sandy!\" he exclaimed, \"how did you get here?\"\n\n\"Is it the middle of the night?\" asked Sandy in his usual cheerful\nway.\n\n\"Nearly. It's half-past eleven. Good gracious! What have you been\ndoing?\"\n\nFor, on approaching the light, Sandy was seen to be covered with mud\nand otherwise much disarrayed.\n\nSandy considered. He was in a deep fix--so deep a one as to threaten\nthe upheaval and overthrow of some well-laid plans, just on the\npoint of being carried out. The Bishop was an understanding man.\nSandy had confided in him before, and knew his worth. If only\nMrs. Lytchett did not live at the Palace, and spoil everything,\nSandy would have been quite willing to share that residence with\nthe Bishop. He had once told the Bishop so, artlessly asking when\nMrs. Lytchett was going away to live elsewhere. The Bishop, on his\nside, found the children of his friend very charming, specially\nso irrepressible Sandy; and was ready to be lenient when their\npeccadilloes were in question. He now invited Sandy in, despite the\nmuddy covering which encased him from head to foot. Sitting down, he\nbegan to question him gravely.\n\n\"What is it, Sandy? Why are you in such a mess?\"\n\nSandy sat down on a little stool, as if glad to present his small\nperson to the fire, and said, \"It's the bovering funderstorm. We'd\nnever thought of that. An' we got caught, an' had to take shelter,\nan' when we got back our way was bunged up--all squashy with mud.\nAn' we hadn't got no spades nor fings out with us. So at last I said\nI would go and scout--you know--an' then I saw you.\"\n\n\"Who's 'we'?\" asked the Bishop.\n\n\"Me an' David.\"\n\n\"And how did you get into my garden?\"\n\n\"Oh, over the wall. We're highwaymen, and we've got a way of our\nown.\"\n\n\"Indeed. And where's David now?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's over there, all muddy, tryin' to clean himself. He's a\ndeal worse than me,\" said Sandy cheerfully.\n\n\"He must indeed be bad, then. What do you propose to do?\"\n\n\"That's it. We can't get back to the pantry window now our way's\ngone,\" said artless Sandy. \"Not in at all, not wivout knockin' at\nthe door. I did think p'raps\"--persuasively--\"you cud come and\nknock.\"\n\n\"I see. And then?\"\n\n\"Then, when you was talkin' to father, we cud slip in. Don't fink\nfather would see--not to notice.\"\n\n\"How long have you been highwaymen?\" the Bishop asked.\n\n\"On'y about a week--and this is a sickener,\" said Sandy disgustedly.\n\"We was ghosts for a bit at first--till a woman screeched so we\nnearly got caught, stupid fing!\"\n\nAnd the Bishop, remembering certain reports that had been made to\nhim, was pleased with his acumen in refusing to call in the police.\n\n\"If I were you, I should try a better line of business,\" he\nsaid. \"Ghosts frighten silly women, and highwaymen are not very\ncreditable, on the whole.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" agreed Sandy. \"We're goin' to. Next we're goin' to be\npioneers and settlers.\"\n\n\"Ah, I see. And where are you going to settle?\"\n\nSandy's bright eyes were turned suspiciously to the kind ones\nlooking down upon him. He fidgeted uneasily, and a smile came across\nthe Bishop's face.\n\n\"I see,\" he said. \"Perhaps you have not yet made up your minds.\"\n\nSandy looked uncomfortable. \"Not 'zactly,\" he confessed. \"Truth is,\nit depends--I don't fink Dave would like me to tell. It's such a\ngrand plan,\" he went on enthusiastically, \"it 'ud be such a pity----\"\n\n\"To have it spoilt. Well, don't get into more mischief than you can\nhelp,\" the Bishop cautioned, \"and don't do anything to make your\nmother uneasy.\"\n\n\"Mother? Oh, mother'll laugh--she always does. You see, the bother\nis,\" confided Sandy, \"there ain't no places to pioneer--every bit's\ntaken. An' we've on'y just thought on it; an' it's splendid. We\nwant a girl badly, though. Margie? No, Margie's no good. Settlers\nhas wives an' squaws,\" went on Sandy pensively, \"and we've on'y got\nBarbe lately, an' she's aw'fly little. 'Sides, you have to take such\ncare on her--she's the on'y one Mr. Pelham's got. There's a lot of\nus, but mother says she cudn't spare not the littlest bit of one. So\nmuch less him his one, an' such a little one. It's a 'sponsibility,\"\nsighed Sandy, \"when you want to do fings.\"\n\nThrough the open window came the musical sound of the chimes from\nthe cathedral. The Bishop, with a quick sigh, rose.\n\n\"There is a quarter to twelve. Your father will be going to bed.\nFetch David quickly.\"\n\n\"Should fink he's cleaned by now,\" said Sandy hopefully. \"He was\nrubbin' himself wiv the leaves off the trees--drippin' wet.\"\n\nMr. Bethune opened his front door in response to a low knocking,\nwhich at first he did not hear. His eyes had the unseeing, far-away\nlook in them of a man disturbed in a possessing line of thought. The\nred light in the hall shone on the face of the Bishop, who entered\nand stood on the doormat for a minute, in such a position as to\nshield the entrance of the two muddy boys.\n\n\"Here is the _Guardian_ for you,\" he said, \"with a very appreciative\nnotice of your paper.\" Then he went on, \"And tell Marjorie to-morrow\nmorning not to be too cross with the state of the boys' clothes.\nThey've been in mischief, but it won't happen again--not the same\nsort.\"\n\n[Illustration: The father pretended not to hear the scuffling of\nsmall feet.]\n\nThe two men looked at one another and laughed, and the father\npretended not to hear the scuffling of small feet upon the stairs.\nThe Bishop went home with no weight on his conscience--only a little\npathetic envy of the man he had just left. Somehow those stifled\nscufflings up the stairs had gone straight to the depths of his very\ntender and lonely heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The Bishop knows all 'bout it,\" excused Sandy sturdily, when\nconfronted by Marjorie the next morning.\n\n\"The Bishop knows that all your clothes are in the bath, with both\ntaps running!\"\n\n\"Well, he does,\" Sandy repeated, \"proberly. He said we were the\nout-an'-outest dirtiest little grubs he'd ever seen.\"\n\n\"That you are--no one will contradict him. But he couldn't know that\nyour clothes were in the bath.\"\n\n\"Yes, he would. If they were so dirty, where else could they be?\nIt's all that 'gustin' funderstorm.\"\n\n\"Thunderstorm!\" echoed Marjorie suspiciously. \"That was at ten\no'clock. What has that got to do with your clothes and the Bishop?\"\n\n\"Tell you it has. You'd best ask him, if you don't b'lieve me,\" said\nSandy, hurt at her unbelief. \"Anyhow, he does know that they was\ndirty. An' just cos we want to save trouble an' wash 'em ourselves,\nyou're cross an' spiteful. Girls are no good--'cept little uns.\nWhat's there to put on? Best be somefink old, cos there's a deal of\ndiggin' to be done.\"\n\n\"I shall stop that digging if you make such a mess of yourselves.\"\n\n\"You'd best not,\" said David meaningly, from his bed in the further\ncorner. \"If you do, you'll be sorry,\" he said darkly.\n\n  END OF CHAPTER SIX.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Three Songs of Birth]\n\nThree\n\nSongs of Birth\n\nA\n\n_Christmas_\n\n_Sermon_\n\nBy the Rev. Hugh Miller, M.A.\n\n  \"Suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host\n   praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth\n          peace, good will toward men.\"--ST. LUKE ii. 13, 14.\n\n\nThree times are we told in Scripture that the angels sang. At the\nbirth of the world, when the foundations of the earth were laid, the\nmorning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy.\nWhen Jesus was born into the world a multitude of the heavenly host\npraised God and said, \"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth\npeace, good will toward men.\" And when anyone is born again there is\njoy among the angels in heaven over the sinner that repenteth. The\nsubject of the song in each case is the same: the leading _motif_ of\nthem all is man.\n\nMan, to begin with, was God's chief end in creation, and the angels\nsang not so much because a new world had been made, but rather\nbecause a new being akin to themselves was put into it, to whom\nthey might minister and with whom they might co-operate in the\ndoing of God's most holy will; and this season comes to remind us\nof our inherent dignity in God's sight, of the noble ideal He has\nformed for us, of the value He sets on those whom He sent His Son\nto seek and to save. As God made us and as He intends us to be, we\nare not a little higher only than the animals, we are rather only\n\"a little lower than the angels.\" He has crowned us with glory and\nhonour and set us over the work of His hands. He has put all things\nunder our feet. The material universe was made for man, to be his\nhome, to develop his powers, to be a test and discipline of his\nmoral character. I refuse to be reduced to the same rank, or to be\nplaced in the same order, as the beasts that perish. Remembering the\nangels' first song, I assert my supremacy.\n\nAnd man is most of all supreme because God has given him the freedom\nto choose the objects of his life, and the means by which he can\nsecure them. Sun, moon and stars are bound by laws which they cannot\ntransgress. The movements of the animals are guided by impulses\nand instincts over which they have no moral control. To man alone\nbelongs the power of refusing to bow before God's greatness and of\ndisobeying God's commands. Man only has this sovereignty; but his\nsovereignty led to his servitude, and the chains that bound him were\nforged by an angel who fell before man's fall.\n\nIf, then, all the angels worshipped and adored when man was made\nwith the great gift of free choice, how must the holy ones that\nremained after the first and great apostasy have grieved when the\nfallen angels took man along with them in their fall! For because of\nman's disobedience God's idea in making man seemed to be thwarted\nand the peace and good will to which he was called appeared no\nlonger possible. Instead of being the master of creation, he was now\nto a large extent its unhappy victim.\n\nWe know from hints thrown out here and there in Scripture with what\nabsorbing interest the angels followed the plans of God to bring\norder once more out of the chaos caused by sin, and the effort He\nput forth to create a new heaven and a new earth, wherein dwelleth\nrighteousness. No wonder, then, that when the fulness of the time\nwas come, and God sent His Son, made of a woman, made under the\nlaw to redeem man, the angels should have sung a second time, and\nanticipated for man at last a happy time of peace and good will.\n\nThe angels had a clear perception of the purpose of Christ's coming.\nOne of the chief of them said to Joseph, \"Thou shalt call His name\nJESUS: for He shall save His people from their sins.