ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD. 

BY GEORGE MACDONALD, LL. D. 

NEW YORK

CHAPTER I. 

DESPONDENCY AND CONSOLATION. 

Before I begin to tell you some of the things I have seen and heard, in both of which I have had to take a share, now from the compulsionof my office, now from the leading of my own heart, and now fromthat destiny which, including both, so often throws the man whosupposed himself a mere on-looker, into the very vortex ofevents--that destiny which took form to the old pagans as a graymist high beyond the heads of their gods, but to us is known as aninfinite love, revealed in the mystery of man--I say before I begin, it is fitting that, in the absence of a common friend to do thatoffice for me, I should introduce myself to your acquaintance, and Ihope coming friendship. Nor can there be any impropriety in mytelling you about myself, seeing I remain concealed behind my ownwords. You can never look me in the eyes, though you may look me inthe soul. You may find me out, find my faults, my vanities, my sins, but you will not SEE me, at least in this world. To you I am but avoice of revealing, not a form of vision; therefore I am bold behindthe mask, to speak to you heart to heart; bold, I say, just so muchthe more that I do not speak to you face to face. And when we meetin heaven--well, there I know there is no hiding; there, there is noreason for hiding anything; there, the whole desire will bealternate revelation and vision. 

I am now getting old--faster and faster. I cannot help my grayhairs, nor the wrinkles that gather so slowly yet ruthlessly; no, nor the quaver that will come in my voice, not the sense of beingfeeble in the knees, even when I walk only across the floor of mystudy. But I have not got used to age yet. I do not FEEL one atomolder than I did at three-and-twenty. Nay, to tell all the truth, Ifeel a good deal younger. --For then I only felt that a man had totake up his cross; whereas now I feel that a man has to follow Him;and that makes an unspeakable difference. --When my voice quavers, Ifeel that it is mine and not mine; that it just belongs to me likemy watch, which does not go well-now, though it went well thirtyyears ago--not more than a minute out in a month. And when I feel myknees shake, I think of them with a kind of pity, as I used to thinkof an old mare of my father's of which I was very fond when I was alad, and which bore me across many a field and over many a fence, but which at last came to have the same weakness in her knees that Ihave in mine; and she knew it too, and took care of them, and so ofherself, in a wise equine fashion. These things are not me--or _I_, if the grammarians like it better, (I always feel a strife betweendoing as the scholar does and doing as other people do;) they arenot me, I say; I HAVE them--and, please God, shall soon have better. For it is not a pleasant thing for a young man, or a young womaneither, I venture to say, to have an old voice, and a wrinkled face, and weak knees, and gray hair, or no hair at all. And if any moralPhilistine, as our queer German brothers over the Northern fish-pondwould call him, say that this is all rubbish, for that we ARE old, Iwould answer: "Of all children how can the children of God be old?"

So little do I give in to calling this outside of me, ME, that Ishould not mind presenting a minute description of my own personsuch as would at once clear me from any suspicion of vanity in sointroducing myself. Not that my honesty would result in the leastfrom indifference to the external--but from comparative indifferenceto the transitional; not to the transitional in itself, which is ofeternal significance and result, but to the particular form ofimperfection which it may have reached at any individual moment ofits infinite progression towards the complete. For no sooner have Ispoken the word NOW, than that NOW is dead and another is dying;nay, in such a regard, there is no NOW--only a past of which we knowa little, and a future of which we know far less and far more. But Iwill not speak at all of this body of my earthly tabernacle, for itis on the whole more pleasant to forget all about it. And besides, Ido not want to set any of my readers to whom I would have thepleasure of speaking far more openly and cordially than if they wereseated on the other side of my writing-table--I do not want to setthem wondering whether the vicar be this vicar or that vicar; orindeed to run the risk of giving the offence I might give, if I wereanything else than "a wandering voice. "

I did not feel as I feel now when first I came to this parish. For, as I have said, I am now getting old very fast. True, I was thirtywhen I was made a vicar, an age at which a man might be expected tobe beginning to grow wise; but even then I had much yet to learn. 

I well remember the first evening on which I wandered out from thevicarage to take a look about me--to find out, in short, where Iwas, and what aspect the sky and earth here presented. Strangelyenough, I had never been here before; for the presentation had beenmade me while I was abroad. --I was depressed. It was depressingweather. Grave doubts as to whether I was in my place in the church, would keep rising and floating about, like rain-clouds within me. Not that I doubted about the church; I only doubted about myself. "Were my motives pure?" "What were my motives?" And, to tell thetruth, I did not know what my motives were, and therefore I couldnot answer about the purity of them. Perhaps seeing we are in thisworld in order to become pure, it would be expecting too much of anyyoung man that he should be absolutely certain that he was pure inanything. But the question followed very naturally: "Had I then anyright to be in the Church--to be eating her bread and drinking herwine without knowing whether I was fit to do her work?" To which theonly answer I could find was, "The Church is part of God's world. Hemakes men to work; and work of some sort must be done by everyhonest man. Somehow or other, I hardly know how, I find myself inthe Church. I do not know that I am fitter for any other work. I seeno other work to do. There is work here which I can do after somefashion. With God's help I will try to do it well. "

This resolution brought me some relief, but still I was depressed. It was depressing weather. --I may as well say that I was not marriedthen, and that I firmly believed I never should be married--not fromany ambition taking the form of self-denial; nor yet from any notionthat God takes pleasure in being a hard master; but there was alady--Well, I WILL be honest, as I would be. --I had been refused afew months before, which I think was the best thing ever happened tome except one. That one, of course, was when I was accepted. Butthis is not much to the purpose now. Only it was depressing weather. 

For is it not depressing when the rain is falling, and the steam ofit is rising? when the river is crawling along muddily, and thehorses stand stock-still in the meadows with their spines in astraight line from the ears to where they fail utterly in the tails?I should only put on goloshes now, and think of the days when Idespised damp. Ah! it was mental waterproof that I needed then; forlet me despise damp as much as I would, I could neither keep it outof my mind, nor help suffering the spiritual rheumatism which itoccasioned. Now, the damp never gets farther than my goloshes and myMacintosh. And for that worst kind of rheumatism--I never feel itnow. 

But I had begun to tell you about that first evening. --I hadarrived at the vicarage the night before, and it had rained all day, and was still raining, though not so much. I took my umbrella andwent out. 

For as I wanted to do my work well (everything taking far more theshape of work to me, then, and duty, than it does now--though, evennow, I must confess things have occasionally to be done by theclergyman because there is no one else to do them, and hardly fromother motive than a sense of duty, --a man not being able to shirkwork because it may happen to be dirty)--I say, as I wanted to do mywork well, or rather, perhaps, because I dreaded drudgery as much asany poor fellow who comes to the treadmill in consequence--I wantedto interest myself in it; and therefore I would go and fall in love, first of all, if I could, with the country round about. And my firststep beyond my own gate was up to the ankles, in mud. 

Therewith, curiously enough, arose the distracting thought how Icould possibly preach TWO good sermons a Sunday to the same people, when one of the sermons was in the afternoon instead of the evening, to which latter I had been accustomed in the large town in which Ihad formerly officiated as curate in a proprietary chapel. I, whohad declaimed indignantly against excitement from without, who hadbeen inclined to exalt the intellect at the expense even of theheart, began to fear that there must be something in the darkness, and the gas-lights, and the crowd of faces, to account for a man'sbeing able to preach a better sermon, and for servant girlspreferring to go out in the evening. Alas! I had now to preach, as Imight judge with all probability beforehand, to a company ofrustics, of thought yet slower than of speech, unaccustomed in factto THINK at all, and that in the sleepiest, deadest part of the day, when I could hardly think myself, and when, if the weather should beat all warm, I could not expect many of them to be awake. And whatgood might I look for as the result of my labour? How could I hopein these men and women to kindle that fire which, in the old days ofthe outpouring of the Spirit, made men live with the sense of thekingdom of heaven about them, and the expectation of somethingglorious at hand just outside that invisible door which lay betweenthe worlds?

I have learned since, that perhaps I overrated the spirituality ofthose times, and underrated, not being myself spiritual enough tosee all about me, the spirituality of these times. I think I havelearned since, that the parson of a parish must be content to keepthe upper windows of his mind open to the holy winds and the purelights of heaven; and the side windows of tone, of speech, ofbehaviour open to the earth, to let forth upon his fellow-men thetenderness and truth which those upper influences bring forth in anyregion exposed to their operation. Believing in his Master, such aservant shall not make haste; shall feel no feverous desire tobehold the work of his hands; shall be content to be as his Master, who waiteth long for the fruits of His earth. 

But surely I am getting older than I thought; for I keep wanderingaway from my subject, which is this, my first walk in my new cure. My excuse is, that I want my reader to understand something of thestate of my mind, and the depression under which I was labouring. Hewill perceive that I desired to do some work worth calling by thename of work, and that I did not see how to get hold of a beginning. 

I had not gone far from my own gate before the rain ceased, thoughit was still gloomy enough for any amount to follow. I drew down myumbrella, and began to look about me. The stream on my left was soswollen that I could see its brown in patches through the green ofthe meadows along its banks. A little in front of me, the road, rising quickly, took a sharp turn to pass along an old stone bridgethat spanned the water with a single fine arch, somewhat pointed;and through the arch I could see the river stretching away upthrough the meadows, its banks bordered with pollards. Now, pollardsalways made me miserable. In the first place, they look ill-used; inthe next place, they look tame; in the third place, they look veryugly. I had not learned then to honour them on the ground that theyyield not a jot to the adversity of their circumstances; that, ifthey must be pollards, they still will be trees; and what they maynot do with grace, they will yet do with bounty; that, in short, their life bursts forth, despite of all that is done to repress anddestroy their individuality. When you have once learned to honouranything, love is not very far off; at least that has always been myexperience. But, as I have said, I had not yet learned to honourpollards, and therefore they made me more miserable than I wasalready. 

When, having followed the road, I stood at last on the bridge, and, looking up and down the river through the misty air, saw two longrows of these pollards diminishing till they vanished in bothdirections, the sight of them took from me all power of enjoying thewater beneath me, the green fields around me, or even the old-worldbeauty of the little bridge upon which I stood, although all sortsof bridges have been from very infancy a delight to me. For I am oneof those who never get rid of their infantile predilections, and tohave once enjoyed making a mud bridge, was to enjoy all bridges forever. 

I saw a man in a white smock-frock coming along the road beyond, butI turned my back to the road, leaned my arms on the parapet of thebridge, and stood gazing where I saw no visions, namely, at thosevery poplars. I heard the man's footsteps coming up the crown of thearch, but I would not turn to greet him. I was in a selfish humourif ever I was; for surely if ever one man ought to greet another, itwas upon such a comfortless afternoon. The footsteps stopped behindme, and I heard a voice:--

"I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar?"

I turned instantly and answered, "I am. Do you want me?"

"I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye'll not take itamiss. "

Before me stood a tall old man with his hat in his hand, clothed asI have said, in a white smock-frock. He smoothed his short gray hairwith his curved palm down over his forehead as he stood. His facewas of a red brown, from much exposure to the weather. There was acertain look of roughness, without hardness, in it, which spoke ofendurance rather than resistance, although he could evidently sethis face as a flint. His features were large and a little coarse, but the smile that parted his lips when he spoke, shone in his grayeyes as well, and lighted up a countenance in which a man mighttrust. 

"I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you'll not take it amiss. "

"Certainly not, " I answered, pleased with the man's address, as hestood square before me, looking as modest as fearless. "The sight ofa man's face is what everybody has a right to; but, for all that, Ishould like to know why you want to see my face. "

"Why, sir, you be the new vicar. You kindly told me so when I axedyou. "

"Well, then, you'll see my face on Sunday in church--that is, if youhappen to be there. "

For, although some might think it the more dignified way, I couldnot take it as a matter of course that he would be at church. A manmight have better reasons for staying away from church than I hadfor going, even though I was the parson, and it was my business. Some clergymen separate between themselves and their office to adegree which I cannot understand. To assert the dignities of myoffice seems to me very like exalting myself; and when I have had atwinge of conscience about it, as has happened more than once, Ihave then found comfort in these two texts: "The Son of man came notto be ministered unto but to minister;" and "It is enough that theservant should be as his master. " Neither have I ever been able tosee the very great difference between right and wrong in aclergyman, and right and wrong in another man. All that I canpretend to have yet discovered comes to this: that what is right inanother man is right in a clergyman; and what is wrong in anotherman is much worse in a clergyman. Here, however, is one more proofof approaching age. I do not mean the opinion, but the digression. 

"Well, then, " I said, "you'll see my face in church on Sunday, ifyou happen to be there. "

"Yes, sir; but you see, sir, on the bridge here, the parson is theparson like, and I'm Old Rogers; and I looks in his face, and helooks in mine, and I says to myself, 'This is my parson. ' But o'Sundays he's nobody's parson; he's got his work to do, and it mun bedone, and there's an end on't. "

That there was a real idea in the old man's mind was considerablyclearer than the logic by which he tried to bring it out. 

"Did you know parson that's gone, sir?" he went on. 

"No, " I answered. 

"Oh, sir! he wur a good parson. Many's the time he come and sit atmy son's bedside--him that's dead and gone, sir--for a long hour, ona Saturday night, too. And then when I see him up in the desk thenext mornin', I'd say to myself, 'Old Rogers, that's the same man assat by your son's bedside last night. Think o' that, Old Rogers!'But, somehow, I never did feel right sure o' that same. He didn'tseem to have the same cut, somehow; and he didn't talk a bit thesame. And when he spoke to me after sermon, in the church-yard, Iwas always of a mind to go into the church again and look up to thepulpit to see if he war really out ov it; for this warn't the sameman, you see. But you'll know all about it better than I can tellyou, sir. Only I always liked parson better out o' the pulpit, andthat's how I come to want to make you look at me, sir, instead o'the water down there, afore I see you in the church to-morrowmornin'. "

The old man laughed a kindly laugh; but he had set me thinking, andI did not know what to say to him all at once. So after a shortpause, he resumed--

"You'll be thinking me a queer kind of a man, sir, to speak to mybetters before my betters speaks to me. But mayhap you don't knowwhat a parson is to us poor folk that has ne'er a friend more larnedthan theirselves but the parson. And besides, sir, I'm an oldsalt, --an old man-o'-war's man, --and I've been all round the world, sir; and I ha' been in all sorts o' company, pirates and all, sir;and I aint a bit frightened of a parson. No; I love a parson, sir. And I'll tell you for why, sir. He's got a good telescope, and hegits to the masthead, and he looks out. And he sings out, 'Landahead!' or 'Breakers ahead!' and gives directions accordin'. Only Ican't always make out what he says. But when he shuts up hisspyglass, and comes down the riggin', and talks to us like one manto another, then I don't know what I should do without the parson. Good evenin' to you, sir, and welcome to Marshmallows. "

The pollards did not look half so dreary. The river began to glimmera little; and the old bridge had become an interesting old bridge. The country altogether was rather nice than otherwise. I had found afriend already!--that is, a man to whom I might possibly be of someuse; and that was the most precious friend I could think of in mypresent situation and mood. I had learned something from him too;and I resolved to try all I could to be the same man in the pulpitthat I was out of it. Some may be inclined to say that I had betterhave formed the resolution to be the same man out of the pulpit thatI was in it. But the one will go quite right with the other. Out ofthe pulpit I would be the same man I was in it--seeing and feelingthe realities of the unseen; and in the pulpit I would be the sameman I was out of it--taking facts as they are, and dealing withthings as they show themselves in the world. 

One other occurrence before I went home that evening, and I shallclose the chapter. I hope I shall not write another so dull as this. I dare not promise, though; for this is a new kind of work to me. 

Before I left the bridge, --while, in fact, I was contemplating thepollards with an eye, if not of favour, yet of diminisheddismay, --the sun, which, for anything I knew of his whereabouts, either from knowledge of the country, aspect of the evening, orstate of my own feelings, might have been down for an hour or two, burst his cloudy bands, and blazed out as if he had just risen fromthe dead, instead of being just about to sink into the grave. Do nottell me that my figure is untrue, for that the sun never sinks intothe grave, else I will retort that it is just as true of the sun asof a man; for that no man sinks into the grave. He only disappears. Life IS a constant sunrise, which death cannot interrupt, any morethan the night can swallow up the sun. "God is not the God of thedead, but of the living; for all live unto him. "

Well, the sun shone out gloriously. The whole sweep of the gloomyriver answered him in gladness; the wet leaves of the pollardsquivered and glanced; the meadows offered up their perfect green, fresh and clear out of the trouble of the rain; and away in thedistance, upon a rising ground covered with trees, glittered aweathercock. What if I found afterwards that it was only on the roofof a stable? It shone, and that was enough. And when the sun hadgone below the horizon, and the fields and the river were dusky oncemore, there it glittered still over the darkening earth, a symbol ofthat faith which is "the evidence of things not seen, " and it mademy heart swell as at a chant from the prophet Isaiah. What matterthen whether it hung over a stable-roof or a church-tower?

I stood up and wandered a little farther--off the bridge, and alongthe road. I had not gone far before I passed a house, out of whichcame a young woman leading a little boy. They came after me, the boygazing at the red and gold and green of the sunset sky. As theypassed me, the child said--

"Auntie, I think I should like to be a painter. "

"Why?" returned his companion. 

"Because, then, " answered the child, "I could help God to paint thesky. "

What his aunt replied I do not know; for they were presently beyondmy hearing. But I went on answering him myself all the way home. DidGod care to paint the sky of an evening, that a few of His childrenmight see it, and get just a hope, just an aspiration, out of itspassing green, and gold, and purple, and red? and should I think myday's labour lost, if it wrought no visible salvation in the earth?

But was the child's aspiration in vain? Could I tell him God did notwant his help to paint the sky? True, he could mount no scaffoldagainst the infinite of the glowing west. But might he not with hislittle palette and brush, when the time came, show his brothers andsisters what he had seen there, and make them see it too? Might henot thus come, after long trying, to help God to paint this glory ofvapour and light inside the minds of His children? Ah! if any man'swork is not WITH God, its results shall be burned, ruthlesslyburned, because poor and bad. 

"So, for my part, " I said to myself, as I walked home, "if I can putone touch of a rosy sunset into the life of any man or woman of mycure, I shall feel that I have worked with God. He is in no haste;and if I do what I may in earnest, I need not mourn if I work nogreat work on the earth. Let God make His sunsets: I will mottle mylittle fading cloud. To help the growth of a thought that strugglestowards the light; to brush with gentle hand the earth-stain fromthe white of one snowdrop--such be my ambition! So shall I scale therocks in front, not leave my name carved upon those behind me. "

People talk about special providences. I believe in the providences, but not in the specialty. I do not believe that God lets the threadof my affairs go for six days, and on the seventh evening takes itup for a moment. The so-called special providences are no exceptionto the rule--they are common to all men at all moments. But it is afact that God's care is more evident in some instances of it than inothers to the dim and often bewildered vision of humanity. Upon suchinstances men seize and call them providences. It is well that theycan; but it would be gloriously better if they could believe thatthe whole matter is one grand providence. 

I was one of such men at the time, and could not fail to see what Icalled a special providence in this, that on my first attempt tofind where I stood in the scheme of Providence, and while I wasdiscouraged with regard to the work before me, I should fall in withthese two--an old man whom I could help, and a child who could helpme; the one opening an outlet for my labour and my love, and theother reminding me of the highest source of the most humblingcomfort, --that in all my work I might be a fellow-worker with God. 

CHAPTER II. 

MY FIRST SUNDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 

These events fell on the Saturday night. On the Sunday morning, Iread prayers and preached. Never before had I enjoyed so much thepetitions of the Church, which Hooker calls "the sending of angelsupward, " or the reading of the lessons, which he calls "thereceiving of angels descended from above. " And whether from thenewness of the parson, or the love of the service, certainly acongregation more intent, or more responsive, a clergyman willhardly find. But, as I had feared, it was different in theafternoon. The people had dined, and the usual somnolence hadfollowed; nor could I find in my heart to blame men and women whoworked hard all the week, for being drowsy on the day of rest. So Icurtailed my sermon as much as I could, omitting page after page ofmy manuscript; and when I came to a close, was rewarded byperceiving an agreeable surprise upon many of the faces round me. Iresolved that, in the afternoons at least, my sermons should be asshort as heart could wish. 

But that afternoon there was at least one man of the congregationwho was neither drowsy nor inattentive. Repeatedly my eyes left thepage off which I was reading and glanced towards him. Not once did Ifind his eyes turned away from me. 

There was a small loft in the west end of the church, in which stooda little organ, whose voice, weakened by years of praising, andpossibly of neglect, had yet, among a good many tones that wererough, wooden, and reedy, a few remaining that were as mellow asever praiseful heart could wish to praise withal. And these came inamongst the rest like trusting thoughts amidst "eating cares;" likethe faces of children borne in the arms of a crowd of anxiousmothers; like hopes that are young prophecies amidst the downwardsweep of events. For, though I do not understand music, I have akeen ear for the perfection of the single tone, or the completenessof the harmony. But of this organ more by and by. 

Now this little gallery was something larger than was just necessaryfor the organ and its ministrants, and a few of the parishioners hadchosen to sit in its fore-front. Upon this occasion there was no onethere but the man to whom I have referred. 

The space below this gallery was not included in the part of thechurch used for the service. It was claimed by the gardener of theplace, that is the sexton, to hold his gardening tools. There were afew ancient carvings in wood lying in it, very brown in the duskylight that came through a small lancet window, opening, not to theoutside, but into the tower, itself dusky with an enduring twilight. And there were some broken old headstones, and the kindly spade andpickaxe--but I have really nothing to do with these now, for I am, as it were, in the pulpit, whence one ought to look beyond suchthings as these. 

Rising against the screen which separated this mouldy portion of thechurch from the rest, stood an old monument of carved wood, oncebrilliantly painted in the portions that bore the arms of the familyover whose vault it stood, but now all bare and worn, itself gentlyflowing away into the dust it commemorated. It lifted its gablet, carved to look like a canopy, till its apex was on a level with thebook-board on the front of the organ-loft; and over--in fact uponthis apex appeared the face of the man whom I have mentioned. It wasa very remarkable countenance--pale, and very thin, without anyhair, except that of thick eyebrows that far over-hung keen, questioning eyes. Short bushy hair, gray, not white, covered a wellformed head with a high narrow forehead. As I have said, those keeneyes kept looking at me from under their gray eyebrows all the timeof the sermon--intelligently without doubt, but whethersympathetically or otherwise I could not determine. And indeed Ihardly know yet. My vestry door opened upon a little group ofgraves, simple and green, without headstone or slab; poor graves, the memory of whose occupants no one had cared to preserve. Good menmust have preceded me here, else the poor would not have lain sonear the chancel and the vestry-door. All about and beyond werestones, with here and there a monument; for mine was a large parish, and there were old and rich families in it, more of which buriedtheir dead here than assembled their living. But close by thevestry-door, there was this little billowy lake of grass. And atthe end of the narrow path leading from the door, was the churchyardwall, with a few steps on each side of it, that the parson mightpass at once from the churchyard into his own shrubbery, heretangled, almost matted, from luxuriance of growth. But I would notcreep out the back way from among my people. That way might do verywell to come in by; but to go out, I would use the door of thepeople. So I went along the church, a fine old place, such as I hadnever hoped to be presented to, and went out by the door in thenorth side into the middle of the churchyard. The door on the otherside was chiefly used by the few gentry of the neighbourhood; andthe Lych-gate, with its covered way, (for the main road had oncepassed on that side, ) was shared between the coffins and thecarriages, the dead who had no rank but one, that of the dead, andthe living who had more money than their neighbours. For, let theold gentry disclaim it as they may, mere wealth, derived fromwhatever source, will sooner reach their level than poor antiquity, or the rarest refinement of personal worth; although, to be sure, the oldest of them will sooner give to the rich their sons or theirdaughters to wed, to love if they can, to have children by, thanthey will yield a jot of their ancestral preeminence, or acknowledgeany equality in their sons or daughters-in-law. The carpenter's sonis to them an old myth, not an everlasting fact. To Mammon alonewill they yield a little of their rank--none of it to Christ. Let meglorify God that Jesus took not on. Him the nature of nobles, butthe seed of Adam; for what could I do without my poor brothers andsisters?

I passed along the church to the northern door, and went out. Thechurchyard lay in bright sunshine. All the rain and gloom were gone. "If one could only bring this glory of sun and grass into one's hopefor the future!" thought I; and looking down I saw the little boywho aspired to paint the sky, looking up in my face with mingledconfidence and awe. 

"Do you trust me, my little man?" thought I. "You shall trust methen. But I won't be a priest to you, I'll be a big brother. "

For the priesthood passes away, the brotherhood endures. Thepriesthood passes away, swallowed up in the brotherhood. It isbecause men cannot learn simple things, cannot believe in thebrotherhood, that they need a priesthood. But as Dr Arnold said ofthe Sunday, "They DO need it. " And I, for one, am sure that thepriesthood needs the people much more than the people needs thepriesthood. 

So I stooped and lifted the child and held him in my arms. And thelittle fellow looked at me one moment longer, and then put his armsgently round my neck. And so we were friends. When I had set himdown, which I did presently, for I shuddered at the idea of thepeople thinking that I was showing off the CLERGYMAN, I looked atthe boy. In his face was great sweetness mingled with greatrusticity, and I could not tell whether he was the child ofgentlefolk or of peasants. He did not say a word, but walked away tojoin his aunt, who was waiting for him at the gate of thechurchyard. He kept his head turned towards me, however, as he went, so that, not seeing where he was going, he stumbled over the graveof a child, and fell in the hollow on the other side. I ran to pickhim up. His aunt reached him at the same moment. 

"Oh, thank you, sir!" she said, as I gave him to her, with anearnestness which seemed to me disproportionate to the deed, andcarried him away with a deep blush over all her countenance. 

At the churchyard-gate, the old man-of-war's man was waiting to haveanother look at me. His hat was in his hand, and he gave a pull tothe short hair over his forehead, as if he would gladly take thatoff too, to show his respect for the new parson. I held out my handgratefully. It could not close around the hard, unyielding mass offingers which met it. He did not know how to shake hands, and leftit all to me. But pleasure sparkled in his eyes. 

"My old woman would like to shake hands with you, sir, " he said. 

Beside him stood his old woman, in a portentous bonnet, beneathwhose gay yellow ribbons appeared a dusky old face, wrinkled like aship's timbers, out of which looked a pair of keen black eyes, wherethe best beauty, that of loving-kindness, had not merely lingered, but triumphed. 

"I shall be in to see you soon, " I said, as I shook hands with her. "I shall find out where you live. "

"Down by the mill, " she said; "close by it, sir. There's one bed inour garden that always thrives, in the hottest summer, by the plashfrom the mill, sir. "

"Ask for Old Rogers, sir, " said the man. "Everybody knows OldRogers. But if your reverence minds what my wife says, you won't gowrong. When you find the river, it takes you to the mill; and whenyou find the mill, you find the wheel; and when you find the wheel, you haven't far to look for the cottage, sir. It's a poor place, butyou'll be welcome, sir. "

CHAPTER III. 

MY FIRST MONDAY AT MARSHMALLOWS. 

The next day I might expect some visitors. It is a fortunate thingthat English society now regards the parson as a gentleman, else hewould have little chance of being useful to the UPPER CLASSES. But Iwanted to get a good start of them, and see some of my poor beforemy rich came to see me. So after breakfast, on as lovely a Monday inthe beginning of autumn as ever came to comfort a clergyman in thereaction of his efforts to feed his flock on the Sunday, I walkedout, and took my way to the village. I strove to dismiss from mymind every feeling of DOING DUTY, of PERFORMING MY PART, and allthat. I had a horror of becoming a moral policeman as much as of"doing church. " I would simply enjoy the privilege, more open to mein virtue of my office, of ministering. But as no servant has aright to force his service, so I would be the NEIGHBOUR only, untilsuch time as the opportunity of being the servant should showitself. 

The village was as irregular as a village should be, partlyconsisting of those white houses with intersecting parallelograms ofblack which still abound in some regions of our island. Just in thecentre, however, grouping about an old house of red brick, which hadonce been a manorial residence, but was now subdivided in all modesthat analytic ingenuity could devise, rose a portion of it which, from one point of view, might seem part of an old town. But you hadonly to pass round any one of three visible corners to see stacks ofwheat and a farm-yard; while in another direction the houses wentstraggling away into a wood that looked very like the beginning of aforest, of which some of the village orchards appeared to form part. From the street the slow-winding, poplar-bordered stream was hereand there just visible. 

I did not quite like to have it between me and my village. I couldnot help preferring that homely relation in which the houses arebuilt up like swallow-nests on to the very walls of the cathedralsthemselves, to the arrangement here, where the river flowed, withwhat flow there was in it, between the church and the people. 

A little way beyond the farther end of the village appeared an irongate, of considerable size, dividing a lofty stone wall. And uponthe top of that one of the stone pillars supporting the gate which Icould see, stood a creature of stone, whether natant, volant, passant, couchant, or rampant, I could not tell, only it looked likesomething terrible enough for a quite antediluvian heraldry. 

As I passed along the street, wondering with myself what relationsbetween me and these houses were hidden in the future, my eye wascaught by the window of a little shop, in which strings of beads andelephants of gingerbread formed the chief samples of the goodswithin. It was a window much broader than it was high, divided intolozenge-shaped panes. Wondering what kind of old woman presided overthe treasures in this cave of Aladdin, I thought to make a first ofmy visits by going in and buying something. But I hesitated, becauseI could not think of anything I was in want of--at least that theold woman was likely to have. To be sure I wanted a copy of Bengel's"Gnomon;" but she was not likely to have that. I wanted the fourthplate in the third volume of Law's "Behmen;" she was not likely tohave that either. I did not care for gingerbread; and I had nolittle girl to take home beads to. 

But why should I not go in without an ostensible errand? For thisreason: there are dissenters everywhere, and I could not tell but Imight be going into the shop of a dissenter. Now, though, I confess, nothing would have pleased me better than that all the dissentersshould return to their old home in the Church, I could not endurethe suspicion of laying myself out to entice them back by canvassingor using any personal influence. Whether they returned or not, however, (and I did not expect many would, ) I hoped still, some day, to stand towards every one of them in the relation of the parson ofthe parish, that is, one of whom each might feel certain that he wasready to serve him or her at any hour when he might be wanted torender a service. In the meantime, I could not help hesitating. 

I had almost made up my mind to ask if she had a small pocketcompass, for I had seen such things in little country shops--I amafraid only in France, though--when the door opened, and out camethe little boy whom I had already seen twice, and who was thereforeone of my oldest friends in the place. He came across the road tome, took me by the hand, and said--

"Come and see mother. "

"Where, my dear?" I asked. 

"In the shop there, " he answered. 

"Is it your mother's shop?"

"Yes. "

I said no more, but accompanied him. Of course my expectation ofseeing an old woman behind the counter had vanished, but I was notin the least prepared for the kind of woman I did see. 

The place was half a shop and half a kitchen. A yard or so ofcounter stretched inwards from the door, just as a hint to those whomight be intrusively inclined. Beyond this, by the chimney-corner, sat the mother, who rose as we entered. She was certainly one--I donot say of the most beautiful, but, until I have time to explainfurther--of the most remarkable women I had ever seen. Her face wasabsolutely white--no, pale cream-colour--except her lips and a spotupon each cheek, which glowed with a deep carmine. You would havesaid she had been painting, and painting very inartistically, solittle was the red shaded into the surrounding white. Now this wascertainly not beautiful. Indeed, it occasioned a strange feeling, almost of terror, at first, for she reminded one of the spectrewoman in the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner. " But when I got used toher complexion, I saw that the form of her features was quitebeautiful. She might indeed have been LOVELY but for a certainhardness which showed through the beauty. This might have been theresult of ill health, ill-endured; but I doubted it. For there was acertain modelling of the cheeks and lips which showed that the teethwithin were firmly closed; and, taken with the look of the eyes andforehead, seemed the expression of a constant and bitterself-command. But there were indubitable marks of ill health uponher, notwithstanding; for not to mention her complexion, her largedark eye was burning as if the lamp of life had broken and the oilwas blazing; and there was a slight expansion of the nostrils, whichindicated physical unrest. But her manner was perfectly, almostdreadfully, quiet; her voice soft, low, and chiefly expressive ofindifference. She spoke without looking me in the face, but did notseem either shy or ashamed. Her figure was remarkably graceful, though too worn to be beautiful. --Here was a strange parishioner forme!--in a country toy-shop, too!

As soon as the little fellow had brought me in, he shrunk awaythrough a half-open door that revealed a stair behind. 

"What can I do for you, sir?" said the mother, coldly, and with akind of book-propriety of speech, as she stood on the other side ofthe little counter, prepared to open box or drawer at command. 

"To tell the truth, I hardly know, " I said. "I am the new vicar; butI do not think that I should have come in to see you just to-day, ifit had not been that your little boy there--where is he gone to? Heasked me to come in and see his mother. "

"He is too ready to make advances to strangers, sir. "

She said this in an incisive tone. 

"Oh, but, " I answered, "I am not a stranger to him. I have met himtwice before. He is a little darling. I assure you he has quitegained my heart. "

No reply for a moment. Then just "Indeed!" and nothing more. 

I could not understand it. 

But a jar on a shelf, marked TOBACCO, rescued me from the mostpressing portion of the perplexity, namely, what to say next. 

"Will you give me a quarter of a pound of tobacco?" I said. 

The woman turned, took down the jar, arranged the scales, weighedout the quantity, wrapped it up, took the money, --and all withoutone other word than, "Thank you, sir;" which was all I could return, with the addition of, "Good morning. "

For nothing was left me but to walk away with my parcel in mypocket. 

The little boy did not show himself again. I had hoped to find himoutside. 

Pondering, speculating, I now set out for the mill, which, I hadalready learned, was on the village side of the river. Coming to alane leading down to the river, I followed it, and then walked up apath outside the row of pollards, through a lovely meadow, wherebrown and white cows were eating and shining all over the thick deepgrass. Beyond the meadow, a wood on the side of a rising ground wentparallel with the river a long way. The river flowed on my right. That is, I knew that it was flowing, but I could not have told how Iknew, it was so slow. Still swollen, it was of a clear brown, inwhich you could see the browner trouts darting to and fro with sucha slippery gliding, that the motion seemed the result of will, without any such intermediate and complicate arrangement as brainand nerves and muscles. The water-beetles went spinning about overthe surface; and one glorious dragon-fly made a mist about him withhis long wings. And over all, the sun hung in the sky, pouring downlife; shining on the roots of the willows at the bottom of thestream; lighting up the black head of the water-rat as he hurriedacross to the opposite bank; glorifying the rich green lake of thegrass; and giving to the whole an utterance of love and hope andjoy, which was, to him who could read it, a more certain and fullrevelation of God than any display of power in thunder, inavalanche, in stormy sea. Those with whom the feeling of religion isonly occasional, have it most when the awful or grand breaks out ofthe common; the meek who inherit the earth, find the God of thewhole earth more evidently present--I do not say more present, forthere is no measuring of His presence--more evidently present in thecommonest things. That which is best He gives most plentifully, asis reason with Him. Hence the quiet fulness of ordinary nature;hence the Spirit to them that ask it. 

I soon came within sound of the mill; and presently, crossing thestream that flowed back to the river after having done its work onthe corn, I came in front of the building, and looked over thehalf-door into the mill. The floor was clean and dusty. A few fullsacks, tied tight at the mouth--they always look to me as ifJoseph's silver cup were just inside--stood about. In the farthercorner, the flour was trickling down out of two wooden spouts into awooden receptacle below. The whole place was full of its own faintbut pleasant odour. No man was visible. The spouts went on pouringthe slow torrent of flour, as if everything could go on with perfectpropriety of itself. I could not even see how a man could get at thestones that I heard grinding away above, except he went up the ropethat hung from the ceiling. So I walked round the corner of theplace, and found myself in the company of the water-wheel, mossy andgreen with ancient waterdrops, looking so furred and overgrown andlumpy, that one might have thought the wood of it had taken togrowing again in its old days, and so the wheel was losing by slowdegrees the shape of a wheel, to become some new awful monster of apollard. As yet, however, it was going round; slowly, indeed, andwith the gravity of age, but doing its work, and casting its loosedrops in the alms-giving of a gentle rain upon a little plot ofMaster Rogers's garden, which was therefore full of moisture-lovingflowers. This plot was divided from the mill-wheel by a small streamwhich carried away the surplus water, and was now full and runningrapidly. 

Beyond the stream, beside the flower bed, stood a dusty young man, talking to a young woman with a rosy face and clear honest eyes. Themoment they saw me they parted. The young man came across the streamat a step, and the young woman went up the garden towards thecottage. 

"That must be Old Rogers's cottage?" I said to the miller. 

"Yes, sir, " he answered, looking a little sheepish. 

"Was that his daughter--that nice-looking young woman you weretalking to?"

"Yes, sir, it was. "

And he stole a shy pleased look at me out of the corners of hiseyes. 

"It's a good thing, " I said, "to have an honest experienced old milllike yours, that can manage to go on of itself for a little whilenow and then. "

This gave a great help to his budding confidence. He laughed. 

"Well, sir, it's not very often it's left to itself. Jane isn't ather father's above once or twice a week at most. "

"She doesn't live with them, then?"

"No, sir. You see they're both hearty, and they ain't over well todo, and Jane lives up at the Hall, sir. She's upper housemaid, andwaits on one of the young ladies. --Old Rogers has seen a great dealof the world, sir. "

"So I imagine. I am just going to see him. Good morning. "

I jumped across the stream, and went up a little gravel-walk, whichled me in a few yards to the cottage-door. It was a sweet place tolive in, with honeysuckle growing over the house, and the sounds ofthe softly-labouring mill-wheel ever in its little porch and aboutits windows. 

The door was open, and Dame Rogers came from within to meet me. Shewelcomed me, and led the way into her little kitchen. As I entered, Jane went out at the back-door. But it was only to call her father, who presently came in. 

"I'm glad to see ye, sir. This pleasure comes of having no workto-day. After harvest there comes slack times for the likes of me. People don't care about a bag of old bones when they can get hold ofyoung men. Well, well, never mind, old woman. The Lord'll take usthrough somehow. When the wind blows, the ship goes; when the winddrops, the ship stops; but the sea is His all the same, for He madeit; and the wind is His all the same too. "

He spoke in the most matter-of-fact tone, unaware of anything poeticin what he said. To him it was just common sense, and common senseonly. 

"I am sorry you are out of work, " I said. "But my garden is sadlyout of order, and I must have something done to it. You don'tdislike gardening, do you?"

"Well, I beant a right good hand at garden-work, " answered the oldman, with some embarrassment, scratching his gray head with atroubled scratch. 

There was more in this than met the ear; but what, I could notconjecture. I would press the point a little. So I took him at hisown word. 

"I won't ask you to do any of the more ornamental part, " Isaid, --"only plain digging and hoeing. "

"I would rather be excused, sir. "

"I am afraid I made you think"--

"I thought nothing, sir. I thank you kindly, sir. "

"I assure you I want the work done, and I must employ some one elseif you don't undertake it. "

"Well, sir, my back's bad now--no, sir, I won't tell a story aboutit. I would just rather not, sir. "

"Now, " his wife broke in, "now, Old Rogers, why won't 'ee tell theparson the truth, like a man, downright? If ye won't, I'll do it for'ee. The fact is, sir, " she went on, turning to me, with a plate inher hand, which she was wiping, "the fact is, that the old parson'sman for that kind o' work was Simmons, t'other end of the village;and my man is so afeard o' hurtin' e'er another, that he'll turn thebread away from his own mouth and let it fall in the dirt. "

"Now, now, old 'oman, don't 'ee belie me. I'm not so bad as that. You see, sir, I never was good at knowin' right from wrong like. Inever was good, that is, at tellin' exactly what I ought to do. Sowhen anything comes up, I just says to myself, 'Now, Old Rogers, what do you think the Lord would best like you to do?' And as soonas I ax myself that, I know directly what I've got to do; and thenmy old woman can't turn me no more than a bull. And she don't likemy obstinate fits. But, you see, I daren't sir, once I axed myselfthat. "

"Stick to that, Rogers, " I said. 

"Besides, sir, " he went on, "Simmons wants it more than I do. He'sgot a sick wife; and my old woman, thank God, is hale and hearty. And there is another thing besides, sir: he might take it hard ofyou, sir, and think it was turning away an old servant like; andthen, sir, he wouldn't be ready to hear what you had to tell him, and might, mayhap, lose a deal o' comfort. And that I would takeworst of all, sir. "

"Well, well, Rogers, Simmons shall have the job. "

"Thank ye, sir, " said the old man. 

His wife, who could not see the thing quite from her husband's pointof view, was too honest to say anything; but she was none the lesscordial to me. The daughter stood looking from one to the other withattentive face, which took everything, but revealed nothing. 

I rose to go. As I reached the door, I remembered the tobacco in mypocket. I had not bought it for myself. I never could smoke. Nor doI conceive that smoking is essential to a clergyman in the country;though I have occasionally envied one of my brethren in London, whowill sit down by the fire, and, lighting his pipe, at the same timeplease his host and subdue the bad smells of the place. And I nevercould hit his way of talking to his parishioners either. He couldput them at their ease in a moment. I think he must have got thetrick out of his pipe. But in reality, I seldom think about how Iought to talk to anybody I am with. 

That I didn't smoke myself was no reason why I should not help OldRogers to smoke. So I pulled out the tobacco. 

"You smoke, don't you, Rogers?" I said. 

"Well, sir, I can't deny it. It's not much I spend on baccay, anyhow. Is it, dame?

"No, that it bean't, " answered his wife. 

"You don't think there's any harm in smoking a pipe, sir?"

"Not the least, " I answered, with emphasis. 

"You see, sir, " he went on, not giving me time to prove how far Iwas from thinking there was any harm in it; "You see, sir, sailorslearns many ways they might be better without. I used to take my pano' grog with the rest of them; but I give that up quite, 'cause ashow I don't want it now. "

"'Cause as how, " interrupted his wife, "you spend the money on teafor me, instead. You wicked old man to tell stories!"

"Well, I takes my share of the tea, old woman, and I'm sure it's adeal better for me. But, to tell the truth, sir, I was a littletroubled in my mind about the baccay, not knowing whether I ought tohave it or not. For you see, the parson that's gone didn't more thanhalf like it, as I could tell by the turn of his hawse-holes when hecame in at the door and me a-smokin'. Not as he said anything; for, ye see, I was an old man, and I daresay that kep him quiet. But Idid hear him blow up a young chap i' the village he come uponpromiscus with a pipe in his mouth. He did give him a thunderin'broadside, to be sure! So I was in two minds whether I ought to goon with my pipe or not. "

"And how did you settle the question, Rogers?"

"Why, I followed my own old chart, sir. "

"Quite right. One mustn't mind too much what other people think. "

"That's not exactly what I mean, sir. "

"What do you mean then? I should like to know. "

"Well, sir, I mean that I said to myself, 'Now, Old Rogers, what doyou think the Lord would say about this here baccay business?"'

"And what did you think He would say?"

"Why, sir, I thought He would say, 'Old Rogers, have yer baccay;only mind ye don't grumble when you 'aint got none. '"

Something in this--I could not at the time have told what--touchedme more than I can express. No doubt it was the simple reality ofthe relation in which the old man stood to his Father in heaven thatmade me feel as if the tears would come in spite of me. 

"And this is the man, " I said to myself, "whom I thought I should beable to teach! Well, the wisest learn most, and I may be useful tohim after all. "

As I said nothing, the old man resumed--

"For you see, sir, it is not always a body feels he has a right tospend his ha'pence on baccay; and sometimes, too, he 'aint got noneto spend. "

"In the meantime, " I said, "here is some that I bought for you as Icame along. I hope you will find it good. I am no judge. "

The old sailor's eyes glistened with gratitude. "Well, who'd ha'thought it. You didn't think I was beggin' for it, sir, surely?"

"You see I had it for you in my pocket. "

"Well, that IS good o' you, sir!"