\" And they all\nsang when He came, because they knew that God was now dealing in a\nspecial and most effective way with that dark thing which cast its\nshadow on heaven as well as on earth. And it becomes us to remember\nthat it is the sin of man which in the mind of God and His holy\nangels is associated with the coming of Jesus Christ. To this end\nwas He born, and for this cause came He into the world.\n\nThe sin of our first parents had passed on from generation to\ngeneration, and each one of the millions of mankind had to say,\n\"Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive\nme\"; and each fulfilled in his own life all too truly the sad\npromise of his birth. How was the tradition to be broken, and yet\nbroken by one who really belonged to the race? The instincts of man\nhimself foreshadowed the truth. Stories of a virgin birth here and\nthere discernible in paganism show the deep intuition which was\nrealised in Jesus Christ. He came into the world to fight with sin,\nto redeem a race steeped in a terrible heritage of evil, and that He\nmight redeem it He Himself was born, and yet was free from evil.\n\nHe fought sin and He conquered it. Why, then, has the angels' song\nnot been fulfilled? Why does sin still cast its shadow on earth and\nheaven alike? Why does God's loving purpose in sending His Son seem\nstill to suffer so wide defeat? Because in his recovery as in his\nfall, man's will must play its part. I can only be saved from sin\nwhen I _will_ to be saved; I only become a partaker of the benefits\nwhich Christ brought from heaven to earth when, yielding to the\ninspiration of the Holy Spirit, I turn with full accord to Jesus\nChrist as my Saviour. Marvel not, therefore, that we say to you with\npeculiar emphasis on the day in which Christ was born, \"Ye must be\nborn again.\" Otherwise, His birth is of no avail to you and me. We\nare not honouring Him, we are putting Him rather to an open shame,\nif we keep out of our thoughts at this time the supreme purpose of\nHis coming, if we are not personally dealing with Him even now as to\nthe burden and guilt of our sin.\n\nBut we can set the angels a-singing in the sky, and the melody of\ntheir music can be felt in our own hearts, if we turn in lowly\npenitence to Him who came to save His people from their sins, and to\nquicken them to a new life of righteousness and peace and joy. Only\nwhen a man comes to himself in lowly penitence, and then goes to his\nFather with a lofty faith, does he enter into the full purpose of\nhis manhood; and only then, also, is there not only joy among the\nangels in heaven over the sinner that thus repenteth, but there is\nmusic and dancing on the earth as well, and the old life ends in\nwhich sin reigned, and the new begins in which Christ reigns; and\nHis reign means \"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace,\ngood will to men.\"\n\n\"There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.\"\n\n\n\n\nO Wondrous Night!\n\nA NEW CHRISTMAS CAROL.\n\n\n  _Words by_ ARTHUR BRYANT. _Music by_ CHARLES BASSETT.\n\n    1.  O wondrous night! O wondrous night! we fain would tell\n          The news the Angel told;\n        The holy vision which befel\n          The Shepherds by their fold.\n        With fear they saw, with gladness heard\n          The heav'nly minstrelsy,\n        With hope each trembling heart was stirred\n          At that sweet harmony: ...\n        \"We bring good news Which ne'er shall cease;\n          To God be praise, to God be praise,\n            On earth be peace.\"\n\n    2.  O wondrous sight! O wondrous sight for simple swains,\n          With hasty steps who sped;\n        The music of those joyous strains\n          To that poor manger led.\n        With awe they gazed on Christ the Lord\n          Amid that happy throng,\n        And Israel at His feet adored,\n          Taught by the Angels' song: ...\n        \"We bring good news,\n          Which ne'er shall cease;\n        To God be praise, to God be praise,\n            On earth be peace.\"\n\n    3.  O wondrous night! they homeward turned\n          To where their flocks did lay,\n        And sang the song they late had learned\n          To cheer them on their way.\n        The timid dawn began to peer\n          Across the dewy wold;\n        Their lips in accents loud and clear\n          The gladsome tidings told:\n            \"We bring good news,\" &c.\n\n    4.  O wondrous sight, that God should live\n          In robe of flesh for man!\n        O wondrous Love, Himself to give\n          When closed His mortal span!\n        Sing, O ye skies! be joyful, earth!\n          Ye winds, bear o'er the seas\n        The news of bless\u00e8d Jesu's birth,\n          And those sweet harmonies:\n            \"We bring good news,\" &c.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE COMFORTABLE.\n\nBy Lina Orman Cooper, Author of \"The House Beautiful,\" Etc.\n\n\nThe House Beautiful must needs be also the House Comfortable, if\nwe take true loveliness to consist of perfect fitness for service.\nThoroughness is the keynote of each. In order to strike it we\nmust have entered heart and soul into Ruskin's translation of St.\nUrsula's Room. Carpaccio himself painted the useful in the beautiful\nin this famous picture. From the princess's book, set up at a slope\nfittest for reading, to the shelf which runs under the window,\nproviding a place to put things on--from a silver lamp on the white\nwall to the little blue slippers beside her bed, each detail ensures\ncomfort of the first quality.\n\nComfort is a thing quite apart from fashion. So it is easier to\nindicate the road which leads to the House Comfortable than it\nwas to point out details in the House Beautiful. We most of us\nagree about the essentials required for real comfort: chairs upon\nwhich you can sit fearlessly; beds which rest and do not bruise;\narms that support without cramping; pokers that bend not; strong\ntables and sharp knives, these are a sample of the things I mean.\nBut true comfort depends on more than surface surroundings. It is\nindissolubly linked with attention to detail. The houses to which\nguests return time after time is the one in which soap is never\nabsent from its tray, and where pillows are not only covered with\nfrilled slips, but also stuffed with down and interlined with soft\ncovering in place of waxed ticking.\n\nI would say, first of all, that the House Comfortable must stand\nin a sunny situation. This ensures warmth and light, without which\nour bodies are ill-nourished and miserable. \"Where the sun never\ncomes the doctor does\" is a much-to-be-quoted proverb. We cannot all\nlive exactly where we like. Circumstances of business, and means,\ngenerally determine locality. But common-sense must guide us in the\nselection of our houses. If we would be really comfortable, we must\nlive in light, dry, airy, and clean homes. Never take a house on\nthe sole recommendation of its pretty appearance. To have a really\nbeautiful house we must first see that it is essentially built for\ncomfort. The really useful and good is generally ornamental, for\nit possesses the realistic beauty of _fitness_. A north and south\naspect for the chief sitting rooms, with east and west windows,\nsecures both sunshine and shade. We want afternoon coolness as well\nas morning light. If our apartment looks towards the sun rising,\nheavy curtains should be ready to draw when east wind rages. A stick\nto effect this noiselessly is a small boon much appreciated. If our\ncasement faces the golden gates of the west, no such protection\nis called for. But all windows should have double blinds--white\noutside, to absorb heat, and dark inside, to veil the sun when\nnecessary. The comfort of lying in bed, facing a dark green blind\ncan only be estimated by those who have reluctantly been disturbed\nby the too early shafts of the god Phoebus.\n\nThere should be a triple water supply in the House Comfortable;\newers always filled from the soft-water pump. Every well and tank\nshould be tested ere we take up residence. Pure water, and plenty\nof it, is essential to the health (and therefore comfort) of every\nhousehold. It should be perfectly clear and bright, and free from\ntaste or smell. Yet impurity may lurk even in the most sparkling\nwater. Therefore science must decide as to its desirability. If\nonly iron or lime water is procurable, jars of lump ammonia, or a\nbottle of cloudy liquid ammonia, a bag of oatmeal or a bundle of\nbran should lie on every washstand. The hot-water boiler not only\nsupplies unlimited baths, but may be devised to heat the house. In\nevery Canadian home a stove in the cellar warms the rooms above\nby means of drums and fans. We might do much the same in England\nwith our hot-water pipes. These should certainly run through the\nlinen-press and clothes cupboards, and terminate in bathroom\nspirals. On these, towels and rough sheets could be dried and\naired. A face cloth always warm is one of the luxuries in our House\nComfortable.\n\nAfter sanitation, ventilation takes its place in the home.\nHow to secure a constant supply of fresh air is a question\nwhich demands most serious consideration. In ages past, houses\nwere unintentionally ventilated by the ill-fitting doors and\nwindow-frames, wide chimneys, and open fire-places. But in our\nmodern buildings comfort is secured by almost air-tight doors and\nwindows. Ventilators at the top of such are delightful and necessary\nfor real comfort, or a Queen Anne casement may have a swing in its\nupper frame. It is not always easy, however, to secure exemption\nfrom draught in our modern mansions. When the brick-and-mortar fiend\nhas placed door, window, and fireplace exactly opposite each other,\nscreens must be judiciously used. A brass rod from which hangs a\ncurtain, screwed into the door jamb and suspended by a tiny chain\nfrom the ceiling, is a good thing, or an ordinary _porti\u00e8re_ may be\nallowed. The former plan, however, enables us to keep the door open\nwithout feeling a wind.\n\nPadded stair-carpets secure noiseless ascent in the House\nComfortable. Cork mats by the big bath are welcome to bare feet.\nMany cupboards are a necessity. A place for everything and\neverything in its place is one of the initial rules for everyone's\ncomfort. It is also Divine law. Hanging presses, medicine cupboards,\nbutler's pantry, housemaid's closets, keep dresses from dust,\npoisons from the unwary, silver and glass intact, and brushes unworn.\n\nThe House Comfortable must not be over-servanted. Neither must it\nbe undermanned. Of the two evils, the latter is preferable, as the\nmistress herself then looks after the minuti\u00e6 of her house. With all\ndeference to Matthew Prior, comfort does not flow on a line with\nignorance. It requires a cultivated intelligence to provide such in\nour homes.\n\nEducation has done much for us on this point. How not to do it\nin the House Comfortable is exemplified by the abodes of our\nforefathers. Going over Beaumaris Castle the other day, I noted\nthe small apertures for exit; the high caverns of chimneys; the\nwindows of horn; the crooked stairs. Nowadays we find stoves and\nslow combustion grates quite a necessity for comfort--whilst lofty\nceilings, broad staircases, and wide windows can be quite as\npicturesque, and are far more to be desired.\n\nThe dictionary definition of the word \"comfort\" implies enlivenment\nand capability for dispensing bodily ease. For this, moral qualities\nare as necessary as well-planned, well-equipped houses.\n\nPunctuality, for instance, is an ingredient required to secure a\ncomfortable home.\n\nWhen breakfast and dinner are movable feasts, served up at the whim\nof a lie-a-bed or a gad-about, they can only be make-believes,\nafter all. Cold coffee is unpalatable even when partaken of in a\nsunny room. Whitey-brown sausages are unappetising unless piping\nfrom the pot. Yet this--like all other virtues--may be strained\ntoo far. Nothing is more uncomfortable than to feel no latitude is\nallowed to a weary guest, or to find one's host at marmalade three\nminutes after the time appointed for the disappearance of a savoury.\nCourtesy in this must be our rule. Neatness is another necessity.\nNo house can be really comfortable that is littered with papers,\nor in which boots lie in the drawing-room--yet finickiness in\narrangement makes the home unbearable. The most uncomfortable visit\nI ever paid was to the most scientifically correct house. Chairs\nwere not allowed to touch the wall-paper; footstools never shifted.\nA towel for wiping down the varnish of the bath was provided, and--I\nwas made miserable! By all means keep paint and paper in as much\nprimitive purity as possible, but let unobtrusive service guard\nthese points.\n\nMuch more could I discourse of the House Comfortable, but space\nforbids. Let me only remind you that the veriest cottage--plenished\nwith wisdom and lovingly provided--may fulfil all its conditions\njust as well as the most luxurious castle.\n\nTold in Sunshine Room.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: DONKEY BOY]\n\nDONKEY BOY TO THE QUEEN\n\n_A TRUE INCIDENT._\n\nBy Alfred T. Story\n\nPart II.\n\n\nA week passed before anything further was heard. Then a summons came\nfor Tam to appear before her Majesty on the following afternoon. He\nwas duly in attendance, and had not long to wait before a man in\nHighland costume came into the room where he was seated and said--\n\n\"Noo, my braw laddie, her Most Gracious Majesty and his Royal\nHighness the Prince Consort will come in through that door in twa\nseconds. When they enter all you hae to dy is ta stan' up an' mak'\nyer obeisance. An' when they ax ye a question jist ye say yes or\nnae, your Majesty, or your Royal Highness, as the case may be. An'\nif they ax ye naething--weel, jist ye say naething in return.\"\n\nWith these words the wise servitor withdrew. Barely had he gone out\nof one door ere the other opened, and the same lady he had seen\nbefore, leaning on the arm of the gentleman he likewise remembered,\nappeared before friend Tam. They were both dressed much more richly\nthan when he had previously seen them, the lady having a brilliant\nstar on her breast, and the gentleman wearing a silken sash over his\nshoulder.\n\nFor a moment the boy was confused, but he recovered himself\nsufficiently to recollect that he had to make an \"obeisance.\" He had\nomitted to ask the Highland gentleman what that was, but he thought\nit must be something like the soldier's salute, and so he stood\nperfectly upright and saluted.\n\n\"So you have come, my lad, to see her Majesty about the position of\ndonkey-boy?\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"Yes, sir--your Royal Highness,\" replied Tam. Only when he had got\nout the word \"sir\" did it flash upon him that he was standing before\nthe Queen and her Royal Consort.\n\n\"Well, her Majesty has caused inquiries to be made about you, and\nshe finds that, although you are a little wayward and sometimes\ndisobedient to your grandparents, you are not on the whole a bad\nboy.\"\n\n\"No, your Royal Highness,\" said Tam.\n\n\"Does that mean that you are not a bad boy, or that you do not\nsometimes disobey your grandparents?\"\n\nThis question, though backed by a genial smile, somewhat\ndisconcerted the would-be donkey-boy. He was silent for a moment,\nthen he answered, looking first at one and then at the other, with\nthat straight glance of his, \"I hae sometimes been disobedient to\nmy grandparents, but I think I have learned better now.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear that,\" said the Prince.\n\nThen, speaking for the first time, the Queen said, \"Well, Tam, if I\nmake you my donkey-boy, will you promise to be obedient to all my\nslightest wishes and commands? Do not answer lightly. I am a severe\nmistress in that I expect the strictest obedience and attention\nto duty. But I, in return, am strict in doing my duty to those I\nemploy.\"\n\n\"And if you prove a worthy and trustworthy servant,\" added the\nPrince, \"your position is secure for life.\"\n\n\"Not, however, as a mere donkey-boy all your days,\" put in the Queen\nwith a smile.\n\nSaid Tam with a faltering tongue: \"If ye'll try me, your Majesty,\nI'll do my best, and,\" he added, as though struck with a sudden\nthought, \"I'll no need to lick the donkeys, 'cos I ken hoo ta mek\n'em run 'thout the stick.\"\n\n[Illustration: Yetta threw up her hands in amaze.]\n\n\"And how do you do that?\" asked the Prince with a smile.\n\n\"I meks 'em carry a bunch o' thistles afore 'em.\"\n\n\"Well, we will see,\" replied her Majesty, smiling. \"Now you may run\nhome and tell your grandparents you are to be ready to begin duty\nthis day week. But before you go you will see the gentleman who\nspoke to you a minute or two ago.\"\n\nWith these words and a kindly smile the Sovereign and her Royal\nConsort withdrew.\n\nThe one door closed, the other immediately opened, and again entered\nthe Highland gentleman. \"Sae ye hae been engagit ta look after ta\ncuddies, eh?\" he questioned.\n\nTam said he had.\n\n\"Aweel, it's a verra guid step in life for a young callant to\nbegin wi', an' if ye tek heed there's nae telling whereto it may\nlead--ablins even to the primiership, if ye ken what that is. For ye\nmun know, the gift o' the heaven-made Prime Minister is just to ken\nhoo ta manage a' th' human cuddies that are sent to Parliament to\nbother 'em. But mebbe a' that's a wee bit abune yer understanding as\nyet, and sae we'll just leave it an' speer aboot yer claes.\"\n\nNeedless to say how surprised Donal and Yetta were to hear Tam's\nstory, how thankful to reflect that their boy was to have such a\nstart in life. He reported to them what had been said, and the\npromise he had given, and they believed that, like the Jamison he\nwas, he would be true to his word. All the same, they did not omit\nto pray for that guidance and support for him without which his own\nefforts would be vain.\n\nThe evening before Tam's week was up a parcel was delivered at\nJamison's door, addressed to his grandson. It contained a complete\nnew suit, as the Highland gentleman had said, \"from the skin\noutwards.\" Never was seen such a brave outfit, to Tam's thinking. He\nturned it over and admired it, article by article, for at least a\ncouple of hours, but would not try it on, or any part of it, until\nhe had had a good wash. The tub was never a thing he was shy of, but\non this occasion it was used as though he intended to wash out his\nevery fault, as well as all the merely superficial smuts and stains\nthat had accumulated, so as to appear before his Queen a spotlessly\nclean cuddy-tender.\n\nWhen the operation was completed, Tam indued himself in his new\ngarments and went on parade, so to speak, before his grandmother.\nYetta was busy stirring the matutinal porridge when he walked into\nthe ben and said:\n\n\"How do I look, granny?\"\n\nYetta, turning round, threw up her hands in amaze. She hardly knew\nhim, so great was the transformation effected by the new clothes and\nthe scrubbing he had given himself. Donal was no less surprised when\nhe came in from his morning milking. Tam looked two inches taller\nand a lot sprucer.\n\n\"Ye mind me of yer puir father,\" said the old man as he sat down to\nbreakfast.\n\nThat was a note of sad recollection which brought tears to Yetta's\neyes; but a smile was soon gleaming through them when Tam, getting\nsight of Meg, who was eyeing him as it were askance, said drily,\n\"Meg looks as if she hardly kenned what ta mek of her handiwark; for\nthe beginning o't was a' her doing.\"\n\nJust then the noise of wheels was heard on the road, and as the\nmessenger who brought the clothes left word that one of the Queen's\ncarriages would pick him up on the morrow, Tam thought surely this\nwas the one. But it was not. Indeed, he ran to the door at least\ntwenty times ere, towards eleven o'clock, his vehicle arrived. It\nwas a quaint affair, half carriage, half wash-basket, drawn by two\nasses, creatures as beautiful of their kind as could be found. It\nwas driven by her whom he knew, and by her side were several bright\nlittle faces, while the Highland gentleman, riding behind on one\npony, as sturdy and Hielan' as himself, led another by the bridle.\n\nDonal and Yetta came out and with bowed heads thanked the august\nthough simple-hearted lady for the great kindness she had shown to\ntheir boy. She replied with a kindly smile:\n\n\"There appears to be the making of a good man in him, and, with\nGod's help, we will do our best to make him one.\"\n\nLittle more was said, and, mounting the led pony, Tam rode off by\nthe side of the faithful retainer, who never got further away from\nthe carriage than the dust raised by its wheels.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThus commenced Tam's career in life. Though he served the noblest\nlady in the land, he did not find his way one altogether of buttered\nparsnips and cream. The one thing abhorrent to his royal mistress\nwas idleness and indifference. The motto of her establishment--of\nall her establishments--was \"The diligent eye.\" In this principle\nshe found not only the best interests of her own house, but the best\ninterests also of those who served her.\n\nTam could not be called idle, nor could he be called exactly\nindifferent; but during the years of his tending of cattle and\nsheep on the brae-side he had got into the habit of liking to loll\nabout, to saunter and dream, and then to make up, or try to make\nup, the leeway of work or duty by a spurt of energy. Another fault\nhe had was to leave things about--for others to \"side\" or put in\norder. This arose, no doubt, from the narrow dimensions of his home,\nwhere there was hardly room for everything to have its particular\nplace. It was, however, neither a very grievous nor a deeply rooted\nfault; and a little sharp drilling, not unfrequently at the hands\nof the Highland gentleman--a sort of major of the household, who\npossessed \"the diligent eye\" _par excellence_--soon corrected Tam's\ndelinquency in this regard.