"Why, Rogers, that'll last you a month!" exclaimed his wife, lookingnearly as pleased as himself. 

"Six weeks at least, wife, " he answered. "And ye don't smokeyourself, sir, and yet ye bring baccay to me! Well, it's just likeyer Master, sir. "

I went away, resolved that Old Rogers should have no chance of"grumbling" for want of tobacco, if I could help it. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE COFFIN. 

On the way back, my thoughts were still occupied with the woman Ihad seen in the little shop. The old man-of-war's man was probablythe nobler being of the two; and if I had had to choose betweenthem, I should no doubt have chosen him. But I had not to choosebetween them; I had only to think about them; and I thought a greatdeal more about the one I could not understand than the one I couldunderstand. For Old Rogers wanted little help from me; whereas theother was evidently a soul in pain, and therefore belonged to me inpeculiar right of my office; while the readiest way in which I couldjustify to myself the possession of that office was to make it ashepherding of the sheep. So I resolved to find out what I couldabout her, as one having a right to know, that I might see whether Icould not help her. From herself it was evident that her secret, ifshe had one, was not to be easily gained; but even the commonreports of the village would be some enlightenment to the darkness Iwas in about her. 

As I went again through the village, I observed a narrow lanestriking off to the left, and resolved to explore in that direction. It led up to one side of the large house of which I have alreadyspoken. As I came near, I smelt what has been to me always adelightful smell--that of fresh deals under the hands of thecarpenter. In the scent of those boards of pine is enclosed all theidea the tree could gather of the world of forest where it wasreared. It speaks of many wild and bright but chiefly clean andrather cold things. If I were idling, it would draw me to it acrossmany fields. --Turning a corner, I heard the sound of a saw. And thissound drew me yet more. For a carpenter's shop was the delight of myboyhood; and after I began to read the history of our Lord withsomething of that sense of reality with which we read otherhistories, and which, I am sorry to think, so much of the well-meantinstruction we receive in our youth tends to destroy, my feelingabout such a workshop grew stronger and stronger, till at last Inever could go near enough to see the shavings lying on the floor ofone, without a spiritual sensation such as I have in entering an oldchurch; which sensation, ever since having been admitted on theusual conditions to a Mohammedan mosque, urges me to pull off, notonly my hat, but my shoes likewise. And the feeling has grown uponme, till now it seems at times as if the only cure in the world forsocial pride would be to go for five silent minutes into acarpenter's shop. How one can think of himself as above hisneighbours, within sight, sound, or smell of one, I fear I amgetting almost unable to imagine, and one ought not to get out ofsympathy with the wrong. Only as I am growing old now, it does notmatter so much, for I daresay my time will not be very long. 

So I drew near to the shop, feeling as if the Lord might be at workthere at one of the benches. And when I reached the door, there wasmy pale-faced hearer of the Sunday afternoon, sawing a board for acoffin-lid. 

As my shadow fell across and darkened his work, he lifted his headand saw me. 

I could not altogether understand the expression of his countenanceas he stood upright from his labour and touched his old hat withrather a proud than a courteous gesture. And I could not believethat he was glad to see me, although he laid down his saw andadvanced to the door. It was the gentleman in him, not the man, thatsought to make me welcome, hardly caring whether I saw through theceremony or not. True, there was a smile on his lips, but the smileof a man who cherishes a secret grudge; of one who does notaltogether dislike you, but who has a claim upon you--say, for anapology, of which claim he doubts whether you know the existence. Sothe smile seemed tightened, and stopped just when it got half-way toits width, and was about to become hearty and begin to shine. 

"May I come in?" I said. 

"Come in, sir, " he answered. 

"I am glad I have happened to come upon you by accident, " I said. 

He smiled as if he did not quite believe in the accident, andconsidered it a part of the play between us that I should pretendit. I hastened to add--

"I was wandering about the place, making some acquaintance with it, and with my friends in it, when I came upon you quite unexpectedly. You know I saw you in church on Sunday afternoon. "

"I know you saw me, sir, " he answered, with a motion as if to returnto his work; "but, to tell the truth, I don't go to church veryoften. "

I did not quite know whether to take this as proceeding from anhonest fear of being misunderstood, or from a sense of being ingeneral superior to all that sort of thing. But I felt that it wouldbe of no good to pursue the inquiry directly. I looked therefore forsomething to say. 

"Ah! your work is not always a pleasant one, " I said, associatingthe feelings of which I have already spoken with the facts beforeme, and looking at the coffin, the lower part of which stood nearlyfinished upon trestles on the floor. 

"Well, there are unpleasant things in all trades, " he answered. "Butit does not matter, " he added, with an increase of bitterness in hissmile. 

"I didn't mean, " I said, "that the work was unpleasant--only sad. It must always be painful to make a coffin. "

"A joiner gets used to it, sir, as you do to the funeral service. But, for my part, I don't see why it should be considered so unhappyfor a man to be buried. This isn't such a good job, after all, thisworld, sir, you must allow. "

"Neither is that coffin, " said I, as if by a sudden inspiration. 

The man seemed taken aback, as Old Rogers might have said. He lookedat the coffin and then looked at me. 

"Well, sir, " he said, after a short pause, which no doubt seemedlonger both to him and to me than it would have seemed to any thirdperson, "I don't see anything amiss with the coffin. I don't sayit'll last till doomsday, as the gravedigger says to Hamlet, becauseI don't know so much about doomsday as some people pretend to; butyou see, sir, it's not finished yet. "

"Thank you, " I said; "that's just what I meant. You thought I washasty in my judgment of your coffin; whereas I only said of itknowingly what you said of the world thoughtlessly. How do you knowthat the world is finished anymore than your coffin? And how dareyou then say that it is a bad job?"

The same respectfully scornful smile passed over his face, as muchas to say, "Ah! it's your trade to talk that way, so I must not betoo hard upon you. "

"At any rate, sir, " he said, "whoever made it has taken long enoughabout it, a person would think, to finish anything he ever meant tofinish. "

"One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand yearsas one day, " I said. 

"That's supposing, " he answered, "that the Lord did make the world. For my part, I am half of a mind that the Lord didn't make it atall. "

"I am very glad to hear you say so, " I answered. 

Hereupon I found that we had changed places a little. He looked upat me. The smile of superiority was no longer there, and a puzzledquestioning, which might indicate either "Who would have expectedthat from you?" or, "What can he mean?" or both at once, had takenits place. I, for my part, knew that on the scale of the man'sjudgment I had risen nearer to his own level. As he said nothing, however, and I was in danger of being misunderstood, I proceeded atonce. 

"Of course it seems to me better that you should not believe God haddone a thing, than that you should believe He had not done it well!"

"Ah! I see, sir. Then you will allow there is some room for doubtingwhether He made the world at all?"

"Yes; for I do not think an honest man, as you seem to me to be, would be able to doubt without any room whatever. That would be onlyfor a fool. But it is just possible, as we are not perfectly goodourselves--you'll allow that, won't you?"

"That I will, sir; God knows. "

"Well, I say--as we're not quite good ourselves, it's just possiblethat things may be too good for us to do them the justice ofbelieving in them. "

"But there are things, you must allow, so plainly wrong!"

"So much so, both in the world and in myself, that it would be to metorturing despair to believe that God did not make the world; forthen, how would it ever be put right? Therefore I prefer the theorythat He has not done making it yet. "

"But wouldn't you say, sir, that God might have managed it withoutso many slips in the making as your way would suppose? I shouldthink myself a bad workman if I worked after that fashion. "

"I do not believe that there are any slips. You know you are makinga coffin; but are you sure you know what God is making of theworld?"

"That I can't tell, of course, nor anybody else. "

"Then you can't say that what looks like a slip is really a slip, either in the design or in the workmanship. You do not know what endHe has in view; and you may find some day that those slips were justthe straight road to that very end. "

"Ah! maybe. But you can't be sure of it, you see. "

"Perhaps not, in the way you mean; but sure enough, for all that, totry it upon life--to order my way by it, and so find that it workswell. And I find that it explains everything that comes near it. Youknow that no engineer would be satisfied with his engine on paper, nor with any proof whatever except seeing how it will go. "

He made no reply. 

It is a principle of mine never to push anything over the edge. WhenI am successful, in any argument, my one dread is of humiliating myopponent. Indeed I cannot bear it. It humiliates me. And if you wanthim to think about anything, you must leave him room, and not givehim such associations with the question that the very idea of itwill be painful and irritating to him. Let him have a hand in theconvincing of himself. I have been surprised sometimes to see my ownarguments come up fresh and green, when I thought the fowls of theair had devoured them up. When a man reasons for victory and not forthe truth in the other soul, he is sure of just one ally, the samethat Faust had in fighting Gretchen's brother--that is, the Devil. But God and good men are against him. So I never follow up a victoryof that kind, for, as I said, the defeat of the intellect is not theobject in fighting with the sword of the Spirit, but the acceptanceof the heart. In this case, therefore, I drew back. 

"May I ask for whom you are making that coffin?"

"For a sister of my own, sir. "

"I'm sorry to hear that. "

"There's no occasion. I can't say I'm sorry, though she was one ofthe best women I ever knew. "

"Why are you not sorry, then? Life's a good thing in the main, youwill allow. "

"Yes, when it's endurable at all. But to have a brute of a husbandcoming home at any hour of the night or morning, drunk upon themoney she had earned by hard work, was enough to take more of theshine out of things than church-going on Sundays could put in again, regular as she was, poor woman! I'm as glad as her brute of ahusband, that she's out of his way at last. "

"How do you know he's glad of it?"

"He's been drunk every night since she died. "

"Then he's the worse for losing her?"

"He may well be. Crying like a hypocrite, too, over his own work!"

"A fool he must be. A hypocrite, perhaps not. A hypocrite is aterrible name to give. Perhaps her death will do him good. "

"He doesn't deserve to be done any good to. I would have made thiscoffin for him with a world of pleasure. "

"I never found that I deserved anything, not even a coffin. The onlyclaim that I could ever lay to anything was that I was very much inwant of it. "

The old smile returned--as much as to say, "That's your little gamein the church. " But I resolved to try nothing more with him atpresent; and indeed was sorry that I had started the new question atall, partly because thus I had again given him occasion to feel thathe knew better than I did, which was not good either for him or forme in our relation to each other. 

"This has been a fine old room once, " I said, looking round theworkshop. 

"You can see it wasn't a workshop always, sir. Many a granddinner-party has sat down in this room when it was in its glory. Look at the chimney-piece there. "

"I have been looking at it, " I said, going nearer. 

"It represents the four quarters of the world, you see. "

I saw strange figures of men and women, one on a kneeling camel, oneon a crawling crocodile, and others differently mounted; withvarious besides of Nature's bizarre productions creeping and flyingin stone-carving over the huge fire-place, in which, in place of afire, stood several new and therefore brilliantly red cart-wheels. The sun shone through the upper part of a high window, of which manyof the panes were broken, right in upon the cart-wheels, which, glowing thus in the chimney under the sombre chimney-piece, added tothe grotesque look of the whole assemblage of contrasts. The coffinand the carpenter stood in the twilight occasioned by the sharpdivision of light made by a lofty wing of the house that roseflanking the other window. The room was still wainscotted in panels, which, I presume, for the sake of the more light required forhandicraft, had been washed all over with white. At the level oflabour they were broken in many places. Somehow or other, the wholereminded me of Albert Durer's "Melencholia. "

Seeing I was interested in looking about his shop, my newfriend--for I could not help feeling that we should be friendsbefore all was over, and so began to count him one already--resumedthe conversation. He had never taken up the dropped thread of itbefore. 

"Yes, sir, " he said; "the owners of the place little thought itwould come to this--the deals growing into a coffin there on thespot where the grand dinner was laid for them and their guests! Butthere is another thing about it that is odder still; my son is thelast male"--

Here he stopped suddenly, and his face grew very red. As suddenly heresumed--

"I'm not a gentleman, sir; but I will tell the truth. Curse it!--Ibeg your pardon, sir, "--and here the old smile--"I don't think I gotthat from THEIR side of the house. --My son's NOT the last maledescendant. "

Here followed another pause. 

As to the imprecation, I knew better than to take any notice of amere expression of excitement under a sense of some injury withwhich I was not yet acquainted. If I could get his feelings right inregard to other and more important things, a reform in that matterwould soon follow; whereas to make a mountain of a molehill would beto put that very mountain between him and me. Nor would I ask himany questions, lest I should just happen to ask him the wrong one;for this parishioner of mine evidently wanted careful handling, if Iwould do him any good. And it will not do any man good to fling eventhe Bible in his face. Nay, a roll of bank-notes, which would bemore evidently a good to most men, would carry insult with it ifpresented in that manner. You cannot expect people to accept beforethey have had a chance of seeing what the offered gift really is. 

After a pause, therefore, the carpenter had once more to recommence, or let the conversation lie. I stood in a waiting attitude. Andwhile I looked at him, I was reminded of some one else whom Iknew--with whom, too, I had pleasant associations--though I couldnot in the least determine who that one might be. 

"It's very foolish of me to talk so to a stranger, " he resumed. 

"It is very kind and friendly of you, " I said, still careful to makeno advances. "And you yourself belong to the old family that oncelived in this old house?"

"It would be no boast to tell the truth, sir, even if it were acredit to me, which it is not. That family has been nothing but acurse to ours. "

I noted that he spoke of that family as different from his, and yetimplied that he belonged to it. The explanation would come in time. But the man was again silent, planing away at half the lid of hissister's coffin. And I could not help thinking that the closed mouthmeant to utter nothing more on this occasion. 

"I am sure there must be many a story to tell about this old place, if only there were any one to tell them, " I said at last, lookinground the room once more. --"I think I see the remains of paintingson the ceiling. "

"You are sharp-eyed, sir. My father says they were plain enough inhis young days. "

"Is your father alive, then?"

"That he is, sir, and hearty too, though he seldom goes out of doorsnow. Will you go up stairs and see him? He's past ninety, sir. Hehas plenty of stories to tell about the old place--before it beganto fall to pieces like. "

"I won't go to-day, " I said, partly because I wanted to be at hometo receive any one who might call, and partly to secure an excusefor calling again upon the carpenter sooner than I should otherwisehave liked to do. "I expect visitors myself, and it is time I wereat home. Good morning. "

"Good morning, sir. "

And away home I went with a new wonder in my brain. The man did notseem unknown to me. I mean, the state of his mind woke no feeling ofperplexity in me. I was certain of understanding it thoroughly whenI had learned something of his history; for that such a man musthave a history of his own was rendered only the more probable fromthe fact that he knew something of the history of his forefathers, though, indeed, there are some men who seem to have no other. It wasstrange, however, to think of that man working away at a trade inthe very house in which such ancestors had eaten and drunk, andmarried and given in marriage. The house and family had declinedtogether--in outward appearance at least; for it was quite possibleboth might have risen in the moral and spiritual scale in proportionas they sank in the social one. And if any of my readers are atfirst inclined to think that this could hardly be, seeing that theman was little, if anything, better than an infidel, I would justlike to hold one minute's conversation with them on that subject. Aman may be on the way to the truth, just in virtue of his doubting. I will tell you what Lord Bacon says, and of all writers of EnglishI delight in him: "So it is in contemplation: if a man will beginwith certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be contentto begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties. " Now I could nottell the kind or character of this man's doubt; but it was evidentlyreal and not affected doubt; and that was much in his favour. And Icouid see that he was a thinking man; just one of the sort I thoughtI should get on with in time, because he was honest--notwithstanding that unpleasant smile of his, which did irritate mea little, and partly piqued me into the determination to get thebetter of the man, if I possibly could, by making friends with him. At all events, here was another strange parishioner. And who couldit be that he was like?

CHAPTER V. 

VISITORS FROM THE HALL. 

When I came near my own gate, I saw that it was open; and when Icame in sight of my own door, I found a carriage standing before it, and a footman ringing the bell. It was an old-fashioned carriage, with two white horses in it, yet whiter by age than by nature. Theylooked as if no coachman could get more than three miles an hour outof them, they were so fat and knuckle-kneed. But my attention couldnot rest long on the horses, and I reached the door just as myhousekeeper was pronouncing me absent. There were two ladies in thecarriage, one old and one young. 

"Ah, here is Mr. Walton!" said the old lady, in a serene voice, witha clear hardness in its tone; and I held out my hand to aid herdescent. She had pulled off her glove to get a card out of hercard-case, and so put the tips of two old fingers, worn very smooth, as if polished with feeling what things were like, upon the palm ofmy hand. I then offered my hand to her companion, a girl apparentlyabout fourteen, who took a hearty hold of it, and jumped down besideher with a smile. As I followed them into the house, I took theircard from the housekeeper's hand, and read, Mrs Oldcastle and MissGladwyn. 

I confess here to my reader, that these are not really the names Iread on the card. I made these up this minute. But the names of thepersons of humble position in my story are their real names. And myreason for making the difference will be plain enough. You can neverfind out my friend Old Rogers; you might find out the people whocalled on me in their carriage with the ancient white horses. 

When they were seated in the drawing-room, I said to the old lady--

"I remember seeing you in church on Sunday morning. It is very kindof you to call so soon. "

"You will always see me in church, " she returned, with a stiff bow, and an expansion of deadness on her face, which I interpreted intoan assertion of dignity, resulting from the implied possibility thatI might have passed her over in my congregation, or might haveforgotten her after not passing her over. 

"Except when you have a headache, grannie, " said Miss Gladwyn, withan arch look first at her grandmother, and then at me. "Grannie hasbad headaches sometimes. "

The deadness melted a little from Mrs Oldcastle's face, as sheturned with half a smile to her grandchild, and said--

"Yes, Pet. But you know that cannot be an interesting fact to Mr. Walton. "

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Oldcastle, " I said. "A clergyman ought toknow something, and the more the better, of the troubles of hisflock. Sympathy is one of the first demands he ought to be able tomeet--I know what a headache is. "

The former expression, or rather non-expression, returned; this timeunaccompanied by a bow. 

"I trust, Mr. Walton, I TRUST I am above any morbid necessity forsympathy. But, as you say, amongst the poor of your flock, --it ISvery desirable that a clergyman should be able to sympathise. "

"It's quite true what grannie says, Mr. Walton, though you mightn'tthink it. When she has a headache, she shuts herself up in her ownroom, and doesn't even let me come near her--nobody but Sarah; andhow she can prefer her to me, I'm sure I don't know. "

And here the girl pretended to pout, but with a sparkle in herbright gray eye. 

"The subject is not interesting to me, Pet. Pray, Mr. Walton, is ita point of conscience with you to wear the surplice when youpreach?"

"Not in the least, " I answered. "I think I like it rather better onthe whole. But that's not why I wear it. "

"Never mind grannie, Mr. Walton. _I_ think the surplice is lovely. I'm sure it's much liker the way we shall be dressed in heaven, though I don't think I shall ever get there, if I must read the goodbooks grannie reads. "

"I don't know that it is necessary to read any good books but thegood book, " I said. 

"There, grannie!" exclaimed Miss Gladwyn, triumphantly. "I'm so gladI've got Mr Walton on my side!"

"Mr Walton is not so old as I am, my dear, and has much to learnyet. "

I could not help feeling a little annoyed, (which was very foolish, I know, ) and saying to myself, "If it's to make me like you, I hadrather not learn any more;" but I said nothing aloud, of course. 

"Have you got a headache to-day, grannie?"

"No, Pet. Be quiet. I wish to ask Mr Walton WHY he wears thesurplice. "

"Simply, " I replied, "because I was told the people had beenaccustomed to it under my predecessor. "

"But that can be no good reason for doing what is not right--thatpeople have been accustomed to it. "

"But I don't allow that it's not right. I think it is a matter of noconsequence whatever. If I find that the people don't like it, Iwill give it up with pleasure. "

"You ought to have principles of your own, Mr Walton. "

"I hope I have. And one of them is, not to make mountains ofmolehills; for a molehill is not a mountain. A man ought to have toomuch to do in obeying his conscience and keeping his soul's garmentsclean, to mind whether he wears black or white when telling hisflock that God loves them, and that they will never be happy tillthey believe it. "

"They may believe that too soon. "

"I don't think any one can believe the truth too soon. "

A pause followed, during which it became evident to me that MissGladwyn saw fun in the whole affair, and was enjoying it thoroughly. Mrs Oldcastle's face, on the contrary, was illegible. She resumed ina measured still voice, which she meant to be meek, I daresay, butwhich was really authoritative--

"I am sorry, Mr Walton, that your principles are so loose andunsettled. You will see my honesty in saying so when you find that, objecting to the surplice, as I do, on Protestant grounds, I yetwarn you against making any change because you may discover thatyour parishioners are against it. You have no idea, Mr Walton, whatinroads Radicalism, as they call it, has been making in thisneighbourhood. It is quite dreadful. Everybody, down to the poorest, claiming a right to think for himself, and set his betters right!There's one worse than any of the rest--but he's no better than anatheist--a carpenter of the name of Weir, always talking to hisneighbours against the proprietors and the magistrates, and theclergy too, Mr Walton, and the game-laws; and what not? And if youonce show them that you are afraid of them by going a step out ofyour way for THEIR opinion about anything, there will be no end toit; for, the beginning of strife is like the letting out of water, as you know. _I_ should know nothing about it, but that, mydaughter's maid--I came to hear of it through her--a decent girl ofthe name of Rogers, and born of decent parents, but unfortunatelyattached to the son of one of your churchwardens, who has put himinto that mill on the river you can almost see from here. "

"Who put him in the mill?"

"His own father, to whom it belongs. "

"Well, it seems to me a very good match for her. "

"Yes, indeed, and for him too. But his foolish father thinks thematch below him, as if there was any difference between thepositions of people in that rank of life! Every one seems strivingto tread on the heels of every one else, instead of being contentwith the station to which God has called them. I am content withmine. I had nothing to do with putting myself there. Why should theynot be content with theirs? They need to be taught Christianhumility and respect for their superiors. That's the virtue mostwanted at present. The poor have to look up to the rich"--

"That's right, grannie! And the rich have to look down on the poor. "

"No, my dear. I did not say that. The rich have to be KIND to thepoor. "

"But, grannie, why did you marry Mr Oldcastle?"

"What does the child mean?"

"Uncle Stoddart says you refused ever so many offers when you were agirl. "

"Uncle Stoddart has no business to be talking about such things to achit like you, " returned the grandmother. Smiling, however, at thecharge, which so far certainly contained no reproach. 

"And grandpapa was the ugliest and the richest of them all--wasn'the, grannie? and Colonel Markham the handsomest and the poorest?"

A flush of anger crimsoned the old lady's pale face. It looked deadno longer. 

"Hold your tongue, " she said. "You are rude. "

And Miss Gladwyn did hold her tongue, but nothing else, for she waslaughing all over. 

The relation between these two was evidently a very odd one. It wasclear that Miss Gladwyn was a spoiled child, though I could not helpthinking her very nicely spoiled, as far as I saw; and that the oldlady persisted in regarding her as a cub, although her claws hadgrown quite long enough to be dangerous. Certainly, if things wenton thus, it was pretty clear which of them would soon have the upperhand, for grannie was vulnerable, and Pet was not. 

It really began to look as if there were none but characters in myparish. I began to think it must be the strangest parish in England, and to wonder that I had never heard of it before. "Surely it mustbe in some story-book at least!" I said to myself. 

But her grand-daughter's tiger-cat-play drove the old lady nearer tome. She rose and held out her hand, saying, with some kindness--

"Take my advice, my dear Mr Walton, and don't make too much of yourpoor, or they'll soon be too much for you to manage. --Come, Pet:it's time to go home to lunch. --And for the surplice, take your ownway and wear it. _I_ shan't say anything more about it. "

"I will do what I can see to be right in the matter, " I answered asgently as I could; for I did not want to quarrel with her, althoughI thought her both presumptuous and rude. 

"I'm on your side, Mr Walton, " said the girl, with a sweet comicalsmile, as she squeezed my hand once more. 

I led them to the carriage, and it was with a feeling of relief thatI saw it drive off. 

The old lady certainly was not pleasant. She had a white smooth faceover which the skin was drawn tight, gray hair, and rather luridhazel eyes. I felt a repugnance to her that was hardly to beaccounted for by her arrogance to me, or by her superciliousness tothe poor; although either would have accounted for much of it. For Iconfess that I have not yet learned to bear presumption and rudenesswith all the patience and forgiveness with which I ought by thistime to be able to meet them. And as to the poor, I am afraid I wasalways in some danger of being a partizan of theirs against therich; and that a clergyman ought never to be. And indeed the poorrich have more need of the care of the clergyman than the others, seeing it is hardly that the rich shall enter into the kingdom ofheaven, and the poor have all the advantage over them in thatrespect. 

"Still, " I said to myself, "there must be some good in thewoman--she cannot be altogether so hard as she looks, else howshould that child dare to take the liberties of a kitten with her?She doesn't look to ME like one to make game of! However, I shallknow a little more about her when I return her call, and I will domy best to keep on good terms with her. "

I took down a volume of Plato to comfort me after the irritationwhich my nerves had undergone, and sat down in an easy-chair besidethe open window of my study. And with Plato in my hand, and all thatoutside my window, I began to feel as if, after all, a man might behappy, even if a lady had refused him. And there I sat, withoutopening my favourite vellum-bound volume, gazing out on the happyworld, whence a gentle wind came in, as if to bid me welcome with akiss to all it had to give me. And then I thought of the wind thatbloweth where it listeth, which is everywhere, and I quite forgot toopen my Plato, and thanked God for the Life of life, whose story andwhose words are in that best of books, and who explains everythingto us, and makes us love Socrates and David and all good men tentimes more; and who follows no law but the law of love, and nofashion but the will of God; for where did ever one read words lesslike moralising and more like simple earnestness of truth than allthose of Jesus? And I prayed my God that He would make me able tospeak good common heavenly sense to my people, and forgive me forfeeling so cross and proud towards the unhappy old lady--for I wassure she was not happy--and make me into a rock which swallowed upthe waves of wrong in its great caverns, and never threw them backto swell the commotion of the angry sea whence they came. Ah, whatit would be actually to annihilate wrong in this way!--to be able tosay, it shall not be wrong against me, so utterly do I forgive it!How much sooner, then, would the wrong-doer repent, and get rid ofthe wrong from his side also! But the painful fact will show itself, not less curious than painful, that it is more difficult to forgivesmall wrongs than great ones. Perhaps, however, the forgiveness ofthe great wrongs is not so true as it seems. For do we not think itis a fine thing to forgive such wrongs, and so do it rather for ourown sakes than for the sake of the wrongdoer? It is dreadful not tobe good, and to have bad ways inside one. 

Such thoughts passed through my mind. And once more the great lightwent up on me with regard to my office, namely, that just because Iwas parson to the parish, I must not be THE PERSON to myself. And Iprayed God to keep me from feeling STUNG and proud, however any onemight behave to me; for all my value lay in being a sacrifice to Himand the people. 

So when Mrs Pearson knocked at the door, and told me that a lady andgentleman had called, I shut my book which I had just opened, andkept down as well as I could the rising grumble of the inhospitableEnglishman, who is apt to be forgetful to entertain strangers, atleast in the parlour of his heart. And I cannot count it perfecthospitality to be friendly and plentiful towards those whom you haveinvited to your house--what thank has a man in that?--while you arecold and forbidding to those who have not that claim on yourattention. That is not to be perfect as our Father in heaven isperfect. By all means tell people, when you are busy about somethingthat must be done, that you cannot spare the time for them exceptthey want you upon something of yet more pressing necessity; butTELL them, and do not get rid of them by the use of the instrumentcommonly called THE COLD SHOULDER. It is a wicked instrument that, and ought to have fallen out of use by this time. 

I went and received Mr and Miss Boulderstone, and was at least thusfar rewarded--that the EERIE feeling, as the Scotch would call it, which I had about my parish, as containing none but CHARACTERS, andtherefore not being CANNIE, was entirely removed. At least there wasa wholesome leaven in it of honest stupidity. Please, kind reader, do not fancy I am sneering. I declare to you I think a sneer theworst thing God has not made. A curse is nothing in wickedness toit, it seems to me. I do mean that honest stupidity I respectheartily, and do assert my conviction that I do not know how Englandat least would get on without it. But I do not mean the stupiditythat sets up for teaching itself to its neighbour, thinking itselfwisdom all the time. That I do not respect. 

Mr and Miss Boulderstone left me a little fatigued, but in no waysore or grumbling. They only sent me back with additional zest to myPlato, of which I enjoyed a hearty page or two before any one elsearrived. The only other visitors I had that day were an old surgeonin the navy, who since his retirement had practised for many yearsin the neighbourhood, and was still at the call of any one who didnot think him too old-fashioned--for even here the fashions, thoughdecidedly elderly young ladies by the time they arrived, held theirsway none the less imperiously--and Mr Brownrigg, the churchwarden. More of Dr Duncan by and by. 

Except Mr and Miss Boulderstone, I had not yet seen any commonpeople. They were all decidedly uncommon, and, as regarded most ofthem, I could not think I should have any difficulty in preaching tothem. For, whatever place a man may give to preaching in the ritualof the church--indeed it does not properly belong to the ritual atall--it is yet the part of the so-called service with which hispersonality has most to do. To the influences of the other parts hehas to submit himself, ever turning the openings of his soul towardsthem, that he may not be a mere praying-machine; but with the sermonit is otherwise. That he produces. For that he is responsible. Andtherefore, I say, it was a great comfort to me to find myselfamongst a people from which my spirit neither shrunk in the act ofpreaching, nor with regard to which it was likely to feel that itwas beating itself against a stone wall. There was some good inpreaching to a man like Weir or Old Rogers. Whether there was anygood in preaching to a woman like Mrs Oldcastle I did not know. 

The evening I thought I might give to my books, and thus end myfirst Monday in my parish; but, as I said, Mr Brownrigg, thechurchwarden, called and stayed a whole weary hour, talking aboutmatters quite uninteresting to any who may hereafter peruse what Iam now writing. Really he was not an interesting man: short, broad, stout, red-faced, with an immense amount of mental inertia, discharging itself in constant lingual activity about littlenothings. Indeed, when there was no new nothing to be had, the oldnothing would do over again to make a fresh fuss about. But if youattempted to convey a thought into his mind which involved themoving round half a degree from where he stood, and looking at thematter from a point even so far new, you found him utterly, totallyimpenetrable, as pachydermatous as any rhinoceros or behemoth. Oneother corporeal fact I could not help observing, was, that hischeeks rose at once from the collar of his green coat, his neckbeing invisible, from the hollow between it and the jaw being filledup to a level. The conformation was just what he himself delightedto contemplate in his pigs, to which his resemblance was greatlyincreased by unwearied endeavours to keep himself close shaved. --Icould not help feeling anxious about his son and Jane Rogers. --Hegave a quantity of gossip about various people, evidently anxiousthat I should regard them as he regarded them; but in all he saidconcerning them I could scarcely detect one point of significance asto character or history. I was very glad indeed when the waddling ofhands--for it was the perfect imbecility of hand-shaking--was over, and he was safely out of the gate. He had kept me standing on thesteps for full five minutes, and I did not feel safe from him till Iwas once more in my study with the door shut. 

I am not going to try my reader's patience with anything of a moredetailed account of my introduction to my various parishioners. Ishall mention them only as they come up in the course of my story. Before many days had passed I had found out my poor, who, I thought, must be somewhere, seeing the Lord had said we should have them withus always. There was a workhouse in the village, but there were nota great many in it; for the poor were kindly enough handled whobelonged to the place, and were not too severely compelled to gointo the house; though, I believe, in this house they would havebeen more comfortable than they were in their own houses. 

I cannot imagine a much greater misfortune for a man, not to say aclergyman, than not to know, or knowing, not to minister to any ofthe poor. And I did not feel that I knew in the least where I wasuntil I had found out and conversed with almost the whole of mine. 

After I had done so, I began to think it better to return MrsOldcastle's visit, though I felt greatly disinclined to encounterthat tight-skinned nose again, and that mouth whose smile had nolight in it, except when it responded to some nonsense of hergrand-daughter's. 

CHAPTER VI. 

OLDCASTLE HALL. 

About noon, on a lovely autumn day, I set out for Oldcastle Hall. The keenness of the air had melted away with the heat of the sun, yet still the air was fresh and invigorating. Can any one tell mewhy it is that, when the earth is renewing her youth in the spring, man should feel feeble and low-spirited, and gaze with bowed head, though pleased heart, on the crocuses; whereas, on the contrary, inthe autumn, when nature is dying for the winter, he feels strong andhopeful, holds his head erect, and walks with a vigorous step, though the flaunting dahlias discourage him greatly? I do not askfor the physical causes: those I might be able to find out formyself; but I ask, Where is the rightness and fitness in the thing?Should not man and nature go together in this world which was madefor man--not for science, but for man? Perhaps I have someglimmerings of where the answer lies. Perhaps "I see a cherub thatsees it. " And in many of our questions we have to be content withsuch an approximation to an answer as this. And for my part I amcontent with this. With less, I am not content. 

Whatever that answer may be, I walked over the old Gothic bridgewith a heart strong enough to meet Mrs Oldcastle without flinching. I might have to quarrel with her--I could not tell: she certainlywas neither safe nor wholesome. But this I was sure of, that I wouldnot quarrel with her without being quite certain that I ought. Iwish it were NEVER one's duty to quarrel with anybody: I do so hateit. But not to do it sometimes is to smile in the devil's face, andthat no one ought to do. However, I had not to quarrel this time. 

The woods on the other side of the river from my house, towardswhich I was now walking, were of the most sombre rich colour--sombreand rich, like a life that has laid up treasure in heaven, locked ina casket of sorrow. I came nearer and nearer to them through thevillage, and approached the great iron gate with the antediluvianmonsters on the top of its stone pillars. And awful monsters theywere--are still! I see the tail of one of them at this very moment. But they let me through very quietly, notwithstanding their evillooks. I thought they were saying to each other across the top ofthe gate, "Never mind; he'll catch it soon enough. " But, as I said, I did not catch it that day; and I could not have caught it thatday; it was too lovely a day to catch any hurt even from that mosthurtful of all beings under the sun, an unwomanly woman. 

I wandered up the long winding road, through the woods which I hadremarked flanking the meadow on my first walk up the river. Thesewoods smelt so sweetly--their dead and dying leaves departing insweet odours--that they quite made up for the absence of theflowers. And the wind--no, there was no wind--there was only amemory of wind that woke now and then in the bosom of the wood, shook down a few leaves, like the thoughts that flutter away insighs, and then was still again. 

I am getting old, as I told you, my friends. (See there, you seem myfriends already. Do not despise an old man because he cannot helploving people he never saw or even heard of. ) I say I am gettingold--(is it BUT or THEREFORE? I do not know which)--but, therefore, I shall never forget that one autumn day in those grandly fadingwoods. 

Up the slope of the hillside they rose like one great rainbow-billowof foliage--bright yellow, red-rusty and bright fading green, allkinds and shades of brown and purple. Multitudes of leaves lay onthe sides of the path, so many that I betook myself to my oldchildish amusement of walking in them without lifting my feet, driving whole armies of them with ocean-like rustling before me. Idid not do so as I came back. I walked in the middle of the waythen, and I remember stepping over many single leaves, in a kind ofmechanico-merciful way, as if they had been living creatures--asindeed who can tell but they are, only they must be pretty nearlydead when they are on the ground. 

At length the road brought me up to the house. It did not look sucha large house as I have since found it to be. And it certainly wasnot an interesting house from the outside, though its surroundingsof green grass and trees would make any whole beautiful. Indeed thehouse itself tried hard to look ugly, not quite succeeding, onlybecause of the kind foiling of its efforts by the Virginia creepersand ivy, which, as if ashamed of its staring countenance, did allthey could to spread their hands over it and hide it. But there wasone charming group of old chimneys, belonging to some portionbehind, which indicated a very different, namely, a very much older, face upon the house once--a face that had passed away to give placeto this. Once inside, I found there were more remains of the oldentime than I had expected. I was led up one of those grand square oakstaircases, which look like a portion of the house to be dwelt in, and not like a ladder for getting from one part of the habitableregions to another. On the top was a fine expanse of landing, another hall, in fact, from which I was led towards the back of thehouse by a narrow passage, and shown into a small dark drawing-roomwith a deep stone-mullioned window, wainscoted in oak simply carvedand panelled. Several doors around indicated communication withother parts of the house. Here I found Mrs Oldcastle, reading what Ijudged to be one of the cheap and gaudy religious books of thepresent day. She rose and RECEIVED me, and having motioned me to aseat, began to talk about the parish. You would have perceived atonce from her tone that she recognised no other bond of connexionbetween us but the parish. 

"I hear you have been most kind in visiting the poor, Mr Walton. Youmust take care that they don't take advantage of your kindness, though. I assure you, you will find some of them very graspingindeed. And you need not expect that they will give you the leastcredit for good intentions. "

"I have seen nothing yet to make me uneasy on that score. Butcertainly my testimony is of no weight yet. "

"Mine is. I have proved them. The poor of this neighbourhood arevery deficient in gratitude. "

"Yes, grannie, ----"

I started. But there was no interruption, such as I have made toindicate my surprise; although, when I looked half round in thedirection whence the voice came, the words that followed were allrippled with a sweet laugh of amusement. 

"Yes, grannie, you are right. You remember how old dame Hopewouldn't take the money you offered her, and dropped such adisdainful courtesy. It was SO greedy of her, wasn't it?"

"I am sorry to hear of any disdainful reception of kindness, " Isaid. 

"Yes, and she had the coolness, within a fortnight, to send up to meand ask if I would be kind enough to lend her half-a-crown for a fewweeks. "

"And then it was your turn, grannie! You sent her five shillings, didn't you?--Oh no; I'm wrong. That was the other woman. "

"Indeed, I did not send her anything but a rebuke. I told her thatit would be a very wrong thing in me to contribute to the support ofsuch an evil spirit of unthankfulness as she indulged in. When shecame to see her conduct in its true light, and confessed that shehad behaved very abominably, I would see what I could do for her. "

"And meantime she was served out, wasn't she? With her sick boy athome, and nothing to give him?" said Miss Gladwyn. 

"She made her own bed, and had to lie on it. "

"Don't you think a little kindness might have had more effect inbringing her to see that she was wrong. "

"Grannie doesn't believe in kindness, except to me--dear oldgrannie! She spoils me. I'm sure I shall be ungrateful some day; andthen she'll begin to read me long lectures, and prick me with allmanner of headless pins. But I won't stand it, I can tell you, grannie! I'm too much spoiled for that. "

Mrs Oldcastle was silent--why, I could not tell, except it was thatshe knew she had no chance of quieting the girl in any other way. 

I may mention here, lest I should have no opportunity afterwards, that I inquired of dame Hope as to her version of the story, andfound that there had been a great misunderstanding, as I hadsuspected. She was really in no want at the time, and did not feelthat it would be quite honourable to take the money when she did notneed it--(some poor people ARE capable of such reasoning)--and sohad refused it, not without a feeling at the same time that it wasmore pleasant to refuse than to accept from such a giver; some straysparkle of which feeling, discovered by the keen eye of MissGladwyn, may have given that appearance of disdain to her courtesyto which the girl alluded. When, however, her boy in service wasbrought home ill, she had sent to ask for what she now required, onthe very ground that it had been offered to her before. Themisunderstanding had arisen from the total incapacity of MrsOldcastle to enter sympathetically into the feelings of one assuperior to herself in character as she was inferior in worldlycondition. 

But to return to Oldcastle Hall. 

I wished to change the subject, knowing that blind defence is of nouse. One must have definite points for defence, if one has not athorough understanding of the character in question; and I hadneither. 

"This is a beautiful old house, " I said. "There must be strangeplaces about it. "

Mrs Oldcastle had not time to reply, or at least did not reply, before Miss Gladwyn said--

"Oh, Mr Walton, have you looked out of the window yet? You don'tknow what a lovely place this is, if you haven't. "

And as she spoke she emerged from a recess in the room, a kind ofdark alcove, where she had been amusing herself with what I took tobe some sort of puzzle, but which I found afterwards to be the bitand curb-chain of her pony's bridle which she was polishing up toher own bright mind, because the stable-boy had not pleased her inthe matter, and she wanted both to get them brilliant and to shamethe lad for the future. I followed her to the window, where I wasindeed as much surprised and pleased as she could have wished. 

"There!" she said, holding back one of the dingy heavy curtains withher small childish hand. 

And there, indeed, I saw an astonishment. It did not lie in thelovely sweeps of hill and hollow stretching away to the horizon, richly wooded, and--though I saw none of them--sprinkled, certainlywith sweet villages full of human thoughts, loves, and hopes; theastonishment did not lie in this--though all this was really muchmore beautiful to the higher imagination--but in the fact that, atthe first glance, I had a vision properly belonging to a rugged ormountainous country. For I had approached the house by a gentleslope, which certainly was long and winding, but had occasioned nofeeling in my mind that I had reached any considerable height. And Ihad come up that one beautiful staircase; no more; and yet now, whenI looked from this window, I found myself on the edge of aprecipice--not a very deep one, certainly, yet with all the effectof many a deeper. For below the house on this side lay a greathollow, with steep sides, up which, as far as they could reach, thetrees were climbing. The sides were not all so steep as the one onwhich the house stood, but they were all rocky and steep, with hereand there slopes of green grass. And down in the bottom, in thecentre of the hollow, lay a pool of water. I knew it only by itsslaty shimmer through the fading green of the tree-tops between meand it. 

"There!" again exclaimed Miss Gladwyn; "isn't that beautiful? Butyou haven't seen the most beautiful thing yet. Grannie, where's--ah!there she is! There's auntie! Don't you see her down there, by theside of the pond? That pond is a hundred feet deep. If auntie wereto fall in she would be drowned before you could jump down to gether out. Can you swim?"

Before I had time to answer, she was off again. 

"Don't you see auntie down there?"

"No, I don't see her. I have been trying very hard, but I can't. "

"Well, I daresay you can't. Nobody, I think, has got eyes butmyself. Do you see a big stone by the edge of the pond, with anotherstone on the top of it, like a big potato with a little one grownout of it?"

"No. "

"Well, auntie is under the trees on the opposite side from thatstone. Do you see her yet?"

"No. "

"Then you must come down with me, and I will introduce you to her. She's much the prettiest thing here. Much prettier than grannie. "

Here she looked over her shoulder at grannie, who, instead of beingangry, as, from what I had seen on our former interview, I fearedshe would be, only said, without even looking up from the littleblue-boarded book she was again reading--

"You are a saucy child. "

Whereupon Miss Gladwyn laughed merrily. 

"Come along, " she said, and, seizing me by the hand, led me out ofthe room, down a back-staircase, across a piece of grass, and thendown a stair in the face of the rock, towards the pond below. Thestair went in zigzags, and, although rough, was protected by an ironbalustrade, without which, indeed, it would have been verydangerous. 

"Isn't your grandmamma afraid to let you run up and down here, MissGladwyn?" I said. 

"Me!" she exclaimed, apparently in the utmost surprise. "That WOULDbe fun! For, you know, if she tried to hinder me--but she knows it'sno use; I taught her that long ago--let me see, how long: oh! Idon't know--I should think it must be ten years at least. I ranaway, and they thought I had drowned myself in the pond. And I sawthem, all the time, poking with a long stick in the pond, which, ifI had been drowned there, never could have brought me up, for it isa hundred feet deep, I am sure. How I hurt my sides trying to keepfrom screaming with laughter! I fancied I heard one say to theother, 'We must wait till she swells and floats?'"

"Dear me! what a peculiar child!" I said to myself. 

And yet somehow, whatever she said--even when she was most rude toher grandmother--she was never offensive. No one could have helpedfeeling all the time that she was a little lady. --I thought I wouldventure a question with her. I stood still at a turn of the zigzag, and looked down into the hollow, still a good way below us, where Icould now distinguish the form, on the opposite side of the pond, ofa woman seated at the foot of a tree, and stooping forward over abook. 

"May I ask you a question, Miss Gladwyn?"

"Yes, twenty, if you like; but I won't answer one of them till yougive up calling me Miss Gladwyn. We can't be friends, you know, solong as you do that. "

"What am I to call you, then? I never heard you called by any othername than Pet, and that would hardly do, would it?"

"Oh, just fancy if you called me Pet before grannie! That'sgrannie's name for me, and nobody dares to use it but grannie--noteven auntie; for, between you and me, auntie is afraid of grannie; Ican't think why. I never was afraid of anybody--except, yes, alittle afraid of old Sarah. She used to be my nurse, you know; andgrandmamma and everybody is afraid of her, and that's just why Inever do one thing she wants me to do. It would never do to give into being afraid of her, you know. --There's auntie, you see, downthere, just where I told you before. "

"Oh yes! I see her now. --What does your aunt call you, then?"

"Why, what you must call me--my own name, of course. "

"What is that?"

"Judy. "

She said it in a tone which seemed to indicate surprise that Ishould not know her name--perhaps read it off her face, as one oughtto know a flower's name by looking at it. But she added instantly, glancing up in my face most comically--

"I wish yours was Punch. "

"Why, Judy?"

"It would be such fun, you know. "

"Well, it would be odd, I must confess. What is your aunt's name?"

"Oh, such a funny name!--much funnier than Judy: Ethelwyn. It soundsas if it ought to mean something, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without doubt. "

"What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure about that. I will try to find out when I go home--ifyou would like to know. "

"Yes, that I should. I should like to know everything about auntieEthelwyn. Isn't it pretty?"

"So pretty that I should like to know something more about AuntEthelwyn. What is her other name?"

"Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. What else could it be?"

"Why, you know, for anything I knew, Judy, it might have beenGladwyn. She might have been your father's sister. "

"Might she? I never thought of that. Oh, I suppose that is because Inever think about my father. And now I do think of it, I wonder whynobody ever mentions him to me, or my mother either. But I oftenthink auntie must be thinking about my mother. Something in hereyes, when they are sadder than usual, seems to remind me of mymother. "

"You remember your mother, then?"

"No, I don't think I ever saw her. But I've answered plenty ofquestions, haven't I? I assure you, if you want to get me on to theCatechism, I don't know a word of it. Come along. "

I laughed. 

"What!" she said, pulling me by the hand, "you a clergyman, andlaugh at the Catechism! I didn't know that. "

"I'm not laughing at the Catechism, Judy. I'm only laughing at theidea of putting Catechism questions to you. "

"You KNOW I didn't mean it, " she said, with some indignation. 

"I know now, " I answered. "But you haven't let me put the onlyquestion I wanted to put. "

"What is it?"

"How old are you?"

"Twelve. Come along. "

And away we went down the rest of the stair. 

When we reached the bottom, a winding path led us through the treesto the side of the pond, along which we passed to get to the otherside. 

And then all at once the thought struck me--why was it that I hadnever seen this auntie, with the lovely name, at church? Was shegoing to turn out another strange parishioner?

There she sat, intent on her book. As we drew near she looked up androse, but did not come forward. 

"Aunt Winnie, here's Mr. Walton, " said Judy. 

I lifted my hat and held out my hand. Before our hands met, however, a tremendous splash reached my ears from the pond. I started round. Judy had vanished. I had my coat half off, and was rushing to thepool, when Miss Oldcastle stopped me, her face unmoved, except by asmile, saying, "It's only one of that frolicsome child's tricks, MrWalton. It is well for you that I was here, though. Nothing wouldhave delighted her more than to have you in the water too. "

"But, " I said, bewildered, and not half comprehending, "where isshe?"

"There, " returned Miss Oldcastle, pointing to the pool, in themiddle of which arose a heaving and bubbling, presently yieldingpassage to the laughing face of Judy. 

"Why don't you help me out, Mr Walton? You said you could swim. "

"No, I did not, " I answered coolly. "You talked so fast, you did notgive me time to say so. "

"It's very cold, " she returned. 

"Come out, Judy dear, " said her aunt. "Run home and change yourclothes. There's a dear. "

Judy swam to the opposite side, scrambled out, and was off like aspaniel through the trees and up the stairs, dripping and raining asshe went. 

"You must be very much astonished at the little creature, MrWalton. "

"I find her very interesting. Quite a study. "

"There never was a child so spoiled, and never a child on whom ittook less effect to hurt her. I suppose such things do happensometimes. She is really a good girl; though mamma, who has done allthe spoiling, will not allow me to say she is good. "

Here followed a pause, for, Judy disposed of, what should I saynext? And the moment her mind turned from Judy, I saw a certainstillness--not a cloud, but the shadow of a cloud--come over MissOldcastle's face, as if she, too, found herself uncomfortable, anddid not know what to say next. I tried to get a glance at the bookin her hand, for I should know something about her at once if Icould only see what she was reading. She never came to church, and Iwanted to arrive at some notion of the source of her spiritual life;for that she had such, a single glance at her face was enough toconvince me. This, I mean, made me even anxious to see what the bookwas. But I could only discover that it was an old book in veryshabby binding, not in the least like the books that young ladiesgenerally have in their hands. 

And now my readers will possibly be thinking it odd that I havenever yet said a word about what either Judy or Miss Oldcastle waslike. If there is one thing I feel more inadequate to than another, in taking upon me to relate--it is to describe a lady. But I willtry the girl first. 

Judy was rosy, gray-eyed, auburn-haired, sweet-mouthed. She hadconfidence in her chin, assertion in her nose, defiance in hereyebrows, honesty and friendliness over all her face. No one, evidently, could have a warmer friend; and to an enemy she would bedangerous no longer than a fit of passion might last. There wasnothing acrid in her; and the reason, I presume, was, that she hadnever yet hurt her conscience. That is a very different thing fromsaying she had never done wrong, you know. She was not tall, evenfor her age, and just a little too plump for the immediatesuggestion of grace. Yet every motion of the child would have beengraceful, except for the fact that impulse was always predominant, giving a certain jerkiness, like the hopping of a bird, instead ofthe gliding of one motion into another, such as you might see in thesame bird on the wing. 

There is one of the ladies. 

But the other--how shall I attempt to describe her?

The first thing I felt was, that she was a lady-woman. And to feelthat is almost to fall in love at first sight. And out of thiswhole, the first thing you distinguished would be the grace overall. She was rather slender, rather tall, rather dark-haired, andquite blue-eyed. But I assure you it was not upon that occasion thatI found out the colour of her eyes. I was so taken with her wholethat I knew nothing about her parts. Yet she was blue-eyed, indicating northern extraction--some centuries back perhaps. Thatblue was the blue of the sea that had sunk through the eyes of somesea-rover's wife and settled in those of her child, to be born whenthe voyage was over. It had been dyed so deep INGRAYNE, as Spenserwould say, that it had never been worn from the souls of the racesince, and so was every now and then shining like heaven out at someof its eyes. Her features were what is called regular. They weredelicate and brave. --After the grace, the dignity was the next thingyou came to discover. And the only thing you would not have liked, you would have discovered last. For when the shine of the courtesywith which she received me had faded away a certain look of negativehaughtiness, of withdrawal, if not of repulsion, took its place, alook of consciousness of her own high breeding--a pride, not oflife, but of circumstance of life, which disappointed me in themidst of so much that was very lovely. Her voice was sweet, and Icould have fancied a tinge of sadness in it, to which impression herslowness of speech, without any drawl in it, contributed. But I amnot doing well as an artist in describing her so fully before myreader has become in the least degree interested in her. I wasseeing her, and no words can make him see her. 

Fearing lest some such fancy as had possessed Judy should be movingin her mind, namely, that I was, if not exactly going to put herthrough her Catechism, yet going in some way or other to act theclergyman, I hastened to speak. 

"This is a most romantic spot, Miss Oldcastle, " I said; "and assurprising as it is romantic. I could hardly believe my eyes when Ilooked out of the window and saw it first. "

"Your surprise was the more natural that the place itself is notproperly natural, as you must have discovered. "

This was rather a remarkable speech for a young lady to make. Ianswered--

"I only know that such a chasm is the last thing I should haveexpected to find in this gently undulating country. That it isartificial I was no more prepared to hear than I was to see theplace itself. "

"It looks pretty, but it has not a very poetic origin, " shereturned. "It is nothing but the quarry out of which the old houseat the top of it was built. "

"I must venture to differ from you entirely in the aspect such anorigin assumes to me, " I said. "It seems to me a more poetic originthan any convulsion of nature whatever would have been; for, lookyou, " I said--being as a young man too much inclined to thedidactic, "for, look you, " I said--and she did look at me--"fromthat buried mass of rock has arisen this living house with itshistories of ages and generations; and"--

Here I saw a change pass upon her face: it grew almost pallid. Buther large blue eyes were still fixed on mine. 

"And it seems to me, " I went on, "that such a chasm made by theuplifting of a house therefrom, is therefore in itself more poeticthan if it were even the mouth of an extinct volcano. For, grand asthe motions and deeds of Nature are, terrible as is the idea of thefiery heart of the earth breaking out in convulsions, yet here issomething greater; for human will, human thought, human hands inhuman labour and effort, have all been employed to build this house, making not only the house beautiful, but the place whence it camebeautiful too. It stands on the edge of what Shelley would call its'antenatal tomb'--now beautiful enough to be its mother--filledfrom generation to generation "--

Her face had grown still paler, and her lips moved as if she wouldspeak; but no sound came from them. I had gone on, thinking it bestto take no notice of her paleness; but now I could not helpexpressing concern. 

"I am afraid you feel ill, Miss Oldcastle. "

"Not at all, " she answered, more quickly than she had yet spoken. 

"This place must be damp, " I said. "I fear you have taken cold. "

She drew herself up a little haughtily, thinking, no doubt, thatafter her denial I was improperly pressing the point. So I drew backto the subject of our conversation. 

"But I can hardly think, " I said, "that all this mass of stone couldbe required to build the house, large as it is. A house is notsolid, you know. "

"No, " she answered. "The original building was more of a castle, with walls and battlements. I can show you the foundations of themstill; and the picture, too, of what the place used to be. We arenot what we were then. Many a cottage, too, has been built out ofthis old quarry. Not a stone has been taken from it for the lastfifty years, though. Just let me show you one thing, Mr. Walton, andthen I must leave you. "

"Do not let me detain you a moment. I will go at once, " I said;"though, if you would allow me, I should be more at ease if I mightsee you safe at the top of the stair first. "

She smiled. 

"Indeed, I am not ill, " she answered; "but I have duties to attendto. Just let me show you this, and then you shall go with me back tomamma. "

She led the way to the edge of the pond and looked into it. Ifollowed, and gazed down into its depths, till my sight was lost inthem. I could see no bottom to the rocky shaft. 

"There is a strong spring down there, " she said. "Is it not adreadful place? Such a depth!"

"Yes, " I answered; "but it has not the horror of dirty water; it isas clear as crystal. How does the surplus escape?"

"On the opposite side of the hill you came up there is a well, witha strong stream from it into the river. "

"I almost wonder at your choosing such a place to read in. I shouldhardly like to be so near this pond, " said I, laughing. 

"Judy has taken all that away. Nothing in nature, and everything outof it, is strange to Judy, poor child! But just look down a littleway into the water on this side. Do you see anything?"

"Nothing, " I answered. 

"Look again, against the wall of the pond, " she said. 

"I see a kind of arch or opening in the side, " I answered. 

"That is what I wanted you to see. Now, do you see a little barredwindow, there, in the face of the rock, through the trees?"

"I cannot say I do, " I replied. 

"No. Except you know where it is--and even then--it is not so easyto find it. I find it by certain trees. "

"What is it?"

"It is the window of a little room in the rock, from which a stairleads down through the rock to a sloping passage. That is the end ofit you see under the water. "

"Provided, no doubt, " I said, "in case of siege, to procure water. "

"Most likely; but not, therefore, confined to that purpose. Thereare more dreadful stories than I can bear to think of"---

Here she paused abruptly, and began anew "---As if that house hadbrought death and doom out of the earth with it. There was an oldburial-ground here before the Hall was built. "

"Have you ever been down the stair you speak of?" I asked. 

"Only part of the way, " she answered. "But Judy knows every step ofit. If it were not that the door at the top is locked, she wouldhave dived through that archway now, and been in her own room inhalf the time. The child does not know what fear means. "

We now moved away from the pond, towards the side of the quarry andthe open-air stair-case, which I thought must be considerably morepleasant than the other. I confess I longed to see the gleam of thatwater at the bottom of the dark sloping passage, though. 

Miss Oldcastle accompanied me to the room where I had left hermother, and took her leave with merely a bow of farewell. I saw theold lady glance sharply from her to me as if she were jealous ofwhat we might have been talking about. 

"Grannie, are you afraid Mr. Walton has been saying pretty things toAunt Winnie? I assure you he is not of that sort. He doesn'tunderstand that kind of thing. But he would have jumped into thepond after me and got his death of cold if auntie would have lethim. It WAS cold. I think I see you dripping now, Mr Walton. "

There she was in her dark corner, coiled up on a couch, and laughingheartily; but all as if she had done nothing extraordinary. And, indeed, estimated either by her own notions or practices, what shehad done was not in the least extraordinary. 

Disinclined to stay any longer, I shook hands with the grandmother, with a certain invincible sense of slime, and with the grandchildwith a feeling of mischievous health, as if the girl might sooncorrupt the clergyman into a partnership in pranks as well as infriendship. She fallowed me out of the room, and danced before medown the oak staircase, clearing the portion from the first landingat a bound. Then she turned and waited for me, who came verydeliberately, feeling the unsure contact of sole and wax. As soon asI reached her, she said, in a half-whisper, reaching up towards meon tiptoe--

"Isn't she a beauty?"

"Who? your grandmamma?" I returned. 

She gave me a little push, her face glowing with fun. But I did notexpect she would take her revenge as she did. "Yes, of course, " sheanswered, quite gravely. "Isn't she a beauty?"

And then, seeing that she had put me hors de combat, she burst intoloud laughter, and, opening the hall-door for me, let me go withoutanother word. 

I went home very quietly, and, as I said, stepping with curiouscare--of which, of course, I did not think at the time--over theyellow and brown leaves that lay in the middle of the road. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE BISHOP'S BASIN. 

I went home very quietly, as I say, thinking about the strangeelements that not only combine to make life, but must be combined inour idea of life, before we can form a true theory about it. Now-a-days, the vulgar notion of what is life-like in any annals isto be realised by sternly excluding everything but the commonplace;and the means, at least, are often attained, with this much of theend as well--that the appearance life bears to vulgar minds isrepresented with a wonderful degree of success. But I believe thatthis is, at least, quite as unreal a mode of representing life asthe other extreme, wherein the unlikely, the romantic, and theuncommon predominate. I doubt whether there is a single history--ifone could only get at the whole of it--in which there is not aconsiderable admixture of the unlikely become fact, including a fewstrange coincidences; of the uncommon, which, although striking atfirst, has grown common from familiarity with its presence as ourown; with even, at least, some one more or less rosy touch of whatwe call the romantic. My own conviction is, that the poetry is farthe deepest in us, and that the prose is only broken-down poetry;and likewise that to this our lives correspond. The poetic region isthe true one, and just, THEREFORE, the incredible one to the lowerorder of mind; for although every mind is capable of the truth, orrather capable of becoming capable of the truth, there may lie agesbetween its capacity and the truth. As you will hear some peopleread poetry so that no mortal could tell it was poetry, so do somepeople read their own lives and those of others. 

I fell into these reflections from comparing in my own mind myformer experiences in visiting my parishioners with those of thatday. True, I had never sat down to talk with one of them withoutfinding that that man or that woman had actually a HISTORY, the mostmarvellous and important fact to a human being; nay, I had foundsomething more or less remarkable in every one of their histories, so that I was more than barely interested in each of them. And as Imade more acquaintance with them, (for I had not been in theposition, or the disposition either, before I came to Marshmallows, necessary to the gathering of such experiences, ) I came to theconclusion--not that I had got into an extraordinary parish ofcharacters--but that every parish must be more or less extraordinaryfrom the same cause. Why did I not use to see such people about mebefore? Surely I had undergone a change of some sort. Could it be, that the trouble I had been going through of late, had opened theeyes of my mind to the understanding, or rather the simple SEEING, of my fellow-men?

But the people among whom I had been to-day belonged rather to suchas might be put into a romantic story. Certainly I could not seemuch that was romantic in the old lady; and yet, those eyes and thattight-skinned face--what might they not be capable of in the workingout of a story? And then the place they lived in! Why, it wouldhardly come into my ideas of a nineteenth-century country parish atall. I was tempted to try to persuade myself that all that hadhappened, since I rose to look out of the window in the old house, had been but a dream. For how could that wooded dell have come thereafter all? It was much too large for a quarry. And that madcapgirl--she never flung herself into the pond!--it could not be. Andwhat could the book have been that the lady with the sea-blue eyeswas reading? Was that a real book at all? No. Yes. Of course it was. But what was it? What had that to do with the matter? It might turnout to be a very commonplace book after all. No; for commonplacebooks are generally new, or at least in fine bindings. And here wasa shabby little old book, such as, if it had been commonplace, wouldnot have been likely to be the companion of a young lady at thebottom of a quarry--

 "A savage place, as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover. "

I know all this will sound ridiculous, especially that quotationfrom Kubla Khan coming after the close of the preceding sentence;but it is only so much the more like the jumble of thoughts thatmade a chaos of my mind as I went home. And then for that terriblepool, and subterranean passage, and all that--what had it all to dowith this broad daylight, and these dying autumn leaves? No doubtthere had been such places. No doubt there were such placessomewhere yet. No doubt this was one of them. But, somehow or other, it would not come in well. I had no intention of GOING IN FOR--thatis the phrase now--going in for the romantic. I would take theimpression off by going to see Weir the carpenter's old father. Whether my plan was successful or not, I shall leave my reader tojudge. 

I found Weir busy as usual, but not with a coffin this time. He wasworking at a window-sash. "Just like life, " I thought--tritelyperhaps. "The other day he was closing up in the outer darkness, andnow he is letting in the light. "

"It's a long time since you was here last, sir, " he said, butwithout a smile. 

Did he mean a reproach? If so, I was more glad of that reproach thanI would have been of the warmest welcome, even from Old Rogers. Thefact was that, having a good deal to attend to besides, and willingat the same time to let the man feel that he was in no danger ofbeing bored by my visits, I had not made use even of my reserve inthe shape of a visit to his father. 

"Well, " I answered, "I wanted to know something about all my people, before I paid a second visit to any of them. "

"All right, sir. Don't suppose I meant to complain. Only to let youknow you was welcome, sir. "

"I've just come from my first visit to Oldcastle Hall. And, to tellthe truth, for I don't like pretences, my visit to-day was not somuch to you as to your father, whom, perhaps, I ought to have calledupon before, only I was afraid of seeming to intrude upon you, seeing we don't exactly think the same way about some things, " Iadded--with a smile, I know, which was none the less genuine that Iremember it yet. 

And what makes me remember it yet? It is the smile that lighted uphis face in response to mine. For it was more than I looked for. Andhis answer helped to fix the smile in my memory. 

"You made me think, sir, that perhaps, after all, we were much ofthe same way of thinking, only perhaps you was a long way ahead ofme. "

Now the man was not right in saying that we were much of the sameway of THINKING; for our opinions could hardly do more than comewithin sight of each other; but what he meant was right enough. ForI was certain, from the first, that the man had a regard for thedownright, honest way of things, and I hoped that I too had such aregard. How much of selfishness and of pride in one's own judgmentmight be mixed up with it, both in his case and mine, I had been toooften taken in--by myself, I mean--to be at all careful todiscriminate, provided there was a proportion of real honesty alongwith it, which, I felt sure, would ultimately eliminate the other. For in the moral nest, it is not as with the sparrow and the cuckoo. The right, the original inhabitant is the stronger; and, howeverunlikely at any given point in the history it may be, the sparrowwill grow strong enough to heave the intruding cuckoo overboard. SoI was pleased that the man should do me the honour of thinking I wasright as far as he could see, which is the greatest honour one mancan do another; for it is setting him on his own steed, as theeastern tyrants used to do. And I was delighted to think that theroad lay open for further and more real communion between us in timeto come. 

"Well, " I answered, "I think we shall understand each otherperfectly before long. But now I must see your father, if it isconvenient and agreeable. "

"My father will be delighted to see you, I know, sir. He can't getso far as the church on Sundays; but you'll find him much more toyour mind than me. He's been putting ever so many questions to meabout the new parson, wanting me to try whether I couldn't get moreout of you than the old parson. That's the way we talk about you, you see, sir. You'll understand. And I've never told him that I'dbeen to church since you came--I suppose from a bit of pride, because I had so long lefused to go; but I don't doubt some of theneighbours have told him, for he never speaks about it now. And Iknow he's been looking out for you; and I fancy he's begun to wonderthat the parson was going to see everybody but him. It WILL be apleasure to the old man, sir, for he don't see a great many to talkto; and he's fond of a bit of gossip, is the old man, sir. "

So saying, Weir led the way through the shop into a lobby behind, and thence up what must have been a back-stair of the old house, into a large room over the workshop. There were bits of old carvingabout the walls of the room yet, but, as in the shop below, all hadbeen whitewashed. At one end stood a bed with chintz curtains and awarm-looking counterpane of rich faded embroidery. There was a bitof carpet by the bedside, and another bit in front of the fire; andthere the old man sat, on one side, in a high-backed not very easy-looking chair. With a great effort he managed to rise as Iapproached him, notwithstanding my entreaties that he would notmove. He looked much older when on his feet, for he was bent nearlydouble, in which posture the marvel was how he could walk at all. For he did totter a few steps to meet me, without even the aid of astick, and, holding out a thin, shaking hand, welcomed me with anair of breeding rarely to be met with in his station in society. Butthe chief part of this polish sprung from the inbred kindliness ofhis nature, which was manifest in the expression of his noble oldcountenance. Age is such a different thing in different natures! Oneman seems to grow more and more selfish as he grows older; and inanother the slow fire of time seems only to consume, with fine, imperceptible gradations, the yet lingering selfishness in him, letting the light of the kingdom, which the Lord says is within, shine out more and more, as the husk grows thin and is ready to falloff, that the man, like the seed sown, may pierce the earth of thisworld, and rise into the pure air and wind and dew of the secondlife. The face of a loving old man is always to me like a morningmoon, reflecting the yet unrisen sun of the other world, yet fadingbefore its approaching light, until, when it does rise, it pales andwithers away from our gaze, absorbed in the source of its ownbeauty. This old man, you may see, took my fancy wonderfully, foreven at this distance of time, when I am old myself, therecollection of his beautiful old face makes me feel as if I couldwrite poetry about him. 

"I'm blithe to see ye, sir, " said he. "Sit ye down, sir. "

And, turning, he pointed to his own easy-chair; and I then saw hisprofile. It was delicate as that of Dante, which in form itmarvellously resembled. But all the sternness which Dante's eviltimes had generated in his prophetic face was in this old man'sreplaced by a sweetness of hope that was lovely to behold. 

"No, Mr Weir, " I said, "I cannot take your chair. The Bible tells usto rise up before the aged, not to turn them out of their seats. "

"It would do me good to see you sitting in my cheer, sir. The painsthat my son Tom there takes to keep it up as long as the old man maywant it! It's a good thing I bred him to the joiner's trade, sir. Sit ye down, sir. The cheer'll hold ye, though I warrant it won'tlast that long after I be gone home. Sit ye down, sir. "

Thus entreated, I hesitated no longer, but took the old man's seat. His son brought another chair for him, and he sat down opposite thefire and close to me. Thomas then went back to his work, leaving usalone. 

"Ye've had some speech wi' my son Tom, " said the old man, the momenthe was gone, leaning a little towards me. "It's main kind o' you, sir, to take up kindly wi' poor folks like us. "

"You don't say it's kind of a person to do what he likes best, " Ianswered. "Besides, it's my duty to know all my people. "

"Oh yes, sir, I know that. But there's a thousand ways ov doin' thesame thing. I ha' seen folks, parsons and others, 'at made a greatshow ov bein' friendly to the poor, ye know, sir; and all the timeyou could see, or if you couldn't see you could tell without seein', that they didn't much regard them in their hearts; but it was a sortof accomplishment to be able to talk to the poor, like, after theirown fashion. But the minute an ould man sees you, sir, he believesthat you MEAN it, sir, whatever it is. For an ould man somehow comesto know things like a child. They call it a second childhood, don'tthey, sir? And there are some things worth growin' a child again toget a hould ov again. "

"I only hope what you say may be true--about me, I mean. "

"Take my word for it, sir. You have no idea how that boy of mine, Tom there, did hate all the clergy till you come. Not that he'sanyway favourable to them yet, only he'll say nothin' again' you, sir. He's got an unfortunate gift o' seein' all the faults first, sir; and when a man is that way given, the faults always hides theother side, so that there's nothing but faults to be seen. "

"But I find Thomas quite open to reason. "

"That's because you understand him, sir, and know how to give himhead. He tould me of the talk you had with him. You don't bait him. You don't say, 'You must come along wi' me, ' but you turns and goesalong wi' him. He's not a bad fellow at all, is Tom; but he willhave the reason for everythink. Now I never did want the reason foreverything. I was content to be tould a many things. But Tom, yousee, he was born with a sore bit in him somewheres, I don't rightlyknow wheres; and I don't think he rightly knows what's the matterwith him himself. "

"I dare say you have a guess though, by this time, Mr. Weir, " Isaid; "and I think I have a guess too. "

"Well, sir, if he'd only give in, I think he would be far happier. But he can't see his way clear. "

"You must give him time, you know. The fact is, he doesn't feel athome yet. ' And how can he, so long as he doesn't know his ownFather?"

"I'm not sure that I rightly understand you, " said the old man, looking bewildered and curious. 

"I mean, " I answered, "that till a man knows that he is one of God'sfamily, living in God's house, with God up-stairs, as it were, whilehe is at his work or his play in a nursery below-stairs, he can'tfeel comfortable. For a man could not be made that should standalone, like some of the beasts. A man must feel a head over him, because he's not enough to satisfy himself, you know. Thomas justwants faith; that is, he wants to feel that there is a loving Fatherover him, who is doing things all well and right, if we could onlyunderstand them, though it really does not look like it sometimes. "

"Ah, sir, I might have understood you well enough, if my poor oldhead hadn't been started on a wrong track. For I fancied for themoment that you were just putting your finger upon the sore place inTom's mind. There's no use in keeping family misfortunes from afriend like you, sir. That boy has known his father all his life;but I was nearly half his age before I knew mine. "

"Strange!" I said, involuntarily almost. 

"Yes, sir; strange you may well say. A strange story it is. The Lordhelp my mother! I beg yer pardon, sir. I'm no Catholic. But thatprayer will come of itself sometimes. As if it could be of any usenow! God forgive me!"

"Don't you be afraid, Mr Weir, as if God was ready to take offenceat what comes naturally, as you say. An ejaculation of love is notlikely to offend Him who is so grand that He is always meek andlowly of heart, and whose love is such that ours is a mere faintlight--'a little glooming light much like a shade'--as one of ourown poets says, beside it. "

"Thank you, Mr Walton. That's a real comfortable word, sir. And I amheart-sure it's true, sir. God be praised for evermore! He IS good, sir; as I have known in my poor time, sir. I don't believe thereever was one that just lifted his eyes and looked up'ards, insteadof looking down to the ground, that didn't get some comfort, to goon with, as it were--the ready--money of comfort, as itwere--though it might be none to put in the bank, sir. "

"That's true enough, " I said. "Then your father and mother--?"

And here I hesitated. 

"Were never married, sir, " said the old man promptly, as if he wouldrelieve me from an embarrassing position. "_I_ couldn't help it. AndI'm no less the child of my Father in heaven for it. For if Hehadn't made me, I couldn't ha' been their son, you know, sir. Sothat He had more to do wi' the makin' o' me than they had; thoughmayhap, if He had His way all out, I might ha' been the son o'somebody else. But, now that things be so, I wouldn't have likedthat at all, sir; and bein' once born so, I would not have e'eranother couple of parents in all England, sir, though I ne'er knewone o' them. And I do love my mother. And I'm so sorry for my fatherthat I love him too, sir. And if I could only get my boy Tom tothink as I do, I would die like a psalm-tune on an organ, sir. "

"But it seems to me strange, " I said, "that your son should think somuch of what is so far gone by. Surely he would not want anotherfather than you, now. He is used to his position in life. And therecan be nothing cast up to him about his birth or descent. "

"That's all very true, sir, and no doubt it would be as you say. Butthere has been other things to keep his mind upon the old affair. Indeed, sir, we have had the same misfortune all over again amongthe young people. And I mustn't say anything more about it; only myboy Tom has a sore heart. "

I knew at once to what he alluded; for I could not have been aboutin my parish all this time without learning that the strangehandsome woman in the little shop was the daughter of Thomas Weir, and that she was neither wife nor widow. And it now occurred to mefor the first time that it was a likeness to her little boy that hadaffected me so pleasantly when I first saw Thomas, his grandfather. The likeness to his great-grandfather, which I saw plainly enough, was what made the other fact clear to me. And at the same moment Ibegan to be haunted with a flickering sense of a third likenesswhich I could not in the least fix or identify. 

"Perhaps, " I said, "he may find some good come out of that too. "

"Well, who knows, sir?"

"I think, " I said, "that if we do evil that good may come, the goodwe looked for will never come thereby. But once evil is done, we mayhumbly look to Him who bringeth good out of evil, and wait. Is yourgranddaughter Catherine in bad health? She looks so delicate!"

"She always had an uncommon look. But what she looks like now, Idon't know. I hear no complaints; but she has never crossed thisdoor since we got her set up in that shop. She never conies near herfather or her sister, though she lets them, leastways her sister, goand see her. I'm afraid Tom has been rayther unmerciful, with her. And if ever he put a bad name upon her in her hearing, I know, fromwhat that lass used to be as a young one, that she wouldn't belikely to forget it, and as little likely to get over it herself, orpass it over to another, even her own father. I don't believe theydo more nor nod to one another when they meet in the village. It'swell even if they do that much. It's my belief there's some peoplemade so hard that they never can forgive anythink. "

"How did she get into the trouble? Who is the father of her child?"

"Nay, that no one knows for certain; though there be suspicions, andone of them, no doubt, correct. But, I believe, fire wouldn't drivehis name out at her mouth. I know my lass. When she says a thing, she 'll stick to it. "

I asked no more questions. But, after a short pause, the old manwent on. 

"I shan't soon forget the night I first heard about my father andmother. That was a night! The wind was roaring like a mad beastabout the house;--not this house, sir, but the great house over theway. "

"You don't mean Oldcastle Hall?" I said. 

"'Deed I do, sir, " returned the old man, "This house here belongedto the same family at one time; though when I was born it wasanother branch of the family, second cousins or something, thatlived in it. But even then it was something on to the downhill road, I believe. "

"But, " I said, fearing my question might have turned the old manaside from a story worth hearing, "never mind all that now, if youplease. I am anxious to hear all about that night. Do go on. Youwere saying the wind was blowing about the old house. "

"Eh, sir, it was roaring!-roaring as if it was mad with rage! Andevery now and then it would come down the chimley like out of a gun, and blow the smoke and a'most the fire into the middle of thehousekeeper's room. For the housekeeper had been giving me mysupper. I called her auntie, then; and didn't know a bit that shewasn't my aunt really. I was at that time a kind of aunder-gamekeeper upon the place, and slept over the stable. But Ifared of the best, for I was a favourite with the old woman--Isuppose because I had given her plenty of trouble in my time. That'salways the way, sir. --Well, as I was a-saying, when the wind stoppedfor a moment, down came the rain with a noise that sounded like aregiment of cavalry on the turnpike road t'other side of the hill. And then up the wind got again, and swept the rain away, and took itall in its own hand again, and went on roaring worse than ever. 'You'll be wet afore you get across the yard, Samuel, ' said auntie, looking very prim in her long white apron, as she sat on the otherside of the little round table before the fire, sipping a drop ofhot rum and water, which she always had before she went to bed. 'You'll be wet to the skin, Samuel, ' she said. 'Never mind, ' says I. 'I'm not salt, nor yet sugar; and I'll be going, auntie, for you'llbe wanting your bed. '-'Sit ye still, ' said she. 'I don't want my bedyet. ' And there she sat, sipping at her rum and water; and there Isat, o' the other side, drinking the last of a pint of October, shehad gotten me from the cellar--for I had been out in the wind allday. 'It was just such a night as this, ' said she, and then stoppedagain. --But I'm wearying you, sir, with my long story. "

"Not in the least, " I answered. "Quite the contrary. Pray tell itout your own way. You won't tire me, I assure you. "

So the old man went on. 

"' It was just such a night as this, ' she began again--'leastways itwas snow and not rain that was coming down, as if the Almighty wasa-going to spend all His winter-stock at oncet. '--'What happenedsuch a night, auntie?' I said. 'Ah, my lad!' said she, 'ye may wellask what happened. None has a better right. You happened. That'sall. '--'Oh, that's all, is it, auntie?' I said, and laughed. 'Nay, nay, Samuel, ' said she, quite solemn, 'what is there to laugh at, then? I assure you, you was anything but welcome. '-- 'And why wasn'tI welcome?' I said. 'I couldn't help it, you know. I'm very sorry tohear I intruded, ' I said, still making game of it, you see; for Ialways did like a joke. 'Well, ' she said, 'you certainly wasn'twanted. But I don't blame you, Samuel, and I hope you won't blameme. '--' What do you mean, auntie ?' I mean this, that it's my fault, if so be that fault it is, that you're sitting there now, and notlying, in less bulk by a good deal, at the bottom of the Bishop'sBasin. ' That's what they call a deep pond at the foot of the oldhouse, sir; though why or wherefore, I'm sure I don't know. 'Mostextraordinary, auntie!' I said, feeling very queer, and as if Ireally had no business to be there. 'Never you mind, my dear, ' saysshe; 'there you are, and you can take care of yourself now as wellas anybody. '--'But who wanted to drown me?' 'Are you sure you canforgive him, if I tell you?'--'Sure enough, suppose he was sittingwhere you be now, ' I answered. 'It was, I make no doubt, though Ican't prove it, --I am morally certain it was your own father. ' Ifelt the skin go creepin' together upon my head, and I couldn'tspeak. 'Yes, it was, child; and it's time you knew all about it. Why, you don't know who your own father was!'--'No more I do, ' Isaid; 'and I never cared to ask, somehow. I thought it was allright, I suppose. But I wonder now that I never did. '--'Indeed youdid many a time, when you was a mere boy, like; but I suppose, asyou never was answered, you give it up for a bad job, and forgot allabout it, like a wise man. You always was a wise child, Samuel. ' Sothe old lady always said, sir. And I was willing to believe she wasright, if I could. 'But now, ' said she, 'it's time you knew allabout it. --Poor Miss Wallis!--I'm no aunt of yours, my boy, though Ilove you nearly as well, I think, as if I was; for dearly did I loveyour mother. She was a beauty, and better than she was beautiful, whatever folks may say. The only wrong thing, I'm certain, that sheever did, was to trust your father too much. But I must see and giveyou the story right through from beginning to end. --Miss Wallis, asI came to know from her own lips, was the daughter of a countryattorney, who had a good practice, and was likely to leave her welloff. Her mother died when she was a little girl. It's not easygetting on without a mother, my boy. So she wasn't taught much ofthe best sort, I reckon. When her father died early, and she wasleft atone, the only thing she could do was to take a governess'splace, and she came to us. She never got on well with the children, for they were young and self willed and rude, and would not learn todo as they were bid. I never knew one o' them shut the door whenthey went out of this room. And, from having had all her own way athome, with plenty of servants, and money to spend, it was a sorechange to her. But she was a sweet creature, that she was. She didlook sorely tried when Master Freddy would get on the back of herchair, and Miss Gusta would lie down on the rug, and never stir forall she could say to them, but only laugh at her. --To be sure!' Andthen auntie would take a sip at her rum and water, and sitconsidering old times like a static. And I sat as if all my head wasone great ear, and I never spoke a word. And auntie began again. 'The way I came to know so much about her was this. Nobody, you see, took any notice or care of her. For the children were kept away withher in the old house, and my lady wasn't one to take trouble aboutanybody till once she stood in her way, and then she would justshove her aside or crush her like a spider, and ha' done withher. '--They have always been a proud and a fierce race, theOldcastles, sir, " said Weir, taking up the speech in his own person, "and there's been a deal o' breedin in-and-in amongst them, and thathas kept up the worst of them. The men took to the women of theirown sort somehow, you see. The lady up at the old Hall now is aCrowfoot. I'll just tell you one thing the gardener told me abouther years ago, sir. She had a fancy for hyacinths in her rooms inthe spring, and she Had some particular fine ones; and a lady of heracquaintance begged for some of them. And what do you think she did?She couldn't refuse them, and she couldn't bear any one to have themas good as she. And so she sent the hyacinth-roots--but she boiled'em first. The gardener told me himself, sir. --'And so, when thepoor thing, ' said auntie, 'was taken with a dreadful cold, which wasno wonder if you saw the state of the window in the room she had tosleep in, and which I got old Jones to set to rights and paid himfor it out of my own pocket, else he wouldn't ha' done it at all, for the family wasn't too much in the way or the means either ofpaying their debts--well, there she was, and nobody minding her, andof course it fell to me to look after her. It would have made yourheart bleed to see the poor thing flung all of a heap on her bed, blue with cold and coughing. "My dear!" I said; and she burst outcrying, and from that moment there was confidence between us. I madeher as warm and as comfortable as I could, but I had to nurse herfor a fortnight before she was able to do anything again. She didn'tshirk her work though, poor thing. It was a heartsore to me to seethe poor young thing, with her sweet eyes and her pale face, talkingaway to those children, that were more like wild cats than humanbeings. She might as well have talked to wild cats, I'm sure. But Idon't think she was ever so miserable again as she must have beenbefore her illness; for she used often to come and see me of anevening, and she would sit there where you are sitting now for anhour at a time, without speaking, her thin white hands lying foldedin her lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire. I used to wonder whatshe could be thinking about, and I had made up my mind she was notlong for this world; when all at once it was announced that MissOldcastle, who had been to school for some time, was coming home;and then we began to see a great deal of company, and for monthafter month the house was more or less filled with visitors, so thatmy time was constantly taken up, and I saw much less of poor MissWallis than I had seen before. But when we did meet on some of theback stairs, or when she came to my room for a few minutes beforegoing to bed, we were just as good friends as ever. And I used tosay, "I wish this scurry was over, my dear, that we might have ourold times again. " And she would smile and say something sweet. But Iwas surprised to see that her health began to come back--at least soit seemed to me, for her eyes grew brighter and a flush came uponher pale face, and though the children were as tiresome as ever, shedidn't seem to mind it so much. But indeed she had not very much todo with them out of school hours now; for when the spring came on, they would be out and about the place with their sister or one oftheir brothers; and indeed, out of doors it would have beenimpossible for Miss Wallis to do anything with them. Some of thevisitors would take to them too, for they behaved so badly to nobodyas to Miss Wallis, and indeed they were clever children, and couldbe engaging enough when they pleased. --But then I had a blow, Samuel. It was a lovely spring night, just after the sun was down, and I wanted a drop of milk fresh from the cow for something that Iwas making for dinner the next day; so I went through thekitchen-garden and through the belt of young larches to go to theshippen. But when I got among the trees, who should I see at theother end of the path that went along, but Miss Wallis walkingarm-in-arm with Captain Crowfoot, who was just home from India, where he had been with Lord Clive. The captain was a man about twoor three and thirty, a relation of the family, and the son of SirGiles Crowfoot'--who lived then in this old house, sir, and had butthat one son, my father, you see, sir. --'And it did give me a turn, 'said my aunt, 'to see her walking with him, for I felt as sure asjudgment that no good could come of it. For the captain had not thebest of characters--that is, when people talked about him in chimneycorners, and such like, though he was a great favourite witheverybody that knew nothing about him. He was a fine, manly, handsome fellow, with a smile that, as people said, no woman couldresist, though I'm sure it would have given me no trouble to resistit, whatever they may mean by that, for I saw that that same smilewas the falsest thing of all the false things about him. All thetime he was smiling, you would have thought he was looking athimself in a glass. He was said to have gathered a power of money inIndia, somehow or other. But I don't know, only I don't think hewould have been the favourite he was with my lady if he hadn't. Andreports were about, too, of the ways and means by which he had madethe money; some said by robbing the poor heathen creatures; and somesaid it was only that his brother officers didn't approve of hisspeculating as he did in horses and other things. I don't knowwhether officers are so particular. At all events, this was a fact, for it was one of his own servants that told me, not thinking anyharm or any shame of it. He had quarrelled with a young ensign inthe regiment. On which side the wrong was, I don't know. But hefirst thrashed him most unmercifully, and then called him out, asthey say. And when the poor fellow appeared, he could scarcely seeout of his eyes, and certainly couldn't take anything like an aim. And he shot him dead, --did Captain Crowfoot. '-Think of hearing thatabout one's own father, sir! But I never said a word, for I hadn't aword to say. --'Think of that, Samuel, ' said my aunt, 'else you won'tbelieve what I am going to tell you. And you won't even then, I daresay. But I must tell you, nevertheless and notwithstanding. --Well, Ifelt as if the earth was sinking away from under the feet of me, andI stood and stared at them. And they came on, never seeing me, andactually went close past me and never saw me; at least, if he saw mehe took no notice, for I don't suppose that the angel with theflaming sword would have put him out. But for her, I know she didn'tsee me, for her face was down, burning and smiling at once. '--I'm anold man now, sir, and I never saw my mother; but I can't tell youthe story without feeling as if my heart would break for the pooryoung lady. --'I went back to my room, ' said my aunt, 'with my emptyjug in my hand, and I sat down as if I had had a stroke, and I nevermoved till it was pitch dark and my fire out. It was a marvel to meafterwards that nobody came near me, for everybody was calling afterme at that time. And it was days before I caught a glimpse of MissWallis again, at least to speak to her. At last, one night she cameto my room; and without a. Moment of parley, I said to her, "Oh, mydear! what was that wretch saying to you?"--"What wretch?" says she, quite sharp like. "Why, Captain Crowfoot, " says I, "to besure. "--"What have you to say against Captain Crowfoot?" says she, quite scornful like. So I tumbled out all I had against him in onebreath. She turned awful pale, and she shook from head to foot, butshe was able for all that to say, "Indian servants are known liars, Mrs Prendergast, " says she, "and I don't believe one word of it all. But I'll ask him, the next time I see him. "--"Do so, my dear, " Isaid, not fearing for myself, for I knew he would not make any fussthat might bring the thing out into the air, and hoping that itmight lead to a quarrel between them. And the next time I met her, Samuel--it was in the gallery that takes to the west turret--shepassed me with a nod just, and a blush instead of a smile on hersweet face. And I didn't blame her, Samuel; but I knew that thatvillain had gotten a hold of her. And so I could only cry, and thatI did. Things went on like this for some months. The captain cameand went, stopping a week at a time. Then he stopped for a wholemonth, and this was in the first of the summer; and then he said hewas ordered abroad again, and went away. But he didn't go abroad. Hecame again in the autumn for the shooting, and began to make up toMiss Oldcastle, who had grown a line young woman by that time. Andthen Miss Wallis began to pine. The captain went away again. Beforelong I was certain that if ever young creature was in a consumption, she was; but she never said a word to me. How ever the poor thinggot on with her work, I can't think, but she grew weaker and weaker. I took the best care of her she would let me, and contrived that sheshould have her meals in her own room; but something was between herand me that she never spoke a word about herself, and never alludedto the captain. By and by came the news that the captain and MissOldcastle were to be married in the spring. And Miss Wallis took toher bed after that; and my lady said she had never been of much use, and wanted to send her away. But Miss Oldcastle, who was farsuperior to any of the rest in her disposition, spoke up for her. She had been to ask me about her, and I told her the poor thing mustgo to a hospital if she was sent away, for she had ne'er a home togo to. And then she went to see the governess, poor thing! and spokevery kindly to her; but never a word would Miss Wallis answer; sheonly stared at her with great, big, wild-like eyes. And MissOldcastle thought she was out of her mind, and spoke of an asylum. But I said she hadn't long to live, and if she would get my lady hermother to consent to take no notice, I would take all the care andtrouble of her. And she promised, and the poor thing was left alone. I began to think myself her mind must be going, for not a word wouldshe speak, even to me, though every moment I could spare I was upwith her in her room. Only I was forced to be careful not to be outof the way when my lady wanted me, for that would have tied me more. At length one day, as I was settling her pillow for her, she all atonce threw her arms about my neck, and burst into a terrible fit ofcrying. She sobbed and panted for breath so dreadfully, that I putmy arms round her and lifted her up to give her relief; and when Ilaid her down again, I whispered in her ear, "I know now, my dear. I'll do all I can for you. " She caught hold of my hand and held itto her lips, and then to her bosom, and cried again, but morequietly, and all was right between us once more. It was well forher, poor thing, that she could go to her bed. And I said to myself, "Nobody need ever know about it; and nobody ever shall if I can helpit. " To tell the truth, my hope was that she would die before therewas any need for further concealment. "But people in that conditionseldom die, they say, till all is over; and so she lived on and on, though plainly getting weaker and weaker. --At the captain's nextvisit, the wedding-day was fixed. And after that a circumstance cameabout that made me uneasy. A Hindoo servant--the captain called himhis NIGGER always--had been constantly in attendance upon him. Inever could abide the snake-look of the fellow, nor the noiselessway he went about the house. But this time the captain had a Hindoowoman with him as well. He said that his man had fallen in with herin London; that he had known her before; that she had come home asnurse with an English family, and it would be very nice for his wifeto take her back with her to India, if she could only give her houseroom, and make her useful till after the wedding. This was easilyarranged, and he went away to return in three weeks, when thewedding was to take place. Meantime poor Emily grew fast worse, andhow she held out with that terrible cough of hers I never couldunderstand--and spitting blood, too, every other hour or so, thoughnot very much. And now, to my great trouble, with the preparationsfor the wedding, I could see yet less of her than before; and whenMiss Oldcastle sent the Hindoo to ask me if she might not sit in theroom with the poor girl, I did not know how to object, though I didnot at all like her being there. I felt a great mistrust of thewoman somehow or other. I never did like blacks, and I never shall. So she went, and sat by her, and waited on her very kindly--at leastpoor Emily said so. I called her Emily because she had begged me, that she might feel as if her mother were with her, and she was achild again. I had tried before to find out from her when greatercare would be necessary, but she couldn't tell me anything. Idoubted even if she understood me. I longed to have the wedding overthat I might get rid of the black woman, and have time to take herplace, and get everything prepared. The captain arrived, and his manwith him. And twice I came upon the two blacks in closeconversation. --Well, the wedding-day came. The people went tochurch; and while they were there a terrible storm of wind and snowcame on, such that the horses would hardly face it. The captain wasgoing to take his bride home to his father, Sir Giles's; but, shortas the distance was, before the time came the storm got so dreadfulthat no one could think of leaving the house that night. The windblew for all the world just as it blows this night, only it was snowin its mouth, and not rain. Carriage and horses and all would havebeen blown off the road for certain. It did blow, to be sure! Afterdinner was over and the ladies were gone to the drawing-room, andthe gentlemen had been sitting over their wine for some time, thebutler, William Weir--an honest man, whose wife lived at thelodge--came to my room looking scared. "Lawks, William!" says I, 'said my aunt, sir, '"whatever is the matter with you?"--"Well, MrsPrendergast!" says he, and said no more. "Lawks, William, " says I, "speak out. "--"Well, " says he, "Mrs Prendergast, it's a strangewedding, it is! There's the ladies all alone in thewithdrawing-room, and there's the gentlemen calling for more wine, and cursing and swearing that it's awful to hear. It's my beliefthat swords will be drawn afore long. "--"Tut!" says I, "William, itwill come the sooner if you don't give them what they want. Go andget it as fast as you can. "--"I don't a'most like goin' down themstairs alone, in sich a night, ma'am, " says he. "Would you mindcoming with me?"--"Dear me, William, " says I, "a pretty story totell your wife"--she was my own half-sister, and younger than me--"apretty story to tell your wife, that you wanted an old body like meto go and take care of you in your own cellar, " says I. "But I'll gowith you, if you like; for, to tell the truth, it's a terriblenight. " And so down we went, and brought up six bottles more of thebest port. And I really didn't wonder, when I was down there, andheard the dull roar of the wind against the rock below, that Williamdidn't much like to go alone. --When he went back with the wine, thecaptain said, "William, what kept you so long? Mr Centlivre saysthat you were afraid to go down into the cellar. " Now, wasn't thatodd, for it was a real fact? Before William could reply, Sir Gilessaid, "A man might well be afraid to go anywhere alone in a nightlike this. " Whereupon the captain cried, with an oath, that he wouldgo down the underground stair, and into every vault on the way, forthe wager of a guinea. And there the matter, according to William, dropped, for the fresh wine was put on the table. But after they haddrunk the most of it--the captain, according to William, drinkingless than usual--it was brought up again, he couldn't tell by whichof them. And in five minutes after, they were all at my door, demanding the key of the room at the top of the stair. I was justgoing up to see poor Emily when I heard the noise of their unsteadyfeet coming along the passage to my door; and I gave the captain thekey at once, wishing with all my heart he might get a good frightfor his pains. He took a jug with him, too, to bring some water upfrom the well, as a proof he had been down. The rest of thegentlemen went with him into the little cellar-room; but theywouldn't stop there till he came up again, they said it was so cold. They all came into my room, where they talked as gentlemen wouldn'tdo if the wine hadn't got uppermost. It was some time before thecaptain returned. It's a good way down and back. When he came in atlast, he looked as if he had got the fright I wished him, he hadsuch a scared look. The candle in his lantern was out, and there wasno water in the jug. "There's your guinea, Centlivre, " says he, throwing it on the table. "You needn't ask me any questions, for Iwon't answer one of them. "--"Captain, " says I, as he turned to leavethe room, and the other gentlemen rose to follow him, "I'll justhang up the key again. "--" By all means, " says he. "Where is it, then?" says I. He started and made as if he searched his pockets allover for it. "I must have dropped it, " says he; "but it's of noconsequence; you can send William to look for it in the morning. Itcan't be lost, you know. "--"Very well, captain, " said I. But Ididn't like being without the key, because of course he hadn'tlocked the door, and that part of the house has a bad name, and nowonder. It wasn't exactly pleasant to have the door left open. Allthis time I couldn't get to see how Emily was. As often as I lookedfrom my window, I saw her light in the old west turret out there, Samuel. You know the room where the bed is still. The rain and thewind will be blowing right through it to-night. That's the bed youwas born upon, Samuel. '--It's all gone now, sir, turret and all, like a good deal more about the old place; but there's a story aboutthat turret afterwards, only I mustn't try to tell you two things atonce. --'Now I had told the Indian woman that if anything happened, if she was worse, or wanted to see me, she must put the candle onthe right side of the window, and I should always be looking out, and would come directly, whoever might wait. For I was expecting yousome time soon, and nobody knew anything about when you might come. But there the blind continued drawn down as before. So I thought allwas going on right. And what with the storm keeping Sir Giles and somany more that would have gone home that night, there was no end ofwork, and some contrivance necessary, I can tell you, to get themall bedded for the night, for we were nothing too well provided withblankets and linen in the house. There was always more room thanmoney in it. So it was past twelve o'clock before I had a minute tomyself, and that was only after they had all gone to bed--the brideand bridegroom in the crimson chamber, of course. Well, at last Icrept quietly into Emily's room. I ought to have told you that I hadnot let her know anything about the wedding being that day, and hadenjoined the heathen woman not to say a word; for I thought shemight as well die without hearing about it. But I believe the vilewretch did tell her. When I opened the room-door, there was no lightthere. I spoke, but no one answered. I had my own candle in my hand, but it had been blown out as I came up the stair. I turned and ranalong the corridor to reach the main stair, which was the nearestway to my room, when all at once I heard such a shriek from thecrimson chamber as I never heard in my life. It made me all creeplike worms. And in a moment doors and doors were opened, and lightscame out, everybody looking terrified; and what with drink, andhorror, and sleep, some of the gentlemen were awful to look upon. And the door of the crimson chamber opened too, and the captainappeared in his dressing-gown, bawling out to know what was thematter; though I'm certain, to this day, the cry did come from thatroom, and that he knew more about it than any one else did. As soonas I got a light, however, which I did from Sir Giles's candle, Ileft them to settle it amongst them, and ran back to the westturret. When I entered the room, there was my dear girl lying whiteand motionless. There could be no doubt a baby had been born, but nobaby was to be seen. I rushed to the bed; but though she was stillwarm, your poor mother was quite dead. There was no use in thinkingabout helping her; but what could have become of the child? As if bya light in my mind, I saw it all. I rushed down to my room, got mylantern, and, without waiting to be afraid, ran to the undergroundstairs, where I actually found the door standing open. I had notgone down more than three turnings, when I thought I heard a cry, and I sped faster still. And just about half-way down, there lay abundle in a blanket. And how ever you got over the state I found youin, Samuel, I can't think. But I caught you up as you was, and ranto my own room with you; and I locked the door, and there being akettle on the fire, and some conveniences in the place, I did thebest for you I could. For the breath wasn't out of you, though itwell might have been. And then I laid you before the fire, and bythat time you had begun to cry a little, to my great pleasure, andthen I got a blanket off my bed, and wrapt you up in it; and, thestorm being abated by this time, made the best of my way with youthrough the snow to the lodge, where William's wife lived. It wasnot so far off then as it is now. But in the midst of my trouble thesilly body did make me laugh when he opened the door to me, and sawthe bundle in my arms. "Mrs Prendergast, " says he, "I didn't expectit of you. "--"Hold your tongue, " I said. "You would never havetalked such nonsense if you had had the grace to have any of yourown, " says I. And with that I into the bedroom and shut the door, and left him out there in his shirt. My sister and I soon goteverything arranged, for there was no time to lose. And beforemorning I had all made tidy, and your poor mother lying as sweet acorpse as ever angel saw. And no one could say a word against her. And it's my belief that that villain made her believe somehow orother that she was as good as married to him. She was buried downthere in the churchyard, close by the vestry-door, ' said my aunt, sir; and all of our family have been buried there ever since, my sonTom's wife among them, sir. "