\n\nBut the other fault was more deeply rooted and cost the young\ndonkey-boy many a bad quarter of an hour. Indeed, on one occasion it\nnearly cost him his place. He had been given a task to do, and in\nplace of doing it with all diligence he had been found with his feet\ngrowing to the ground, as it were. The consequence was an interview\nwith the Highland gentleman, who told him, \"Tam, ye have either ta\npe punisht or to leave her Majesty's service: which shall it pe?\"\n\n\"I'll tek the punishment, sir, if you please,\" he answered.\n\n\"Tam, ye are a wise poy, an' we'll mebby mek a man o' ye yet,\" said\nthe major-domo.\n\nTam took his punishment, and was the better for it; but he still\nfailed to come up to his royal mistress's ideal of a servant. Like\nhis fellow-servitors, he had plenty of time for rest and recreation:\nhours of labour were by no means long. So much time had he, indeed,\nfor himself, that the Highland gentleman put suitable books before\nhim, and counselled him to improve his mind by reading and study.\nHe failed, however, to profit by the advice, and was presently made\naware of his error by a violent thunder-clap.\n\nHe was in attendance on his royal mistress one day, when she and\nthe children were out for a drive. A poor body was met, in apparent\ndistress, by the wayside. Inquiry was made as to her condition,\npresent help was extended, and a promise of future beneficence given\nif further investigation should warrant its bestowal. Hence the\nnecessity arose for an address to be written down, and Tam, who was\nthat day the only person in attendance, was requested to do it.\n\nWhen Tam entered the royal service he could read a bit and write\nvery imperfectly; but there had been time, had he followed the\ncounsel given him, to have greatly improved himself in both those\naccomplishments. Not having done so, he fumbled egregiously over the\ntask set him, and, in short, made such a hash of it that an eye of\nwrath was turned upon him.\n\nTam had seen that eye in all its moods--of laughter and smiles, of\ngrief, of earnestness, of affection, even of solemnity and awe, but\nhe had never as yet beheld it flash in indignant wrath. He felt as\nthough the muscles of his knees had been cut away and the ground\nwas sinking from under his feet. What would he not have given to be\nmiles away! But he had to face the storm, and it came in this way:\n\n\"Were not books and paper and ink put before you? And were you not\nadvised to improve your reading and writing?\"\n\nTam falteringly admitted that such was the case.\n\n\"Why did you not attend to the advice?\"\n\n\"I--I----\" stammered the ease-loving Tam.\n\n\"Had you not the time?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then why did you not do as you were wished?\"\n\nTam hung his head in shame.\n\n\"Tam Jamison, listen to me. I will have those in my employ attend\nto my wishes, and attend to them with all their might. Do you wish\nto be ignorant all your life, when the time and the means for\nimprovement are placed at your command? In three months' time I\nshall expect you to read and write in such a way that you will be\nable to fulfil in a creditable manner a simple duty like that you\nhave to-day so grievously failed in. Now we'll go on.\"\n\nTam Jamison wanted no more speaking to. He was now thoroughly awake:\nand he went to work with all his might to do the behest of his\nmistress and Sovereign, and, in truth, he made prodigious progress;\nso that when it happened one day--he being then in attendance on her\nMajesty in another part of the country--that she required the names\nof several rare plants to be written down for her future use, he did\nit so cleverly that he was rewarded with a pleased smile.\n\nTam felt that he had acquired wings that afternoon, and the\nstrangest part of the affair was, that when he came to reckon up\nprecisely, he discovered that it was three months to a day since his\n\"royal earwigging,\" as the Highland gentleman called it.\n\nTo that worthy man Jamison communicated his delight. \"Ah,\" said he,\n\"ye thocht, like many anither, that ye were doing a great service to\nher gracious Majesty by your few hours of daily labour; but, guid\nfaith, she does a mighty deal mair for ye than ye, or ony the likes\no' ye, can do for her. Serve 'maist onybody else in the kintra, an'\nthey'll take yer service an' gie ye yer wage, an' there's an end.\nBut when her Majesty teks ye intil her household she teks ye to mek\na man o' ye--if it's in ye, ye ken. An' weel she knows hoo ta do\nit--nane better. Sae ye just go on as ye've begun, Tam Jamison, an'\nye'll mebbe no bide a feckless cuddy-callant till ye're auld an'\nblind.\"\n\nJamison did not need to be taught his lesson a second time. He made\ndiligent use of his opportunities, and improved so much and so\nvisibly that when he was fifteen he was raised to the position of\npage. A greater mark of appreciation could hardly be given to one\nin the royal employ; for her Majesty's pages are amongst the most\ntrusted of her servants.\n\nAt first the humbler duties of a page fell to his lot; but as he\nimproved in thoughtfulness and intelligence, and in his knowledge\nof the manifold and delicate duties which fell to his care--in which\nhe had the aid and instruction of one of her Majesty's oldest and\nmost experienced pages, a man who had been in her service ever since\nshe ascended the throne--he rose higher and higher in the royal\nservice and the royal consideration, until at last his services were\nrarely required except on State and exceptional occasions only.\n\n[Illustration: Tam hung his head in shame.]\n\nScarcely a week passed that he did not recall the words of him we\nhave called the Highland gentleman, when he said that the Queen\ndid more for those in her service than they could ever do for her,\nin that she not only made men and women of them, but treated them\nmore as gentlemen and ladies than as mere domestics. There were no\nservants in her employ, no matter how humble their sphere, but she\nknew them by name and had their welfare at heart; and if they served\nher well, she never lost sight of them, or forgot them--no, not even\nwhen the grave took them into its transitional embrace.\n\nJamison had had abundant opportunities to note and set these\nthings down in his heart, but he was never so much impressed by\nher Majesty's deep regard for those who served her faithfully and\nwell as when, one dripping autumn day, he was required to accompany\nher to the churchyard of a rural village, halfway betwixt London\nand Windsor--in which, a day or two before, the aged servant above\nreferred to had been buried--in order that she might lay a wreath\nupon his grave. It bore the words, \"In grateful remembrance of a\ndevoted and faithful servant, V.R.,\" and as she bent down to place\nit with her own hand upon the grave a tear fell upon the flowers\nthat outshone the brightest jewel of her crown.\n\n\n\n\nTEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.\n\nBy a Leading Temperance Advocate.\n\n\nTHE TEMPERANCE HOSPITAL.\n\n[Illustration: DR. J. J. RIDGE.\n\n(_Photo: J. Bacon, Newcastle-on-Tyne._)]\n\nThe story of the Temperance Hospital in Hampstead Road forms one\nof the most interesting chapters in temperance history. When\nthe experiment of treating accidents and disease without the\nadministration of alcohol was first mooted, the idea was assailed\nwith a storm of criticism in which the medical profession found a\nmost active ally in the public Press. A quarter of a century has\nnow elapsed since the first patient was received in the temporary\npremises in Gower Street, and although the medical staff have full\npermission, under certain regulations, to administer alcohol if\ndeemed expedient, the last Report states that out of a total of\n13,984 in-patients, alcohol has only been resorted to in twenty-five\ncases. The percentage of recoveries compares most favourably with\nthe ordinary hospitals, and the cases include every variety of\ndisease and accident. The present head of the medical staff is Dr.\nJ. J. Ridge, who has been connected with the institution from the\nfirst. For many years it has been the custom of the United Kingdom\nBand of Hope Union to organise a Christmas collection in aid of\nthe Temperance Hospital. The amount thus realised has reached many\nthousand pounds, and it is hoped that this year's collection will\nprove the best of the series. The body of evidence in favour of\ntotal abstinence which the Temperance Hospital has accumulated\ncertainly entitles the institution to the cordial support of the\ntemperance public.\n\n[Illustration: THE TEMPERANCE HOSPITAL, HAMPSTEAD ROAD, LONDON.\n\n(_Photo supplied by the Press Studio._)]\n\n\nCOMING EVENTS.\n\nAmong the fixtures worth noting may be named the New Year's Meeting\nof the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union on Saturday, January 7th;\nthe Annual Meeting of the London United Temperance Council, to be\naddressed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, on February 13th, in the\nQueen's Hall; a great Industrial Exhibition, promoted by the Hackney\nand East Middlesex Band of Hope Union, on April 10-13; Temperance\nSunday for London Diocese April 23rd (St. George's Day, a grand\nopportunity for the clergy to strike a national note); and, as it is\nwell to look ahead, a World's Temperance Convention to be held under\nthe auspices of the National Temperance League in 1900.\n\n\nTHE NEW ENGLISH DICTIONARY.\n\nIt may be news to some of our readers that Dr. James A. H. Murray,\nthe editor-in-chief of the monumental literary work which has been\nin progress for so many years, is an earnest total abstainer and a\nVice-President of the National Temperance League. Dictionary-making\nand total abstinence seem to run together. In William Ball's \"Slight\nMemorials of Hannah More\" is this remark: \"I dined last week at\nthe Bishop of Chester's. Dr. Johnson was there. In the middle of\ndinner I urged Dr. Johnson to take a _little_ wine. He replied:\n'I can't drink a _little_, child, therefore I never touch it.\nAbstinence is as easy to me as temperance would be difficult.'\" It\nis rather curious to note that it is only within recent years that\nour dictionaries have taken any cognisance of the meaning which\ntemperance people give to the word \"pledge.\" More than this, in\nthe early dictionaries the word was almost exclusively given up to\nthe other side of the drink question. For instance, in Bailey's\nDictionary (1736) we have the following definition of the word\n\"pledged\":--\"Having drank by the recommendation of another.\"...\n\"The custom of pledging in drinking was occasioned by the Danes,\nwho, while they had the superiority in England, used to stab the\nEnglish or cut their throats while they were drinking; and thereupon\nthey requested of some sitter-by to be their pledge and security\nwhile they drank; so that 'I will pledge you' signifies 'I will be\nyour security that you shall drink in safety.'\"\n\n[Illustration: \"DICTIONARY\" MURRAY.]\n\nContrast this with the definition given in the last edition of\nWebster's Dictionary:--\n\n\"A promise or agreement by which one binds one's self to do, or to\nrefrain from doing something; especially a solemn promise in writing\nto refrain from using intoxicating liquors or other liquor; as to\nsign the pledge.\"\n\nNo doubt, when Dr. Murray reaches the letter \"P,\" we shall have a\ndefinition even still more illuminating. The New English Dictionary\nviewed from a temperance standpoint would make a delightful study.\nTake, for instance, volume one, in which \"Alcohol\" has more than\na column to itself, while \"Ale\" has two columns, \"Beer\" two and\na half columns, and \"Abstain,\" \"Abstainer,\" and \"Abstaining\" are\ntreated with a wealth of illustration and meaning derived from such\nauthorities as Wyclif in 1382 down to J. W. Bardsley (the present\nBishop of Carlisle) in 1867, who is pressed into the service in this\nform:--\n\n\"ABSTAINING.--Practising abstinence (from alcoholic beverages) 1867.\nJ. W. BARDSLEY in 'Clerical Testimony to Total Abstinence' 30: 'The\nbride was the daughter of an abstaining clergyman.'\"\n\n[Illustration: MADAME ANTOINETTE STERLING.\n\n(_Photo: Walery, Ltd., Regent Street, W._)]\n\nNow we will leave it to our fair readers to puzzle over until next\nmonth as to who the blushing bride was who is thus assured of\nimmortality in the greatest Dictionary the world has ever seen.\n\n\n\"TWO QUEENS OF SONG.\"\n\n\"Example is better than precept,\" says the old adage, and there\ncan be no doubt that the example of Madame Antoinette Sterling and\nMrs. Mary Davies in the matter of total abstinence has been of the\nutmost value. It was at a reception given by Mr. and Mrs. Frederick\nSherlock at Hackney, in 1892, to the Archbishop of Canterbury\n(then Bishop of London), that Madame Sterling, to the surprise of\na delighted audience, volunteered \"a few words.\" The gifted singer\nremarked that \"she had been nearly all her life a total abstainer.\nWhen on long tours with members of her profession, it had been\nrather an aggravation to them to see, when they were pretty well\nprostrated, that she was almost or quite as fresh at the end of the\njourney as at the beginning. They also complained of the quality of\nthe wine furnished to them, as well as of water. She took milk and\ncocoa, and also water, of which she did not complain, and scarcely\nmissed one engagement in the seventeen years during which she had\nbeen before the public. She had never had a day's bad health, and\nhad not suffered from those aches and pains of which she had heard\nother people complaining continually.\" Like Madame Sterling, Mrs.\nMary Davies has upon many occasions shown a deep and practical\ninterest in philanthropic work.\n\n[Illustration: MRS. MARY DAVIES.\n\n(_Photo: H. S. Mendelssohn, Pembridge Crescent, W._)]\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Press Studio._)\n\nMUSCULAR TRAINING AT THE NAVAL SCHOOL, GREENWICH.]\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Press Studio._)\n\nBUCKET-OF-WATER RACE AT THE NAVAL SCHOOL.]\n\n\nA FAMOUS BAND OF HOPE.\n\nPossibly the most unique Band of Hope in the world is that which is\nheld in the Royal Naval School, Greenwich. It was founded so far\nback as 1871, by Samuel Sims, an honoured agent of the National\nTemperance League, and upon his death, in 1892, was taken over by\nMr. W. S. Campbell, as the League's representative. No pressure at\nall is put upon the lads to induce them to join the Band of Hope,\nbut, as a matter of fact, most of the lads in the school readily do\nso, and the present membership is fully a thousand strong. Regular\nweekly meetings are held, and the annual gathering, which is held\nin the great gymnasium, is a most inspiriting spectacle. A visit\nto the Royal Naval School, if it should happen to be in recreation\ntime, cannot fail to afford considerable satisfaction to those who\nlike to see Young England at play. Every type of healthy pastime is\nencouraged in its turn, and these young abstainers have frequently\nshown that they are well able to hold their own. It is encouraging\nto know that the principles of total abstinence are not discarded\nwhen the lads pass out into the Royal Navy or Mercantile Marine,\nfor every year large numbers of them are drafted into Miss Weston's\nwell-known temperance society.\n\n\nTEMPERANCE SUNDAY.\n\nThe appointment of a special Sunday for the preaching of sermons on\ntemperance originated with the Church of England Temperance Society\nmany years ago. Owing to various circumstances, it is not possible\nfor the Church of England clergy to take one Sunday simultaneously\nfor the whole country, but each diocesan Bishop makes choice of\na day and issues a pastoral letter to his clergy, so that at one\nperiod of the year or another the whole country is covered, so far\nas the Church of England is concerned. The Nonconformist bodies\nhave, however, for some years past, fixed upon the last Sunday in\nNovember for Temperance Sunday, and as we go to press we learn that\nthis year special reference will be made to the importance of Sunday\nClosing.\n\n\n\n\nSCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL & HOME INTERNATIONAL SERIES\n\nWith Illustrative Anecdotes and References.\n\n\nDECEMBER 18TH.--=The Captivity of Judah.=\n\n_To read--Jer. lii. 1-11. Golden Text--Jer. xxix. 13._\n\nThis chapter describes the fate of Judah. Later kings were all\nwicked. Warnings of Jeremiah and other prophets all been in vain.\nTime has come for judgment. Captivity in Babylon, long foretold,\nnow about to commence. Came about in reign of Zedekiah. The eleven\nverses of this lesson almost identical with Jer. xxxix. 1-10.\n\nI. =The King= (1-3). _His name._ Originally Mattaniah, was son of\ngood King Josiah and uncle of late King Jehoiachin. Jeremiah had\nprophesied of a future king (Jer. xxiii. 5-7) as the \"Lord our\nrighteousness.\" The king assumed that name, and was called Zedekiah.\n\n_His acts._ \"Did evil,\" but had not always been altogether evil.\nHad made covenant with nobles and priests to abolish slavery\n(xxxiv. 8-10). But his great wrong was breaking his solemn oath of\nallegiance to king of Babylon (2 Chron. xxxvi. 13). This looked upon\nas his crowning vice (Ezek. xvii. 8), for which God's anger was upon\nhim (ver. 3).\n\n=Lesson.= When thou vowest a vow defer not to pay it.\n\nII. =The Siege= (4-7). City besieged for last time. Jews never\nforgot day it began. Was January--tenth day of their tenth month.\nGreat mounds or (earth-works) outside walls to shoot burning arrows,\netc.; houses outside thrown down (Jer. xxxiii. 4). Famine and\npestilence soon ravaged crowded population inside.\n\n_The assault._ City, after eighteen months, taken by assault at\nnorthern gate (B.C. 587). King and his family and royal guard\nescaped by passage between two walls (Jer. xxxix. 4), by royal\ngardens, down steep descent towards Jericho. There he was overtaken\nand made prisoner. His broken oath caused his destruction (Ezek.\nxvii. 20).\n\n=Lesson.= Evil shall hunt the wicked to overtake him.\n\nIII. =Babylon.= He was taken to Babylon. His sons killed in his\nsight, then his eyes put out, bound with chains, kept in prison till\ndeath. Feeble in will, faithless in promise, judgment came upon him.\n\n=Lesson.= 1. The word of the Lord standeth sure.\n\n\nBargains.\n\nHe who buys the truth makes a good bargain. Zedekiah dealt in\nfalsehood and lost his throne. Esau sold his birthright for a basin\nof soup. Judas made a bad bargain when he sold his Lord for the\nprice of a slave. Take heed to the thing that is right, for that\nalone shall bring peace at the last.\n\n\nDECEMBER 25TH.--=A Christmas Lesson.=\n\n_To read--Hebrews i. 1-9. Golden Text--St. Luke ii. 11._\n\nThis letter written to the Hebrews, i.e. Christians of Jewish birth\nwho clung to the priesthood and services of the Temple as well as\nto Christianity. St. Paul shows how far the Christian system was\nsuperior to and superseded the Jewish. The types and ceremonies of\nthe Law fulfilled in Christ, whose birthday is kept at Christmas.\n\nI. =God's Revelation= (1-2). _Past._ God revealed or unveiled\nHimself of old. This revelation inferior in three ways, viz. (1) It\nwas given gradually, in portions, a part at a time. (2) Given in\ndivers manners, under many figures and types. (3) Given by prophets,\nonly human.\n\n_Present._ Final revelation of God's truth--once for all given to\nthe saints (Jude 3). Given by His Son--the Word of God (St. John i.\n1, 2); heir of all things--God's agent in creation of the universe.\n\nII. =God's Son= (3-9). _Great in Himself._ Has Divine glory--the\noutshining of the Father's glory. He is God's image, the counterpart\nof the Father. To see Christ is to see God (St. John xiv. 9).\n\n_Great in His work._ (1) _Upholder_ of the universe as well as its\nCreator. (2) _Saviour._ Came not only as prophet to reveal God's\nwill, but to purge man's sin. This He did by Himself with His own\nblood (ix. 12, 14).\n\n_Greater than angels._ In His person, His work. His exaltation to\nglory; testified by Scripture, _e.g._ Psalm ii. 3 tells of Christ's\neternal Sonship--also referred to by St. Paul as fulfilled in His\nresurrection (Acts xiii. 33).\n\n_King over all._ Christ also a King. Rules in righteousness (Psalm\nxlv. 6, 7); received throne as victor over His enemies--sin, death,\nand the devil (xii. 2). Raised high above all.\n\n=Lesson.= Christ is King--honour Him; He is Saviour--love Him; He\nis God--fear Him. Kiss the Son, lest He be angry, and so ye perish.\nBlessed are all they that put their trust in Him.\n\n\nChrist in the Old and New Testaments.\n\nA weaver, who had made an elaborate piece of tapestry, hung it\nupon the tenterhooks in his yard. That night it was stolen. A\npiece of tapestry was found by the police, which seemed to answer\nthe description; but, as the pattern was not unlike that of other\npieces, they wanted more definite proof. It was brought to the\nweaver's yard, and there the perforations in the fabric were found\nto correspond exactly to the tenterhooks. This was proof positive.\nIn like manner, if we place the life and character of Christ against\nall the prophecies of Him in Scripture, they will be found to\ncorrespond exactly.\n\n\n1899.\n\n_New Series. The Gospel according to St. John._\n\n\nJANUARY 1ST.