"But what was that cry in the house?" I asked "And what became ofthe black woman?"

"The woman was never seen again in our quarter; and what the cry wasmy aunt never would say. She seemed to know though; notwithstanding, as she said, that Captain and Mrs Crowfoot denied all knowledge ofit. But the lady looked dreadful, she said, and never was wellagain, and died at the birth of her first child. That was thepresent Mrs Oldcastle's father, sir. "

"But why should the woman have left you on the stair, instead ofdrowning you in the well at the bottom?"

"My aunt evidently thought there was some mystery about that as wellas the other, for she had no doubt about the woman's intention. Butall she would ever say concerning it was, 'The key was never found, Samuel. You see I had to get a new one made. ' And she pointed towhere it hung on the wall. 'But that doesn't look new now, ' shewould say. 'The lock was very hard to fit again. ' And so you see, sir, I was brought up as her nephew, though people were surprised, no doubt, that William Weir's wife should have a child, and nobodyknow she was expecting. --Well, with all the reports of the captain'smoney, none of it showed in this old place, which from that daybegan, as it were, to crumble away. There's been little repair doneupon it since then. If it hadn't been a well-built place to beginwith, it wouldn't be standing now, sir. But it's a very differentplace, I can tell you. Why, all behind was a garden with terraces, and fruit trees, and gay flowers, to no end. I remember it as wellas yesterday; nay, a great deal better, for the matter of that. ForI don't remember yesterday at all, sir. "

I have tried a little to tell the story as he told it. But I amaware that I have succeeded very badly; for I am not like my friendin London, who, I verily believe, could give you an exactrepresentation of any dialect he ever heard. I wish I had been ableto give a little more of the form of the old man's speech; all Ihave been able to do is to show a difference from my own way oftelling a story. But in the main, I think, I have reported itcorrectly. I believe if the old man was correct in representing hisaunt's account, the story is very little altered between us. 

But why should I tell such a story at all?

I am willing to allow, at once, that I have very likely given itmore room than it deserves in these poor Annals of mine; but thereason why I tell it at all is simply this, that, as it came fromthe old man's lips, it interested me greatly. It certainly did notproduce the effect I had hoped to gain from an interview with him, namely, A REDUCTION TO THE COMMON AND PRESENT. For all this ancienttale tended to keep up the sense of distance between my day'sexperience at the Hall and the work I had to do amongst my cottagersand trades-people. Indeed, it came very strangely upon thatexperience. 

"But surely you did not believe such an extravagant tale? The oldman was in his dotage, to begin with. "

Had the old man been in his dotage, which he was not, my answerwould have been a more triumphant one. For when was dotageconsistently and imaginatively inventive? But why should I notbelieve the story? There are people who can never believe anythingthat is not (I do not say merely in accordance with their owncharacter, but) in accordance with the particular mood they mayhappen to be in at the time it is presented to them. They knownothing of human nature beyond their own immediate preference at themoment for port or sherry, for vice or virtue. To tell me therecould not be a man so lost to shame, if to rectitude, as CaptainCrowfoot, is simply to talk nonsense. Nay, gentle reader, ifyou--and let me suppose I address a lady--if you will give yourselfup for thirty years to doing just whatever your lowest self and notyour best self may like, I will warrant you capable, by the end ofthat time, of child murder at least. I do not think the descent toAvernus is always easy; but it is always possible. Many and manysuch a story was fact in old times; and human nature being the samestill, though under different restraints, equally horrible thingsare constantly in progress towards the windows of the newspapers. 

"But the whole tale has such a melodramatic air!"

That argument simply amounts to this: that, because such subjectsare capable of being employed with great dramatic effect, and ofbeing at the same time very badly represented, therefore they cannottake place in real life. But ask any physician of your acquaintance, whether a story is unlikely simply because it involves terriblethings such as do not occur every day. The fact is, that suchthings, occurring monthly or yearly only, are more easily hiddenaway out of sight. Indeed we can have no sense of security forourselves except in the knowledge that we are striving up and away, and therefore cannot be sinking nearer to the region of such awfulpossibilities. 

Yet, as I said before, I am afraid I have given it too large a spacein my narrative. Only it so forcibly reminded me at the time of theexpression I could not understand upon Miss Oldcastle's face, andsince then has been so often recalled by circumstances and events, that I felt impelled to record it in full. And now I have done withit. 

I left the old man with thanks for the kind reception he had givenme, and walked home, revolving many things with which I shall notdetain the attention of my reader. Indeed my thoughts were confusedand troubled, and would ill bear analysis or record. I shut myselfup in my study, and tried to read a sermon of Jeremy Taylor. But itwould not do. I fell fast asleep over it at last, and wokerefreshed. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

WHAT I PREACHED. 

During the suffering which accompanied the disappointment at which Ihave already hinted, I did not think it inconsistent with the manlyspirit in which I was resolved to endure it, to seek consolationfrom such a source as the New Testament--if mayhap consolation forsuch a trouble was to be found there. Whereupon, a little to mysurprise, I discovered that I could not read the Epistles at all. For I did not then care an atom for the theological discussions inwhich I had been interested before, and for the sake of which I hadread those epistles. Now that I was in trouble, what to me was thatphilosophical theology staring me in the face from out the sacredpage? Ah! reader, do not misunderstand me. All reading of the Bookis not reading of the Word. And many that are first shall be lastand the last first. I know NOW that it was Jesus Christ and nottheology that filled the hearts of the men that wrote thoseepistles--Jesus Christ, the living, loving God-Man, whom Ifound--not in the Epistles, but in the Gospels. The Gospels containwhat the apostles preached--the Epistles what they wrote after thepreaching. And until we understand the Gospel, the good news ofJesus Christ our brother-king--until we understand Him, until wehave His Spirit, promised so freely to them that ask it--all theEpistles, the words of men who were full of Him, and wrote out ofthat fulness, who loved Him so utterly that by that very love theywere lifted into the air of pure reason and right, and would die forHim, and did die for Him, without two thoughts about it, in the verysimplicity of NO CHOICE--the Letters, I say, of such men are to us asealed book. Until we love the Lord so as to do what He tells us, wehave no right to have an opinion about what one of those men meant;for all they wrote is about things beyond us. The simplest woman whotries not to judge her neighbour, or not to be anxious for themorrow, will better know what is best to know, than the best-readbishop without that one simple outgoing of his highest nature in theeffort to do the will of Him who thus spoke. 

But I have, as is too common with me, been led away by my feelingsfrom the path to the object before me. What I wanted to say wasthis: that, although I could make nothing of the epistles, could seeno possibility of consolation for my distress springing from them, Ifound it altogether different when I tried the Gospel once more. Indeed, it then took such a hold of me as it had never taken before. Only that is simply saying nothing. I found out that I had knownnothing at all about it; that I had only a certainsurface-knowledge, which tended rather to ignorance, because itfostered the delusion that I did know. Know that man, Christ Jesus!Ah! Lord, I would go through fire and water to sit the last at Thytable in Thy kingdom; but dare I say now I KNOW Thee!--But Thou artthe Gospel, for Thou art the Way, the Truth, and the Life; and Ihave found Thee the Gospel. For I found, as I read, that Thy verypresence in my thoughts, not as the theologians show Thee, but asThou showedst Thyself to them who report Thee to us, smoothed thetroubled waters of my spirit, so that, even while the storm lasted, I was able to walk upon them to go to Thee. And when those watersbecame clear, I most rejoiced in their clearness because theymirrored Thy form--because Thou wert there to my vision--the oneIdeal, the perfect man, the God perfected as king of men by workingout His Godhood in the work of man; revealing that God and man areone; that to serve God, a man must be partaker of the Divine nature;that for a man's work to be done thoroughly, God must come and do itfirst Himself; that to help men, He must be what He is--man in God, God in man--visibly before their eyes, or to the hearing of theirears. So much I saw. 

And therefore, when I was once more in a position to help myfellows, what could I want to give them but that which was the verybread and water of life to me--the Saviour himself? And how was Ito do this?--By trying to represent the man in all the simplicity ofHis life, of His sayings and doings, of His refusals to say ordo. --I took the story from the beginning, and told them about theBaby; trying to make the fathers and mothers, and all whose love forchildren supplied the lack of fatherhood and motherhood, feel thatit was a real baby-boy. And I followed the life on and on, tryingto show them how He felt, as far as one might dare to touch suchsacred things, when He did so and so, or said so and so; and whatHis relation to His father and mother and brothers and sisters was, and to the different kinds of people who came about Him. And I triedto show them what His sayings meant, as far as I understood themmyself, and where I could not understand them I just told them so, and said I hoped for more light by and by to enable me to understandthem; telling them that that hope was a sharp goad to my resolution, driving me on to do my duty, because I knew that only as I did myduty would light go up in my heart, making me wise to understand theprecious words of my Lord. And I told them that if they would try todo their duty, they would find more understanding from that thanfrom any explanation I could give them. 

And so I went on from Sunday to Sunday. And the number of peoplethat slept grew less and less, until, at last, it was reduced to thechurchwarden, Mr Brownrigg, and an old washerwoman, who, poor thing, stood so much all the week, that sitting down with her was likegoing to bed, and she never could do it, as she told me, withoutgoing to sleep. I, therefore, called upon her every Monday morning, and had five minutes' chat with her as she stood at her wash-tub, wishing to make up to her for her drowsiness; and thinking that if Icould once get her interested in anything, she might be able to keepawake a little while at the beginning of the sermon; for she gave meno chance of interesting her on Sundays--going fast asleep themoment I stood up to preach. I never got so far as that, however;and the only fact that showed me I had made any impression upon her, beyond the pleasure she always manifested when I appeared on theMonday, was, that, whereas all my linen had been very badly washedat first, a decided improvement took place after a while, beginningwith my surplice and bands, and gradually extending itself to myshirts and handkerchiefs; till at last even Mrs Pearson was unableto find any fault with the poor old sleepy woman's work. For MrBrownrigg, I am not sure that the sense of any one sentence I everuttered, down to the day of his death, entered into his brain--Idare not say his mind or heart. With regard to him, and millionsbesides, I am more than happy to obey my Lord's command, and notjudge. 

But it was not long either before my congregations began to improve, whatever might be the cause. I could not help hoping that it wasreally because they liked to hear the Gospel, that is, the good newsabout Christ himself. And I always made use of the knowledge I hadof my individual hearers, to say what I thought would do them good. Not that I ever preached AT anybody; I only sought to explain theprinciples of things in which I knew action of some sort wasdemanded from them. For I remembered how our Lord's sermon againstcovetousness, with the parable of the rich man with the little barn, had for its occasion the request of a man that our Lord wouldinterfere to make his brother share with him; which He declining todo, yet gave both brothers a lesson such as, if they wished to dowhat was right, would help them to see clearly what was the rightthing to do in this and every such matter. Clear the mind's eye, bywashing away the covetousness, and the whole nature would be full oflight, and the right walk would speedily follow. 

Before long, likewise, I was as sure of seeing the pale face ofThomas Weir perched, like that of a man beheaded for treason, uponthe apex of the gablet of the old tomb, as I was of hearing thewonderful playing of that husky old organ, of which I have spokenonce before. I continued to pay him a visit every now and then; andI assure you, never was the attempt to be thoroughly honest towardsa man better understood or more appreciated than my attempt was bythe ATHEISTICAL carpenter. The man was no more an atheist than Davidwas when he saw the wicked spreading like a green bay-tree, and wastroubled at the sight. He only wanted to see a God in whom he couldtrust. And if I succeeded at all in making him hope that there mightbe such a God, it is to me one of the most precious seals of myministry. 

But it was now getting very near Christmas, and there was one personwhom I had never yet seen at church: that was Catherine Weir. Ithought, at first, it could hardly be that she shrunk from beingseen; for how then could she have taken to keeping a shop, where shemust be at the beck of every one? I had several times gone andbought tobacco of her since that first occasion; and I had told myhousekeeper to buy whatever she could from her, instead of going tothe larger shop in the place; at which Mrs Pearson had grumbled agood deal, saying how could the things be so good out of a poky shoplike that? But I told her I did not care if the things were notquite as good; for it would be of more consequence to Catherine tohave the custom, than it would be to me to have the one lump ofsugar I put in my tea of a morning one shade or even two shadeswhiter. So I had contrived to keep up a kind of connexion with her, although I saw that any attempt at conversation was so distastefulto her, that it must do harm until something should have broughtabout a change in her feelings; though what feeling wanted changing, I could not at first tell. I came to the conclusion that she hadbeen wronged grievously, and that this wrong operating on a naturesimilar to her father's, had drawn all her mind to brood over it. The world itself, the whole order of her life, everything about her, would seem then to have wronged her; and to speak to her of religionwould only rouse her scorn, and make her feel as if God himself, ifthere were a God, had wronged her too. Evidently, likewise, she hadthat peculiarity of strong, undeveloped natures, of being unable, once possessed by one set of thoughts, to get rid of it again, or tosee anything except in the shadow of those thoughts. I had no doubt, however, at last, that she was ashamed of her position in the eyesof society, although a hitherto indomitable pride had upheld her toface it so far as was necessary to secure her independence; both ofwhich--pride and shame--prevented her from appearing where it wasunnecessary, and especially in church. I could do nothing more thanwait for a favourable opportunity. I could invent no way of reachingher yet; for I had soon found that kindness to her boy was regardedrather in the light of an insult to her. I should have been greatlypuzzled to account for his being such a sweet little fellow, had Inot known that he was a great deal with his aunt and grandfather. Amore attentive and devout worshipper was not in the congregationthan that little boy. 

Before going on to speak of another of the most remarkable of myparishioners, whom I have just once mentioned I believe already, Ishould like to say that on three several occasions before ChristmasI had seen Judy look grave. She was always quite well-behaved inchurch, though restless, as one might expect. But on these occasionsshe was not only attentive, but grave, as if she felt something orother. I will not mention what subjects I was upon at those times, because the mention of them would not, in the minds of my readers, at all harmonise with the only notion of Judy they can yet bypossibility have. 

For Mrs Oldcastle, I never saw her change countenance or evenexpression at anything--I mean in church. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE ORGANIST. 

On the afternoon of my second Sunday at Marshmallows, I was standingin the churchyard, casting a long shadow in the light of thedeclining sun. I was reading the inscription upon an old headstone, for I thought everybody was gone; when I heard a door open, and shutagain before I could turn. I saw at once that it must have been alittle door in the tower, almost concealed from where I stood by adeep buttress. I had never seen the door open, and I had neverinquired anything about it, supposing it led merely into the tower. 

After a moment it opened again, and, to my surprise, out came, stooping his tall form to get his gray head clear of the lowarchway, a man whom no one could pass without looking after him. Tall, and strongly built, he had the carriage of a military man, without an atom of that sternness which one generally finds in thefaces of those accustomed to command. He had a large face, withlarge regular features, and large clear gray eyes, all of whichunited to express an exceeding placidity or repose. It shone withintelligence--a mild intelligence--no way suggestive of profundity, although of geniality. Indeed, there was a little too muchexpression. The face seemed to express ALL that lay beneath it. 

I was not satisfied with the countenance; and yet it looked quitegood. It was somehow a too well-ordered face. It was quite Greek inits outline; and marvellously well kept and smooth, considering thatthe beard, to which razors were utterly strange, and which descendedhalf-way down his breast, would have been as white as snow exceptfor a slight yellowish tinge. His eyebrows were still very dark, only just touched with the frost of winter. His hair, too, as I sawwhen he lifted his hat, was still wonderfully dark for the conditionof his beard. --It flashed into my mind, that this must be theorganist who played so remarkably. Somehow I had not happened yet toinquire about him. But there was a stateliness in this man amountingalmost to consciousness of dignity; and I was a little bewildered. His clothes were all of black, very neat and clean, butold-fashioned and threadbare. They bore signs of use, but more signsof time and careful keeping. I would have spoken to him, butsomething in the manner in which he bowed to me as he passed, prevented me, and I let him go unaccosted. 

The sexton coming out directly after, and proceeding to lock thedoor, I was struck by the action. "What IS he locking the door for?"I said to myself. But I said nothing to him, because I had notanswered the question myself yet. 

"Who is that gentleman, " I asked, "who came out just now?"

"That is Mr Stoddart, sir, " he answered. 

I thought I had heard the name in the neighbourhood before. 

"Is it he who plays the organ?" I asked. 

"That he do, sir. He's played our organ for the last ten year, eversince he come to live at the Hall. "

"What Hall?"

"Why the Hall, to be sure, --Oldcastle Hall, you know. "

And then it dawned on my recollection that I had heard Judy mentionher uncle Stoddart. But how could he be her uncle?

"Is he a relation of the family?" I asked. 

"He's a brother-in-law, I believe, of the old lady, sir, but however he come to live there I don't know. It's no such bindingconnexion, you know, sir. He's been in the milintairy line, Ibelieve, sir, in the Ingies, or somewheres. "

I do not think I shall have any more strange parishioners to presentto my readers; at least I do not remember any more just at thismoment. And this one, as the reader will see, I positively could notkeep out. 

A military man from India! a brother-in-law of Mrs Oldcastle, choosing to live with her! an entrancing performer upon an old, asthmatic, dry-throated church organ! taking no trouble to make theclergyman's acquaintance, and passing him in the churchyard with acourteous bow, although his face was full of kindliness, if not ofkindness! I could not help thinking all this strange. And yet--willthe reader cease to accord me credit when I assert it?--although Ihad quite intended to inquire after him when I left the vicarage togo to the Hall, and had even thought of him when sitting with MrsOldcastle, I never thought of him again after going with Judy, andleft the house without having made a single inquiry after him. Nordid I think of him again till just as I was passing under theoutstretched neck of one of those serpivolants on the gate; and whatmade me think of him then, I cannot in the least imagine; but Iresolved at once that I would call upon him the following week, lesthe should think that the fact of his having omitted to call upon mehad been the occasion of such an apparently pointed omission on mypart. For I had long ago determined to be no further guided by therules of society than as they might aid in bringing about trueneighbourliness, and if possible friendliness and friendship. Wherever they might interfere with these, I would disregard them--asfar on the other hand as the disregard of them might tend to bringabout the results I desired. 

When, carrying out this resolution, I rang the doorbell at the Hall, and inquired whether Mr Stoddart was at home, the butler stared;and, as I simply continued gazing in return, and waiting, heanswered at length, with some hesitation, as if he were picking andchoosing his words:

"Mr Stoddart never calls upon any one, sir. "

"I am not complaining of Mr Stoddart, " I answered, wishing to putthe man at his ease. 

"But nobody calls upon Mr Stoddart, " he returned. 

"That's very unkind of somebody, surely, " I said. 

"But he doesn't want anybody to call upon him, sir. "

"Ah! that's another matter. I didn't know that. Of course, nobodyhas a right to intrude upon anybody. However, as I happen to havecome without knowing his dislike to being visited, perhaps you willtake him my card, and say that if it is not disagreeable to him, Ishould like exceedingly to thank him in person for his sermon on theorgan last Sunday. "

He had played an exquisite voluntary in the morning. 

"Give my message exactly, if you please, " I said, as I followed theman into the hall. 

"I will try, sir, " he answered. "But won't you come up-stairs tomistress's room, sir, while I take this to Mr Stoddart?"

"No, I thank you, " I answered. "I came to call upon Mr Stoddartonly, and I will wait the result of you mission here in the hall. "

The man withdrew, and I sat down on a bench, and amused myself withlooking at the portraits about me. I learned afterwards that theyhad hung, till some thirty years before, in a long galleryconnecting the main part of the house with that portion to which theturret referred to so often in Old Weir's story was attached. Oneparticularly pleased me. It was the portrait of a young woman--verylovely--but with an expression both sad and--scared, I think, wouldbe the readiest word to communicate what I mean. It was indubitably, indeed remarkably, like Miss Oldcastle. And I learned afterwardsthat it was the portrait of Mrs Oldcastle's grandmother, that veryMrs Crowfoot mentioned in Weir's story. It had been taken about sixmonths after her marriage, and about as many before her death. 

The butler returned, with the request that I would follow him. Heled me up the grand staircase, through a passage at right angles tothat which led to the old lady's room, up a narrow circularstaircase at the end of the passage, across a landing, then up astraight steep narrow stair, upon which two people could not passwithout turning sideways and then squeezing. At the top of this Ifound myself in a small cylindrical lobby, papered in blocks ofstone. There was no door to be seen. It was lighted by a conicalskylight. My conductor gave a push against the wall. Certain blocksyielded, and others came forward. In fact a door revolved on centralpivots, and we were admitted to a chamber crowded with books fromfloor to ceiling, arranged with wonderful neatness and solidity. From the centre of the ceiling, whence hung a globular lamp, radiated what I took to be a number of strong beams supporting afloor above; for our ancestors put the ceiling above the beams, instead of below them, as we do, and gained in space if they lost inquietness. But I soon found out my mistake. Those radiating beamswere in reality book-shelves. For on each side of those I passedunder I could see the gilded backs of books standing closely rangedtogether. I had never seen the connivance before, nor, I presume, was it to be seen anywhere else. 

"How does Mr Stoddart reach those books?" I asked my conductor. 

"I don't exactly know, sir, " whispered the butler. "His own mancould tell you, I dare say. But he has a holiday to-day; and I donot think he would explain it either; for he says his master allowsno interference with his contrivances. I believe, however, he doesnot use a ladder. "

There was no one in the room, and I saw no entrance but that bywhich we had entered. The next moment, however, a nest of shelvesrevolved in front of me, and there Mr Stoddart stood withoutstretched hand. 

"You have found me at last, Mr Walton, and I am glad to see you, " hesaid. 

He led me into an inner room, much larger than the one I had passedthrough. 

"I am glad, " I replied, "that I did not know, till the butler toldme, your unwillingness to be intruded upon; for I fear, had I knownit, I should have been yet longer a stranger to you. "

"You are no stranger to me. I have heard you read prayers, and Ihave heard you preach. "

"And I have heard you play; so you are no stranger to me either. "

"Well, before we say another word, " said Mr Stoddart, "I must justsay one word about this report of my unsociable disposition. --Iencourage it; but am very glad to see you, notwithstanding. --Do sitdown. "

I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his word. 

"I was so bored with visits after I came, visits which were to meutterly uninteresting, that I was only too glad when the unusualnature of some of my pursuits gave rise to the rumour that I wasmad. The more people say I am mad, the better pleased I am, so longas they are satisfied with my own mode of shutting myself up, and donot attempt to carry out any fancies of their own in regard to mypersonal freedom. "

Upon this followed some desultory conversation, during which I tooksome observations of the room. Like the outer room, it was full ofbooks from floor to ceiling. But the ceiling was divided intocompartments, harmoniously coloured. 

"What a number of books you have!" I observed. 

"Not a great many, " he answered. "But I think there is hardly one ofthem with which I have not some kind of personal acquaintance. Ithink I could almost find you any one you wanted in the dark, or inthe twilight at least, which would allow me to distinguish whetherthe top edge was gilt, red, marbled, or uncut. I have bound a coupleof hundred or so of them myself. I don't think you could tell thework from a tradesman's. I'll give you a guinea for the poor-box ifyou pick out three of my binding consecutively. "

I accepted the challenge; for although I could not bind a book, Iconsidered myself to have a keen eye for the outside finish. Afterlooking over the backs of a great many, I took one down, examined alittle further, and presented it. 

"You are right. Now try again. "

Again I was successful, although I doubted. 

"And now for the last, " he said. 

Once more I was right. 

"There is your guinea, " said he, a little mortified. 

"No, " I answered. "I do not feel at liberty to take it, because, totell the truth, the last was a mere guess, nothing more. "

Mr Stoddart looked relieved. 

"You are more honest than most of your profession, " he said. "But Iam far more pleased to offer you the guinea upon the smallest doubtof your having won it. "

"I have no claim upon it. "

"What! Couldn't you swallow a small scruple like that for the sakeof the poor even? Well, I don't believe YOU could. --Oblige me bytaking this guinea for some one or other of your poor people. But IAM glad you weren't sure of that last book. I am indeed. "

I took the guinea, and put it in my purse. 

"But, " he resumed, "you won't do, Mr Walton. You're not fit for yourprofession. You won't tell a lie for God's sake. You won't dodgeabout a little to keep all right between Jove and his wearyparishioners. You won't cheat a little for the sake of the poor! Youwouldn't even bamboozle a little at a bazaar!"

"I should not like to boast of my principles, " I answered; "for themoment one does so, they become as the apples of Sodom. Butassuredly I would not favour a fiction to keep a world out of hell. The hell that a lie would keep any man out of is doubtless the verybest place for him to go to. It is truth, yes, The Truth that savesthe world. "

"You are right, I daresay. You are more sure about it than I amthough. "

"Let us agree where we can, " I said, "first of all; and that willmake us able to disagree, where we must, without quarrelling. "

"Good, " he said--"Would you like to see my work shop?"

"Very much, indeed, " I answered, heartily. 

"Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics?"

"I used to do so as a boy. But of course I have little time now foranything of the sort. "

"Ah! of course. "

He pushed a compartment of books. It yielded, and we entered a smallcloset. In another moment I found myself leaving the floor, and inyet a moment we were on the floor of an upper room. 

"What a nice way of getting up-stairs!" I said. 

"There is no other way of getting to this room, " answered MrStoddart. "I built it myself; and there was no room for stairs. Thisis my shop. In my library I only read my favourite books. Here Iread anything I want to read; write anything I want to write; bindmy books; invent machines; and amuse myself generally. Take achair. "

I obeyed, and began to look about me. 

The room had many books in detached book-cases. There were variousbenches against the walls between, --one a bookbinder's; another acarpenter's; a third had a turning-lathe; a fourth had an iron vicefixed on it, and was evidently used for working in metal. Besidesthese, for it was a large room, there were several tables withchemical apparatus upon them, Florence-flasks, retorts, sand-baths, and such like; while in a corner stood a furnace. 

"What an accumulation of ways and means you have about you!" I said;"and all, apparently, to different ends. "

"All to the same end, if my object were understood. "

"I presume I must ask no questions as to that object?"

"It would take time to explain. I have theories of education. Ithink a man has to educate himself into harmony. Therefore he mustopen every possible window by which the influences of the All maycome in upon him. I do not think any man complete without a perfectdevelopment of his mechanical faculties, for instance, and Iencourage them to develop themselves into such windows. "

"I do not object to your theory, provided you do not put it forwardas a perfect scheme of human life. If you did, I should have somequestions to ask you about it, lest I should misunderstand you. "

He smiled what I took for a self-satisfied smile. There was nothingoffensive in it, but it left me without anything to reply to. Noembarrassment followed, however, for a rustling motion in the roomthe same instant attracted my attention, and I saw, to my surprise, and I must confess, a little to my confusion, Miss Oldcastle. Shewas seated in a corner, reading from a quarto lying upon her knees. 

"Oh! you didn't know my niece was here? To tell the truth, I forgother when I brought you up, else I would have introduced you. "

"That is not necessary, uncle, " said Miss Oldcastle, closing herbook. 

I was by her instantly. She slipped the quarto from her knee, andtook my offered hand. 

"Are you fond of old books?" I said, not having anything better tosay. 

"Some old books, " she answered. 

"May I ask what book you were reading?"

"I will answer you--under protest, " she said, with a smile. 

"I withdraw the question at once, " I returned. 

"I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a volume of Jacob Behmen. "

"Do you understand him?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Well, I have made but little attempt, " I answered. "Indeed, it wasonly as I passed through London last that I bought his works; and Iam sorry to find that one of the plates is missing from my copy. "

"Which plate is it? It is not very easy, I understand, to procure aperfect copy. One of my uncle's copies has no two volumes boundalike. Each must have belonged to a different set. "

"I can't tell you what the plate is. But there are only three ofthose very curious unfolding ones in my third volume, and thereshould be four. "

"I do not think so. Indeed, I am sure you are wrong. "

"I am glad to hear it--though to be glad that the world does notpossess what I thought I only was deprived of, is selfishness, coverit over as one may with the fiction of a perfect copy. "

"I don't know, " she returned, without any response to what I said. "I should always like things perfect myself. "

"Doubtless, " I answered; and thought it better to try anotherdirection. 

"How is Mrs Oldcastle?" I asked, feeling in its turn the reproach ofhypocrisy; for though I could have suffered, I hope, in my personand goods and reputation, to make that woman other than she was, Icould not say that I cared one atom whether she was in health ornot. Possibly I should have preferred the latter member of thealternative; for the suffering of the lower nature is as a fire thatdrives the higher nature upwards. So I felt rather hypocritical whenI asked Miss Oldcastle after her. 

"Quite well, thank you, " she answered, in a tone of indifference, which implied either that she saw through me, or shared in myindifference. I could not tell which. 

"And how is Miss Judy?" I inquired. 

"A little savage, as usual. "

"Not the worse for her wetting, I hope. "

"Oh! dear no. There never was health to equal that child's. Itbelongs to her savage nature. "

"I wish some of us were more of savages, then, " I returned; for Isaw signs of exhaustion in her eyes which moved my sympathy. 

"You don't mean me, Mr Walton, I hope. For if you do, I assure youyour interest is quite thrown away. Uncle will tell you I am asstrong as an elephant. "

But here came a slight elevation of her person; and a shadow at thesame moment passed over her face. I saw that she felt she ought notto have allowed herself to become the subject of conversation. 

Meantime her uncle was busy at one of his benches filing away at apiece of brass fixed in the vice. He had thick gloves on. And, indeed, it had puzzled me before to think how he could have so manykinds of work, and yet keep his hands so smooth and white as theywere. I could not help thinking the results could hardly be of themost useful description if they were all accomplished without someloss of whiteness and smoothness in the process. Even the feet thatkeep the garments clean must be washed themselves in the end. 

When I glanced away from Miss Oldcastle in the embarrassmentproduced by the repulsion of her last manner, I saw Judy in theroom. At the same moment Miss Oldcastle rose. 

"What is the matter, Judy?" she said. 

"Grannie wants you, " said Judy. 

Miss Oldcastle left the room, and Judy turned to me. "How do you do, Mr Walton?" she said. 

"Quite well, thank you, Judy, " I answered. "Your uncle admits you tohis workshop, then?"

"Yes, indeed. He would feel rather dull, sometimes, without me. Wouldn't you, Uncle Stoddart?"

"Just as the horses in the field would feel dull without thegad-fly, Judy, " said Mr Stoddart, laughing. 

Judy, however, did not choose to receive the laugh as a scholiumexplanatory of the remark, and was gone in a moment, leaving MrStoddart and myself alone. I must say he looked a little troubled atthe precipitate retreat of the damsel; but he recovered himself witha smile, and said to me, "I wonder what speech I shall make next to drive you away, MrWalton. "

"I am not so easily got rid of, Mr Stoddart, " I answered. "And asfor taking offence, I don't like it, and therefore I never take it. But tell me what you are doing now. "

"I have been working for some time at an attempt after a perpetualmotion, but, I must confess, more from a metaphysical or logicalpoint of view than a mechanical one. "

Here he took a drawing from a shelf, explanatory of his plan. 

"You see, " he said, "here is a top made of platinum, the heaviest ofmetals, except iridium--which it would be impossible to procureenough of, and which would be difficult to work into the propershape. It is surrounded you will observe, by an air-tight receiver, communicating by this tube with a powerful air-pump. The plate uponwhich the point of the top rests and revolves is a diamond; and Iought to have mentioned that the peg of the top is a diamondlikewise. This is, of course, for the sake of reducing the friction. By this apparatus communicating with the top, through the receiver, I set the top in motion--after exhausting the air as far aspossible. Still there is the difficulty of the friction of thediamond point upon the diamond plate, which must ultimately occasionrepose. To obviate this, I have constructed here, underneath, asmall steam-engine which shall cause the diamond plate to revolve atprecisely the same rate of speed as the top itself. This, of course, will prevent all friction. "

"Not that with the unavoidable remnant of air, however, " I venturedto suggest. 

"That is just my weak point, " he answered. "But that will be so verysmall!"

"Yes; but enough to deprive the top of PERPETUAL motion. "

"But suppose I could get over that difficulty, would the contrivancehave a right to the name of a perpetual motion? For you observe thatthe steam-engine below would not be the cause of the motion. Thatcomes from above, here, and is withdrawn, finally withdrawn. "

"I understand perfectly, " I answered. "At least, I think I do. But Ireturn the question to you: Is a motion which, although not caused, is ENABLED by another motion, worthy of the name of a perpetualmotion; seeing the perpetuity of motion has not to do merely withtime, but with the indwelling of self-generative power--renewingitself constantly with the process of exhaustion?"

He threw down his file on the bench. 

"I fear you are right, " he said. "But you will allow it would havemade a very pretty machine. "

"Pretty, I will allow, " I answered, "as distinguished frombeautiful. For I can never dissociate beauty from use. "

"You say that! with all the poetic things you say in your sermons!For I am a sharp listener, and none the less such that you do notsee me. I have a loophole for seeing you. And I flatter myself, therefore, I am the only person in the congregation on a level withyou in respect of balancing advantages. I cannot contradict you, andyou cannot address me. "

"Do you mean, then, that whatever is poetical is useless?" I asked. 

"Do you assert that whatever is useful is beautiful?" he retorted. 

"A full reply to your question would need a ream of paper and aquarter of quills, " I answered; "but I think I may venture so far asto say that whatever subserves a noble end must in itself bebeautiful. "

"Then a gallows must be beautiful because it subserves the noble endof ridding the world of malefactors?" he returned, promptly. 

I had to think for a moment before I could reply. 

"I do not see anything noble in the end, " I answered. 

"If the machine got rid of malefaction, it would, indeed, have anoble end. But if it only compels it to move on, as a constabledoes--from this world into another--I do not, I say, see anything sonoble in that end. The gallows cannot be beautiful. "

"Ah, I see. You don't approve of capital punishments. "

"I do not say that. An inevitable necessity is something verydifferent from a noble end. To cure the diseased mind is the noblestof ends; to make the sinner forsake his ways, and the unrighteousman his thoughts, the loftiest of designs; but to punish him forbeing wrong, however necessary it may be for others, cannot, ifdissociated from the object of bringing good out of evil, be calledin any sense a NOBLE end. I think now, however, it would be but fairin you to give me some answer to my question. Do you think thepoetic useless?"

"I think it is very like my machine. It may exercise the facultieswithout subserving any immediate progress. "

"It is so difficult to get out of the region of the poetic, that Icannot think it other than useful: it is so widespread. The uselesscould hardly be so nearly universal. But I should like to ask youanother question: What is the immediate effect of anything poeticupon your mind?"

"Pleasure, " he answered. 

"And is pleasure good or bad?"

"Sometimes the one, sometimes the other. "

"In itself?"

"I should say so. "

"I should not. "

"Are you not, then, by your very profession, more or less an enemyof pleasure?"

"On the contrary, I believe that pleasure is good, and does good, and urges to good. CARE is the evil thing. "

"Strange doctrine for a clergyman. "

"Now, do not misunderstand me, Mr Stoddart. That might not hurt you, but it would distress me. Pleasure, obtained by wrong, is poison andhorror. But it is not the pleasure that hurts, it is the wrong thatis in it that hurts; the pleasure hurts only as it leads to morewrong. I almost think myself, that if you could make everybodyhappy, half the evil would vanish from the earth. "

"But you believe in God?"

"I hope in God I do. "

"How can you then think that He would not destroy evil at such acheap and pleasant rate. "

"Because He wants to destroy ALL the evil, not the half of it; anddestroy it so that it shall not grow again; which it would be sureto do very soon if it had no antidote but happiness. As soon as mengot used to happiness, they would begin to sin again, and so lose itall. But care is distrust. I wonder now if ever there was a man whodid his duty, and TOOK NO THOUGHT. I wish I could get the testimonyof such a man. Has anybody actually tried the plan?"

But here I saw that I was not taking Mr Stoddart with me (as the oldphrase was). The reason I supposed to be, that he had never beentroubled with much care. But there remained the question, whether hetrusted in God or the Bank?

I went back to the original question. 

"But I should be very sorry you should think, that to give pleasurewas my object in saying poetic things in the pulpit. If I do so, itis because true things come to me in their natural garments ofpoetic forms. What you call the POETIC is only the outer beauty thatbelongs to all inner or spiritual beauty--just as a lovelyface--mind, I say LOVELY, not PRETTY, not HANDSOME--is the outwardand visible presence of a lovely mind. Therefore, saying I cannotdissociate beauty from use, I am free to say as many poeticthings--though, mind, I don't claim them: you attribute them tome--as shall be of the highest use, namely, to embody and reveal thetrue. But a machine has material use for its end. The most grotesquemachine I ever saw that DID something, I felt to be in its own kindbeautiful; as God called many fierce and grotesque things good whenHe made the world--good for their good end. But your machine doesnothing more than raise the metaphysical doubt and question, whetherit can with propriety be called a perpetual motion or not?"

To this Mr Stoddart making no reply, I take the opportunity of thebreak in our conversation to say to my readers, that I know therewas no satisfactory following out of an argument on either side inthe passage of words I have just given. Even the closest reasonerfinds it next to impossible to attend to all the suggestions in hisown mind, not one of which he is willing to lose, to attend at thesame time to everything his antagonist says or suggests, that he maydo him justice, and to keep an even course towards his goal--eachhaving the opposite goal in view. In fact, an argument, howeversimply conducted and honourable, must just resemble a game atfootball; the unfortunate question being the ball, and the numerousand sometimes conflicting thoughts which arise in each mind formingthe two parties whose energies are spent in a succession of kicks. In fact, I don't like argument, and I don't care for the victory. IfI had my way, I would never argue at all. I would spend my energy insetting forth what I believe--as like itself as I could representit, and so leave it to work its own way, which, if it be the rightway, it must work in the right mind, --for Wisdom is justified of herchildren; while no one who loves the truth can be other thananxious, that if he has spoken the evil thing it may return to himvoid: that is a defeat he may well pray for. To succeed in the wrongis the most dreadful punishment to a man who, in the main, ishonest. But I beg to assure my reader I could write a long treatiseon the matter between Mr Stoddart and myself; therefore, if he isnot yet interested in such questions, let him be thankful to me forconsidering such a treatise out of place here. I will only say inbrief, that I believe with all my heart that the true is thebeautiful, and that nothing evil can be other than ugly. If it seemsnot so, it is in virtue of some good mingled with the evil, and notin the smallest degree in virtue of the evil. 

I thought it was time for me to take my leave. But I could not bearto run away with the last word, as it were: so I said, "You put plenty of poetry yourself into that voluntary you playedlast Sunday. I am so much obliged to you for it!"

"Oh! that fugue. You liked it, did you?"

"More than I can tell you. "

"I am very glad. "

"Do you know those two lines of Milton in which he describes such aperformance on the organ?"

"No. Can you repeat them?"

"'His volant touch, Instinct through all proportions, low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue. '"

"That is wonderfully fine. Thank you. That is better than my fugueby a good deal. You have cancelled the obligation. "

"Do you think doing a good turn again is cancelling an obligation? Idon't think an obligation can ever be RETURNED in the sense of beinggot rid of. But I am being hypercritical. "

"Not at all. --Shall I tell you what I was thinking of while playingthat fugue?"

"I should like much to hear. "

"I had been thinking, while you were preaching, of the many fanciesmen had worshipped for the truth; now following this, now followingthat; ever believing they were on the point of laying hold upon her, and going down to the grave empty-handed as they came. "

"And empty-hearted, too?" I asked; but he went on without heedingme. 

"And I saw a vision of multitudes following, following where nothingwas to be seen, with arms outstretched in all directions, someclasping vacancy to their bosoms, some reaching on tiptoe over theheads of their neighbours, and some with hanging heads, and handsclasped behind their backs, retiring hopeless from the chase. "

"Strange!" I said; "for I felt so full of hope while you played, that I never doubted it was hope you meant to express. "

"So I do not doubt I did; for the multitude was full of hope, vainhope, to lay hold upon the truth. And you, being full of the mainexpression, and in sympathy with it, did not heed the undertones ofdisappointment, or the sighs of those who turned their backs on thechase. Just so it is in life. "

"I am no musician, " I returned, "to give you a musical counter toyour picture. But I see a grave man tilling the ground in peace, andthe form of Truth standing behind him, and folding her wings closerand closer over and around him as he works on at his day's labour. "

"Very pretty, " said Mr Stoddart, and said no more. 

"Suppose, " I went on, "that a person knows that he has not laid holdon the truth, is that sufficient ground for his making any furtherassertion than that he has not found it?"

"No. But if he has tried hard and has not found ANYTHING that he cansay is true, he cannot help thinking that most likely there is nosuch thing. "

"Suppose, " I said, "that nobody has found the truth, is thatsufficient ground for saying that nobody ever will find it? or thatthere is no such thing as truth to be found? Are the ages so nearlydone that no chance yet remains? Surely if God has made us to desirethe truth, He has got some truth to cast into the gulf of thatdesire. Shall God create hunger and no food? But possibly a man maybe looking the wrong way for it. You may be using the microscope, when you ought to open both eyes and lift up your head. Or a man maybe finding some truth which is feeding his soul, when he does notthink he is finding any. You know the Fairy Queen. Think how longthe Redcross Knight travelled with the Lady Truth--Una, youknow--without learning to believe in her; and how much longer stillwithout ever seeing her face. For my part, may God give me strengthto follow till I die. Only I will venture to say this, that it isnot by any agony of the intellect that I expect to discover her. "

Mr Stoddart sat drumming silently with his fingers, a half-smile onhis face, and his eyes raised at an angle of forty-five degrees. Ifelt that the enthusiasm with which I had spoken was thrown awayupon him. But I was not going to be ashamed therefore. I would putsome faith in his best nature. 

"But does not, " he said, gently lowering his eyes upon mine after amoment's pause--"does not your choice of a profession imply that youhave not to give chase to a fleeting phantom? Do you not profess tohave, and hold, and therefore teach the truth?"

"I profess only to have caught glimpses of her whitegarments, --those, I mean, of the abstract truth of which you speak. But I have seen that which is eternally beyond her: the ideal in thereal, the living truth, not the truth that I can THINK, but thetruth that thinks itself, that thinks me, that God has thought, yea, that God is, the truth BEING true to itself and to God and to man--Christ Jesus, my Lord, who knows, and feels, and does the truth. Ihave seen Him, and I am both content and unsatisfied. For in Him arehid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. Thomas a Kempis says:'Cui aeternum Verbum loquitur, ille a multis opinionibusexpeditur. '" (He to whom the eternal Word speaks, is set free from apress of opinions. )

I rose, and held out my hand to Mr Stoddart. He rose likewise, andtook it kindly, conducted me to the room below, and ringing thebell, committed me to the care of the butler. 

As I approached the gate, I met Jane Rogers coming back from thevillage. I stopped and spoke to her. Her eyes were very red. 

"Nothing amiss at home, Jane?" I said. 

"No, sir, thank you, " answered Jane, and burst out crying. 

"What is the matter, then? Is your----"

"Nothing's the matter with nobody, sir. "

"Something is the matter with you. "

"Yes, sir. But I'm quite well. "

"I don't want to pry into your affairs; but if you think I can be ofany use to you, mind you come to me. "

"Thank you kindly, sir, " said Jane; and, dropping a courtesy, walkedon with her basket. 

I went to her parents' cottage. As I came near the mill, the youngmiller was standing in the door with his eyes fixed on the ground, while the mill went on hopping behind him. But when he caught sightof me, he turned, and went in, as if he had not seen me. 

"Has he been behaving ill to Jane?" thought I. 

As he evidently wished to avoid me, I passed the mill withoutlooking in at the door, as I was in the habit of doing, and went onto the cottage, where I lifted the latch, and walked in. Both theold people were there, and both looked troubled, though theywelcomed me none the less kindly. 

"I met Jane, " I said, "and she looked unhappy; so I came on to hearwhat was the matter. "

"You oughtn't to be troubled with our small affairs, " said Mrs. Rogers. 

"If the parson wants to know, why, the parson must be told, " saidOld Rogers, smiling cheerily, as if he, at least, would be relievedby telling me. 

"I don't want to know, " I said, "if you don't want to tell me. Butcan I be of any use?"

"I don't think you can, sir, --leastways, I'm afraid not, " said theold woman. 

"I am sorry to say, sir, that Master Brownrigg and his son has cometo words about our Jane; and it's not agreeable to have folk'sdaughter quarrelled over in that way, " said Old Rogers. "What'll bethe upshot on it, I don't know, but it looks bad now. For the fatherhe tells the son that if ever he hear of him saying one word to ourJane, out of the mill he goes, as sure as his name's Dick. Now, it'srather a good chance, I think, to see what the young fellow's madeof, sir. So I tells my old 'oman here; and so I told Jane. Butneither on 'em seems to see the comfort of it somehow. But the NewTestament do say a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave tohis wife. "

"But she ain't his wife yet, " said Mrs Rogers to her husband, whosedrift was not yet evident. 

"No more she can be, 'cept he leaves his father for her. "

"And what'll become of them then, without the mill?"

"You and me never had no mill, old 'oman, " said Rogers; "yet here webe, very nearly ripe now, --ain't us, wife?"

"Medlar-like, Old Rogers, I doubt, --rotten before we're ripe, "replied his wife, quoting a more humorous than refined proverb. 

"Nay, nay, old 'oman. Don't 'e say so. The Lord won't let us rotbefore we're ripe, anyhow. That I be sure on. "

"But, anyhow, it's ail very well to talk. Thou knows how to talk, Rogers. But how will it be when the children comes, and no mill?"

"To grind 'em in, old 'oman?"

Mrs Rogers turned to me, who was listening with real interest, andmuch amusement. 

"I wish you would speak a word to Old Rogers, sir. He never willspeak as he's spoken to. He's always over merry, or over serious. Heeither takes me up short with a sermon, or he laughs me out ofcountenance that I don't know where to look. "

Now I was pretty sure that Rogers's conduct was simple consistency, and that the difficulty arose from his always acting upon one or twoof the plainest principles of truth and right; whereas his wife, good woman--for the bad, old leaven of the Pharisees could not risemuch in her somehow--was always reminding him of certain precepts ofbehaviour to the oblivion of principles. "A bird in the hand, "&c. --"Marry in haste, " &c. --"When want comes in at the door loveflies out at the window, " were amongst her favourite sayings;although not one of them was supported by her own experience. Forinstance, she had married in haste herself, and never, I believe, had once thought of repenting of it, although she had had far morethan the requisite leisure for doing so. And many was the time thatwant had come in at her door, and the first thing it always did wasto clip the wings of Love, and make him less flighty, and moretender and serviceable. So I could not even pretend to read herhusband a lecture. 

"He's a curious man, Old Rogers, " I said. "But as far as I can see, he's in the right, in the main. Isn't he now?"

"Oh, yes, I daresay. I think he's always right about the rights ofthe thing, you know. But a body may go too far that way. It won't doto starve, sir. "

Strange confusion--or, ought I not rather to say?--ordinary andcommonplace confusion of ideas!

"I don't think, " I said, "any one can go too far in the right way. "

"That's just what I want my old 'oman to see, and I can't get itinto her, sir. If a thing's right, it's right, and if a thing'swrong, why, wrong it is. The helm must either be to starboard orport, sir. "

"But why talk of starving?" I said. "Can't Dick work? Who couldthink of starting that nonsense?"

"Why, my old 'oman here. She wants 'em to give it up, and wait forbetter times. The fact is, she don't want to lose the girl. "

"But she hasn't got her at home now. "

"She can have her when she wants her, though--leastways after a bitof warning. Whereas, if she was married, and the consequences afollerin' at her heels, like a man-o'-war with her convoy, she wouldfind she was chartered for another port, she would. "

"Well, you see, sir, Rogers and me's not so young as we once was, and we're likely to be growing older every day. And if there's adifficulty in the way of Jane's marriage, why, I take it as aGodsend. "

"How would you have liked such a Godsend, Mrs Rogers, when you weregoing to be married to your sailor here? What would you have done?"

"Why, whatever he liked to be sure. But then, you see, Dick's not myRogers. "

"But your daughter thinks about him much in the same way as you didabout this dear old man here when he was young. "

"Young people may be in the wrong, _I_ see nothing in DickBrownrigg. "

"But young people may be right sometimes, and old people may bewrong sometimes. "

"I can't be wrong about Rogers. "

"No, but you may be wrong about Dick. "

"Don't you trouble yourself about my old 'oman, sir. She allus wasawk'ard in stays, but she never missed them yet. When she's said hersay, round she comes in the wind like a bird, sir. "

"There's a good old man to stick up for your old wife! Still, I say, they may as well wait a bit. It would be a pity to anger the oldgentleman. "

"What does the young man say to it?"

"Why, he says, like a man, he can work for her as well's the mill, and he's ready, if she is. "

"I am very glad to hear such a good account of him. I shall look in, and have a little chat with him. I always liked the look of him. Good morning, Mrs. Rogers. "

"I 'll see you across the stream, sir, " said the old man, followingme out of the house. 

"You see, sir, " he resumed, as soon as we were outside, "I'm alwaysafeard of taking things out of the Lord's hands. It's the right way, surely, that when a man loves a woman, and has told her so, heshould act like a man, and do as is right. And isn't that the Lord'sway? And can't He give them what's good for them. Mayhap they won'tlove each other the less in the end if Dick has a little bit of thehard work that many a man that the Lord loved none the less has hadbefore him. I wouldn't like to anger the old gentleman, as my wifesays; but if I was Dick, I know what I would do. But don't 'e thinkhard of my wife, sir, for I believe there's a bit of pride in it. She's afeard of bein' supposed to catch at Richard Brownrigg, because he's above us, you know, sir. And I can't altogether blameher, only we ain't got to do with the look o' things, but with thethings themselves. "

"I understand you quite, and I'm very much of your mind. You cantrust me to have a little chat with him, can't you?"

"That I can, sir. "

Here we had come to the boundary of his garden--the busy streamthat ran away, as if it was scared at the labour it had beencompelled to go through, and was now making the best of its speedback to its mother-ocean, to tell sad tales of a world where everylittle brook must do some work ere it gets back to its rest. I badehim good day, jumped across it, and went into the mill, whereRichard was tying the mouth of a sack, as gloomily as the brothersof Joseph must have tied their sacks after his silver cup had beenfound. 

"Why did you turn away from me, as I passed half-an-hour ago, Richard?" I said, cheerily. 

"I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't think you saw me. "

"But supposing I hadn't?--But I won't tease you. I know all aboutit. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, sir. You can't move my father. It's no use talking to him. Henever hears a word anybody says. He never hears a word you say o'Sundays, sir. He won't even believe the Mark Lane Express about theprice of corn. It's no use talking to him, sir. "

"You wouldn't mind if I were to try?"

"No, sir. You can't make matters worse. No more can you make themany better, sir. "

"I don't say I shall talk to him; but I may try it, if I find afitting opportunity. "

"He's always worse--more obstinate, that is, when he's in a goodtemper. So you may choose your opportunity wrong. But it's all thesame. It can make no difference. "

"What are you going to do, then?"

"I would let him do his worst. But Jane doesn't like to go againsther mother. I'm sure I can't think how she should side with myfather against both of us. He never laid her under any suchobligation, I'm sure. "

"There may be more ways than one of accounting for that. You mustmind, however, and not be too hard upon your father. You're quiteright in holding fast to the girl; but mind that vexation does notmake you unjust. "

"I wish my mother were alive. She was the only one that ever couldmanage him. How she contrived to do it nobody could think; butmanage him she did, somehow or other. There's not a husk of use intalking to HIM. "

"I daresay he prides himself on not being moved by talk. But has heever had a chance of knowing Jane--of seeing what kind of a girlshe is?"

"He's seen her over and over. "

"But seeing isn't always believing. "

"It certainly isn't with him. "

"If he could only know her! But don't you be too hard upon him. Anddon't do anything in a hurry. Give him a little time, you know. MrsRogers won't interfere between you and Jane, I am pretty sure. Butdon't push matters till we see. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, and thank you kindly, sir. --Ain't I to see Jane in themeantime?"

"If I were you, I would make no difference. See her as often as youused, which I suppose was as often as you could. I don't think, Isay, that her mother will interfere. Her father is all on yourside. "

I called on Mr Brownrigg; but, as his son had forewarned me, I couldmake nothing of him. He didn't see, when the mill was his property, and Dick was his son, why he shouldn't have his way with them. Andhe was going to have his way with them. His son might marry any ladyin the land; and he wasn't going to throw himself away that way. 

I will not weary my readers with the conversation we had together. All my missiles of argument were lost as it were in a bank of mud, the weight and resistance of which they only increased. Myexperience in the attempt, however, did a little to reconcile me tohis going to sleep in church; for I saw that it could make littledifference whether he was asleep or awake. He, and not Mr. Stoddartin his organ sentry-box, was the only person whom it was absolutelyimpossible to preach to. You might preach AT him; but TO him?--no. 

CHAPTER X. 

MY CHRISTMAS PARTY. 

As Christmas Day drew nearer and nearer, my heart glowed with themore gladness; and the question came more and more pressingly--Could I not do something to make it more really a holiday of theChurch for my parishioners? That most of them would have a littlemore enjoyment on it than they had had all the year through, I hadground to hope; but I wanted to connect this gladness--in theirminds, I mean, for who could dissever them in fact?--with itssource, the love of God, that love manifested unto men in the birthof the Human Babe, the Son of Man. But I would not interfere withthe Christmas Day at home. I resolved to invite as many of myparishioners as would come, to spend Christmas Eve at the Vicarage. 

I therefore had a notice to that purport affixed to the church door;and resolved to send out no personal invitations whatever, so that Imight not give offence by accidental omission. The only personthrown into perplexity by this mode of proceeding was Mrs. Pearson. 

"How many am I to provide for, sir?" she said, with an injured air. 

"For as many as you ever saw in church at one time, " I said. "And ifthere should be too much, why so much the better. It can go to makeChristmas Day the merrier at some of the poorer houses. "

She looked discomposed, for she was not of an easy temper. But shenever ACTED from her temper; she only LOOKED or SPOKE from it. 

"I shall want help, " she said, at length. 

"As much as you like, Mrs. Pearson. I can trust you entirely. "

Her face brightened; and the end showed that I had not trusted heramiss. 

I was a little anxious about the result of the invitation--partlyas indicating the amount of confidence my people placed in me. Butalthough no one said a word to me about it beforehand except OldRogers, as soon as the hour arrived, the people began to come. Andthe first I welcomed was Mr. Brownrigg. 

I had had all the rooms on the ground-floor prepared for theirreception. Tables of provision were set out in every one of them. Myvisitors had tea or coffee, with plenty of bread and butter, whenthey arrived; and the more solid supplies were reserved for a laterpart of the evening. I soon found myself with enough to do. Butbefore long, I had a very efficient staff. For after having hadoccasion, once or twice, to mention something of my plans for theevening, I found my labours gradually diminish, and yet everythingseemed to go right; the fact being that good Mr Boulderstone, in onepart, had cast himself into the middle of the flood, and stood thereimmovable both in face and person, turning its waters into the rightchannel, namely, towards the barn, which I had fitted up for theirreception in a body; while in another quarter, namely, in the barn, Dr Duncan was doing his best, and that was simply somethingfirst-rate, to entertain the people till all should be ready. From akind of instinct these gentlemen had taken upon them to be my staff, almost without knowing it, and very grateful I was. I found, too, that they soon gathered some of the young and more active spiritsabout them, whom they employed in various ways for the good of thecommunity. 

When I came in and saw the goodly assemblage, for I had been busyreceiving them in the house, I could not help rejoicing that mypredecessor had been so fond of farming that he had rented land inthe neighbourhood of the vicarage, and built this large barn, ofwhich I could make a hall to entertain my friends. The night wasfrosty--the stars shining brilliantly overhead--so that, especiallyfor country people, there was little danger in the short passage tobe made to it from the house. But, if necessary, I resolved to havea covered-way built before next time. For how can a man be THEPERSON of a parish, if he never entertains his parishioners? Andreally, though it was lighted only with candles round the walls, andI had not been able to do much for the decoration of the place, Ithought it looked very well, and my heart was glad that ChristmasEve--just as if the Babe had been coming again to us that samenight. And is He not always coming to us afresh in every childlikefeeling that awakes in the hearts of His people?

I walked about amongst them, greeting them, and greeted everywherein turn with kind smiles and hearty shakes of the hand. As often asI paused in my communications for a moment, it was amusing to watchMr. Boulderstone's honest, though awkward endeavours to be at easewith his inferiors; but Dr Duncan was just a sight worth seeing. Very tall and very stately, he was talking now to this old man, nowto that young woman, and every face glistened towards which heturned. There was no condescension about him. He was as polite andcourteous to one as to another, and the smile that every now andthen lighted up his old face, was genuine and sympathetic. No onecould have known by his behaviour that he was not at court. And Ithought--Surely even the contact with such a man will do somethingto refine the taste of my people. I felt more certain than ever thata free mingling of all classes would do more than anything elsetowards binding us all into a wise patriotic nation; would tend tokeep down that foolish emulation which makes one class ape anotherfrom afar, like Ben Jonson's Fungoso, "still lighting short a suit;"would refine the roughness of the rude, and enable the polished tosee with what safety his just share in public matters might becommitted into the hands of the honest workman. If we could onceleave it to each other to give what honour is due; knowing thathonour demanded is as worthless as insult undeserved is hurtless!What has one to do to honour himself? That is and can be no honour. When one has learned to seek the honour that cometh from God only, he will take the withholding of the honour that comes from men veryquietly indeed. 

The only thing that disappointed me was, that there was no one thereto represent Oldcastle Hall. But how could I have everything asuccess at once!--And Catherine Weir was likewise absent. 

After we had spent a while in pleasant talk, and when I thoughtnearly all were with us, I got up on a chair at the end of the barn, and said:--

"Kind friends, --I am very grateful to you for honouring myinvitation as you have done. Permit me to hope that this meetingwill be the first of many, and that from it may grow the yearlycustom in this parish of gathering in love and friendship uponChristmas Eve. When God comes to man, man looks round for hisneighbour. When man departed from God in the Garden of Eden, theonly man in the world ceased to be the friend of the only woman inthe world; and, instead of seeking to bear her burden, became heraccuser to God, in whom he saw only the Judge, unable to perceivethat the Infinite love of the Father had come to punish him intenderness and grace. But when God in Jesus comes back to men, brothers and sisters spread forth their arms to embrace each other, and so to embrace Him. This is, when He is born again in our souls. For, dear friends, what we all need is just to become littlechildren like Him; to cease to be careful about many things, andtrust in Him, seeking only that He should rule, and that we shouldbe made good like Him. What else is meant by 'Seek ye first thekingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall beadded unto you?' Instead of doing so, we seek the things God haspromised to look after for us, and refuse to seek the thing He wantsus to seek--a thing that cannot be given us, except we seek it. Weprofess to think Jesus the grandest and most glorious of men, andyet hardly care to be like Him; and so when we are offered HisSpirit, that is, His very nature within us, for the asking, we willhardly take the trouble to ask for it. But to-night, at least, letall unkind thoughts, all hard judgments of one another, all selfishdesires after our own way, be put from us, that we may welcome theBabe into our very bosoms; that when He comes amongst us--for is Henot like a child still, meek and lowly of heart?--He may not betroubled to find that we are quarrelsome, and selfish, and unjust. "

I came down from the chair, and Mr Brownrigg being the nearest of myguests, and wide awake, for he had been standing, and had indeedbeen listening to every word according to his ability, I shook handswith him. And positively there was some meaning in the grasp withwhich he returned mine. 

I am not going to record all the proceedings of the evening; but Ithink it may be interesting to my readers to know something of howwe spent it. First of all, we sang a hymn about the Nativity. Andthen I read an extract from a book of travels, describing theinterior of an Eastern cottage, probably much resembling the inn inwhich our Lord was born, the stable being scarcely divided fron therest of the house. For I felt that to open the inner eyes even ofthe brain, enabling people to SEE in some measure the reality of theold lovely story, to help them to have what the Scotch philosopherscall a true CONCEPTION of the external conditions and circumstancesof the events, might help to open the yet deeper spiritual eyeswhich alone can see the meaning and truth dwelling in and givingshape to the outward facts. And the extract was listened to with allthe attention I could wish, except, at first, from some youngstersat the further end of the barn, who became, however, perfectly stillas I proceeded. 

After this followed conversation, during which I talked a good dealto Jane Rogers, paying her particular attention indeed, with thehope of a chance of bringing old Mr Brownrigg and her together insome way. 

"How is your mistress, Jane?" I said. 

"Quite well, sir, thank you. I only wish she was here. "

"I wish she were. But perhaps she will come next year. "

"I think she will. I am almost sure she would have liked to cometo-night; for I heard her say"----

"I beg your pardon, Jane, for interrupting you; but I would rathernot be told anything you may have happened to overhear, " I said, ina low voice. 

"Oh, sir!" returned Jane, blushing a dark crimson; "it wasn'tanything particular. "

"Still, if it was anything on which a wrong conjecture might bebuilt"--I wanted to soften it to her--"it is better that one shouldnot be told it. Thank you for your kind intention, though. And now, Jane, " I said, "will you do me a favour?"

"That I will, sir, if I can. "

"Sing that Christmas carol I heard you sing last night to yourmother. "

"I didn't know any one was listening, sir. "

"I know you did not. I came to the door with your father, and westood and listened. "

She looked very frightened. But I would not have asked her had I notknown that she could sing like a bird. 

"I am afraid I shall make a fool of myself, " she said. 

"We should all be willing to run that risk for the sake of others, "I answered. 

"I will try then, sir. "

So she sang, and her clear voice soon silenced the speech all round. 

 "Babe Jesus lay on Mary's lap; The sun shone in His hair: And so it was she saw, mayhap, The crown already there. 

 "For she sang: 'Sleep on, my little King! Bad Herod dares not come; Before Thee, sleeping, holy thing, Wild winds would soon be dumb. 

 "'I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet, My King, so long desired; Thy hands shall never be soil'd, my sweet, Thy feet shall never be tired. 

 "'For Thou art the King of men, my son; Thy crown I see it plain; And men shall worship Thee, every one, And cry, Glory! Amen. "

 "Babe Jesus open'd His eyes so wide! At Mary look'd her Lord. And Mary stinted her song and sigh'd. Babe Jesus said never a word. "

When Jane had done singing, I asked her where she had learned thecarol; and she answered, --

"My mistress gave it me. There was a picture to it of the Baby onhis mother's knee. "

"I never saw it, " I said. "Where did you get the tune?"

"I thought it would go with a tune I knew; and I tried it, and itdid. But I was not fit to sing to you, sir. "

"You must have quite a gift of song, Jane!" I said. 

"My father and mother can both sing. "

Mr Brownrigg was seated on the other side of me, and had apparentlylistened with some interest. His face was ten degrees less stupidthan it usually was. I fancied I saw even a glimmer of somesatisfaction in it. I turned to Old Rogers. 

"Sing us a song, Old Rogers, " I said. 

"I'm no canary at that, sir; and besides, my singing days be over. Iadvise you to ask Dr. Duncan there. He CAN sing. "

I rose and said to the assembly:

"My friends, if I did not think God was pleased to see us enjoyingourselves, I should have no heart for it myself. I am going to askour dear friend Dr. Duncan to give us a song. --If you please, Dr. Duncan. "

"I am very nearly too old, " said the doctor; "but I will try. "

His voice was certainly a little feeble; but the song was not muchthe worse for it. And a more suitable one for all the company hecould hardly have pitched upon. 

 "There is a plough that has no share, But a coulter that parteth keen and fair. But the furrows they rise To a terrible size, Or ever the plough hath touch'd them there. 'Gainst horses and plough in wrath they shake: The horses are fierce; but the plough will break. 

 "And the seed that is dropt in those furrows of fear, Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear. Down it drops plumb, Where no spring times come; And here there needeth no harrowing gear: Wheat nor poppy nor any leaf Will cover this naked ground of grief. 

 "But a harvest-day will come at last When the watery winter all is past; The waves so gray Will be shorn away By the angels' sickles keen and fast; And the buried harvest of the sea Stored in the barns of eternity. "

Genuine applause followed the good doctor's song. I turned to MissBoulderstone, from whom I had borrowed a piano, and asked her toplay a country dance for us. But first I said--not getting up on achair this time:--

"Some people think it is not proper for a clergyman to dance. I meanto assert my freedom from any such law. If our Lord chose torepresent, in His parable of the Prodigal Son, the joy in Heavenover a repentant sinner by the figure of 'music and dancing, ' I willhearken to Him rather than to men, be they as good as they may. "

For I had long thought that the way to make indifferent things bad, was for good people not to do them. 

And so saying, I stepped up to Jane Rogers, and asked her to dancewith me. She blushed so dreadfully that, for a moment, I was almostsorry I had asked her. But she put her hand in mine at once; and ifshe was a little clumsy, she yet danced very naturally, and I hadthe satisfaction of feeling that I had an honest girl near me, who Iknew was friendly to me in her heart. 

But to see the faces of the people! While I had been talking, OldRogers had been drinking in every word. To him it was milk andstrong meat in one. But now his face shone with a father'sgratification besides. And Richard's face was glowing too. Even oldBrownrigg looked with a curious interest upon us, I thought. 

Meantime Dr Duncan was dancing with one of his own patients, old MrsTrotter, to whose wants he ministered far more from his table thanhis surgery. I have known that man, hearing of a case of want fromhis servant, send the fowl he was about to dine upon, untouched, tothose whose necessity was greater than his. 

And Mr Boulderstone had taken out old Mrs Rogers; and youngBrownrigg had taken Mary Weir. Thomas Weir did not dance at all, butlooked on kindly. 

"Why don't you dance, Old Rogers?" I said, as I placed his daughterin a seat beside him. 

"Did your honour ever see an elephant go up the futtock-shrouds?"

"No. I never did. "

"I thought you must, sir, to ask me why I don't dance. You won'ttake my fun ill, sir? I'm an old man-o'-war's man, you know, sir. "

"I should have thought, Rogers, that you would have known better bythis time, than make such an apology to ME. "

"God bless you, sir. An old man's safe with you--or a young lass, either, sir, " he added, turning with a smile to his daughter. 

I turned, and addressed Mr Boulderstone. 

"I am greatly obliged to you, Mr Boulderstone, for the help you havegiven me this evening. I've seen you talking to everybody, just asif you had to entertain them all. "

"I hope I haven't taken too much upon me. But the fact is, somehowor other, I don't know how, I got into the spirit of it. "

"You got into the spirit of it because you wanted to help me, and Ithank you heartily. "

"Well, I thought it wasn't a time to mind one's peas and cuesexactly. And really it's wonderful how one gets on without them. Ihate formality myself. "

The dear fellow was the most formal man I had ever met. 

"Why don't you dance, Mr Brownrigg?"

"Who'd care to dance with me, sir? I don't care to dance with an oldwoman; and a young woman won't care to dance with me. "

"I'll find you a partner, if you will put yourself in my hands. "

"I don't mind trusting myself to you, sir. "

So I led him to Jane Rogers. She stood up in respectful awe beforethe master of her destiny. There were signs of calcitration in thechurchwarden, when he perceived whither I was leading him. But whenhe saw the girl stand trembling before him, whether it was that hewas flattered by the signs of his own power, accepting them ashomage, or that his hard heart actually softened a little, I cannottell, but, after just a perceptible hesitation, he said:

"Come along, my lass, and let's have a hop together. "

She obeyed very sweetly. 

"Don't be too shy, " I whispered to her as she passed me. 

And the churchwarden danced very heartily with the lady's-maid. 

I then asked him to take her into the house, and give her somethingto eat in return for her song. He yielded somewhat awkwardly, andwhat passed between them I do not know. But when they returned, sheseemed less frightened at him than when she heard me make theproposal. And when the company was parting, I heard him take leaveof her with the words--

"Give us a kiss, my girl, and let bygones be bygones. "

Which kiss I heard with delight. For had I not been a peacemaker inthis matter? And had I not then a right to feel blessed?--But theunderstanding was brought about simply by making the peoplemeet--compelling them, as it were, to know something of each otherreally. Hitherto this girl had been a mere name, or phantom at best, to her lover's father; and it was easy for him to treat her as such, that is, as a mere fancy of his son's. The idea of her had passedthrough his mind; but with what vividness any idea, notion, orconception could be present to him, my readers must judge from mydescription of him. So that obstinacy was a ridiculously easyaccomplishment to him. For he never had any notion of the matter towhich he was opposed--only of that which he favoured. It is veryeasy indeed for such people to stick to their point. 

But I took care that we should have dancing in moderation. It wouldnot do for people either to get weary with recreation, or excitedwith what was not worthy of producing such an effect. Indeed we hadonly six country dances during the evening. That was all. Andbetween the dances I read two or three of Wordsworth's ballads tothem, and they listened even with more interest than I had been ableto hope for. The fact was, that the happy and free hearted mood theywere in "enabled the judgment. " I wish one knew always by whatmusical spell to produce the right mood for receiving and reflectinga matter as it really is. Every true poem carries this spell with itin its own music, which it sends out before it as a harbinger, orproperly a HERBERGER, to prepare a harbour or lodging for it. Butthen it needs a quiet mood first of all, to let this music belistened to. 

For I thought with myself, if I could get them to like poetry andbeautiful things in words, it would not only do them good, but helpthem to see what is in the Bible, and therefore to love it more. ForI never could believe that a man who did not find God in otherplaces as well as in the Bible ever found Him there at all. And Ialways thought, that to find God in other books enabled us to seeclearly that he was MORE in the Bible than in any other book, or allother books put together. 

After supper we had a little more singing. And to my satisfactionnothing came to my eyes or ears, during the whole evening, that wasundignified or ill-bred. Of course, I knew that many of them musthave two behaviours, and that now they were on their good behaviour. But I thought the oftener such were put on their good behaviour, giving them the opportunity of finding out how nice it was, thebetter. It might make them ashamed of the other at last. 

There were many little bits of conversation I overheard, which Ishould like to give my readers; but I cannot dwell longer upon thispart of my Annals. Especially I should have enjoyed recording onepiece of talk, in which Old Rogers was evidently trying to move amore directly religious feeling in the mind of Dr Duncan. I thoughtI could see that THE difficulty with the noble old gentleman was oneof expression. But after all the old foremast-man was a seer of theKingdom; and the other, with all his refinement, and education, andgoodness too, was but a child in it. 

Before we parted, I gave to each of my guests a sheet of ChristmasCarols, gathered from the older portions of our literature. For mostof the modern hymns are to my mind neither milk nor meat--merewretched imitations. There were a few curious words and idioms inthese, but I thought it better to leave them as they were; for theymight set them inquiring, and give me an opportunity of interestingthem further, some time or other, in the history of a word; for, intheir ups and downs of fortune, words fare very much like humanbeings. 

And here is my sheet of Carols:--

 AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE. 

 O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace! O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light! Most lively image of thy Father's face, Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight, How can we Thee requite for all this good? Or what can prize that Thy most precious blood?

 Yet nought Thou ask'st in lieu of all this love, But love of us, for guerdon of Thy paine: Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove? Had He required life of us againe, Had it beene wrong to ask His owne with gaine? He gave us life, He it restored lost; Then life were least, that us so little cost. 

 But He our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was bann'd; Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, As He himselfe hath lov'd us afore-hand, And bound therto with an eternall band, Him first to love that us so dearely bought, And next our brethren, to His image wrought. 

 Him first to love great right and reason is, Who first to us our life and being gave, And after, when we fared had amisse, Us wretches from the second death did save; And last, the food of life, which now we have, Even He Himselfe, in His dear sacrament, To feede our hungry soules, unto us lent. 

 Then next, to love our brethren, that were made Of that selfe mould, and that self Maker's hand, That we, and to the same againe shall fade, Where they shall have like heritage of land, However here on higher steps we stand, Which also were with self-same price redeemed That we, however of us light esteemed. 

 Then rouze thy selfe, O Earth! out of thy soyle, In which thou wallowest like to filthy swyne, And doest thy mynd in durty pleasures moyle, Unmindfull of that dearest Lord of thyne; Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded eyne, That thou this soveraine bountie mayst behold, And read, through love, His mercies manifold. 

 Beginne from first, where He encradled was In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay, Betweene the toylfull oxe and humble asse, And in what rags, and in how base array, The glory of our heavenly riches lay, When Him the silly shepheards came to see, Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. 

 From thence reade on the storie of His life, His humble carriage, His unfaulty wayes, His cancred foes, His fights, His toyle, His strife, His paines, His povertie, His sharpe assayes, Through which He past His miserable dayes, Offending none, and doing good to all, Yet being malist both by great and small. 

 With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Thou must Him love, and His beheasts embrace; All other loves, with which the world doth blind Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thy selfe unto Him full and free, That full and freely gave Himselfe to thee. 

 Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see Th' idee of His pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweet enragement of celestial love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above. 

 Spencer

 NEW PRINCE, NEW POMP. 

 Behold a silly tender Babe, In freezing winter night, In homely manger trembling lies; Alas! a piteous sight. 

 The inns are full, no man will yield This little Pilgrim bed; But forced He is with silly beasts In crib to shroud His head. 

 Despise Him not for lying there, First what He is inquire; An orient pearl is often found In depth of dirty mire. 

 Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish, Nor beast that by Him feed; Weigh not his mother's poor attire, Nor Joseph's simple weed. 

 This stable is a Prince's court, The crib His chair of state; The beasts are parcel of His pomp, The wooden dish His plate. 

 The persons in that poor attire His royal liveries wear; The Prince himself is come from heaven-- This pomp is praised there. 

 With joy approach, O Christian wight! Do homage to thy King; And highly praise this humble pomp Which He from heaven doth bring. 

 SOUTHWELL. 

 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS. 

 1. Where is this blessed Babe That hath made All the world so full of joy And expectation; That glorious Boy That crowns each nation With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?

 2. Where should He be but in the throng, And among His angel-ministers, that sing And take wing Just as may echo to His voice, And rejoice, When wing and tongue and all May so procure their happiness?

 3. But He hath other waiters now. A poor cow, An ox and mule stand and behold, And wonder That a stable should enfold Him that can thunder. 

 Chorus. O what a gracious God have we! How good! How great! Even as our misery. 

 Jeremy Taylor. 

 A SONG OF PRAISE FOR THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. 

 Away, dark thoughts; awake, my joy; Awake, my glory; sing; Sing songs to celebrate the birth Of Jacob's God and King. O happy night, that brought forth light, Which makes the blind to see! The day spring from on high came down To cheer and visit thee. 

 The wakeful shepherds, near their flocks, Were watchful for the morn; But better news from heaven was brought, Your Saviour Christ is born. In Bethlem-town the infant lies, Within a place obscure, O little Bethlem, poor in walls, But rich in furniture!

 Since heaven is now come down to earth, Hither the angels fly! Hark, how the heavenly choir doth sing Glory to God on High! The news is spread, the church is glad, SIMEON, o'ercome with joy, Sings with the infant in his arms, NOW LET THY SERVANT DIE. 

 Wise men from far beheld the star, Which was their faithful guide, Until it pointed forth the Babe, And Him they glorified. Do heaven and earth rejoice and sing-- Shall we our Christ deny? He's born for us, and we for Him: GLORY TO GOD ON HIGH. 

 JOHN MASON. 

CHAPTER XI. 

SERMON ON GOD AND MAMMON. 

I never asked questions about the private affairs of any of myparishioners, except of themselves individually upon occasion oftheir asking me for advice, and some consequent necessity forknowing more than they told me. Hence, I believe, they became themore willing that I should know. But I heard a good many things fromothers, notwithstanding, for I could not be constantly closing thelips of the communicative as I had done those of Jane Rogers. Andamongst other things, I learned that Miss Oldcastle went mostSundays to the neighbouring town of Addicehead to church. Now I hadoften heard of the ability of the rector, and although I had nevermet him, was prepared to find him a cultivated, if not an originalman. Still, if I must be honest, which I hope I must, I confess thatI heard the news with a pang, in analysing which I discovered thechief component to be jealousy. It was no use asking myself why Ishould be jealous: there the ugly thing was. So I went and told GodI was ashamed, and begged Him to deliver me from the evil, becauseHis was the kingdom and the power and the glory. And He took my partagainst myself, for He waits to be gracious. Perhaps the reader may, however, suspect a deeper cause for this feeling (to which I wouldrather not give the true name again) than a merely professional one. 

But there was one stray sheep of my flock that appeared in churchfor the first time on the morning of Christmas Day--Catherine Weir. She did not sit beside her father, but in the most shadowy corner ofthe church--near the organ loft, however. She could have seen herfather if she had looked up, but she kept her eyes down the wholetime, and never even lifted them to me. The spot on one cheek wasmuch brighter than that on the other, and made her look very ill. 

I prayed to our God to grant me the honour of speaking a true wordto them all; which honour I thought I was right in asking, becausethe Lord reproached the Pharisees for not seeking the honour thatcometh from God. Perhaps I may have put a wrong interpretation onthe passage. It is, however, a joy to think that He will not giveyou a stone, even if you should take it for a loaf, and ask for itas such. Nor is He, like the scribes, lying in wait to catch poorerring men in their words or their prayers, however mistaken theymay be. 