--=Christ the True Light.=\n\n_To read--St. John i. 1-14. Golden Text--Ver. 4._\n\nNew Year--new course of lessons. This Gospel records the deeper\nspiritual truths of Christ's teaching, especially about His own\nNature and Person. It sets Christ forth as God. St. John tells his\nobject in writing a fourth Gospel in chap. xx. 31, which the class\nshould read.\n\nI. =The Nature of Christ= (1-3). _Eternal._ In the beginning, not of\nthe world, but before all creation, from everlasting. _Divine Word._\nChrist is the expression of the mind of God. Came to reveal God to\nman (xv. 15). _Living Person._ The Word not a mere attribute or\npower of God but a distinct Person. \"With God\" from everlasting. Not\ninferior to the Father, but very God Himself. _Creator._ As well as\nSaviour and Governor of the world (read Col. i. 16, 17; Heb. i. 2).\n\nII. =The Office of Christ= (4-13). _Source of Life._ As very God He\nhad life in Himself, which He poured forth on His creation (vv. 25,\n26; xvii. 2). _Source of light._ The life from Son of God is cause\nof man's inward spiritual light by which he is saved. _Himself the\nlight._ World was in spiritual darkness at Christ's coming. _Giver\nof light._ No man has light in himself, however great his natural\npowers. All true light is from Christ.\n\n_Rejected._ By His own. The world He made knew not its Creator (1\nCor. i. 21). The nation He chose to be His own special people (Deut.\nvii. 6) received Him not.\n\n_Received._ By a few--both Jews and Gentiles; such as Nicodemus the\nruler (iii. 1, 2), the disciples from Galilee (ii. 11), and others.\nHow did they receive Him? By believing in Him. This faith, itself\nthe gift of God, rewarded by further privilege of becoming God's\nsons--born into God's family by a new and spiritual birth (iii. 3).\n\nIII. =The Glory of Christ= (14). Word was made flesh by taking to\nHimself man's human nature. He dwelt (_literally_ \"pitched His\ntent\") with men, full of mercy to heal bodies and souls, full of\nGod's truth to teach.\n\n=Lessons.= 1. _Hold fast the Christian faith._ Jesus Christ one for\never with the Father. _God_--eternal, glorious, Creator, Giver of\nlight and life to the soul--yet _Man_, like one of us.\n\n2. _Live the Christian life._ Jesus is our example, that we should\nfollow His steps.\n\n\nChristians walking in the Light.\n\nA little girl in a London slum won a prize at a flower-show. Her\nflower was grown in a broken teapot in a back attic. When asked how\nshe managed to grow the beautiful flower, she said her success came\nfrom always keeping the plant in the only corner of the room ever\nfavoured by a sunbeam. Only by walking in the light and sight of God\ncan Christians truly grow and bear fruit.\n\n\nJANUARY 8TH.--=Christ's first Disciples.=\n\n_To read--St. John i. 35-46. Golden Text--Ver. 36._\n\nChrist now thirty years old; has been baptised and received special\noutpouring of Holy Ghost (ver. 33), and also been tempted in the\nwilderness (St. Matt. iv. 1). Is now ready for His public work and\nministry. Now begins to win disciples.\n\nI. =The first two Disciples= (35-40). _Heard of Him._ Picture Christ\nwalking near the Jordan. St. John, who had baptised Him, points Him\nout to his followers. Describes Him: this the Lamb of God to Whom\nall the sacrifices pointed; the innocent lamb slain told of the\ndeath of the spotless Son of God for man's sin. His words went home.\n\n_Followed Him._ Who were they? Andrew, Simon Peter's brother, and\nprobably St. John, writer of the Gospel, brother of James. Why did\nthey follow? To learn more of Him. Had been baptised with baptism of\nrepentance. Sense of sin led them to seek the Saviour. Christ knew\ntheir thoughts, encouraged them to learn more of Him (St. Matt. xi.\n28, 29).\n\nII. =The third Disciple= (41, 42). The two friends separate the next\nday, each in search of his brother. Andrew soon finds his--eagerly\ntells the news. They have found the long-expected Messiah, the\nAnointed of God. Brings Simon to Christ. No greater proof possible\nof having really found Christ than bringing another to Him. Christ\nlooks with eager and searching eye at Simon--reads his very heart,\nsees his longing after truth; gives him a new name, Cephas (Hebrew)\nor Peter (Greek), meaning \"a rock\" or \"stone.\" What did this\nsignify? His bold and determined character, strong in the faith (St.\nMatt. xvi. 16), eager in defence of Christ (xviii. 10), and, after\nhis fall and forgiveness, strong in love (xxi. 15).\n\nIII. =The fourth Disciple= (43, 44). Philip of Bethsaida. Must have\nheard his friends talking of Christ. Probably stirred in his heart.\nChrist found him, as He afterwards found Zacch\u00e6us St. (Luke xix. 5).\nHis mission to seek as well as to save. Happy they who obey Christ's\ncall and follow Him.\n\nIV. =The fifth Disciple= (45, 46). Philip soon shows marks of\ndiscipleship. He finds Nathanael. Tells him how Christ fulfilled\nprophecies, such as of a \"prophet\" like unto Moses, a \"king\" whose\nname should be \"the Lord our righteousness\" (Jer. xxiii. 5, 6).\nNathanael asks in honest doubt if it can be possible for the Messiah\nto come from despised Nazareth. Philip did not argue, but bade him\n\"Come and see\"--the best cure for all doubts.\n\n=Lessons.= From the Baptist: The dying Saviour the greatest magnet\nfor drawing souls.\n\nFrom Andrew: Show religion first at home.\n\nFrom Simon: Taste and see how gracious the Lord is.\n\nFrom Philip: Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God.\n\nFrom Nathanael: Hearken unto me, and I will teach you the fear of\nthe Lord.\n\n\n\"There's Another.\"\n\nA traveller lost in the snow on the Alps was rescued by one of the\nfamous dogs of St. Bernard. When restored to consciousness his first\nwords were, \"There's another.\" The monks to whom the dogs belonged\ncontinued their search, and \"the other\" was found and saved. \"Are\nyou saved?\" Is there not another whom you can rescue from sin and\nbring to the life of God?\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Short Arrows]\n\nShort Arrows\n\nNOTES OF CHRISTIAN LIFE AND WORK.\n\n\nThe Quiver Santa Claus.\n\nLast month we published full particulars of our scheme to provide\nChristmas Stockings for the many poor and friendless little ones who\nare not on Santa Claus's visiting list, and we appeal to our readers\nfor their hearty practical co-operation in this work. Each stocking\nwill contain wholesome goodies, in the shape of cake and sweets, in\naddition to an unbreakable toy and a Christmas card. The Proprietors\nof THE QUIVER have headed the subscription list with a donation of\n\u00a325, which is sufficient to provide the contents of\n\n  FIVE HUNDRED CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS FOR\n  POOR AND FRIENDLESS CHILDREN,\n\na sum of =one shilling= being sufficient to furnish a stocking and\npay the postage. But, as we can profitably distribute _thousands_ of\nsuch presents, we confidently look to all lovers of the children to\nlend their generous aid, in order that as many as possible of the\ndestitute little mites may have their Christmas brightened by such a\nwelcome gift. We shall also be glad to receive recommendations from\nour readers of suitable cases for the receipt of the stockings, and\nfor this purpose the special application form to be found in our\nExtra Christmas Number (\"Christmas Arrows\") should be used. As the\ntime is short, contributions for the Christmas Stocking Fund should\nbe sent =at once= to the Editor of THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage,\nLondon, E.C., and all amounts of one shilling and upwards will be\nthankfully acknowledged in our pages.\n\n[Illustration: CURIOUS ALMS-BOX IN PINHOE CHURCH.]\n\n\nA Curious Alms-box.\n\nIn the interesting parish church of Pinhoe, near Exeter, appears a\nvery curious alms-box surmounted by the figure of a man who seems,\nfrom his costume and general character, to date from the period of\nJames I. He holds two books in his hand--representing most probably\nBible and Prayer Book--one of which bears the inscription, \"Y^e Poor\nMan of Pinhoo, 1700,\" but from information with which the vicar of\nthe parish, the Rev. Frederick W. Pulling, has kindly supplied us,\nit appears that the books were added in 1879-80, when the church was\nrestored. Previously the figure held a small flimsy box in front of\nhim. He was, however, placed on the present handsome oak box bearing\nthe inscription, \"Remember y^e Poor,\" and the old flimsy box was\nremoved. The present box was constructed from some very ancient\ntimber from the roof of Salisbury Cathedral, when under repair.\nWhat the figure was originally intended to represent--whether a\nbeadle, the dispenser of charities, or a relieving officer--is not\nknown. Curiously enough, the parish records are quite silent as to\nthe figure, and when, some time since, it was repaired it was sent\nto the eminent antiquary and ecclesiologist, the Rev. Mackenzie\nWalcott, who said he had seen only two such figures before. The\nwooden backing is of Jacobean style, and was designed by the\narchitect in 1879 to strengthen the whole structure.\n\n\n\"God Bless the Kernel.\"\n\nAfter the marvellous achievements in his two Chinese campaigns,\nwhich were sufficient to have made the reputations of a dozen\nordinary colonels, Gordon came back to England in 1865 as poor as\nwhen he left home. During the next six years, which he spent in\nGravesend as an engineer, the future keeper of Khartoum devoted a\nlarge portion of his leisure to visiting the sick and to teaching\nand training many of the ragged and neglected boys of the rough\nneighbourhood. So truly did these poor lads love their colonel that\nit was not uncommon to see chalked up on the walls the singular\ninscription, \"God bless the Kernel.\" Their gratitude was apparently\nstronger than their orthography. When Englishmen reflect how Gordon\nplaced his Divine Master first in every enterprise of his life, they\nmust feel that no institution intended to honour the dead hero at\nKhartoum can be a worthy memorial which is not grounded on the rock\nof Christianity.\n\n\nChristmas Cards and Gift-Books.\n\nChristmas is pre-eminently the season of universal good-will,\nand the custom of conveying seasonable greetings by means of the\nattractive Christmas card is every year becoming more general.\nAmongst the publishers of these mementoes Messrs. Raphael Tuck and\nSons take front rank, and the specimen box of cards, calendars,\nstory-books, and illustrated texts, recently received from them,\naffords ample proof that the variety and artistic excellence which\nhave always characterised their productions are well maintained this\nyear. Some of the cards are veritable works of art, and deserve more\nthan the temporary appreciation usually accorded to such; but the\npalm for novelty, both in design and treatment, must be accorded\nto the calendars, many of which are most original in conception,\nand all are daintily and tastefully produced.