I took my text from the Sermon on the Mount. And as the magazine forwhich these Annals were first written was intended chiefly forSunday reading, I wrote my sermon just as if I were preaching it tomy unseen readers as I spoke it to my present parishioners. And hereit is now:

The Gospel according to St Matthew, the sixth chapter, and part ofthe twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth verses:--

"'YE CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. THEREFORE I SAY TO YOU, TAKE NOTHOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE. '

"When the Child whose birth we celebrate with glad hearts this day, grew up to be a man, He said this. Did He mean it?--He never saidwhat He did not mean. Did He mean it wholly?--He meant it far beyondwhat the words could convey. He meant it altogether and entirely. When people do not understand what the Lord says, when it seems tothem that His advice is impracticable, instead of searching deeperfor a meaning which will be evidently true and wise, they comfortthemselves by thinking He could not have meant it altogether, and soleave it. Or they think that if He did mean it, He could not expectthem to carry it out. And in the fact that they could not do itperfectly if they were to try, they take refuge from the duty oftrying to do it at all; or, oftener, they do not think about it atall as anything that in the least concerns them. The Son of ourFather in heaven may have become a child, may have led the one lifewhich belongs to every man to lead, may have suffered because we aresinners, may have died for our sakes, doing the will of His Fatherin heaven, and yet we have nothing to do with the words He spoke outof the midst of His true, perfect knowledge, feeling, and action! Isit not strange that it should be so? Let it not be so with us thisday. Let us seek to find out what our Lord means, that we may do it;trying and failing and trying again--verily to be victorious atlast--what matter WHEN, so long as we are trying, and so comingnearer to our end!

"MAMMON, you know, means RICHES. Now, riches are meant to be theslave--not even the servant of man, and not to be the master. If aman serve his own servant, or, in a word, any one who has no justclaim to be his master, he is a slave. But here he serves his ownslave. On the other hand, to serve God, the source of our being, ourown glorious Father, is freedom; in fact, is the only way to get ridof all bondage. So you see plainly enough that a man cannot serveGod and Mammon. For how can a slave of his own slave be the servantof the God of freedom, of Him who can have no one to serve Him but afree man? His service is freedom. Do not, I pray you, make anyconfusion between service and slavery. To serve is the highest, noblest calling in creation. For even the Son of man came not to beministered unto, but to minister, yea, with Himself. 

"But how can a man SERVE riches? Why, when he says to riches, 'Yeare my good. ' When he feels he cannot be happy without them. When heputs forth the energies of his nature to get them. When he schemesand dreams and lies awake about them. When he will not give to hisneighbour for fear of becoming poor himself. When he wants to havemore, and to know he has more, than he can need. When he wants toleave money behind him, not for the sake of his children orrelatives, but for the name of the wealth. When he leaves his money, not to those who NEED it, even of his relations, but to those whoare rich like himself, making them yet more of slaves to theovergrown monster they worship for his size. When he honours thosewho have money because they have money, irrespective of theircharacter; or when he honours in a rich man what he would not honourin a poor man. Then is he the slave of Mammon. Still more is heMammon's slave when his devotion to his god makes him oppressive tothose over whom his wealth gives him power; or when he becomesunjust in order to add to his stores. --How will it be with such aman when on a sudden he finds that the world has vanished, and he isalone with God? There lies the body in which he used to live, whosepoor necessities first made money of value to him, but with whichitself and its fictitious value are both left behind. He cannot noweven try to bribe God with a cheque. The angels will not bow down tohim because his property, as set forth in his will, takes five orsix figures to express its amount It makes no difference to themthat he has lost it, though; for they never respected him. And thepoor souls of Hades, who envied him the wealth they had lost before, rise up as one man to welcome him, not for love of him--noworshipper of Mammon loves another--but rejoicing in the mischiefthat has befallen him, and saying, 'Art thou also become one of us?'And Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, however sorry he may be for him, however grateful he may feel to him for the broken victuals and thepenny, cannot with one drop of the water of Paradise cool that man'sparched tongue. 

"Alas, poor Dives! poor server of Mammon, whose vile god can pretendto deliver him no longer! Or rather, for the blockish god neverpretended anything--it was the man's own doing--Alas for theMammon-worshipper! he can no longer deceive himself in his riches. And so even in hell he is something nobler than he was on earth; forhe worships his riches no longer. He cannot. He curses them. 

"Terrible things to say on Christmas Day! But if Christmas Dayteaches us anything, it teaches us to worship God and not Mammon; toworship spirit and not matter; to worship love and not power. 

"Do I now hear any of my friends saying in their hearts: Let therich take that! It does not apply to us. We are poor enough? Ah, myfriends, I have known a light-hearted, liberal rich man lose hisriches, and be liberal and light-hearted still. I knew a rich ladyonce, in giving a large gift of money to a poor man, sayapologetically, 'I hope it is no disgrace in me to be rich, as it isnone in you to be poor. ' It is not the being rich that is wrong, butthe serving of riches, instead of making them serve your neighbourand yourself--your neighbour for this life, yourself for theeverlasting habitations. God knows it is hard for the rich man toenter into the kingdom of heaven; but the rich man does sometimesenter in; for God hath made it possible. And the greater thevictory, when it is the rich man that overcometh the world. It iseasier for the poor man to enter into the kingdom, yet many of thepoor have failed to enter in, and the greater is the disgrace oftheir defeat. For the poor have more done for them, as far asoutward things go, in the way of salvation than the rich, and have abeatitude all to themselves besides. For in the making of this worldas a school of salvation, the poor, as the necessary majority, havebeen more regarded than the rich. Do not think, my poor friend, thatGod will let you off. He lets nobody off. You, too, must pay theuttermost farthing. He loves you too well to let you serve Mammon awhit more than your rich neighbour. 'Serve Mammon!' do you say? 'Howcan I serve Mammon? I have no Mammon to serve. '--Would you like tohave riches a moment sooner than God gives them? Would you serveMammon if you had him?--'Who can tell?' do you answer? 'Leave thosequestions till I am tried. ' But is there no bitterness in the toneof that response? Does it not mean, 'It will be a long time before Ihave a chance of trying THAT?'--But I am not driven to suchquestions for the chance of convicting some of you ofMammon-worship. Let us look to the text. Read it again. 

"'YE CANNOT SERVE GOD AND MAMMON. THEREFORE I SAY UNTO YOU, TAKE NOTHOUGHT FOR YOUR LIFE. '

"Why are you to take no thought? Because you cannot serve God andMammon. Is taking thought, then, a serving of Mammon?Clearly. --Where are you now, poor man? Brooding over the frost? Willit harden the ground, so that the God of the sparrows cannot findfood for His sons? Where are you now, poor woman? Sleepless over theempty cupboard and to-morrow's dinner? 'It is because we have nobread?' do you answer? Have you forgotten the five loaves among thefive thousand, and the fragments that were left? Or do you knownothing of your Father in heaven, who clothes the lilies and feedsthe birds? O ye of little faith? O ye poor-spiritedMammon-worshippers! who worship him not even because he has givenyou anything, but in the hope that he may some future daybenignantly regard you. But I may be too hard upon you. I know wellthat our Father sees a great difference between the man who isanxious about his children's dinner, or even about his own, and theman who is only anxious to add another ten thousand to his muchgoods laid up for many years. But you ought to find it easy to trustin God for such a matter as your daily bread, whereas no man can byany possibility trust in God for ten thousand pounds. The formerneed is a God-ordained necessity; the latter desire a man-devisedappetite at best--possibly swinish greed. Tell me, do you long to berich? Then you worship Mammon. Tell me, do you think you would feelsafer if you had money in the bank? Then you are Mammon-worshippers;for you would trust the barn of the rich man rather than the God whomakes the corn to grow. Do you say--"What shall we eat? and whatshall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothedl?" Are ye thusof doubtful mind?--Then you are Mammon-worshippers. "But how is thework of the world to be done if we take no thought?--We are nowheretold not to take thought. We MUST take thought. The questionis--What are we to take or not to take thought about? By some who donot know God, little work would be done if they were not driven byanxiety of some kind. But you, friends, are you content to go withthe nations of the earth, or do you seek a better way--THE way thatthe Father of nations would have you walk in?

"WHAT then are we to take thought about? Why, about our work. Whatare we not to take thought about? Why, about our life. The one isour business: the other is God's. But you turn it the other way. Youtake no thought of earnestness about the doing of your duty; but youtake thought of care lest God should not fulfil His part in thegoings on of the world. A man's business is just to do his duty: Godtakes upon Himself the feeding and the clothing. Will the work ofthe world be neglected if a man thinks of his work, his duty, God'swill to be done, instead of what he is to eat, what he is to drink, and wherewithal he is to be clothed? And remember all the needs ofthe world come back to these three. You will allow, I think, thatthe work of the world will be only so much the better done; that thevery means of procuring the raiment or the food will be the morethoroughly used. What, then, is the only region on which the doubtcan settle? Why, God. He alone remains to be doubted. Shall it be sowith you? Shall the Son of man, the baby now born, and for ever withus, find no faith in you? Ah, my poor friend, who canst not trust inGod--I was going to say you DESERVE--but what do I know of you tocondemn and judge you?--I was going to say, you deserve to betreated like the child who frets and complains because his motherholds him on her knee and feeds him mouthful by mouthful with herown loving hand. I meant--you deserve to have your own way for awhile; to be set down, and told to help yourself, and see what itwill come to; to have your mother open the cupboard door for you, and leave you alone to your pleasures. Alas! poor child! When thesweets begin to pall, and the twilight begins to come duskily intothe chamber, and you look about all at once and see no mother, howwill your cupboard comfort you then? Ask it for a smile, for astroke of the gentle hand, for a word of love. All the full-fedMammon can give you is what your mother would have given you withoutthe consequent loathing, with the light of her countenance upon itall, and the arm of her love around you. --And this is what God doessometimes, I think, with the Mammon-worshippers amongst the poor. Hesays to them, Take your Mammon, and see what he is worth. Ah, friends, the children of God can never be happy serving other thanHim. The prodigal might fill his belly with riotous living or withthe husks that the swine ate. It was all one, so long as he was notwith his father. His soul was wretched. So would you be if you hadwealth, for I fear you would only be worse Mammon-worshippers thannow, and might well have to thank God for the misery of anyswine-trough that could bring you to your senses. 

"But we do see people die of starvation sometimes, --Yes. But if youdid your work in God's name, and left the rest to Him, that wouldnot trouble you. You would say, If it be God's will that I shouldstarve, I can starve as well as another. And your mind would be atease. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed uponThee, because he trusteth in Thee. " Of that I am sure. It may begood for you to go hungry and bare-foot; but it must be utter deathto have no faith in God. It is not, however, in God's way of thingsthat the man who does his work shall not live by it. We do not knowwhy here and there a man may be left to die of hunger, but I dobelieve that they who wait upon the Lord shall not lack any good. What it may be good to deprive a man of till he knows andacknowledges whence it comes, it may be still better to give himwhen he has learned that every good and every perfect gift is fromabove, and cometh down from the Father of lights. 

"I SHOULD like to know a man who just minded his duty and troubledhimself about nothing; who did his own work and did not interferewith God's. How nobly he would work--working not for reward, butbecause it was the will of God! How happily he would receive hisfood and clothing, receiving them as the gifts of God! What peacewould be his! What a sober gaiety! How hearty and infectious hislaughter! What a friend he would be! How sweet his sympathy! And hismind would be so clear he would understand everything His eye beingsingle, his whole body would be full of light. No fear of his everdoing a mean thing. He would die in a ditch, rather. It is this fearof want that makes men do mean things. They are afraid to part withtheir precious lord--Mammon. He gives no safety against such a fear. One of the richest men in England is haunted with the dread of theworkhouse. This man whom I should like to know, would be sure thatGod would have him liberal, and he would be what God would have him. Riches are not in the least necessary to that. Witness our Lord'sadmiration of the poor widow with her great farthing. 

"But I think I hear my troubled friend who does not love money, andyet cannot trust in God out and out, though she fain would, --I thinkI hear her say, "I believe I could trust Him for myself, or at leastI should be ready to dare the worst for His sake; but my children--it is the thought of my children that is too much for me. " Ah, woman! she whom the Saviour praised so pleasedly, was one whotrusted Him for her daughter. What an honour she had! "Be it untothee even as thou wilt. " Do you think you love your children betterthan He who made them? Is not your love what it is because He put itinto your heart first? Have not you often been cross with them?Sometimes unjust to them? Whence came the returning love that rosefrom unknown depths in your being, and swept away the anger and theinjustice! You did not create that love. Probably you were not goodenough to send for it by prayer. But it came. God sent it. He makesyou love your children; be sorry when you have been cross with them;ashamed when you have been unjust to them; and yet you won't trustHim to give them food and clothes! Depend upon it, if He everrefuses to give them food and clothes, and you knew all about it, the why and the wherefore, you would not dare to give them food orclothes either. He loves them a thousand times better than youdo--be sure of that--and feels for their sufferings too, when Hecannot give them just what He would like to give them--cannot fortheir good, I mean. 

"But as your mistrust will go further, I can go further to meet it. You will say, 'Ah! yes'--in your feeling, I mean, not in words, --youwill say, 'Ah! yes--food and clothing of a sort! Enough to keep lifein and too much cold out! But I want my children to have plenty ofGOOD food, and NICE clothes. '

"Faithless mother! Consider the birds of the air. They have so muchthat at least they can sing! Consider the lilies--they were redlilies, those. Would you not trust Him who delights in gloriouscolours--more at least than you, or He would never have created themand made us to delight in them? I do not say that your childrenshall be clothed in scarlet and fine linen; but if not, it is notbecause God despises scarlet and fine linen or does not love yourchildren. He loves them, I say, too much to give them everything allat once. But He would make them such that they may have everythingwithout being the worse, and with being the better for it. And ifyou cannot trust Him yet, it begins to be a shame, I think. 

"It has been well said that no man ever sank under the burden of theday. It is when to-morrow's burden is added to the burden of to-day, that the weight is more than a man can bear. Never load yourselvesso, my friends. If you find yourselves so loaded, at least rememberthis: it is your own doing, not God's. He begs you to leave thefuture to Him, and mind the present. What more or what else could Hedo to take the burden off you? Nothing else would do it. Money inthe bank wouldn't do it. He cannot do to-morrow's business for youbeforehand to save you from fear about it. That would derangeeverything. What else is there but to tell you to trust in Him, irrespective of the fact that nothing else but such trust can putour heart at peace, from the very nature of our relation to Him aswell as the fact that we need these things. We think that we comenearer to God than the lower animals do by our foresight. But thereis another side to it. We are like to Him with whom there is no pastor future, with whom a day is as a thousand years, and a thousandyears as one day, when we live with large bright spiritual eyes, doing our work in the great present, leaving both past and future toHim to whom they are ever present, and fearing nothing, because Heis in our future, as much as He is in our past, as much as, and farmore than, we can feel Him to be in our present. Partakers thus ofthe divine nature, resting in that perfect All-in-all in whom ournature is eternal too, we walk without fear, full of hope andcourage and strength to do His will, waiting for the endless goodwhich He is always giving as fast as He can get us able to take itin. Would not this be to be more of gods than Satan promised to Eve?To live carelessly-divine, duty-doing, fearless, loving, self-forgetting lives--is not that more than to know both good andevil--lives in which the good, like Aaron's rod, has swallowed upthe evil, and turned it into good? For pain and hunger are evils jbut if faith in God swallows them up, do they not so turn into good?I say they do. And I am glad to believe that I am not alone in myparish in this conviction. I have never been too hungry, but I havehad trouble which I would gladly have exchanged for hunger and coldand weariness. Some of you have known hunger and cold and weariness. Do you not join with me to say: It is well, and better thanwell--whatever helps us to know the love of Him who is our God?

"But there HAS BEEN just one man who has acted thus. And it is HisSpirit in our hearts that makes us desire to know or to be anothersuch--who would do the will of God for God, and let God do God'swill for Him. For His will is all. And this man is the baby whosebirth we celebrate this day. Was this a condition to choose--that ofa baby--by one who thought it part of a man's high calling to takecare of the morrow? Did He not thus cast the whole matter at onceupor the hands and heart of His Father? Sufficient unto the baby'sday is the need thereof; he toils not, neither does he spin, and yethe if fed and clothed, and loved, and rejoiced in. Do you remind methat sometimes even his mother forgets him--a mother, most likely, to whose self-indulgence or weakness the child owes his birth ashers? Ah! but he is not therefore forgotten, however like things itmay look to our half-seeing eyes, by his Father in heaven. One ofthe highest benefits we can reap from understanding the way of Godwith ourselves is, that we become able thus to trust Him for otherswith whom we do not understand His ways. 

"But let us look at what will be more easily shown--how, namely, Hedid the will of His Father, and took no thought for the morrow afterHe became a man. Remember how He forsook His trade when the timecame for Him to preach. Preaching was not a profession then. Therewere no monasteries, or vicarages, or stipends, then. Yet witnessfor the Father the garment woven throughout; the ministering ofwomen; the purse in common! Hard-working men and rich ladies wereready to help Him, and did help Him with all that He needed. --Did Hethen never want? Yes; once at least--for a little while only. 

"He was a-hungered in the wilderness. 'Make bread, ' said Satan. 'No, ' said our Lord. --He could starve; but He could not eat breadthat His Father did not give Him, even though He could make itHimself. He had come hither to be tried. But when the victory wassecure, lo! the angels brought Him food from His Father. --Which wasbetter? To feed Himself, or be fed by His Father? Judg? yourselves, jinxious people, He sought the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and the bread was added unto Him. 

"And this gives me occasion to remark that the same truth holds withregard to any portion of the future as well as the morrow. It is aprinciple, not a command, or an encouragement, or a promise merely. In respect of it there is no difference between next day and nextyear, next hour and next century. You will see at once the absurdityof taking no thought for the morrow, and taking thought for nextyear. But do you see likewise that it is equally reasonable to trustGod for the next moment, and equally unreasonable not to trust Him?The Lord was hungry and needed food now, though He could still gowithout for a while. He left it to His Father. And so He told Hisdisciples to do when they were called to answer before judges andrulers. 'Take no thought. It shall be given you what ye shall say. 'You have a disagreeable duty to do at twelve o'clock. Do not blackennine and ten and eleven, and all between, with the colour of twelve. Do the work of each, and reap your reward in peace. So when thedreaded moment in the future becomes the present, you shall meet itwalking in the light, and that light will overcome its darkness. Howoften do men who have made up their minds what to say and do undercertain expected circumstances, forget the words and reverse theactions! The best preparation is the present well seen to, the lastduty done. For this will keep the eye so clear and the body so fullof light that the right action will be perceived at once, the rightwords will rush from the heart to the lips, and the man, full of theSpirit of God because he cares for nothing but the will of God, willtrample on the evil thing in love, and be sent, it may be, in achariot of fire to the presence of his Father, or stand unmoved amidthe cruel mockings of the men he loves. 

"Do you feel inclined to say in your hearts: 'It was easy for Him totake no thought, for He had the matter in His own hands?' Butobserve, there is nothing very noble in a man's taking no thoughtexcept it be from faith. If there were no God to take thought forus, we should have no right to blame any one for taking thought. Youmay fancy the Lord had His own power to fall back upon. But thatwould have been to Him just the one dreadful thing. That His Fathershould forget Him!--no power in Himself could make up for that. Hefeared nothing for Himself; and never once employed His divine powerto save Him from His human fate. Let God do that for Him if He sawfit. He did not come into the world to take care of Himself. Thatwould not be in any way divine. To fall back on Himself, God failingHim--how could that make it easy for Him to avoid care? The veryidea would be torture. That would be to declare heaven void, and theworld without a God. He would not even pray to His Father for whatHe knew He should have if He did ask it. He would just wait Hiswill. 

"But see how the fact of His own power adds tenfold significance tothe fact that He trusted in God. We see that this power would notserve His need--His need not being to be fed and clothed, but to beone with the Father, to be fed by His hand, clothed by His care. This was what the Lord wanted--and we need, alas! too often withoutwanting it. He never once, I repeat, used His power for Himself. That was not his business. He did not care about it. His life was ofno value to Him but as His Father cared for it. God would mind allthat was necessary for Him, and He would mind the work His Fatherhad given Him to do. And, my friends, this is just the one secret ofa blessed life, the one thing every man comes into this world tolearn. With what authority it comes to us from the lips of Him whoknew all about it, and ever did as He said!

"Now you see that He took no thought for the morrow. And, in thename of the holy child Jesus, I call upon you, this Christmas day, to cast care to the winds, and trust in God; to receive the messageof peace and good-will to men; to yield yourselves to the Spirit ofGod, that you may be taught what He wants you to know; to rememberthat the one gift promised without reserve to those who ask it--theone gift worth having--the gift which makes all other gifts athousand-fold in value, is the gift of the Holy Spirit, the spiritof the child Jesus, who will take of the things of Jesus, and showthem to you--make you understand them, that is--so that you shallsee them to be true, and love Him with all your heart and soul, andyour neighbour as yourselves. "

And here, having finished my sermon, I will give my reader somelines with which he may not be acquainted, from a writer of theElizabethan time. I had meant to introduce them into my sermon, butI was so carried away with my subject that I forgot them. For Ialways preached extempore, which phrase I beg my reader will notmisinterpret as meaning ON THE SPUR OF THE MOMENT, OF WITHOUT THEDUE PREPARATION OF MUCH THOUGHT. 

 "O man! thou image of thy Maker's good, What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy blood His Spirit is that built thee? What dull sense Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence Who made the morning, and who placed the light Guide to thy labours; who called up the night, And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers, In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers; Who gave thee knowledge; who so trusted thee To let thee grow so near Himself, the Tree? Must He then be distrusted? Shall His frame Discourse with Him why thus and thus I am? He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all; Nay even thy servants, when devotions call. Oh! canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, To seek a saving* influence, and lose Him? Can stars protect thee? Or can poverty, Which is the light to heaven, put out His eye! He is my star; in Him all truth I find, All influence, all fate. And when my mind Is furnished with His fulness, my poor story Shall outlive all their age, and all their glory. The hand of danger cannot fall amiss, When I know what, and in whose power, it is, Nor want, the curse of man, shall make me groan: A holy hermit is a mind alone. 

 * * * *

 Affliction, when I know it, is but this, A deep alloy whereby man tougher is To bear the hammer; and the deeper still, We still arise more image of His will; Sickness, an humorous cloud 'twixt us and light; And death, at longest, but another night. "

[Footnote *: Many, in those days, believed in astrology. ]

I had more than ordinary attention during my discourse, at one pointin which I saw the down-bent head of Catherine Weir sink yet lowerupon her hands. After a moment, however, she sat more erect thanbefore, though she never lifted her eyes to meet mine. I need notassure my reader that she was not present to my mind when I spokethe words that so far had moved her. Indeed, had I thought of her, Icould not have spoken them. 

As I came out of the church, my people crowded about me withoutstretched hands and good wishes. One woman, the aged wife of amore aged labourer, who could not get near me, called from theoutskirts of the little crowd--

"May the Lord come and see ye every day, sir. And may ye never knowthe hunger and cold as me and Tomkins has come through. "

"Amen to the first of your blessing, Mrs Tomkins, and hearty thanksto you. But I daren't say AMEN to the other part of it, after whatI've been preaching, you know. "

"But there'll be no harm if I say it for ye, sir?"

"No, for God will give me what is good, even if your kind heartshould pray against it. "

"Ah, sir, ye don't know what it is to be hungry AND cold. "

"Neither shall you any more, if I can help it. "

"God bless ye, sir. But we're pretty tidy just in the meantime. "

I walked home, as usual on Sunday mornings, by the road. It was alovely day. The sun shone so warm that you could not help thinkingof what he would be able to do before long--draw primroses andbuttercups out of the earth by force of sweet persuasive influences. But in the shadows lay fine webs and laces of ice, so delicatelylovely that one could not but be glad of the cold that made thewater able to please itself by taking such graceful forms. And Iwondered over again for the hundredth time what could be theprinciple which, in the wildest, most lawless, fantasticallychaotic, apparently capricious work of nature, always kept itbeautiful. The beauty of holiness must be at the heart of itsomehow, I thought. Because our God is so free from stain, soloving, so unselfish, so good, so altogether what He wants us to be, so holy, therefore all His works declare Him in beauty; His fingerscan touch nothing but to mould it into loveliness; and even the playof His elements is in grace and tenderness of form. 

And then I thought how the sun, at the farthest point from us, hadbegun to come back towards us; looked upon us with a hopeful smile;was like the Lord when He visited His people as a little one ofthemselves, to grow upon the earth till it should blossom as therose in the light of His presence. "Ah! Lord, " I said, in my heart, "draw near unto Thy people. It is spring-time with Thy world, butyet we have cold winds and bitter hail, and pinched voicesforbidding them that follow Thee and follow not with us. Drawnearer, Sun of Righteousness, and make the trees bourgeon, and theflowers blossom, and the voices grow mellow and glad, so that allshall join in praising Thee, and find thereby that harmony is betterthan unison. Let it be summer, O Lord, if it ever may be summer inthis court of the Gentiles. But Thou hast told us that Thy kingdomcometh within us, and so Thy joy must come within us too. Draw nighthen, Lord, to those to whom Thou wilt draw nigh; and othersbeholding their welfare will seek to share therein too, and seeingtheir good works will glorify their Father in heaven. "

So I walked home, hoping in my Saviour, and wondering to think howpleasant I had found it to be His poor servant to this people. Already the doubts which had filled my mind on that first evening ofgloom, doubts as to whether I had any right to the priest's office, had utterly vanished, slain by the effort to perform the priest'sduty. I never thought about the matter now. --And how can doubt everbe fully met but by action? Try your theory; try your hypothesis; orif it is not worth trying, give it up, pull it down. And I hopedthat if ever a cloud should come over me again, however dark anddismal it might be, I might be able, notwithstanding, to rejoicethat the sun was shining on others though not on me, and to say withall my heart to my Father in heaven, "Thy will be done. "

When I reached my own study, I sat down by a blazing fire, andpoured myself out a glass of wine; for I had to go out again to seesome of my poor friends, and wanted some luncheon first. --It is agreat thing to have the greetings of the universe presented in fireand food. Let me, if I may, be ever welcomed to my room in winter bya glowing hearth, in summer by a vase of flowers; if I may not, letme then think how nice they would be, and bury myself in my work. Ido not think that the road to contentment lies in despising what wehave not got. Let us acknowledge all good, all delight that theworld holds, and be content without it. But this we can never beexcept by possessing the one thing, without which I do not merelysay no man ought to be content, but no man CAN be content--theSpirit of the Father. 

If any young people read my little chronicle, will they not beinclined to say, "The vicar has already given us in this chapterhardly anything but a long sermon; and it is too bad of him to go onpreaching in his study after we saw him safe out of the pulpit"? Ah, well! just one word, and I drop the preaching for a while. My wordis this: I may speak long-windedly, and even inconsiderately asregards my young readers; what I say may fail utterly to convey whatI mean; I may be actually stupid sometimes, and not have a suspicionof it; but what I mean is true; and if you do not know it to be trueyet, some of you at least suspect it to be true, and some of youhope it is true; and when you all see it as I mean it and as you cantake it, you will rejoice with a gladness you know nothing about nowThere, I have done for a little while. I won't pledge myself formore, I assure you. For to speak about such things is the greatestdelight of my age, as it was of my early manhood, next to that ofloving God and my neighbour. For as these are THE two commandmentsof life, so they are in themselves THE pleasures of life. But thereI am at it again. I beg your pardon now, for I have alreadyinadvertently broken my promise. 

I had allowed myself a half-hour before the fire with my glass ofwine and piece of bread, and I soon fell into a dreamy state calledREVERIE, which I fear not a few mistake for THINKING, because it isthe nearest approach they ever make to it. And in this reverie Ikept staring about my book-shelves. I am an old man now, and you donot know my name; and if you should ever find it out, I shall verysoon hide it under some daisies, I hope, and so escape; andtherefore, I am going to be egotistic in the most unpardonablemanner. I am going to tell you one of my faults, for it continues, Ifear, to be one of my faults still, as it certainly was at theperiod of which I am now writing. I am very fond of books. Do notmistake me. I do not mean that I love reading. I hope I do. That isno fault--a virtue rather than a fault. But, as the old meaning ofthe word FOND was FOOLISH, I use that word: I am foolishly fond ofthe bodies of books as distinguished from their souls, orthought-element. I do not say I love their bodies as DIVIDED fromtheir souls; I do not say I should let a book stand upon my shelvesfor which I felt no respect, except indeed it happened to be usefulto me in some inferior way. But I delight in seeing books about me, books even of which there seems to be no prospect that I shall havetime to read a single chapter before I lay this old head down forthe last time. Nay, more: I confess that if they are nicely bound, so as to glow and shine in such a fire-light as that by which I wasthen sitting, I like them ever so much the better. Nay, moreyet--and this comes very near to showing myself worse than I thoughtI was when I began to tell you my fault: there are books upon myshelves which certainly at least would not occupy the place ofhonour they do occupy, had not some previous owner dressed them farbeyond their worth, making modern apples of Sodom of them. Yet thereI let them stay, because they are pleasant to the eye, althoughcertainly not things to be desired to make one wise. I could say agreat deal more about the matter, pro and con, but it would be worsethan a sermon, I fear. For I suspect that by the time books, whichought to be loved for the truth that is in them, of one sort oranother, come to be loved as articles of furniture, the mind hasgone through a process more than analogous to that which the miser'smind goes through--namely, that of passing from the respect of moneybecause of what it can do, to the love of money because it is money. I have not yet reached the furniture stage, and I do not think Iever shall. I would rather burn them all. Meantime, I think onesafeguard is to encourage one's friends to borrow one's books--notto offer individual books, which is much the same as OFFERINGadvice. That will probably take some of the shine off them, and puta few thumb-marks in them, which both are very wholesome towards thearresting of the furniture declension. For my part, thumb-marks Ifind very obnoxious--far more so than the spoiling of thebinding. --I know that some of my readers, who have had sadexperience of the sort, will be saying in themselves, "He might havementioned a surer antidote resulting from this measure, than eitherrubbed Russia or dirty GLOVE-marks even--that of utter disappearanceand irreparable loss. " But no; that has seldom happened tome--because I trust my pocketbook, and never my memory, with thenames of those to whom the individual books are committed. --There, then, is a little bit of practical advice in both directions foryoung book-lovers. 

Again I am reminded that I am getting old. What digressions!

Gazing about on my treasures, the thought suddenly struck me that Ihad never done as I had promised Judy; had never found out what heraunt's name meant in Anglo-Saxon. I would do so now. I got down mydictionary, and soon discovered that Ethelwyn meant Home-joy, orInheritance. 

"A lovely meaning, " I said to myself. 

And then I went off into another reverie, with the composition ofwhich I shall not trouble my reader; and with the mention of which Ihad, perhaps, no right to occupy the fragment of his time spent inreading it, seeing I did not intend to tell him how it was made up. I will tell him something else instead. 

Several families had asked me to take my Christmas dinner with them;but, not liking to be thus limited, I had answered each that I wouldnot, if they would excuse me, but would look in some time or otherin the course of the evening. 

When my half-hour was out, I got up and filled my pockets withlittle presents for my poor people, and set out to find them intheir own homes. 

I was variously received, but unvaryingly with kindness; and mylittle presents were accepted, at least in most instances, with agratitude which made me ashamed of them and of myself too for a fewmoments. Mrs. Tomkins looked as if she had never seen so much teatogether before, though there was only a couple of pounds of it; andher husband received a pair of warm trousers none the less cordiallythat they were not quite new, the fact being that I found I did notmyself need such warm clothing this winter as I had needed the last. I did not dare to offer Catherine Weir anything, but I gave herlittle boy a box of water-colours--in remembrance of the first timeI saw him, though I said nothing about that. His mother did notthank me. She told little Gerard to do so, however, and that wassomething. And, indeed, the boy's sweetness would have been enoughfor both. 

Gerard--an unusual name in England; specially not to be looked forin the class to which she belonged. 

When I reached Old Rogers's cottage, whither I carried a few yardsof ribbon, bought by myself, I assure my lady friends, with thespecial object that the colour should be bright enough for hertaste, and pure enough of its kind for mine, as an offering to thegood dame, and a small hymn-book, in which were some hymns of my ownmaking, for the good man--

But do forgive me, friends, for actually describing my paltrypresents. I can dare to assure you it comes from a talking old man'slove of detail, and from no admiration of such small givings asthose. You see I trust you, and I want to stand well with you. Inever could be indifferent to what people thought of me; though Ihave had to fight hard to act as freely as if I were indifferent, especially when upon occasion I found myself approved of. It is moredifficult to walk straight then, than when men are all againstyou. --As I have already broken a sentence, which will not be pastsetting for a while yet, I may as well go on to say here, lest anyone should remark that a clergyman ought not to show off hisvirtues, nor yet teach his people bad habits by making them look outfor presents--that my income not only seemed to me disproportionedto the amount of labour necessary in the parish, but certainly waslarger than I required to spend upon myself; and the miserly passionfor books I contrived to keep a good deal in check; for I had nofancy for gliding devil-wards for the sake of a few books after all. So there was no great virtue--was there?--in easing my heart bygiving a few of the good things people give their children to mypoor friends, whose kind reception of them gave me as much pleasureas the gifts gave them. They valued the kindness in the gift, and tolook out for kindness will not make people greedy. 

When I reached the cottage, I found not merely Jane there with herfather and mother, which was natural on Christmas Day, seeing thereseemed to be no company at the Hall, but my little Judy as well, sitting in the old woman's arm-chair, (not that she Used it much, but it was called hers, ) and looking as much at home as--as she didin the pond. 

"Why, Judy!" I exclaimed, "you here?"

"Yes. Why not, Mr Walton?" she returned, holding out her handwithout rising, for the chair was such a large one, and she was setso far back in it that the easier way was not to rise, which, seeingshe was not greatly overburdened with reverence, was not, I presume, a cause of much annoyance to the little damsel. 

"I know no reason why I shouldn't see a Sandwich Islander here. YetI might express surprise if I did find one, might I not?"

Judy pretended to pout, and muttered something about comparing herto a cannibal. But Jane took up the explanation. 

"Mistress had to go off to London with her mother to-day, sir, quiteunexpected, on some banking business, I fancy, from what I--I begyour pardon, sir. They're gone anyhow, whatever the reason may be;and so I came to see my father and mother, and Miss Judy would comewith me. "

"She's very welcome, " said Mrs Rogers. 

"How could I stay up there with nobody but Jacob, and that old wolfSarah? I wouldn't be left alone with her for the world. She'd haveme in the Bishop's Pool before you came back, Janey dear. "

"That wouldn't matter much to you, would it, Judy?" I said. 

"She's a white wolf, that old Sarah, I know?" was all her answer. 

"But what will the old lady say when she finds you brought the younglady here?" asked Mrs Rogers. 

"I didn't bring her, mother. She would come. "

"Besides, she'll never know it, " said Judy. 

I did not see that it was my part to read Judy a lecture here, though perhaps I might have done so if I had had more influence overher than I had. I wanted to gain some influence over her, and knewthat the way to render my desire impossible of fulfilment would be, to find fault with what in her was a very small affair, whatever itmight be in one who had been properly brought up. Besides, aclergyman is not a moral policeman. So I took no notice of theimpropriety. 

"Had they actually to go away on the morning of Christmas Day?" Isaid. 

"They went anyhow, whether they had to do it or not, sir, " answeredJane. 

"Aunt Ethelwyn didn't want to go till to-morrow, " said Judy. "Shesaid something about coming to church this morning. But grannie saidthey must go at once. It was very cross of old grannie. Think what aChristmas Day to me without auntie, and with Sarah! But I don't meanto go home till it's quite dark. I mean to stop here with dear OldRogers--that I do. " The latch was gently lifted, and in came youngBrownrigg. So I thought it was time to leave my best Christmaswishes and take myself away. Old Rogers came with me to themill-stream as usual. 

"It 'mazes me, sir, " he said, "a gentleman o' your age and bringin'up to know all that you tould us this mornin'. It 'ud be no wondernow for a man like me, come to be the shock o' corn fullyripe--leastways yallow and white enough outside if there bean't muchmore than milk inside it yet, --it 'ud be no mystery for a man likeme who'd been brought up hard, and tossed about well-nigh all theworld over--why, there's scarce a wave on the Atlantic but knows OldRogers!"

He made the parenthesis with a laugh, and began anew. 

"It 'ud be a shame of a man like me not to know all as you said thismornin', sir--leastways I don't mean able to say it right off as youdo, sir; but not to know it, after the Almighty had been at suchpains to beat it into my hard head just to trust in Him and fearnothing and nobody--captain, bosun, devil, sunk rock, or breakersahead; but just to mind Him and stand by halliard, brace, or wheel, or hang on by the leeward earing for that matter. For, you see, whatdoes it signify whether I go to the bottom or not, so long as Ididn't skulk? or rather, " and here the old man took off his hat andlooked up, "so long as the Great Captain has His way, and things isdone to His mind? But how ever a man like you, goin' to the college, and readin' books, and warm o' nights, and never, by your ownconfession this blessed mornin', sir, knowin' what it was to bedownright hungry, how ever you come to know all those things, isjust past my comprehension, except by a double portion o' theSpirit, sir. And that's the way I account for it, sir. "

Although I knew enough about a ship to understand the old man, I amnot sure that I have properly represented his sea-phrase. But thatis of small consequence, so long as I give his meaning. And ameaning can occasionally be even better CONVEYED by less accuratewords. 

"I will try to tell you how I come to know about these things as Ido, " I returned. "How my knowledge may stand the test of further andseverer trials remains to be seen. But if I should fail any time, old friend, and neither trust in God nor do my duty, what I havesaid to you remains true all the same. "

"That it do, sir, whoever may come short. "

"And more than that: failure does not necessarily prove any one tobe a hypocrite of no faith. He may be still a man of little faith. "

"Surely, surely, sir. I remember once that my faith broke down--justfor one moment, sir. And then the Lord gave me my way lest I shouldblaspheme Him in thy wicked heart. "

"How was that, Rogers?"

"A scream came from the quarter-deck, and then the cry: 'Childoverboard!' There was but one child, the captain's, aboard. I wassitting just aft the foremast, herring-boning a split in a sparejib. I sprang to the bulwark, and there, sure enough, was the child, going fast astarn, but pretty high in the water. How it happened Ican't think to this day, sir, but I suppose my needle, in the hurry, had got into my jacket, so as to skewer it to my jersey, for we werefar south of the line at the time, sir, and it was cold. Howeverthat may be, as soon as I was overboard, which you may be suredidn't want the time I take tellin' of it, I found that I ought toha' pulled my jacket off afore I gave the bulwark the last kick. SoI rose on the water, and began to pull it over my head--for it waswide, and that was the easiest way, I thought, in the water. Butwhen I had got it right over my head, there it stuck. And there wasI, blind as a Dutchman in a fog, and in as strait a jacket as everpoor wretch in Bedlam, for I could only just wag my flippers. MrWalton, I believe I swore--the Lord forgive me!--but it was trying. And what was far worse, for one moment I disbelieved in Him; and Ido say that's worse than swearing--in a hurry I mean. And thatmoment something went, the jacket was off, and there was I feelin'as if every stroke I took was as wide as the mainyard. I had no timeto repent, only to thank God. And wasn't it more than I deserved, sir? Ah! He can rebuke a man for unbelief by giving him the desireof his heart. And that's a better rebuke than tying him up to thegratings. "

"And did you save the child?"

"Oh yes, sir. "

"And wasn't the captain pleased?"

"I believe he was, sir. He gave me a glass o' grog, sir. But you wasa sayin' of something, sir, when I interrupted of you. "

"I am very glad you did interrupt me. "

"I'm not though, sir. I Ve lost summat I 'll never hear more. "

"No, you shan't lose it. I was going to tell you how I think I cameto understand a little about the things I was talking of to-day. "

"That's it, sir; that's it. Well, sir, if you please?"

"You've heard of Sir Philip Sidney, haven't you, Old Rogers?"

"He was a great joker, wasn't he, sir?"

"No, no; you're thinking of Sydney Smith, Rogers. "

"It may be, sir. I am an ignorant man. "

"You are no more ignorant than you ought to be. --But it is time youshould know him, for he was just one of your sort. I will come downsome evening and tell you about him. "

I may as well mention here that this led to week-evening lecturesin the barn, which, with the help of Weir the carpenter, was changedinto a comfortable room, with fixed seats all round it, and plentyof cane-chairs besides--for I always disliked forms in the middleof a room. The object of these lectures was to make the peopleacquainted with the true heroes of their own country--men great inthemselves. And the kind of choice I made may be seen by those whoknow about both, from the fact that, while my first two lectureswere on Philip Sidney, I did not give one whole lecture even toWalter Raleigh, grand fellow as he was. I wanted chiefly to setforth the men that could rule themselves, first of all, after anoble fashion. But I have not finished these lectures yet, for Inever wished to confine them to the English heroes; I am going onstill, old man as I am--not however without retracing passed groundsometimes, for a new generation has come up since I came here, andthere is a new one behind coming up now which I may be honoured topresent in its turn to some of this grand company--this cloud ofwitnesses to the truth in our own and other lands, some of whomsubdued kingdoms, and others were tortured to death, for the samecause and with the same result. 

"Meantime, " I went on, "I only want to tell you one little thing hesays in a letter to a younger brother whom he wanted to turn out asfine a fellow as possible. It is about horses, or rather, riding--for Sir Philip was the best horseman in Europe in his day, as, indeed, all things taken together, he seems to have really beenthe most accomplished man generally of his time in the world. Writing to this brother he says--"

I could not repeat the words exactly to Old Rogers, but I think itbetter to copy them exactly, in writing this account of our talk:

"At horsemanship, when you exercise it, read Crison Claudio, and abook that is called La Gloria del Cavallo, withal that you may jointhe thorough contemplation of it with the exercise; and so shall youprofit more in a month than others in a year. "

"I think I see what you mean, sir. I had got to learn it all withoutbook, as it were, though you know I had my old Bible, that my mothergave me, and without that I should not have learned it at all. "

"I only mean it comparatively, you know. You have had more of thepractice, and I more of the theory. But if we had not both had both, we should neither of us have known anything about the matter. Inever was content without trying at least to understand things; andif they are practical things, and you try to practise them at thesame time as far as you do understand them, there is no end to theway in which the one lights up the other. I suppose that is how, without your experience, I have more to say about such things thanyou could expect. You know besides that a small matter in which aprinciple is involved will reveal the principle, if attended to, just as well as a great one containing the same principle. The onlydifference, and that a most important one, is that, though I've gotmy clay and my straw together, and they stick pretty well as yet, mybrick, after all, is not half so well baked as yours, old friend, and it may crumble away yet, though I hope not. "

"I pray God to make both our bricks into stones of the NewJerusalem, sir. I think I understand you quite well. To know about athing is of no use, except you do it. Besides, as I found out when Iwent to sea, you never can know a thing till you do do it, though Ithought I had a tidy fancy about some things beforehand. It's betternot to be quite sure that all your seams are caulked, and so to keepa look-out on the bilge-pump; isn't it, sir?"

During the most of this conversation, we were standing by themill-water, half frozen over. The ice from both sides came towardsthe middle, leaving an empty space between, along which the darkwater showed itself, hurrying away as if in fear of its life fromthe white death of the frost. The wheel stood motionless, and thedrip from the thatch of the mill over it in the sun, had frozen inthe shadow into icicles, which hung in long spikes from the spokesand the floats, making the wheel--soft green and mossy when itrevolved in the gentle sun-mingled summer-water--look like its owngray skeleton now. The sun was getting low, and I should want all mytime to see my other friends before dinner, for I would notwillingly offend Mrs Pearson on Christmas Day by being late, especially as I guessed she was using extraordinary skill to prepareme a more than comfortable meal. 

"I must go, Old Rogers, " I said; "but I will leave you something tothink about till we meet again. Find out why our Lord was so muchdispleased with the disciples, whom He knew to be ignorant men, fornot knowing what He meant when He warned them against the leaven ofthe Pharisees. I want to know what you think about it. You'll findthe story told both in the sixteenth chapter of St Matthew and theeighth of St Mark. "

"Well, sir, I'll try; that is, if you will tell me what you thinkabout it afterwards, so as to put me right, if I'm wrong. "

"Of course I will, if I can find out an explanation to satisfy me. But it is not at all clear to me now. In fact, I do not see theconnecting links of our Lord's logic in the rebuke He gives them. "

"How am I to find out then, sir--knowing nothing of logic at all?"said the old man, his rough worn face summered over with hischild-like smile. 

"There are many things which a little learning, while it cannotreally hide them, may make you less ready to see all at once, " Ianswered, shaking hands with Old Rogers, and then springing acrossthe brook with my carpet-bag in my hand. 

By the time I had got through the rest of my calls, the fogs wererising from the streams and the meadows to close in upon my firstChristmas Day in my own parish. How much happier I was than when Icame such a few months before! The only pang I felt that day was asI passed the monsters on the gate leading to Oldcastle Hall. ShouldI be honoured to help only the poor of the flock? Was I to donothing for the rich, for whom it is, and has been, and doubtlesswill be so hard to enter into the kingdom of heaven? And it seemedto me at the moment that the world must be made for the poor: theyhad so much more done for them to enable them to inherit it than therich had. --To these people at the Hall, I did not seem acceptable. Imight in time do something with Judy, but the old lady was still sodreadfully repulsive to me that it troubled my conscience to feelhow I disliked her. Mr Stoddart seemed nothing more than adilettante in religion, as well as in the arts and sciences--musicalways excepted; while for Miss Oldcastle, I simply did notunderstand her yet. And she was so beautiful! I thought her more, beautiful every time I saw her. But I never appeared to make theleast progress towards any real acquaintance with her thoughts andfeelings. --It seemed to me, I say, for a moment, coming from thehouses of the warm-hearted poor, as if the rich had not quite fairplay, as it were--as if they were sent into the world chiefly forthe sake of the cultivation of the virtues of the poor, and withoutmuch chance for the cultivation of their own. I knew better thanthis you know, my reader; but the thought came, as thoughts willcome sometimes. It vanished the moment I sought to lay hands uponit, as if it knew quite well it had no business there. But certainlyI did believe that it was more like the truth to say the world wasmade for the poor than to say that it was made for the rich. Andtherefore I longed the more to do something for these whom Iconsidered the rich of my flock; for it was dreadful to think oftheir being poor inside instead of outside. 

Perhaps my reader will say, and say with justice, that I ought tohave been as anxious about poor Farmer Brownrigg as about thebeautiful lady. But the farmer liai given me good reason to hopesome progress in him after the way he had given in about JaneRogers. Positively I had caught his eye during the sermon that veryday. And, besides--but I will not be a hypocrite; and seeing I didnot certainly take the same interest in Mr Brownrigg, I will atleast be honest and confess it. As far as regards the discharge ofmy duties, I trust I should have behaved impartially had thenecessity for any choice arisen. But my feelings were not quiteunder my own control. And we are nowhere, told to love everybodyalike, only to love every one who comes within our reach asourselves. 

I wonder whether my old friend Dr Duncan was right. He had served onshore in Egypt under General Abercrombie, and had of course, afterthe fighting was over on each of the several occasions--the Frenchbeing always repulsed--exercised his office amongst the wounded lefton the field of battle. --"I do not know, " he said, "whether I didright or not; but I always took the man I came to first--French orEnglish. "--I only know that my heart did not wait for the opinion ofmy head on the matter. I loved the old man the more that he did ashe did. But as a question of casuistry, I am doubtful about itsanswer. 

This digression is, I fear, unpardonable. 

I made Mrs Pearson sit down with me to dinner, for Christmas Day wasnot one to dine alone upon. And I have ever since had my servants todine with me on Christmas Day. 

Then I went out again, and made another round of visits, coming infor a glass of wine at one table, an orange at another, and a hotchestnut at a third. Those whom I could not see that day, I saw onthe following days between it and the new year. And so ended myChristmas holiday with my people. 

But there is one little incident which I ought to relate before Iclose this chapter, and which I am ashamed of having so nearlyforgotten. 

When we had finished our dinner, and I was sitting alone drinking aclass of claret before going out again, Mrs Pearson came in and toldme that little Gerard Weir wanted to see me. I asked her to show himin; and the little fellow entered, looking very shy, and clingingfirst to the door and then to the wall. 

"Come, my dear boy, " I said, "and sit down by me. "

He came directly and stood before me. 

"Would you like a little wine and water?" I said; for unhappilythere was no dessert, Mrs Pearson knowing that I never eat suchthings. 

"No, thank you, sir; I never tasted wine. "

"I did not press him to take it. 

"Please, sir, " he went on after a pause, putting his nand in hispocket, "mother gave me some goodies, and I kept them till I saw youcome back, and here they are, sir. "

Does any reader doubt what I did or said upon this?

I said, "Thank you, my darling, " and I ate them up every one ofthem, that he might see me eat them before he left the house. Andthe dear child went off radiant. 

If anybody cannot understand why I did so, I beg him to consider thematter. If then he cannot come to a conclusion concerning it, Idoubt if any explanation of mine would greatly subserve hisenlightenment. Meantime, I am forcibly restraining myself fromyielding to the temptation to set forth my reasons, which wouldresult in a half-hour's sermon on the Jewish dispensation, includingthe burnt offering, and the wave and heave offerings, with anapplication to the ignorant nurses and mothers of English babies, who do the best they can to make original sin an actual fact bytraining children down in the way they should not go. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE AVENUE. 

It will not appear strange that I should linger so long upon thefirst few months of my association with a people who, now that I aman old man, look to me like my own children. For those who were thenolder than myself are now "old dwellers in those high countries"where there is no age, only wisdom; and I shall soon go to them. Howglad I shall be to see my Old Rogers again, who, as he taught meupon earth, will teach me yet niore, I thank my God, in heaven! ButI must not let the reverie which' always gathers about thefeather-end of my pen the moment I take it up to write theserecollections, interfere with the work before me. 

After this Christmas-tide, I found myself in closer relationship tomy parishioners. No doubt I was always in danger of giving unknownoffence to those who were ready to fancy that I neglected them, anddid not distribute my FAVOURS equally. But as I never took offence, the offence I gave was easily got rid of. A clergyman, of all men, should be slow to take offence, for if he does, he will never befree or strong to reprove sin. And it must sometimes be his duty tospeak severely to those, especially the good, who are turning theirfaces the wrong way. It is of little use to reprove the sinner, butit is worth while sometimes to reprove those who have a regard forrighteousness, however imperfect they may be. "Reprove not ascorner, lest he hate thee; rebuke a wise man, and he will lovethee. "

But I took great care about INTERFERING; though I would interfereupon request--not always, however, upon the side whence the requestcame, and more seldom still upon either side. The clergyman mustnever be a partisan. When our Lord was requested to act as umpirebetween two brothers, He refused. But He spoke and said, "Take heed, and beware of covetousness. " Now, though the best of men is unworthyto loose the latchet of His shoe, yet the servant must be as hisMaster. Ah me! while I write it, I remember that the sinful womanmight yet do as she would with His sacred feet. I bethink me: Desertmay not touch His shoe-tie: Love may kiss His feet. 

I visited, of course, at the Hall, as at the farmhouses in thecountry, and the cottages in the village. I did not come to like MrsOldcastle better. And there was one woman in the house whom Idisliked still more: that Sarah whom Judy had called in my hearing awhite wolf. Her face was yet whiter than that of her mistress, onlyit was not smooth like hers; for its whiteness came apparently fromthe small-pox, which had so thickened the skin that no blood, if shehad any, could shine through. I seldom saw her--only, indeed, caughta glimpse of her now and then as I passed through the house. 

Nor did I make much progress with Mr Stoddart. He had alwayssomething friendly to say, and often some theosophical theory tobring forward, which, I must add, never seemed to me to mean, or, atleast, to reveal, anything. He was a great reader of mystical books, and yet the man's nature seemed cold. It was sunshiny, but notsunny. His intellect was rather a lambent flame than a genialwarmth. He could make things, but he could not grow anything. Andwhen I came to see that he had had more than any one else to do withthe education of Miss Oldcastle, I understood her a little better, and saw that her so-called education had been in a great measurerepression--of a negative sort, no doubt, but not therefore the lessmischievous. For to teach speculation instead of devotion, mysticisminstead of love, word instead of deed, is surely ruinouslyrepressive to the nature that is meant for sunbright activity bothof heart and hand. My chief perplexity continued to be how he couldplay the organ as he did. 

My reader will think that I am always coming round to MissOldcastle; but if he does, I cannot help it. I began, I say, tounderstand her a little better. She seemed to me always like onewalking in a "watery sunbeam, " without knowing that it was but thewintry pledge of a summer sun at hand. She took it, or was trying totake it, for THE sunlight; trying to make herself feel all the glorypeople said was in the light, instead of making haste towards theperfect day. I found afterwards that several things had combined tobring about this condition; and I know she will forgive me, shouldI, for the sake of others, endeavour to make it understood by andby. 

I have not much more to tell my readers about this winter. As but ofa whole changeful season only one day, or, it may be, but one momentin which the time seemed to burst into its own blossom, will clingto the memory; so of the various interviews with my friends, and thewhole flow of the current of my life, during that winter, nothingmore of nature or human nature occurs to me worth recording. I willpass on to the summer season as rapidly as I may, though the earlyspring will detain me with the relation of just a single incident. 

I was on my way to the Hall to see Mr Stoddart. I wanted to ask himwhether something could not be done beyond his exquisite playing torouse the sense of music in my people. I believed that nothing helpsyou so much to feel as the taking of what share may, from the natureof the thing, be possible to you; because, for one reason, in orderto feel, it is necessary that the mind should rest upon the matter, whatever it is. The poorest success, provided the attempt has beengenuine, will enable one to enter into any art ten times better thanbefore. Now I had, I confess, little hope of moving Mr Stoddart inthe matter; but if I should succeed, I thought it would do himselfmore good to mingle with his humble fellows in the attempt to dothem a trifle of good, than the opening of any number ofintellectual windows towards the circumambient truth. 

It was just beginning to grow dusk. The wind was blustering in gustsamong the trees, swaying them suddenly and fiercely like a keenpassion, now sweeping them all one way as if the multitude of topswould break loose and rush away like a wild river, and now subsidingas suddenly, and allowing them to recover themselves and standupright, with tones and motions of indignant expostulation. Therewas just one cold bar of light in the west, and the east was onegray mass, while overhead the stars were twinkling. The grass andall the ground about the trees were very wet. The time seemed moredreary somehow than the winter. Rigour was past, and tenderness hadnot come. For the wind was cold without being keen, and burstingfrom the trees every now and then with a roar as of a sea breakingon distant sands, whirled about me as if it wanted me to go and joinin its fierce play. 

Suddenly I saw, to my amazement, in a walk that ran alongside of theavenue, Miss Oldcastle struggling against the wind, which blewstraight down the path upon her. The cause of my amazement wastwofold. First, I had supposed her with her mother in London, whither their journeys had been not infrequent since Christmas-tide;and next--why should she be fighting with the wind, so far from thehouse, with only a shawl drawn over her head?

The reader may wonder how I should know her in this attire in thedusk, and where there was not the smallest probability of findingher. Suffice it to say that I did recognise her at once; andpassing between two great tree-trunks, and through an opening insome under-wood, was by her side in a moment. But the noise of thewind had prevented her from hearing my approach, and when I utteredher name, she started violently, and, turning, drew herself up veryhaughtily, in part, I presume, to hide her tremor. --She was always alittle haughty with me, I must acknowledge. Could there have beenanything in my address, however unconscious of it I was, that madeher fear I was ready to become intrusive? Or might it not be that, hearing of my footing with my parishioners generally, she wasprepared to resent any assumption of clerical familiarity with her;and so, in my behaviour, any poor innocent "bush was supposed abear. " For I need not tell my reader that nothing was farther frommy intention, even with the lowliest of my flock, than to presumeupon my position as clergyman. I think they all GAVE me the relationI occupied towards them personally. --But I had never seen her lookso haughty as now. If I had been watching her very thoughts shecould hardly have looked more indignant. 

"I beg your pardon, " I said, distressed; "I have startled youdreadfully. "

"Not in the least, " she replied, but without moving, and still witha curve in her form like the neck of a frayed horse. 

I thought it better to leave apology, which was evidentlydisagreeable to her, and speak of indifferent things. 

"I was on my way to call on Mr Stoddart, " I said. 

"You will find him at home, I believe. "

"I fancied you and Mrs Oldcastle in London. "

"We returned yesterday. "

Still she stood as before. I made a movement in the direction of thehouse. She seemed as if she would walk in the opposite direction. 

"May I not walk with you to the house?"

"I am not going in just yet. "

"Are you protected enough for sucn a night?"

"I enjoy the wind. "

I bowed and walked on; for what else could I do?

I cannot say that I enjoyed leaving her behind me in the gatheringdark, the wind blowing her about with no more reverence than if shehad been a bush of privet. Nor was it with a light heart that I boreher repulse as I slowly climbed the hill to the house. However, alittle personal mortification is wholesome--though I cannot sayeither that I derived much consolation from the reflection. 

Sarah opened the glass door, her black, glossy, restless eyeslooking out of her white face from under gray eyebrows. I knew atonce by her look beyond me that she had expected to find meaccompanied by her young mistress. I did not volunteer anyinformation, as my reader may suppose. 

I found, as I had feared, that, although Mr. Stoddart seemed tolisten with some interest to what I said, I could not bring him tothe point of making any practical suggestion, or of responding toone made by me; and I left him with the conviction that he would donothing to help me. Yet during the whole of our interview he had notopposed a single word I said. He was like clay too much softenedwith water to keep the form into which it has been modelled. Hewould take SOME kind of form easily, and lose it yet more easily. Idid not show all my dissatisfaction, however, for that would onlyhave estranged us; and it is not required, nay, it may be wrong, toshow all you feel or think: what is required of us is, not to showwhat we do not feel or think; for that is to be false. 

I left the house in a gloomy mood. I know I ought to have looked upto God and said: "These things do not reach to Thee, my Father. Thouart ever the same; and I rise above my small as well as my greattroubles by remembering Thy peace, and Thy unchangeable Godhood tome and all Thy creatures. " But I did not come to myself all at once. The thought of God had not come, though it was pretty sure to comebefore I got home. I was brooding over the littleness of all I coulddo; and feeling that sickness which sometimes will overtake a man inthe midst of the work he likes best, when the unpleasant parts of itcrowd upon him, and his own efforts, especially those made from thewill without sustaining impulse, come back upon him with a feelingof unreality, decay, and bitterness, as if he had been unnatural anduntrue, and putting himself in false relations by false efforts forgood. I know this all came from selfishness--thinking about myselfinstead of about God and my neighbour. But so it was. --And so I waswalking down the avenue, where it was now very dark, with my headbent to the ground, when I in my turn started at the sound of awoman's voice, and looking up, saw by the starlight the dim form ofMiss Oldcastle standing before me. 

She spoke first. 

"Mr Walton, I was very rude to you. I beg your pardon. "

"Indeed, I did not think so. I only thought what a blunderingawkward fellow I was to startle you as I did. You have to forgiveme. "

"I fancy"--and here I know she smiled, though how I know I do notknow--"I fancy I have made that even, " she said, pleasantly; "foryou must confess I startled you now. "

"You did; but it was in a very different way. I annoyed you with myrudeness. You only scattered a swarm of bats that kept flappingtheir skinny wings in my face. "

"What do you mean? There are no bats at this time of the year. "

"Not outside. In 'winter and rough weather' they creep inside, youknow. "

"Ah! I ought to understand you. But I did not think you were everlike that. I thought you were too good. "

"I wish I were. I hope to be some day. I am not yet, anyhow. And Ithank you for driving the bats away in the meantime. "

"You make me the more ashamed of myself to think that perhaps myrudeness had a share in bringing them. --Yours is no doubt thanklesslabour sometimes. "

She seemed to make the last remark just to prevent the conversationfrom returning to her as its subject. And now all the brightportions of my work came up before me. 

"You are quite mistaken in that, Miss Oldcastle. On the contrary, the thanks I get are far more than commensurate with the labour. Ofcourse one meets with a disappointment sometimes, but that is onlywhen they don't know what you mean. And how should they know whatyou mean till they are different themselves?--You remember whatWordsworth says on this very subject in his poem of Simon Lee?"--

"I do not know anything of Wordsworth. "

"'I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness stillreturning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left memourning. '"

"I do not quite see what he means. "

"May I recommend you to think about it? You will be sure to find itout for yourself, and that will be ten times more satisfactory thanif I were to explain it to you. And, besides, you will never forgetit, if you do. "

"Will you repeat the lines again?"

I did so. 

All this time the wind had been still. Now it rose with a slow gushin the trees. Was it fancy? Or, as the wind moved the shrubbery, didI see a white face? And could it be the White Wolf, as Judy calledher?

I spoke aloud:

"But it is cruel to keep you standing here in such a night. You mustbe a real lover of nature to walk in the dark wind. "

"I like it. Good night. "

So we parted. I gazed into the darkness after her, though shedisappeared at the distance of a yard or two; and would have stoodlonger had I not still suspected the proximity of Judy's Wolf, whichmade me turn and go home, regardless now of Mr Stoddart'sDOUGHINESS. 

I met Miss Oldcastle several times before the summer, but her oldmanner remained, or rather had returned, for there had been nothingof it in the tone of her voice in that interview, if INTERVIEW itcould be called where neither could see more than the other'soutline. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

YOUNG WEIR. 

By slow degrees the summer bloomed. Green came instead of white;rainbows instead of icicles. The grounds about the Hall seemed theincarnation of a summer which had taken years to ripen to itsperfection. The very grass seemed to have aged into perfect youth inthat "haunt of ancient peace;" for surely nowhere else was suchthick, delicate-bladed, delicate-coloured grass to be seen. Gnarledold trees of may stood like altars of smoking perfume, or each likeone million-petalled flower of upheaved whiteness--or of tenderrosiness, as if the snow which had covered it in winter had sunk inand gathered warmth from the life of the tree, and now crept outagain to adorn the summer. The long loops of the laburnum hung heavywith gold towards the sod below; and the air was full of thefragrance of the young leaves of the limes. Down in the valleybelow, the daisies shone in all the meadows, varied with thebuttercup and the celandine; while in damp places grew largepimpernels, and along the sides of the river, the meadow-sweet stoodamongst the reeds at the very edge of the water, breathing out theodours of dreamful sleep. The clumsy pollards were each one mass ofundivided green. The mill wheel had regained its knotty look, withits moss and its dip and drip, as it yielded to the slow water, which would have let it alone, but that there was no other way outof the land to the sea. 

I used now to wander about in the fields and woods, with a book inmy hand, at which I often did not look the whole day, and which yetI liked to have with me. And I seemed somehow to come back with mostupon those days in which I did not read. In this manner I preparedalmost all my sermons that summer. But, although I prepared themthus in the open country, I had another custom, which perhaps mayappear strange to some, before I preached them. This was, to spendthe Saturday evening, not in my study, but in the church. Thiscustom of mine was known to the sexton and his wife, and the churchwas always clean and ready for me after about mid-day, so that Icould be alone there as soon as I pleased. It would take more spacethan my limits will afford to explain thoroughly why I liked to dothis. But I will venture to attempt a partial explanation in a fewwords. 

This fine old church in which I was honoured to lead the prayers ofmy people, was not the expression of the religious feeling of mytime. There was a gloom about it--a sacred gloom, I know, and Iloved it; but such gloom as was not in my feeling when I talked tomy flock. I honoured the place; I rejoiced in its history; Idelighted to think that even by the temples made with handsoutlasting these bodies of ours, we were in a sense united to thosewho in them had before us lifted up holy hands without wrath ordoubting; and with many more who, like us, had lifted up at leastprayerful hands without hatred or despair. The place soothed me, tuned me to a solemn mood--one of self-denial, and gentle gladnessin all sober things. But, had I been an architect, and had I had tobuild a church--I do not in the least know how I should have builtit--I am certain it would have been very different from this. Else Ishould be a mere imitator, like all the church-architects I knowanything about in the present day. For I always found the open airthe most genial influence upon me for the production of religiousfeeling and thought. I had been led to try whether it might not beso with me by the fact that our Lord seemed so much to delight inthe open air, and late in the day as well as early in the morningwould climb the mountain to be alone with His Father. I found thatit helped to give a reality to everything that I thought about, if Ionly contemplated it under the high untroubled blue, with the lowlygreen beneath my feet, and the wind blowing on me to remind me ofthe Spirit that once moved on the face of the waters, bringing orderout of disorder and light out of darkness, and was now seeking everyday a fuller entrance into my heart, that there He might work theone will of the Father in heaven. 

My reader will see then that there was, as it were, not so much adiscord, as a lack of harmony between the surroundings wherein mythoughts took form, or, to use a homelier phrase, my sermon wasstudied, and the surroundings wherein I had to put these forms intothe garments of words, or preach that sermon. I therefore sought tobridge over this difference (if I understood music, I am sure Icould find an expression exactly fitted to my meaning), --to find aneasy passage between the open-air mood and the church mood, so as tobe able to bring into the church as much of the fresh air, and thetree-music, and the colour-harmony, and the gladness over all, asmight be possible; and, in order to this, I thought all my sermonover again in the afternoon sun as it shone slantingly through thestained window over Lord Eagleye's tomb, and in the failing lightthereafter and the gathering dusk of the twilight, pacing up anddown the solemn old place, hanging my thoughts here on a crocket, there on a corbel; now on the gable-point over which Weir's facewould gaze next morning, and now on the aspiring peaks of the organ. I thus made the place a cell of thought and prayer. And when thenext day came, I found the forms around me so interwoven with theforms of my thought, that I felt almost like one of the old monkswho had built the place, so little did I find any check to mythought or utterance from its unfitness for the expression of myindividual modernism. But not one atom the more did I incline to theevil fancy that God was more in the past than in the present; thatHe is more within the walls of the church, than in the unwalled skyand earth; or seek to turn backwards one step from a living Now toan entombed and consecrated Past. 

One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. I had notwalked far, for I had sat in the various places longer than I hadwalked, my path lying through fields and copses, crossing a countryroad only now and then. I had my Greek Testament with me, and I readwhen I sat, and thought when I walked. I remember well enough that Iwas going to preach about the cloud of witnesses, and explain to mypeople that this did not mean persons looking at, witnessing ourbehaviour--not so could any addition be made to the awfulness of thefact that the eye of God was upon us--but witnesses to the truth, people who did what God wanted them to do, come of it what might, whether a crown or a rack, scoffs or applause; to behold whosewitnessing might well rouse all that was human and divine in us tochose our part with them and their Lord. --When I came home, I had anearly dinner, and then betook myself to my Saturday's resort. --I hadnever had a room large enough to satisfy me before. Now my study wasto my mind. 

All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn of the day, whenthe colours are richest and the shadows long and lengthening, Ipaced my solemn old-thoughted church. Sometimes I went up into thepulpit and sat there, looking on the ancient walls which had grownup under men's hands that men might be helped to pray by the visiblesymbol of unity which the walls gave, and that the voice of theSpirit of God might be heard exhorting men to forsake the evil andchoose the good. And I thought how many witnesses to the truth hadknelt in those ancient pews. For as the great church is made up ofnumberless communities, so is the great shining orb ofwitness-bearers made up of millions of lesser orbs. All men andwomen of true heart bear individual testimony to the truth of God, saying, "I have trusted and found Him faithful. " And the feeblelight of the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and with aloveliness of its own. "So, O Lord, " I said, "let my light shinebefore men. " And I felt no fear of vanity in such a prayer, for Iknew that the glory to come of it is to God only--"that men mayglorify their Father in heaven. " And I knew that when we seek gloryfor ourselves, the light goes out, and the Horror that dwells indarkness breathes cold upon our spirits. And I remember that just asI thought thus, my eye was caught first by a yellow light thatgilded the apex of the font-cover, which had been wrought like aflame or a bursting blossom: it was so old and worn, I never couldtell which; and then by a red light all over a white marble tabletin the wall--the red of life on the cold hue of the grave. And thisred light did not come from any work of man's device, but from thegreat window of the west, which little Gerard Weir wanted to helpGod to paint. I must have been in a happy mood that Saturdayafternoon, for everything pleased me and made me happier; and allthe church-forms about me blended and harmonised graciously with thethrone and footstool of God which I saw through the windows. And Ilingered on till the night had come; till the church only gloomedabout me, and had no shine; and then I found my spirit burning upthe clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming all the day with lightunseen becomes a glory in the room when the sun is gone down. 

At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I lingered for a fewmoments in the vestry, thinking what hymns would harmonize best withthe things I wanted to make my people think about. It was now almostquite dark out of doors--at least as dark as it would be. 

Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a moan and a sob. I satupright in my chair and listened. But I heard nothing more, andconcluded I had deceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to gohome and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from thantowards the subject of witness-bearing any more for that night, lestI should burn the fuel of it out before I came to warm the peoplewith it, and should have to blow its embers instead of flashing itslight and heat upon them in gladness. So I left the church by myvestry-door, which I closed behind me, and took my way along thepath through the clustering group of graves. 

Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And there laysomething dark upon one of the grassy mounds. I approached it, butit did not move. I spoke. 

"Can I be of any use to you?" I said. 

"No, " returned an almost inaudible voice. 

Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one hadbeen buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss ofthe dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour byrecent misfortune. 

I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, "Come with me, and let us see what can be done for you. "

I then saw that it was a youth--perhaps scarcely more than a boy. And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly beincurable. He returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, andsubmitted to be led away. I took him the shortest road to my housethrough the shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit downin my easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had beenfalling heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But when the winecame, he refused to take any. 

"But you want it, " I said. 

"No, sir, I don't, indeed. "

"Take some for my sake, then. "

"I would rather not, sir. "

"Why?"

"I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would notdrink anything stronger than water. [sic] And I can't break my promise now. "

"Where is your home?"

"In the village, sir. "

"That wasn't your father's grave I found you upon, was it?"

"No, sir. It was my mother's. "

"Then your father is still alive?"

"Yes, sir. You know him very well--Thomas Weir. "

"Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?"

"Yes, sir, " answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob. 

"Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, andwould tell you you might trust me. "

"I don't doubt it, sir. But you won't believe me any more than myfather. "

By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and hiscountenance. He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown. His dress was very decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealeda likeness to his father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of hisexpression, an honest and sensitive nature. I found him veryattractive, and was therefore the more emboldened to press for theknowledge of his story. 

"I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be ingreat danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force ofits own. "

"I thought so till to-night, " he answered. "But if my father wouldnot believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?"

"Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to beable to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to beunfair. "

"No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me. "

Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There wasa certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicatedthought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell methe truth. 

"Come, try me, " I said. 

"I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning. "

"Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and youmay take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for Idare say you have not made any promise about that. "

A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning tofeel a little more comfortable. 

"When did you arrive from London?" I asked. 

"About two hours ago, I suppose. "

"Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plentyof toast. We are both hungry. "

Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to doher duty. 

When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eagerway in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing forsome time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not lethim say a word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful tosee how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad's hunger;and indeed it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings andthe appetites affect each other. I have known grief actually makepeople, and not sensual people at all, quite hungry. At last Ithought I had better not offer him any more. 

After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; andthe moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shoneinto the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easierto tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shamein the recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to thedespair of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate hisdeed, but not his deed and himself together, he exclaimed, "To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. "

So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his tale. Themoon lighted up his pale face as he told it, and gave rather a wildexpression to his eyes, eager to find faith in me. --I have not muchof the dramatic in me, I know; and I am rather a flat teller ofstories on that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is nonecessity for it, attempt to give the tale in his own words. But, indeed, when I think of it, they did not differ so much from theform of my own, for he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, andbeing, as I found afterwards, a reader of the best books that camein his way, had not caught up many cockneyisms instead. 

He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs----& Co. , largesilk-mercers, linen-drapers, etc. , etc. , in London; for all thetrades are mingled now. His work at first was to accompany one ofthe carts which delivered the purchases of the day; but, I presumebecause he showed himself to be a smart lad, they took him at lengthinto the shop to wait behind the counter. This he did not like somuch, but, as it was considered a rise in life, made no objection tothe change. 

He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon learned all themarks on the goods intended to be understood by the shopmen, andwithin a few months believed that he was found generally useful. Hehad as yet had no distinct department allotted to him, but was movedfrom place to place, according as the local pressure of businessmight demand. 

"I confess, " he said, "that I was not always satisfied with what wasgoing on about me. I mean I could not help doubting if everythingwas done on the square, as they say. But nothing came plainly in myway, and so I could honestly say it did not concern me. I took careto be straightforward for my part, and, knowing only the pricesmarked for the sale of the goods, I had nothing to do with anythingelse. But one day, while I was showing a lady some handkerchiefswhich were marked as mouchoirs de Paris--I don't know if I pronounceit right, sir--she said she did not believe they were Frenchcambric; and I, knowing nothing about it, said nothing. But, happening to look up while we both stood silent, the lady examiningthe handkerchiefs, and I doing nothing till she should have made upher mind, I caught sight of the eyes of the shop-walker, as theycall the man who shows customers where to go for what they want, andsees that they are attended to. He is a fat man, dressed in black, with a great gold chain, which they say in the shop is only coppergilt. But that doesn't matter, only it would be the liker himself. He was standing staring at me. I could not tell what to make of it;but from that day I often caught him watching me, as if I had been acustomer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I only thought he was verydisagreeable, and tried to forget him. 

"One day--the day before yesterday--two ladies, an old lady and ayoung one, came into the shop, and wanted to look at some shawls. Itwas dinner-time, and most of the men were in the house at theirdinner. The shop-walker sent me to them, and then, I do believe, though I did not see him, stood behind a pillar to watch me, as hehad been in the way of doing more openly. I thought I had seen theladies before, and though I could not then tell where, I am nowalmost sure they were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, of the Hall. Theywanted to buy a cashmere for the young lady. I showed them some. They wanted better. I brought the best we had, inquiring, that Imight make no mistake. They asked the price. I told them. They saidthey were not good enough, and wanted to see some more. I told themthey were the best we had. They looked at them again; said they weresorry, but the shawls were not good enough, and left the shopwithout buying anything. I proceeded to take the shawls up-stairsagain, and, as I went, passed the shop walker, whom I had notobserved while I was attending to the ladies. 'YOU're for no good, young man!' he said with a nasty sneer. 'What do you mean by that, Mr B. ?' I asked, for his sneer made me angry. 'You 'll know beforeto-morrow, ' he answered, and walked away. That same evening, as wewere shutting up shop, I was sent for to the principal's room. Themoment I entered, he said, 'You won't suit us, young man, I find. You had better pack up your box to-night, and be off to-morrow. There's your quarter's salary. ' 'What have I done?' I asked inastonishment, and yet with a vague suspicion of the matter. 'It'snot what you've done, but what you don't do, ' he answered. 'Do youthink we can afford to keep you here and pay you wages to sendpeople away from the shop without buying? If you do, you'remistaken, that's all. You may go. ' 'But what could I do?' I said. 'Isuppose that spy, B---, '--I believe I said so, sir. 'Now, now, youngman, none of your sauce!' said Mr---. 'Honest people don't thinkabout spies. ' 'I thought it was for honesty you were getting rid ofme, ' I said. Mr---rose to his feet, his lips white, and pointed tothe door. 'Take your money and be off. And mind you don't refer tome for a character. After such impudence I couldn't in consciencegive you one. ' Then, calming down a little when he saw I turned togo, 'You had better take to your hands again, for your head willnever keep you. There, be off!' he said, pushing the money towardsme, and turning his back to me. I could not touch it. 'Keep themoney, Mr---, ' I said. 'It'll make up for what you've lost by me. 'And I left the room at once without waiting for an answer. 

"While I was packing my box, one of my chums came in, and I told himall about it. He is rather a good fellow that, sir; but he laughed, and said, 'What a fool you are, Weir! YOU'll never make your dailybread, and you needn't think it. If you knew what I know, you'd haveknown better. And it's very odd it was about shawls, too. I'll tellyou. As you're going away, you won't let it out. Mr---' (that wasthe same who had just turned me away) 'was serving some ladieshimself, for he wasn't above being in the shop, like his partner. They wanted the best Indian shawl they could get. None of those heshowed them were good enough, for the ladies really didn't know onefrom another. They always go by the price you ask, and Mr---knewthat well enough. He had sent me up-stairs for the shawls, and as Ibrought them he said, "These are the best imported, madam. " Therewere three ladies; and one shook her head, and another shook herhead, and they all shook their heads. And then Mr---was sorry, Ibelieve you, that he had said they were the best. But you won'tcatch him in a trap! He's too old a fox for that. ' I'm telling you, sir, what Johnson told me. 'He looked close down at the shawls, asif he were short-sighted, though he could see as far as any man. "Ibeg your pardon, ladies, " said he, "you're right. I am quite wrong. What a stupid blunder to make! And yet they did deceive me. Here, Johnson, take these shawls away. How could you be so stupid? I willfetch the thing you want myself, ladies. " So I went with him. Hechose out three or four shawls, of the nicest patterns, from thevery same lot, marked in the very same way, folded them differently, and gave them to me to carry down. "Now, ladies, here they are!" hesaid. "These are quite a different thing, as you will see; and, indeed, they cost half as much again. " In five minutes they hadbought two of them, and paid just half as much more than he hadasked for them the first time. That's Mr---! and that's what youshould have done if you had wanted to keep your place. '--But Iassure you, sir, I could not help being glad to be out of it. "

"But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about, " I said. "You did your duty. "

"It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don't want tobe idle, I'm sure. "

"Does your father think you do?"

"I don't know what he thinks. He won't speak to me. I told mystory--as much of it as he would let me, at least--but he wouldn'tlisten to me. He only said he knew better than that. I couldn't bearit. He always was rather hard upon us. I'm sure if you hadn't beenso kind to me, sir, I don't know what I should have done by thistime. I haven't another friend in the world. "

"Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend. "

"I don't know that, sir. I'm not good enough. "

"That's quite true. But you would never have done your duty if Hehad not been with you. "

"DO you think so, sir?" he returned, eagerly. 

"Indeed, I do. Everything good comes from the Father of lights. Every one that walks in any glimmering of light walks so far in HISlight. For there is no light--only darkness--comes from below. Andman apart from God can generate no light. He's not meant to beseparated from God, you see. And only think then what light He cangive you if you will turn to Him and ask for it. What He has givenyou should make you long for more; for what you have is notenough--ah! far from it. "

"I think I understand. But I didn't feel good at all in the matter. I didn't see any other way of doing. "

"So much the better. We ought never to feel good. We are butunprofitable servants at best. There is no merit in doing your duty;only you would have been a poor wretched creature not to do as youdid. And now, instead of making yourself miserable over theconsequences of it, you ought to bear them like a man, with courageand hope, thanking God that He has made you suffer forrighteousness' sake, and denied you the success and the praise ofcheating. I will go to your father at once, and find out what he isthinking about it. For no doubt Mr---has written to him with hisversion of the story. Perhaps he will be more inclined to believeyou when he finds that I believe you. "

"Oh, thank you, sir!" cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat togo with me. 

"No, " I said; "you had better stay where you are. I shall be able tospeak more freely if you are not present. Here is a book to amuseyourself with. I do not think I shall be long gone. "

But I was longer gone than I thought I should be. 

When I reached the carpenter's house, I found, to my surprise, thathe was still at work. By the light of a single tallow candle placedbeside him on the bench, he was ploughing away at a groove. His paleface, of which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might haveexpected after what had occurred, was the sole object that reflectedthe light of the candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. Helooked up, but without even greeting me, dropped his face again andwent on with his work. 

"What!" I said, cheerily, --for I believed that, like Gideon'spitcher, I held dark within me the light that would discomfit hisMidianites, which consciousness may well make the pitcher cheeryinside, even while the light as yet is all its own--worthless, tillit break out upon the world, and cease to illuminate only glazedpitcher-sides--"What!" I said, "working so late?"

"Yes, sir. "

"It is not usual with you, I know. "

"It's all a humbug!" he said fiercely, but coldly notwithstanding, as he stood erect from his work, and turned his white face full onme--of which, however, the eyes drooped--"It's all a humbug; and Idon't mean to be humbugged any more. "

"Am I a humbug?" I returned, not quite taken by surprise. 

"I don't say that. Don't make a personal thing of it, sir. You'retaken in, I believe, like the rest of us. Tell me that a God governsthe world! What have I done, to be used like this?"

I thought with myself how I could retort for his young son: "Whathas he done to be used like this?" But that was not my way, thoughit might work well enough in some hands. Some men are called to beprophets. I could only "stand and wait. "

"It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance, " I said, "of what youmean. I know all about it. "

"Do you? He has been to you, has he? But you don't know all aboutit, sir. The impudence of the young rascal!"

He paused for a moment. 

"A man like me!" he resumed, becoming eloquent in his indignation, and, as I thought afterwards, entirely justifying what Wordsworthsays about the language of the so-called uneducated, --"A man likeme, who was as proud of his honour as any aristocrat in the country--prouder than any of them would grant me the right to be!"

"Too proud of it, I think--not too careful of it, " I said. But I wasthankful he did not heed me, for the speech would only haveirritated him. He went on. 

"Me to be treated like this! One child a . .. "

Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried again. 

"And the other a . .. "

Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove his ploughfiercely through the groove, splitting off some inches of the wallof it at the end. 

"If any one has treated you so, " I said, "it must be the devil, notGod. "

"But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all. "

"Mind what I said to you once before: He hasn't done yet. And thereis another enemy in His way as bad as the devil--I mean our SELVES. When people want to walk their own way without God, God lets themtry it. And then the devil gets a hold of them. But God won't lethim keep them. As soon as they are 'wearied in the greatness oftheir way, ' they begin to look about for a Saviour. And then theyfind God ready to pardon, ready to help, not breaking the bruisedreed--leading them to his own self manifest--with whom no man canfear any longer, Jesus Christ, the righteous lover of men--theirelder brother--what we call BIG BROTHER, you know--one to help themand take their part against the devil, the world, and the flesh, andall the rest of the wicked powers. So you see God is tender--justlike the prodigal son's father--only with this difference, that Godhas millions of prodigals, and never gets tired of going out to meetthem and welcome them back, every one as if he were the onlyprodigal son He had ever had. There's a father indeed! Have you beensuch a father to your son?"

"The prodigal didn't come with a pack of lies. He told his fatherthe truth, bad as it was. "

"How do you know that your son didn't tell you the truth? All theyoung men that go from home don't do as the prodigal did. Why shouldyou not believe what he tells you?"

"I'm not one to reckon without my host. Here's my bill. "

And so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and read:--

"SIR, --It has become our painful duty to inform you that your sonhas this day been discharged from the employment of Messrs---andCo. , his conduct not being such as to justify the confidencehitherto reposed in him. It would have been contrary to theinterests of the establishment to continue him longer behind thecounter, although we are not prepared to urge anything against himbeyond the fact that he has shown himself absolutely indifferent tothe interests of his employers. We trust that the chief blame willbe found to lie with certain connexions of a kind easy to be formedin large cities, and that the loss of his situation may bepunishment sufficient, if not for justice, yet to make him considerhis ways and be wise. We enclose his quarter's salary, which theyoung man rejected with insult, and, "We remain, &c. , "---and Co. "

"And, " I exclaimed, "this is what you found your judgment of yourown son upon! You reject him unheard, and take the word of astranger! I don't wonder you cannot believe in your Father when youbehave so to your son. I don't say your conclusion is false, thoughI don't believe it. But I do say the grounds you go upon areanything but sufficient. "

"You don't mean to tell me that a man of Mr---'s standing, who hasone of the largest shops in London, and whose brother is Mayor ofAddicehead, would slander a poor lad like that!"

"Oh you mammon-worshipper!" I cried. "Because a man has one of thelargest shops in London, and his brother is Mayor of Addicehead, youtake his testimony and refuse your son's! I did not know the boytill this evening; but I call upon you to bring back to your memoryall that you have known of him from his childhood, and then askyourself whether there is not, at least, as much probability of hishaving remained honest as of the master of a great London shop beinginfallible in his conclusions--at which conclusions, whatever theybe, I confess no man can wonder, after seeing how readily his fatherlistens to his defamation. "

I spoke with warmth. Before I had done, the pale face of thecarpenter was red as fire; for he had been acting contrary to allhis own theories of human equality, and that in a shameful manner. Still, whether convinced or not, he would not give in. He only droveaway at his work, which he was utterly destroying. His mouth wasclosed so tight, he looked as if he had his jaw locked; and his eyesgleamed over the ruined board with a light which seemed to me tohave more of obstinacy in it than contrition. 

"Ah, Thomas!" I said, taking up the speech once more, "if God hadbehaved to us as you have behaved to your boy--be he innocent, be heguilty--there's not a man or woman of all our lost race would havereturned to Him from the time of Adam till now. I don't wonder thatyou find it difficult to believe in Him. "

And with those words I left the shop, determined to overwhelm theunbeliever with proof, and put him to shame before his own soul, whence, I thought, would come even more good to him than to his son. For there was a great deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with theman's honesty, and the sooner that had a blow the better--it mightprove a death-blow in the long run. It was pride that lay at theroot of his hardness. He visited the daughter's fault upon the son. His daughter had disgraced him; and he was ready to flash into wrathwith his son upon any imputation which recalled to him the torturehe had undergone when his daughter's dishonour came first to thelight. Her he had never forgiven, and now his pride flung his sonout after her upon the first suspicion. His imagination had filledup all the blanks in the wicked insinuations of Mr---. He concludedthat he had taken money to spend in the worst company, and had sodisgraced him beyond forgiveness. His pride paralysed his love. Hethought more about himself than about his children. His own shameoutweighed in his estimation the sadness of their guilt. It was aless matter that they should be guilty, than that he, their father, should be disgraced. 

Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, I foundmyself half-way up the avenue of the Hall. I wanted to find outwhether young Weir's fancy that the ladies he had failed in serving, or rather whom he had really served with honesty, were Mrs and MissOldcastle, was correct. What a point it would be if it was! I shouldnot then be satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle toaccompany me to Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out of him. So eager was I after certainty, that it was not till I stood beforethe house that I saw clearly the impropriety of attempting anythingfurther that night. One light only was burning in the whole front, and that was on the first floor. 

Glancing up at it, I knew not why, as I turned to go down the hillagain, I saw a corner of the blind drawn aside and a face peepingout--whose, I could not tell. This was uncomfortable--for what couldbe taking me there at such a time? But I walked steadily away, certain I could not escape recognition, and determining to refer tothis ill-considered visit when I called the next day. I would notput it off till Monday, I was resolved. 

I lingered on the bridge as I went home. Not a light was to be seenin the village, except one over Catherine Weir's shop. There werenot many restless souls in my parish--not so many as there ought tobe. Yet gladly would I see the troubled in peace--not a moment, though, before their troubles should have brought them where theweary and heavy-laden can alone find rest to their souls--findingthe Father's peace in the Son--the Father himself reconciling themto Himself. 

How still the night was! My soul hung, as it were, suspended instillness; for the whole sphere of heaven seemed to be about me, thestars above shining as clear below in the mirror of the all butmotionless water. It was a pure type of the "rest thatremaineth"--rest, the one immovable centre wherein lie all thestores of might, whence issue all forces, all influences of makingand moulding. "And, indeed, " I said to myself, "after all the noise, uproar, and strife that there is on the earth, after all thetempests, earthquakes, and volcanic outbursts, there is yet more ofpeace than of tumult in the world. How many nights like this glideaway in loveliness, when deep sleep hath fallen upon men, and theyknow neither how still their own repose, nor how beautiful the sleepof nature! Ah, what must the stillness of the kingdom be? When theheavenly day's work is done, with what a gentle wing will the nightcome down! But I bethink me, the rest there, as here, will be thepresence of God; and if we have Him with us, the battle-field itselfwill be--if not quiet, yet as full of peace as this night of stars. "So I spoke to myself, and went home. 

I had little immediate comfort to give my young guest, but I hadplenty of hope. I told him he must stay in the house to-morrow; forit would be better to have the reconciliation with his father overbefore he appeared in public. So the next day neither Weir was atchurch. 