--For years past we\nhave been accustomed to look for a Christmas book from Mr. Andrew\nLang, and this season he has edited an edition of \"The Arabian\nNights Entertainments,\" which Messrs. Longmans have published in a\ncharming cover, and with a number of clever illustrations by Mr.\nH. J. Ford.--Another suitable gift-book for children is \"His Big\nOpportunity\" (Hodder and Stoughton), a brightly written story by\nAmy Le Feuvre; whilst for young people what more inspiriting and\ninteresting work could be presented to them than the life-story of\nthe pioneer missionary, \"Mackay of Uganda,\" of whose biography a new\nillustrated edition has just been issued by the same publishers.--We\nhave also received the current yearly volumes of our contemporaries,\n_Good Words_ and _The Sunday Magazine_ (Isbister & Co.). These would\nboth form valuable additions to any Sunday-school library, and are\nalso admirably adapted for use as prizes or presents.\n\n[Illustration: (_From a Photograph._)\n\nTHE LAUGHING GOD OF CHINA.]\n\n\nCompensation.\n\nAn Irishman being bound over to keep the peace against all the\nQueen's subjects, said, \"Then Heaven help the first foreigner I\nmeet!\" We are reminded of this when we see people civility itself to\na good servant they are afraid of losing, or to the strongest-willed\nperson in their home, and then relieving their pent-up feelings by\nbeing rude to the rest of the family.\n\n\nLaughter and War.\n\n\"Have you any gods around here?\" inquired an English traveller in\nrural China. \"Oh, yes,\" replied a venerable Celestial; \"the three\nPure Ones, the God of the Fields, and the Goddess of Mercy.\" \"My old\nfriend, I am afraid your gods are not a few.\" \"Foreign teacher,\"\nsaid the old man, \"verily, verily, our gods are ten thousand and\nthousands of thousands.\" Some are of stone, others of wood, clay,\nor bronze. One may be purchased for a farthing, another will cost\n\u00a3200. The Laughing God in our illustration is a representation in\ncoarse pottery of Quantecong, supposed to be the first emperor.\nThere are laughing Buddhas for sale, and some few images of\nbeneficent mien; but the great horde are intended to inspire awe\nor terror. The second illustration is a well-executed terra-cotta\nfigure of a deified warrior. The drawn sword and beard are similar\nto those of Kwante, the God of War, regarded as the head of the\nmilitary department in China. In 1,600 state temples dedicated\nto him the mandarins worship once a month, and in thousands of\nsmaller temples he is honoured with sacrifices of sheep and oxen.\nHis worshippers believe that he was a general, who just about the\ntime that the Prince of Peace came to this world in great humility\nmade the enemies of China to tremble. The elevation or manufacture\nof gods is a simple affair. The keeper of an idol shop collects\nthe heads, limbs, and trunk that he has moulded out of mud, unites\nthem in one ill-proportioned figure, slips a frog, snake, lizard,\nor centipede into the hole in the back, and the idol is ready for\ndedication and worship! The calm, colossal Buddha at Peking is\nseventy feet high, but it can only witness to a blind feeling after\nGod.\n\n\nAn Ancient Manuscript of St Matthew.\n\nThe romance of New Testament manuscripts is again enlarged; this\ntime by the discovery of a papyrus fragment containing a part of\nthe Gospel according to St. Matthew. The precious sheet was found\nin the Libyan desert, about one hundred and twenty miles south of\nCairo, by Messrs. Grenfell and Hunt, the discoverers of the _Logia_.\nIt is thought that this fragment may be older by a hundred years\nthan any other manuscript of the New Testament hitherto available.\nIts value, had it been a whole book instead of two leaves, would\nhave been priceless. Even so, it is of singular interest. Its\nactual history, of course, is beyond discovery, but its appearance\namongst the world of scholars reminds us of the strangely varied\nchannels through which Greek manuscripts of the New Testament have\ncome down to us. There is the romantic story of the discovery,\nin a monastery on Mount Sinai, of the priceless manuscript known\nas the _Codex Sinaiticus_. There is the scarcely less valuable\n_Codex Alexandrinus_ which the British Museum now guards; that\ncame to England as a gift to King Charles I. from a Patriarch of\nConstantinople. There is the great manuscript which is one of the\nglories of the Vatican Library at Rome, where it is believed to\nhave been ever since that library was founded. There is the _Codex\nEphraemi_ at Paris, its ancient writing partly legible beneath a\nmuch later work written over it--a manuscript which once belonged\nto Catherine de Medicis. There is another palimpsest brought to\nEngland from a convent in the Nubian desert. There is the manuscript\npresented by Laud to the Bodleian, and supposed to have been used\nby the Venerable Bede. In truth, the history of these treasures is\nfull of romance, and it is but fitting that new discoveries should\nfurnish other examples of the strange ways in which the text of the\nHoly Scriptures in various parts and forms has been preserved for us.\n\n[Illustration: (_From a Photograph._)\n\nA GOD OF WAR.]\n\n\nHumours of Hymen.\n\nWhile nothing can be so distressing to a clergyman, whose duty it\nis to solemnise marriages, as irreverence or flippancy, he can\nhardly fail to be amused, if many of his people are poor and his\narea is wide, at the occasional results of a genuine ignorance, or\na legitimate nervousness. A well-known church in Central London\ncan furnish several singular and recent experiences. It is not\noften that either of the contracting parties comes furnished with\na prayer-book, but on a certain occasion the bride, a rather\nstrong-minded-looking lady, did so, and insisted on holding it\nsternly and steadily under the nose of her future spouse. In\nrepeating the passage in which \"cherish\" occurs, a bridegroom,\nin a faltering voice, expressed his willingness \"to love and to\n'_perish_.'\" \"Oh, sir, I do feel _that_ nervous!\" once pleaded\nanother embarrassed swain in the middle of the service. A widower,\nwho was extremely awkward and stupid in making the responses\nafter the minister, apologised by saying, \"Really, sir, it is so\nlong since I was married last that I forget\"! Another bridegroom,\nthough middle-aged, seemed somewhat diffident with regard to his\nresponsibilities, and answered to the inquiry, \"Wilt thou love,\ncomfort, honour, etc.?\" \"To the best of my abilities I will.\" A\nyear or two ago, the roof of the particular church of which we\nare thinking was being renovated, and the interior was a maze of\nladders. Under these a superstitious bride earnestly begged not\nto be compelled to go, so she was considerately conducted to the\nchancel by a circuitous route. There was a wedding last year at\nwhich a tiny bridesmaid made her appearance. As he had married her\nparents about six summers previously, the clergyman thought he\nmight venture to take her by the arm and to place her in her proper\nposition behind the bride. Considerably to his surprise, the small\ndamsel hit out at him in a most workmanlike manner straight from\nthe shoulder, and the edifice resounded with a terrific yell of\ndefiance, \"Me _won't_! Me WON'T!\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society._)\n\nINDIAN ORPHANS AT A BREAKFAST SUPPLIED BY MISSIONARIES.\n\n(_A scene during the recent famine._)]\n\n\nSome New Books.\n\nOne of the most interesting biographies of the season is that of\nBishop Walsham How, which has just been issued by Messrs. Isbister,\nprefaced by an excellent portrait of the late prelate. The Bishop\nwas principally known by his work in the East of London, where\nhe was greatly loved by clergy and parishioners alike, and many\nexcellent stories are related _apropos_ of his cheeriness and\ntolerant good nature in dealing with the mixed elements of his\ncrowded diocese. The memoir seems full and complete, as, indeed,\nit should be, the biographer being Mr. Frederick How (a son of\nthe late Bishop), who had access to all the private memoranda of\nhis father, and was naturally acquainted with every incident of\ninterest concerning him. From the same publishers comes an excellent\nwork by our contributor, Dean Farrar, on \"Great Books,\" in which\nhe critically reviews the life and works of Bunyan, Shakespeare,\nDante, Milton, and other \"master-spirits.\" Though admittedly written\nfor young people, the volume contains much that is valuable and\ninteresting to older readers. Messrs. Isbister have also recently\nissued a volume of sermons by the Rev. Stopford A. Brooke, under\nthe title \"The Gospel of Joy.\" Whilst we do not endorse all the\nviews expressed by the author, yet at the same time we are bound to\nconfess that Mr. Brooke's eloquent addresses teem with happy and\nsuggestive thoughts.--A daintily produced volume reaches us from\nthe Scientific Press in the form of Mr. J. T. Woolrych Perowne's\naccount of his recent journey in Russian Central Asia, published\nunder the comprehensive title \"Russian Hosts and English Guests in\nCentral Asia.\" In many respects the journey described was quite\nunique, and the interest is considerably increased by the number\nand variety of the excellent illustrations which are scattered\nthroughout the book.--\"Table-talk with Young Men\" (Hodder and\nStoughton) is the title which the Rev. W. J. Dawson gives to his\nrecently published series of \"pen-conversations\" with young men.\nMr. Dawson's practical, straightforward and cultured \"talk\" on\nsuch diverse subjects as \"The Art of Living,\" \"Christianity and\nProgress,\" \"Civic Responsibility,\" etc., is not only brilliant but\nhighly instructive, and the book is one which should find a place\non every young man's bookshelf, for it will richly repay careful\nand constant perusal.--We have also to acknowledge the receipt of\n\"Comfort and Counsel\" (Hodder and Stoughton), containing quotations\nfrom the writings of Elizabeth Rundle Charles for every day in the\nyear; \"The Children's Year-Book of Prayer and Praise\" (Longmans),\ncompiled by C. M. Whishaw; a useful and informing little volume on\n\"Diet and Food\" (J. and A. Churchill), by Dr. Alexander Haig; \"A\nCluster of Camphire\" (Passmore and Alabaster), containing short,\nsympathetic addresses by Mrs. C. H. Spurgeon to those who are sick\nand sorrowful; and \"The Daily Homily\" (Morgan and Scott), a series\nof brief, pregnant discourses on the books of the Bible from 1\nSamuel to Job, by the Rev. F. B. Meyer.\n\n\n\"Out of the Eater came forth Meat.\"\n\nSamson's riddle is an everlasting proverb. Out of the devouring\nfamine that last year devastated India blessings have already come\nto many provinces. A conquered race find it hard to love and trust\ntheir rulers, but in their trouble dwellers in the famine districts\nsaw the practical side of Christianity. In the midst of universal\nrejoicing England was moved with compassion, and provided food for\nthe starving. Government, in many instances, entrusted missionaries\nwith the distribution of grain. The Indian people are slow to act\nand strong to endure. Thousands perished because they could not or\nwould not realise that relief was within reach. Parents gave their\nlast morsels to their children, and then lay down to die. Orphanages\noverflowed, and new ones had to be erected. Where an open shed and\nlight meals of milk, rice, and curry meet the ideas of home and\nhousekeeping, this is easier than it sounds. After a famine the\nnumber of Christian adherents to missions is always multiplied, and\nthe supply of pupils creates new demand for teachers. It must be\nacknowledged that the taunt of being \"rice-Christians\" is sometimes\njustified, though there is little doubt that genuine gratitude to\nGod, who moved His servants to help them, has caused numbers to turn\nto Him.\n\n\nAbraham's Vineyard.\n\nThis piece of land is close to the Holy City, and now belongs to\nthe Society for the Relief of Persecuted Jews. When the necessary\nexcavation for building was begun, Abraham's Vineyard revealed\nsigns of former glory and prosperity. Tesselated pavement, vats,\nbaths, and a columbarium hewn out of the rock, showed that it had\nonce belonged to a householder with taste for luxury as well as an\neye for exquisite scenery. The baths and vats have been converted\ninto cisterns for rain-water, and the place has become the scene\nof industry. The earth, in past years again and again reddened by\nbattles, now yields peaceful harvests of grain. All the Jewish\nrefugees are not, however, cultivators. Soap-making from olive oil\nand alkali grown on the Jordan Plain, glue-making, stone-dressing,\nquarrying, are industries which offer many of them an honest living.\nThe idea of the founders of this society was \"to give relief and\nemployment to the Jews, especially in Jerusalem, until they are able\nto found colonies on their own account.\" The experiment of Abraham's\nVineyard has succeeded, and the Jews have carried the work farther,\nas the trade in Jaffa oranges and olive-wood ware testify.\n\n\nOUR CHRISTMAS NUMBER.\n\n\"CHRISTMAS ARROWS\" (the Extra Christmas Number of THE QUIVER) is\npublished simultaneously with this part, and contains a complete\none-volume story by M. H. Cornwall Legh, entitled \"=The Steep\nAscent=,\" copiously illustrated by Frank Craig. In addition\nwill be found a seasonable article by the Rev. Dr. Preston, on\n\"=Christmas Chimes from Jerusalem=\" (illustrated by Mark Zangwill);\na contribution by the Rev. Canon McCormick entitled \"=Christian\nHospitality=\"; and a long fairy-parable by E. H. Strain which bears\nthe title \"=The Star Ruby=,\" and is illustrated by H. R. Millar.\n\"Christmas Arrows\" also contains full particulars and conditions\nof our scheme for providing =Christmas Stockings= for poor and\nfriendless children, as well as the =Voting Form= which any reader\nis at liberty to use to recommend suitable cases for the receipt of\nour Christmas gift.\n\n\nROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL WORKERS.\n\nThe =Special Silver Medal= and =Presentation Bible= offered for the\nlongest known Sunday-school service in the county of =Leicester=\n(for which applications were invited up to October 31st) have been\ngained by\n\n  MISS ANNE HARRISON,\n         42, Humberstone Gate,\n                Leicester.\n\nwho has distinguished herself by =fifty-eight= years' service in\nHarvey Lane Baptist Chapel, Leicester.\n\nAs already announced, the next territorial county for which claims\nare invited for the =Silver Medal= is\n\n  SUSSEX,\n\nand applications, on the special form, must be received on or before\nNovember 30th, 1898. We may add that =Wiltshire= is the following\ncounty selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being\nDecember 31st, 1898. This county, in its turn, will be followed by\n=Durham=, for which the date will be one month later--viz. January\n31st, 1899.\n\nThe names of members recently enrolled will be found in our\nadvertisement pages.\n\n\n\n\nNEW QUIVER WAIFS.\n\nTo be Selected by our Readers.\n\n\nFor many years past our readers have generously taken the\nresponsibility of maintaining a waif at Dr. Barnardo's Homes, and\nanother at Miss Sharman's Orphanage in Southwark; but, as the\npresent waifs are now growing up, and will soon be out in the world,\nthe time has come for another selection. For this purpose, we have\nobtained particulars of eligible cases, which we submit to our\nreaders, and, as we look to them for a continuance of their kindly\nhelp in supporting THE QUIVER Waifs, we feel that they would prefer\nto choose the new little ones who are to be so known. We would,\ntherefore, request our readers to send a post-card (addressed to\nThe Editor of THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.), stating\nfor which waif in each of the two sets they desire to vote, and\nthe children with the highest number of votes will be elected. The\npost-cards should reach the Editor not later than December 31st,\n1898. It should be particularly understood that this course will\nimply no pecuniary obligation whatever on the part of the voters, as\nwe shall rely solely upon the voluntary contributions of our readers\nto furnish the total requisite sum for the maintenance of the waifs,\nwhich amounts to \u00a331 per year. All donations will be acknowledged in\nTHE QUIVER month by month.\n\n\nParticulars of Cases.\n\nI. _For Dr. Barnardo's Homes_ (one vote):--\n\nALBERT LE VASSEUR.--Eight years of age--mother left a widow with ten\nchildren--totally unable to support them all--when discovered there\nwas no food or money in the house.\n\nCHARLES SALT.--Seven years of age--mother a \"drunken and\ndisreputable tramp\"--father little better--parents without a home\nand constantly ill-treating the child.\n\nJOHN HARRISON.--Seven years of age--found in streets begging in\nragged condition--father dead--mother disreputable--John somewhat\nlame in walk, owing to injury to the right knee in infancy.\n\nII. _For Miss Sharman's Orphanage_ (one vote):--\n\nROSE HEELIS.--Aged two years--was born shortly after her father's\ndeath--mother has died of consumption--promises to grow into a very\nnice child, and is full of life and spirits.\n\nETHEL ROBINSON.--Aged six years--father killed by an\naccident--mother in lunatic asylum--relatives too poor to help.\n\nLILY PAVITT.--Aged ten years--mother dead--father deserted\nchildren--an aunt took the child, but was unable to support her.\n\n\nTHE QUIVER FUNDS.\n\nThe following is a list of contributions received from October 1st\nup to and including October 31st, 1898. Subscriptions received after\nthis date will be acknowledged next month:--\n\nFor \"_The Quiver_\" _Waifs' Fund_: A Glasgow Mother (101st donation),\n1s.; J. J. E. (131st donation), 5s.; R. S., Crouch End (7th\ndonation), 5s.; E. M. B., Jedburgh, 3s.; R. Dendy, Eastbourne, 3s.;\nAnon., Alford, 1s.\n\nFor \"_The Quiver_\" _Christmas Stocking Fund_: Jessie, Agnes, and\nCyril, 2s. 6d.; M. T., 5s.\n\nFor _The Ragged School Union_: R. H. B., 2s. 6d.\n\nFor _The Indian Leper Mission Fund_: A Thank-Offering, 1s.\n\nFor _Dr. Barnardo's Homes_: An Irish Girl, 13s. Also 7s. 6d. from\nDiomedes sent direct.\n\nFor _St. Giles Christian Mission_: Thank-Offering, 1s.\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUIVER BIBLE CLASS.\n\n(BASED ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCRIPTURE LESSONS.)\n\n\nQUESTIONS.\n\n13. What was the great sin of which Zedekiah, king of Judah, was\nguilty and for which he was punished?\n\n14. In what way was Zedekiah punished?\n\n15. What prophecy was thereby fulfilled?\n\n16. In what way does the writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews\ncontrast the revelation of God to mankind under the old dispensation\nwith that of the new?\n\n17. Quote a text which shows the relationship of the angels to the\nhuman race.\n\n18. What is the special characteristic of the Gospel of St. John?\n\n19. Quote text in which St. John asserts the truth of the\nIncarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ.\n\n20. What reference to St. John the Baptist was made by the last of\nthe Old Testament prophets?\n\n21. It is said of our Lord, \"He came unto His own, and His own\nreceived Him not.\" Quote passage from the Old Testament which shows\nthat this passage refers to the Jewish people.\n\n22. From what circumstance should we gather that Nathanael was a\ndiligent student of the Old Testament?\n\n23. In what words did our Lord show forth His divinity in speaking\nto Nathanael?\n\n24. In what way did St. John the Baptist point out to his disciples\nthat Jesus was the Messiah?\n\n\nANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 96.\n\n1. Manasseh defiled the Temple at Jerusalem by setting up an idol\ntherein (2 Chron. xxxiii. 7).\n\n2. 2 Chron. xxxiii. 14.\n\n3. Manasseh, having been reinstated in his kingdom by the Assyrians,\ngave up his idolatry and did all he could to restore the worship of\nGod in the land (2 Chron. xxxiii. 14-17).\n\n4. Prov. iv. 14, 17.\n\n5. Prov. iv. 18.\n\n6. In the reign of Josiah the king sent to Huldah the prophetess to\ninquire as to God's will concerning the people (2 Kings xxii. 14-20).\n\n7. The copy of the Law which Moses had written was found (2 Kings\nxxii. 8; 2 Chron. xxxiv. 14).\n\n8. In the reign of Amon, king of Judah, we are told the people\nworshipped the \"sun, moon, and stars, and all the host of heaven\" (2\nKings xxiii. 5).\n\n9. In the reign of Josiah, who burnt men's bones on the altar at\nBethel (2 Kings xxiii. 15, 16; 1 Kings xiii. 2).\n\n10. Jehoiakim threw on the fire the roll on which Jeremiah had\nwritten at God's command a warning to the king and his people (Jer.\nxxxvi. 23).\n\n11. Jer. xxii. 13, 14; 2 Kings xxiv. 4.\n\n12. Jehoiakim was bound in fetters to carry him to Babylon, but was\nslain at Jerusalem and his dead body cast outside the city (2 Chron.\nxxxvi. 6; Jer. xxii. 19).\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nMinor typographical errors have been corrected without note.\nIrregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as\nprinted.\n\nMissing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the\noriginal text.\n\nThe illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up\nparagraphs.\n\nMismatched quotes are not fixed if it's not sufficiently clear where\nthe missing quote should be placed.\n\nThe cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the\ntranscriber and is placed in the public domain.","title":"The Quiver, 11/1899","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":49754}