As soon as the afternoon service was over, I went once more to theHall, and was shown into the drawing-room--a great faded room, inwhich the prevailing colour was a dingy gold, hence called theyellow drawing-room when the house had more than one. It looked downupon the lawn, which, although little expense was now laid out onany of the ornamental adjuncts of the Hall, was still kept verynice. There sat Mrs Oldcastle reading, with her face to the house. Alittle way farther on, Miss Oldcastle sat, with a book on her knee, but her gaze fixed on the wide-spread landscape before her, ofwhich, however, she seemed to be as inobservant as of her book. Icaught glimpses of Judy flitting hither and thither among the trees, never a moment in one place. 

Fearful of having an interview with the old lady alone, which wasnot likely to lead to what I wanted, I stepped from a window whichwas open, out upon the terrace, and thence down the steps to thelawn below. The servant had just informed Mrs Oldcastle of my visitwhen I came near. She drew herself up in her chair, and evidentlychose to regard my approach as an intrusion. 

"I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr Walton, you will allowme to say. "

"I am doing Sunday work, " I answered. "Will you kindly tell mewhether you were in London on Thursday last? But stay, allow me toask Miss Oldcastle to join us. "

Without waiting for answer, I went to Miss Oldcastle, and begged herto come and listen to something in which I wanted her help. She rosecourteously though without cordiality, and accompanied me to hermother, who sat with perfect rigidity, watching us. 

"Again let me ask, " I said, "if you were in London on Thursday. "

Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came from her daughter. 

"Yes, we were. "

"Were you in---& Co. 's, in---Street?"

But now before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother interposed. 

"Are we charged with shoplifting, Mr Walton? Really, one is notaccustomed to such cross-questioning--except from a lawyer. "

"Have patience with me for a moment, " I returned. "I am not going tobe mysterious for more than two or three questions. Please tell mewhether you were in that shop or not. "

"I believe we were, " said the mother. 

"Yes, certainly, " said the daughter. 

"Did you buy anything?"

"No. We--" Miss Oldcastle began. 

"Not a word more, " I exclaimed eagerly. "Come with me at once. "

"What DO you mean, Mr Walton?" said the mother, with a sort of coldindignation, while the daughter looked surprised, but said nothing. 

"I beg your pardon for my impetuosity; but much is in your power atthis moment. The son of one of my parishioners has come home introuble. His father, Thomas Weir--"

"Ah!" said Mrs Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at strife withrefinement. But I took no notice. 

"His father will not believe his story. The lad thinks you were theladies in serving whom he got into trouble. I am so confident hetells the truth, that I want Miss Oldcastle to be so kind as toaccompany me to Weir's house--"

"Really, Mr Walton, I am astonished at your making such a request!"exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, with suitable emphasis on every salientsyllable, while her white face flushed with anger. "To ask MissOldcastle to accompany you to the dwelling of the ringleader of allthe canaille of the neighbourhood!"

"It is for the sake of justice, " I interposed. 

"That is no concern of ours. Let them fight it out between them, Iam sure any trouble that comes of it is no more than they alldeserve. A low family--men and women of them. "

"I assure you, I think very differently. "

"I daresay you do. "

"But neither your opinion nor mine has anything to do with thematter. "

Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on--

"It is a chance which seldom occurs in one's life, Miss Oldcastle--achance of setting wrong right by a word; and as a minister of thegospel of truth and love, I beg you to assist me with your presenceto that end. "

I would have spoken more strongly, but I knew that her word given tome would be enough without her presence. At the same time, I feltnot only that there would be a propriety in her taking a personalinterest in the matter, but that it would do her good, and tend tocreate a favour towards each other in some of my flock between whomat present there seemed to be nothing in common. 

But at my last words, Mrs Oldcastle rose to her feet no longerred--now whiter than her usual whiteness with passion. 

"You dare to persist! You take advantage of your profession topersist in dragging my daughter into a vile dispute betweenmechanics of the lowest class--against the positive command of heronly parent! Have you no respect for her position in society?--forher sex? MISTER WALTON, you act in a manner unworthy of your cloth. "

I had stood looking in her eyes with as much self-possession as Icould muster. And I believe I should have borne it all quietly, butfor that last word. 

If there is one epithet I hate more than another, it is thatexecrable word CLOTH--used for the office of a clergyman. I have notime to set forth its offence now. If my reader cannot feel it, I donot care to make him feel it. Only I am sorry to say it overcame mytemper. 

"Madam, " I said, "I owe nothing to my tailor. But I owe God my wholebeing, and my neighbour all I can do for him. 'He that loveth nothis brother is a murderer, ' or murderess, as the case may be. "

At that word MURDERESS, her face became livid, and she turned awaywithout reply. By this time her daughter was half way to the house. She followed her. And here was I left to go home, with the fullknowledge that, partly from trying to gain too much, and partly fromlosing my temper, I had at best but a mangled and unsatisfactorytestimony to carry back to Thomas Weir. Of course I walkedaway--round the end of the house and down the avenue; and thefarther I went the more mortified I grew. It was not merely theshame of losing my temper, though that was a shame--and with a womantoo, merely because she used a common epithet!--but I saw that itmust appear very strange to the carpenter that I was not able togive a more explicit account of some sort, what I had learned notbeing in the least decisive in the matter. It only amounted to this, that Mrs and Miss Oldcastle were in the shop on the very day onwhich Weir was dismissed. It proved that so much of what he had toldme was correct--nothing more. And if I tried to better the matter byexplaining how I had offended them, would it not deepen the veryhatred I had hoped to overcome? In fact, I stood convicted beforethe tribunal of my own conscience of having lost all the certaingood of my attempt, in part at least from the foolish desire toproduce a conviction OF Weir rather than IN Weir, which should betriumphant after a melodramatic fashion, and--must I confessit?--should PUNISH him for not believing in his son when _I_ did;forgetting in my miserable selfishness that not to believe in hisson was an unspeakably worse punishment in itself than anyconviction or consequent shame brought about by the mostoverwhelming of stage-effects. I assure my reader, I felthumiliated. 

Now I think humiliation is a very different condition of mind fromhumility. Humiliation no man can desire: it is shame and torture. Humility is the true, right condition of humanity--peaceful, divine. And yet a man may gladly welcome humiliation when it comes, if hefinds that with fierce shock and rude revulsion it has turned himright round, with his face away from pride, whither he wastravelling, and towards humility, however far away upon thehorizon's verge she may sit waiting for him. To me, however, therecame a gentle and not therefore less effective dissolution of thebonds both of pride and humiliation; and before Weir and I met, Iwas nearly as anxious to heal his wounded spirit, as I was to workjustice for his son. 

I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and downcast eyes, the oneof conflict, the other of shame and defeat, away from the greathouse, which seemed to be staring after me down the avenue with allits window-eyes, when suddenly my deliverance came. At a somewhatsharp turn, where the avenue changed into a winding road, MissOldcastle stood waiting for me, the glow of haste upon her cheek, and the firmness of resolution upon her lips. Once more I wasstartled by her sudden presence, but she did not smile. 

"Mr Walton, what do you want me to do? I would not willing refuse, if it is, as you say, really my duty to go with you. "

"I cannot be positive about that, " I answered. "I think I put it toostrongly. But it would be a considerable advantage, I think, if youWOULD go with me and let me ask you a few questions in the presenceof Thomas Weir. It will have more effect if I am able to tell himthat I have only learned as yet that you were in the shop on thatday, and refer him to you for the rest. "

"I will go. "

"A thousand thanks. But how did you manage to--?"

Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question. 

"You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mamma's objection tomy going?"

"I confess I am. I should not have been surprised at Judy's doingso, now. "

She was silent for a moment. 

"Do you think obedience to parents is to last for ever? The honouris, of course. But I am surely old enough to be right in followingmy conscience at least. "

"You mistake me. That is not the difficulty at all. Of course youought to do what is right against the highest authority on earth, which I take to be just the parental. What I am surprised at is yourcourage. "

"Not because of its degree, only that it is mine!"

And she sighed. --She was quite right, and I did not know what toanswer. But she resumed. 

"I know I am cowardly. But if I cannot dare, I can bear. Is it notstrange?--With my mother looking at me, I dare not say a word, darehardly move against her will. And it is not always a good will. Icannot honour my mother as I would. But the moment her eyes are offme, I can do anything, knowing the consequences perfectly, and justas regardless of them; for, as I tell you, Mr Walton, I can endure;and you do not know what that might COME to mean with my mother. Once she kept me shut up in my room, and sent me only bread andwater, for a whole week to the very hour. Not that I minded thatmuch, but it will let you know a little of my position in my ownhome. That is why I walked away before her. I saw what was coming. "

And Miss Oldcastle drew herself up with more expression of pridethan I had yet seen in her, revealing to me that perhaps I hadhitherto quite misunderstood the source of her apparent haughtiness. I could not reply for indignation. My silence must have been thecause of what she said next. 

"Ah! you think I have no right to speak so about my own mother!Well! well! But indeed I would not have done so a month ago. "

"If I am silent, Miss Oldcastle, it is that my sympathy is toostrong for me. There are mothers and mothers. And for a mother notto be a mother is too dreadful. "

She made no reply. I resumed. 

"It will seem cruel, perhaps;--certainly in saying it, I lay myselfopen to the rejoinder that talk is SO easy;--still I shall feelmore honest when I have said it: the only thing I feel should bealtered in your conduct--forgive me--is that you should DARE yourmother. Do not think, for it is an unfortunate phrase, that mymeaning is a vulgar one. If it were, I should at least know betterthan to utter it to you. What I mean is, that you ought to be ableto be and do the same before your mother's eyes, that you are and dowhen she is out of sight. I mean that you should look in yourmother's eyes, and do what is RIGHT. "

"I KNOW that--know it WELL. " (She emphasized the words as I do. )"But you do not know what a spell she casts upon me; how impossibleit is to do as you say. "

"Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be free tillyou do so. "

"You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you will scarcely be ableto believe it now, I DO honour her, and cannot help feeling that bydoing as I do, I avoid irreverence, impertinence, rudeness--whichever is the right word for what I mean. "

"I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more than propriety ofbehaviour, even to a parent; and indeed has in it a deeperreverence, or the germ of it at least, than any adherence to themere code of respect. If you once did as I want you to do, you wouldfind that in reality you both revered and loved your mother morethan you do now. "

"You may be right. But I am certain you speak without any real ideaof the difficulty. "

"That may be. And yet what I say remains just as true. "

"How could I meet VIOLENCE, for instance?"

"Impossible!"

She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some minutes. Atlength she said, "My mother's self-will amounts to madness, I do believe. I have yetto learn where she would stop of herself. "

"All self-will is madness, " I returned--stupidly enough For what isthe use of making general remarks when you have a terrible concretebefore you? "To want one's own way just and only because it is one'sown way is the height of madness. "

"Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered as if it weresense, it makes it no easier to know that it is madness. "

"Does your uncle give you no help?"

"He! Poor man! He is as frightened at her as I am. He dares not evengo away. He did not know what he was coming to when he came toOldcastle Hall. Dear uncle! I owe him a great deal. But for any helpof that sort, he is of no more use than a child. I believe mammalooks upon him as half an idiot. He can do anything or everythingbut help one to live, to BE anything. Oh me! I AM so tired!"

And the PROUD lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not incorrectly, burst out crying. 

What was I to do? I did not know in the least. What I said, I do noteven now know. But by this time we were at the gate, and as soon aswe had passed the guardian monstrosities, we found the open road aneffectual antidote to tears. When we came within sight of the oldhouse where Weir lived, Miss Oldcastle became again a little curiousas to what I required of her. 

"Trust me, " I said. "There is nothing mysterious about it. Only Iprefer the truth to come out fresh in the ears of the man mostconcerned. "

"I do trust you, " she answered. And we knocked at the house-door. 

Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle in his hand. Helooked very much astonished to see his lady-visitor. He asked us, politely enough, to walk up-stairs, and ushered us into the largeroom I have already described. There sat the old man, as I had firstseen him, by the side of the fire. He received us with more thanpoliteness--with courtesy; and I could not help glancing at MissOldcastle to see what impression this family of "low, free-thinkingrepublicans" made upon her. It was easy to discover that theimpression was of favourable surprise. But I was as much surprisedat her behaviour as she was at theirs. Not a haughty tone was to beheard in her voice; not a haughty movement to be seen in her form. She accepted the chair offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home, by the fireside, only that she turned towards me, waiting for whatexplanation I might think proper to give. 

Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence. 

"I've been telling Tom, sir, as I've told him many a time afore, ashow he's a deal too hard with his children. "

"Father!" interrupted Thomas, angrily. 

"Have patience a bit, my boy, " persisted the old man, turning againtowards me. --"Now, sir, he won't even hear young Tom's side of thestory; and I say that boy won't tell him no lie if he's the same boyhe went away. "

"I tell you, father, " again began Thomas; but this time Iinterposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand. 

"Thomas, " I said, "listen to me. I have heard your son's side of thestory. Because of something he said I went to Miss Oldcastle, andasked her whether she was in his late master's shop last Thursday. That is all I have asked her, and all she has told me is that shewas. I know no more than you what she is going to reply to myquestions now, but I have no doubt her answers will correspond toyour son's story. "

I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers amounted tothis:--That they had wanted to buy a shawl; that they had seen nonegood enough; that they had left the shop without buying anything;and that they had been waited upon by a young man, who, whileperfectly polite and attentive to their wants, did not seem to havethe ways or manners of a London shop-lad. 

I then told them the story as young Tom had related it to me, andasked if his sister was not in the house and might not go to fetchhim. But she was with her sister Catherine. 

"I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go homenow, " said Miss Oldcastle. 

"Certainly, " I answered. "I will take you home at once. I am greatlyobliged to you for coming. "

"Indeed, sir, " said the old man, rising with difficulty, "we'reobliged both to you and the lady more than we can tell. To take sucha deal of trouble for us! But you see, sir, you're one of them asthinks a man's got his duty to do one way or another, whether he beclergyman or carpenter. God bless you, Miss. You're of the rightsort, which you'll excuse an old man, Miss, as'll never see ye againtill ye've got the wings as ye ought to have. "

Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered nothing, but shookhands with them both, and bade them good-night. Weir could not speaka word; he could hardly even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed oneach of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughterCatherine, and I could see Miss Oldcastle wince and grow red toowith the gripe he gave her hand. But she smiled again none the lesssweetly. 

"I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house andbring the boy with me, " I said, as we left. 

It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun was setting, thesky the earth and the air lovely with rosy light, and the world fullof that peculiar calm which belongs to the evening of the day ofrest. Surely the world ought to wake better on the morrow. 

"Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle?" I said, at last. 

"I thank you very much for taking me to see them, " she returned, cordially. 

"You won't believe all you may happen to hear against the workingpeople now?"

"I never did. "

"There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded, selfish, unbelieving people amongst them. God knows it. But there are ladiesand gentlemen amongst them too. "

"That old man is a gentleman. "

"He is. And the only way to teach them all to be such, is to be suchto them. The man who does not show himself a gentleman to theworking people--why should I call them the poor? some of them arebetter off than many of the rich, for they can pay their debts, anddo it--"

I had forgot the beginning of my sentence. 

"You were saying that the man who does not show himself a gentlemanto the poor--"

"Is no gentleman at all--only a gentle without the man; and if youconsult my namesake old Izaak, you will find what that is. "

"I will look. I know your way now. You won't tell me anything I canfind out for myself. "

"Is it not the best way?"

"Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much more than youlook for. "

"Certainly that has been my own experience. "

"Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?"

"No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so much of hisspirit that I can do two things like him. "

"Tell me. "

"Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it; and know agood man when I see him. "

"I am very glad you asked me to go to-night. "

"If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the kingdom ofheaven would not be far off. "

I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she was silentthereafter; though I allow that her silence was not conclusive. Andwe had now come close to the house. 

"I wish I could help you, " I said. 

"In what?"

"To bear what I fear is waiting you. "

"I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are unequal that wewant help. You may have to give it me some day--who knows?"

I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah (the whitewolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in my heart, however, overher last words. 

My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, before I getvery much further with my story, I have to confess that I loved MissOldcastle. 

When young Tom and I entered the room, his grandfather rose andtottered to meet him. His father made one step towards him and thenhesitated. Of all conditions of the human mind, that of beingashamed of himself must have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. Theman had never in his life, I believe, done anything mean ordishonest, and therefore he had had less frequent opportunities thanmost people of being ashamed of himself. Hence his fall had beenfrom another pinnacle--that of pride. When a man thinks it such afine thing to have done right, he might almost as well have donewrong, for it shows he considers right something EXTRA, notabsolutely essential to human existence, not the life of a man. Icall it Thomas Weir's fall; for surely to behave in an unfatherlymanner to both daughter and son--the one sinful, and thereforeneeding the more tenderness--the other innocent, and thereforeclaiming justification--and to do so from pride, and hurt pride, wasfall enough in one history, worse a great deal than many sins thatgo by harder names; for the world's judgment of wrong does notexactly correspond with the reality. And now if he was humbled inthe one instance, there would be room to hope he might become humblein the other. But I had soon to see that, for a time, his pride, driven from its entrenchment against his son, only retreated, withall its forces, into the other against his daughter. 

Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far that he held outhis hand and said:--

"Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones. "

But I stepped between. 

"Thomas Weir, " I said, "I have too great a regard for you--and youknow I dare not flatter you--to let you off this way, or ratherleave you to think you have done your duty when you have not donethe half of it. You have done your son a wrong, a great wrong. Howcan you claim to be a gentleman--I say nothing of being a Christian, for therein you make no claim--how, I say, can you claim to act likea gentleman, if, having done a man wrong--his being your own son hasnothing to do with the matter one way or other, except that it oughtto make you see your duty more easily--having done him wrong, whydon't you beg his pardon, I say, like a man?"

He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hurriedly forward, andcatching his father's hand in both of his, cried out:

"My father shan't beg my pardon. I beg yours, father, for everythingI ever did to displease you, but I WASN'T to blame in this. Iwasn't, indeed. "

"Tom, I beg your pardon, " said the hard man, overcome at last. "Andnow, sir, " he added, turning to me, "will you let by-gones beby-gones between my boy and me?"

There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone. 

"With all my heart, " I replied. "But I want just a word with you inthe shop before I go. "

"Certainly, " he answered, stiffly; and I bade the old and the youngman good night, and followed him down stairs. 

"Thomas, my friend, " I said, when we got into the shop, laying myhand on his shoulder, "will you after this say that God has dealthardly with you? There's a son for any man God ever made to givethanks for on his knees! Thomas, you have a strong sense of fairplay in your heart, and you GIVE fair play neither to your own sonnor yet to God himself. You close your doors and brood over your ownmiseries, and the wrongs people have done you; whereas, if you wouldbut open those doors, you might come out into the light of God'struth, and see that His heart is as clear as sunlight towards you. You won't believe this, and therefore naturally you can't quitebelieve that there is a God at all; for, indeed, a being that wasnot all light would be no God at all. If you would but let Him teachyou, you would find your perplexities melt away like the snow inspring, till you could hardly believe you had ever felt them. Noarguing will convince you of a God; but let Him once come in, andall argument will be tenfold useless to convince you that there isno God. Give God justice. Try Him as I have said. --Good night. "

He did not return my farewell with a single word. But the grasp ofhis strong rough hand was more earnest and loving even than usual. Icould not see his face, for it was almost dark; but, indeed, I feltthat it was better I could not see it. 

I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night whose curtains Godhad drawn about the earth that it might sleep till the morrow. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

MY PUPIL. 

Although I do happen to know how Miss Oldcastle fared that nightafter I left her, the painful record is not essential to my story. Besides, I have hitherto recorded only those things "quorum parsmagna"--or minima, as the case may be--"fui. " There is oneexception, old Weir's story, for the introduction of which my readercannot yet see the artistic reason. For whether a story be real infact, or only real in meaning, there must always be an idea, orartistic model in the brain, after which it is fashioned: in thelatter case one of invention, in the former case one of choice. 

In the middle of the following week I was returning from a visit Ihad paid to Tomkins and his wife, when I met, in the only street ofthe village, my good and honoured friend Dr Duncan. Of course I sawhim often--and I beg my reader to remember that this is no diary, but only a gathering together of some of the more remarkable factsof my history, admitting of being ideally grouped--but this time Irecall distinctly because the interview bore upon many things. 

"Well, Dr Duncan, " I said, "busy as usual fighting the devil. "

"Ah, my dear Mr Walton, " returned the doctor--and a kind word fromhim went a long way into my heart--"I know what you mean. You fightthe devil from the inside, and I fight him from the outside. Mychance is a poor one. "

"It would be, perhaps, if you were confined to outside remedies. Butwhat an opportunity your profession gives you of attacking the enemyfrom the inside as well! And you have this advantage over us, thatno man can say it belongs to your profession to say such things, andTHEREFORE disregard them. "

"Ah, Mr Walton, I have too great a respect for your profession todare to interfere with it. The doctor in 'Macbeth, ' you know, could

 'not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart. '"

"What a memory you have! But you don't think I can do that any morethan you?"

"You know the best medicine to give, anyhow. I wish I always did. But you see we have no theriaca now. "

"Well, we have. For the Lord says, 'Come unto me, and I will giveyou rest. '"

"There! I told you! That will meet all diseases. "

"Strangely now, there comes into my mind a line of Chaucer, withwhich I will make a small return for your quotation fromShakespeare; you have mentioned theriaca; and I, without thinking ofthis line, quoted our Lord's words. Chaucer brings the two together, for the word triacle is merely a corruption of theriaca, theunfailing cure for every thing. 

 'Crist, which that is to every harm triacle. '"

"That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in Chaucer?"

"Yes. In the Man-of-Law's Tale. "

"Shall I tell you how I was able to quote so correctly fromShakespeare? I have just come from referring to the passage. And Imention that because I want to tell you what made me think of thepassage. I had been to see poor Catherine Weir. I think she is notlong for this world. She has a bad cough, and I fear her lungs aregoing. "

"I am concerned to hear that. I considered her very delicate, and amnot surprised. But I wish, I do wish, I had got a little hold of herbefore, that I might be of some use to her now. Is she in immediatedanger, do you think?"

"No. I do not think so. But I have no expectation of her recovery. Very likely she will just live through the winter and die in thespring. Those patients so often go as the flowers come! All hercoughing, poor woman, will not cleanse her stuffed bosom. Theperilous stuff weighs on her heart, as Shakespeare says, as well ason her lungs. "

"Ah, dear! What is it, doctor, that weighs upon her heart? Is itshame, or what is it? for she is so uncommunicative that I hardlyknow anything at all about her yet. "

"I cannot tell. She has the faculty of silence. "

"But do not think I complain that she has not made me her confessor. I only mean that if she would talk at all, one would have a chanceof knowing something of the state of her mind, and so might give hersome help. "

"Perhaps she will break down all at once, and open her mind to you. I have not told her she is dying. I think a medical man ought atleast to be quite sure before he dares to say such a thing. I haveknown a long life injured, to human view at least, by the medicalverdict in youth of ever imminent death. "

"Certainly one has no right to say what God is going to do with anyone till he knows it beyond a doubt. Illness has its own peculiarmission, independent of any association with coming death, and mayoften work better when mingled with the hope of life. I mean we musttake care of presumption when we measure God's plans by ourtheories. But could you not suggest something, Doctor Duncan, toguide me in trying to do my duty by her?"

"I cannot. You see you don't know what she is THINKING; and till youknow that, I presume you will agree with me that all is an aim inthe dark. How can I prescribe, without SOME diagnosis? It is justone of those few cases in which one would like to have the authorityof the Catholic priests to urge confession with. I do not thinkanything will save her life, as we say, but you have taught some ofus to think of the life that belongs to the spirit as THE life; andI do believe confession would do everything for that. "

"Yes, if made to God. But I will grant that communication of one'ssorrows or even sins to a wise brother of mankind may help to adeeper confession to the Father in heaven. But I have no wish forAUTHORITY in the matter. Let us see whether the Spirit of Godworking in her may not be quite as powerful for a final illuminationof her being as the fiat confessio of a priest. I have no confidencein FORCING in the moral or spiritual garden. A hothouse developmentmust necessarily be a sickly one, rendering the plant unfit for thenormal life of the open air. Wait. We must not hurry things. Shewill perhaps come to me of herself before long. But I will call andinquire after her. "

We parted; and I went at once to Catherine Weir's shop. She receivedme much as usual, which was hardly to be called receiving at all. Perhaps there was a doubtful shadow, not of more cordiality, but ofless repulsion in it. Her eyes were full of a stony brilliance, andthe flame of the fire that was consuming her glowed upon her cheeksmore brightly, I thought, than ever; but that might be fancy, occasioned by what the doctor had said about her. Her hand trembled, but her demeanour was perfectly calm. 

"I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir, " I said. 

"I suppose Dr Duncan told you so, sir. But I am quite well. I didnot send for him. He called of himself, and wanted to persuade me Iwas ill. "

I understood that she felt injured by his interference. 

"You should attend to his advice, though. He is a prudent man, andnot in the least given to alarming people without cause. "

She returned no answer. So I tried another subject. 

"What a fine fellow your brother is!"

"Yes; he grows very much. "

"Has your father found another place for him yet?"

"I don't know. My father never tells me about any of his doings. "

"But don't you go and talk to him, sometimes?"

"No. He does not care to see me. "

"I am going there now: will you come with me?"

"Thank you. I never go where I am not wanted. "

"But it is not right that father and daughter should live as you do. Suppose he may not have been so kind to you as he ought, you shouldnot cherish resentment against him for it. That only makes mattersworse, you know. "

"I never said to human being that he had been unkind to me. "

"And yet you let every person in the village know it. "

"How?"

Her eye had no longer the stony glitter. It flashed now. 

"You are never seen together. You scarcely speak when you meet. Neither of you crosses the other's threshold. "

"It is not my fault. "

"It is not ALL your fault, I know. But do you think you can go to aheaven at last where you will be able to keep apart from each other, he in his house and you in your house, without any sign that it wasthrough this father on earth that you were born into the world whichthe Father in heaven redeemed by the gift of His own Son?"

She was silent; and, after a pause, I went on. 

"I believe, in my heart, that you love your father. I could notbelieve otherwise of you. And you will never be happy till you havemade it up with him. Have you done him no wrong?"

At these words, her face turned white--with anger, I could see--allbut those spots on her cheek-bones, which shone out in dreadfulcontrast to the deathly paleness of the rest of her face. Then thereturning blood surged violently from her heart, and the red spotswere lost in one crimson glow. She opened her lips to speak, butapparently changing her mind, turned and walked haughtily out of theshop and closed the door behind her. 

I waited, hoping she would recover herself and return; but, afterten minutes had passed, I thought it better to go away. 

As I had told her, I was going to her father's shop. 

There I was received very differently. There was a certain softnessin the manner of the carpenter which I had not observed before, withthe same heartiness in the shake of his hand which had accompaniedmy last leave-taking. I had purposely allowed ten days to elapsebefore I called again, to give time for the unpleasant feelingsassociated with my interference to vanish. And now I had somethingin my mind about young Tom. 

"Have you got anything for your boy yet, Thomas?"

"Not yet, sir. There's time enough. I don't want to part with himjust yet. There he is, taking his turn at what's going. Tom!"

And from the farther end of the large shop, where I had not observedhim, now approached young Tom, in a canvas jacket, looking quitelike a workman. 

"Well, Tom, I am glad to find you can turn your hand to anything. "

"I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn't handle my father's tools, "returned the lad. 

"I don't know that quite. I am not just prepared to admit it for myown sake. My father is a lawyer, and I never could read a chapter inone of his books--his tools, you know. "

"Perhaps you never tried, sir. "

"Indeed, I did; and no doubt I could have done it if I had made upmy mind to it. But I never felt inclined to finish the page. Andthat reminds me why I called to-day. Thomas, I know that lad ofyours is fond of reading. Can you spare him from his work for anhour or so before breakfast?"

"To-morrow, sir?"

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, " I answered; "and there'sShakespeare for you. "

"Of course, sir, whatever you wish, " said Thomas, with a perplexedlook, in which pleasure seemed to long for confirmation, and to be, till that came, afraid to put its "native semblance on. "

"I want to give him some direction in his reading. When a man isfond of any tools, and can use them, it is worth while showing himhow to use them better. "

"Oh, thank you, sir!" exclaimed Tom, his face beaming with delight. 

"That IS kind of you, sir! Tom, you're a made man!" cried thefather. 

"So, " I went on, "if you will let him come to me for an hour everymorning, till he gets another place, say from eight to nine, I willsee what I can do for him. "

Tom's face was as red with delight as his sister's had been withanger. And I left the shop somewhat consoled for the pain I hadgiven Catherine, which grieved me without making me sorry that I hadoccasioned it. 

I had intended to try to do something from the father's side towardsa reconciliation with his daughter. But no sooner had I made up myproposal for Tom than I saw I had blocked up my own way towards mymore important end. For I could not bear to seem to offer to bribehim even to allow me to do him good. Nor would he see that it wasfor his good and his daughter's--not at first. The first impressionwould be that I had a PROFESSIONAL end to gain, that the reconcilingof father and daughter was a sort of parish business of mine, andthat I had smoothed the way to it by offering a gift--anintellectual one, true, but not, therefore, the less a gift in theeyes of Thomas, who had a great respect for books. This was justwhat would irritate such a man, and I resolved to say nothing aboutit, but bide my time. 

When Tom came, I asked him if he had read any of Wordsworth. For Ialways give people what I like myself, because that must be whereinI can best help them. I was anxious, too, to find out what he wascapable of. And for this, anything that has more than a surfacemeaning will do. I had no doubt about the lad's intellect, and now Iwanted to see what there was deeper than the intellect in him. 

He said he had not. 

I therefore chose one of Wordsworth's sonnets, not one of his bestby any means, but suitable for my purpose--the one entitled, "Composed during a Storm. " This I gave him to read, telling him tolet me know when he considered that he had mastered the meaning ofit, and sat down to my own studies. I remember I was then readingthe Anglo-Saxon Gospels. I think it was fully half-an-hour beforeTom rose and gently approached my place. I had not been uneasy aboutthe experiment after ten minutes had passed, and after that time wasdoubled, I felt certain of some measure of success. This maypossibly puzzle my reader; but I will explain. It was clear that Tomdid not understand the sonnet at first; and I was not in the leastcertain that he would come to understand it by any exertion of hisintellect, without further experience. But what I was delighted tobe made sure of was that Tom at least knew that he did not know. Forthat is the very next step to knowing. Indeed, it may be said to bea more valuable gift than the other, being of general application;for some quick people will understand many things very easily, butwhen they come to a thing that is beyond their present reach, willfancy they see a meaning in it, or invent one, or even--which is farworse--pronounce it nonsense; and, indeed, show themselves capableof any device for getting out of the difficulty, except seeing andconfessing to themselves that they are not able to understand it. Possibly this sonnet might be beyond Tom now, but, at least, therewas great hope that he saw, or believed, that there must besomething beyond him in it. I only hoped that he would not fall uponsome wrong interpretation, seeing he was brooding over it so long. 

"Well, Tom, " I said, "have you made it out?"

"I can't say I have, sir. I'm afraid I'm very stupid, for I've triedhard. I must just ask you to tell me what it means. But I must tellyou one thing, sir: every time I read it over--twenty times, Idaresay--I thought I was lying on my mother's grave, as I lay thatterrible night; and then at the end there you were standing over meand saying, 'Can I do anything to help you?'"

I was struck with astonishment. For here, in a wonderful manner, Isaw the imagination outrunning the intellect, and manifesting to theheart what the brain could not yet understand. It indicatedundeveloped gifts of a far higher nature than those belonging to themere power of understanding alone. For there was a hidden sympathyof the deepest kind between the life experience of the lad, and theembodiment of such life experience on the part of the poet. But hewent on:

"I am sure, sir, I ought to have been at my prayers, then, but Iwasn't; so I didn't deserve you to come. But don't you think God issometimes better to us than we deserve?"

"He is just everything to us, Tom; and we don't and can't deserveanything. Now I will try to explain the sonnet to you. "

I had always had an impulse to teach; not for the teaching's sake, for that, regarded as the attempt to fill skulls with knowledge, hadalways been to me a desolate dreariness; but the moment I saw a signof hunger, an indication of readiness to receive, I was invariablyseized with a kind of passion for giving. I now proceeded to explainthe sonnet. Having done so, nearly as well as I could, Tom said:

"It is very strange, sir; but now that I have heard you say what thepoem means, I feel as if I had known it all the time, though I couldnot say it. "

Here at least was no common mind. The reader will not be surprisedto hear that the hour before breakfast extended into two hours afterbreakfast as well. Nor did this take up too much of my time, for thelad was capable of doing a great deal for himself under the sense ofhelp at hand. His father, so far from making any objection to thearrangement, was delighted with it. Nor do I believe that the laddid less work in the shop for it: I learned that he worked regularlytill eight o'clock every night. 

Now the good of the arrangement was this: I had the lad fresh in themorning, clear-headed, with no mists from the valley of labour tocloud the heights of understanding. From the exercise of the mind itwas a pleasant and relieving change to turn to bodily exertion. I amcertain that he both thought and worked better, because he boththought and worked. Every literary man ought to be MECHANICAL (touse a Shakespearean word) as well. But it would have been quite adifferent matter, if he had come to me after the labour of the day. He would not then have been able to think nearly so well. ButLABOUR, SLEEP, THOUGHT, LABOUR AGAIN, seems to me to be the rightorder with those who, earning their bread by the sweat of the brow, would yet remember that man shall not live by bread alone. Were itpossible that our mechanics could attend the institutions called bytheir name in the morning instead of the evening, perhaps we shouldnot find them so ready to degenerate into places of mere amusement. I am not objecting to the amusement; only to cease to educate inorder to amuse is to degenerate. Amusement is a good and sacredthing; but it is not on a par with education; and, indeed, if itdoes not in any way further the growth of the higher nature, itcannot be called good at all. 

Having exercised him in the analysis of some of the best portions ofour home literature, --I mean helped him to take them to pieces, that, putting them together again, he might see what kind of thingsthey were--for who could understand a new machine, or find out whatit was meant for, without either actually or in his mind taking itto pieces? (which pieces, however, let me remind my reader, areutterly useless, except in their relation to the whole)--I resolvedto try something fresh with him. 

At this point I had intended to give my readers a theory of mineabout the teaching and learning of a language; and tell them how Ihad found the trial of it succeed in the case of Tom Weir. But Ithink this would be too much of a digression from the course of mynarrative, and would, besides, be interesting to those only who hadgiven a good deal of thought to subjects belonging to education. Iwill only say, therefore, that, by the end of three months, mypupil, without knowing any other Latin author, was able to read anypart of the first book of the AEneid--to read it tolerably inmeasure, and to enjoy the poetry of it--and this not without aknowledge of the declensions and conjugations. As to the syntax, Imade the sentences themselves teach him that. Now I know that, as anend, all this was of no great value; but as a beginning, it wasinvaluable, for it made and KEPT him hungry for more; whereas, inmost modes of teaching, the beginnings are such that without thepressure of circumstances, no boy, especially after an interval ofcessation, will return to them. Such is not Nature's mode, for thebeginnings with her are as pleasant as the fruition, and thatwithout being less thorough than they can be. The knowledge a childgains of the external world is the foundation upon which all hisfuture philosophy is built. Every discovery he makes is fraught withpleasure--that is the secret of his progress, and the essence of mytheory: that learning should, in each individual case, as in thefirst case, be DISCOVERY--bringing its own pleasure with it. Nor isthis to be confounded with turning study into play. It is upon themoon itself that the infant speculates, after the moon itself--thathe stretches out his eager hands--to find in after years that hestill wants her, but that in science and poetry he has her athousand-fold more than if she had been handed him down to suck. 

So, after all, I have bored my reader with a shadow of my theory, instead of a description. After all, again, the description wouldhave plagued him more, and that must be both his and my comfort. 

So through the whole of that summer and the following winter, I wenton teaching Tom Weir. He was a lad of uncommon ability, else hecould not have effected what I say he had within his first threemonths of Latin, let my theory be not only perfect in itself, buttrue as well--true to human nature, I mean. And his father, thoughhis own book-learning was but small, had enough of insight toperceive that his son was something out of the common, and that anypossible advantage he might lose by remaining in Marshmallows wasconsiderably more than counterbalanced by the instruction he gotfrom the vicar. Hence, I believe, it was that not a word was saidabout another situation for Tom. And I was glad of it; for it seemedto me that the lad had abilities equal to any profession whatever. 

CHAPTER XV. 

DR DUNCAN'S STORY. 

On the next Sunday but one--which was surprising to me when Iconsidered the manner of our last parting--Catherine Weir was inchurch, for the second time since I had come to the place. As ithappened, only as Spenser says--

"It chanced--eternal God that chance did guide, "

--and why I say this, will appear afterwards--I had, in preachingupon, that is, in endeavouring to enforce the Lord's Prayer bymaking them think about the meaning of the words they were sofamiliar with, come to the petition, "Forgive us our debts, as weforgive our debtors;" with which I naturally connected the words ofour Lord that follow: "For if ye forgive men their trespasses, yourheavenly Father will also forgive you; but if ye forgive not mentheir trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses. "I need not tell my reader more of what I said about this, than thatI tried to show that even were it possible with God to forgive anunforgiving man, the man himself would not be able to believe for amoment that God did forgive him, and therefore could get no comfortor help or joy of any kind from the forgiveness; so essentially doeshatred, or revenge, or contempt, or anything that separates us fromman, separate us from God too. To the loving soul alone does theFather reveal Himself; for love alone can understand Him. It is thepeace-makers who are His children. 

This I said, thinking of no one more than another of my audience. But as I closed my sermon, I could not help fancying that MrsOldcastle looked at me with more than her usual fierceness. I forgotall about it, however, for I never seemed to myself to have any holdof, or relation to, that woman. I know I was wrong in being unableto feel my relation to her because I disliked her. But not tillyears after did I begin to understand how she felt, or recognize inmyself a common humanity with her. A sin of my own made meunderstand her condition. I can hardly explain now; I will tell itwhen the time comes. When I called upon her next, after theinterview last related, she behaved much as if she had forgotten allabout it, which was not likely. 

In the end of the week after the sermon to which I have alluded, Iwas passing the Hall-gate on my usual Saturday's walk, when Judy sawme from within, as she came out of the lodge. She was with me in amoment. 

"Mr Walton, " she said, "how could you preach at Grannie as you didlast Sunday?"

"I did not preach at anybody, Judy. "

"Oh, Mr Walton!"

"You know I didn't, Judy. You know that if I had, I would not say Ihad not. "

"Yes, yes; I know that perfectly, " she said, seriously. "But Granniethinks you did. "

"How do you know that?"

"By her face. "

"That is all, is it?"

"You don't think Grannie would say so?"

"No. Nor yet that you could know by her face what she was thinking. "

"Oh! can't I just? I can read her face--not so well as plain print;but, let me see, as well as what Uncle Stoddart calls black-letter, at least. I know she thought you were preaching at her; and her facesaid, 'I shan't forgive YOU, anyhow. I never forgive, and I won'tfor all your preaching. ' That's what her face said. "

"I am sure she would not say so, Judy, " I said, really not knowingwhat to say. 

"Oh, no; she would not say so. She would say, 'I always forgive, butI never forget. ' That's a favourite saying of hers. "

"But, Judy, don't you think it is rather hypocritical of you to sayall this to me about your grandmother when she is so kind to you, and you seem such good friends with her?"

She looked up in my face with an expression of surprise. 

"It is all TRUE, Mr Walton, " she said. 

"Perhaps. But you are saying it behind her back. "

"I will go home and say it to her face directly. "

She turned to go. 

"No, no, Judy. I did not mean that, " I said, taking her by the arm. 

"I won't say you told me to do it. I thought there was no harm intelling you. Grannie is kind to me, and I am kind to her. ButGrannie is afraid of my tongue, and I mean her to be afraid of it. It's the only way to keep her in order. Darling Aunt Winnie! it'sall she's got to defend her. If you knew how she treats hersometimes, you would be cross with Grannie yourself, Mr Walton, forall your goodness and your white surplice. "

And to my yet greater surprise, the wayward girl burst out crying, and, breaking away from me, ran through the gate, and out of sightamongst the trees, without once looking back. 

I pursued my walk, my meditations somewhat discomposed by therecurring question:--Would she go home and tell her grandmother whatshe had said to me? And, if she did, would it not widen the breachupon the opposite side of which I seemed to see Ethelwyn stand, outof the reach of my help?

I walked quickly on to reach a stile by means of which I should soonleave the little world of Marshmallows quite behind me, and be alonewith nature and my Greek Testament. Hearing the sound of horse-hoofson the road from Addicehead, I glanced up from my pocket-book, inwhich I had been looking over the thoughts that had at variousmoments passed through my mind that week, in order to choose one (ormore, if they would go together) to be brooded over to-day for mypeople's spiritual diet to-morrow--I say I glanced up from mypocket-book, and saw a young man, that is, if I could call myselfyoung still, of distinguished appearance, approaching upon a goodserviceable hack. He turned into my road and passed me. He was pale, with a dark moustache, and large dark eyes; sat his horse well andcarelessly; had fine features of the type commonly consideredGrecian, but thin, and expressive chiefly of conscious weariness. Hewore a white hat with crape upon it, white gloves, and long, military-looking boots. All this I caught as he passed me; and Iremember them, because, looking after him, I saw him stop at thelodge of the Hall, ring the bell, and then ride through the gate. Iconfess I did not quite like this; but I got over the feeling so faras to be able to turn to my Testament when I had reached and crossedthe stile. 

I came home another way, after one of the most delightful days I hadever spent. Having reached the river in the course of my wandering, I came down the side of it towards Old Rogers's cottage, loiteringand looking, quiet in heart and soul and mind, because I hadcommitted my cares to Him who careth for us. The earth was roundme--I was rooted, as it were, in it, but the air of a higher lifewas about me. I was swayed to and fro by the motions of a spiritualpower; feelings and desires and hopes passed through me, passedaway, and returned; and still my head rose into the truth, and thewill of God was the regnant sunlight upon it. I might change myplace and condition; new feelings might come forth, and old feelingsretire into the lonely corners of my being; but still my heartshould be glad and strong in the one changeless thing, in the truththat maketh free; still my head should rise into the sunlight ofGod, and I should know that because He lived I should live also, andbecause He was true I should remain true also, nor should any changepass upon me that should make me mourn the decadence of humanity. And then I found that I was gazing over the stump of an old pollard, on which I was leaning, down on a great bed of white water-lilies, that lay in the broad slow river, here broader and slower than inmost places. The slanting yellow sunlight shone through the waterdown to the very roots anchored in the soil, and the water swathedtheir stems with coolness and freshness, and a universal sense, Idoubt not, of watery presence and nurture. And there on their lovelyheads, as they lay on the pillow of the water, shone the life-givinglight of the summer sun, filling all the spaces between theiroutspread petals of living silver with its sea of radiance, andmaking them gleam with the whiteness which was born of them and thesun. And then came a hand on my shoulder, and, turning, I saw thegray head and the white smock of my old friend Rogers, and I wasglad that he loved me enough not to be afraid of the parson and thegentleman. 

"I've found it, sir, I do think, " he said, his brown furrowed oldface shining with a yet lovelier light than that which shone fromthe blossoms of the water-lilies, though, after what I had beenthinking about them, it was no wonder that they seemed both to meanthe same thing, --both to shine in the light of His countenance. 

"Found what, Old Rogers?" I returned, raising myself, and laying myhand in return on his shoulder. 

"Why He was displeased with the disciples for not knowing--"

"What He meant about the leaven of the Pharisees, " I interrupted. "Yes, yes, of course. Tell me then. "

"I will try, sir. It was all dark to me for days. For it appeared tome very nat'ral that, seeing they had no bread in the locker, andhearing tell of leaven which they weren't to eat, they should thinkit had summat to do with their having none of any sort. But Hedidn't seem to think it was right of them to fall into the blunder. For why then? A man can't be always right. He may be like myself, aforemast-man with no schoolin' but what the winds and the waves putsinto him, and I'm thinkin' those fishermen the Lord took to so muchwere something o' that sort. 'How could they help it?' I said tomyself, sir. And from that I came to ask myself, 'Could they havehelped it?' If they couldn't, He wouldn't have been vexed with them. Mayhap they ought to ha' been able to help it. And all at once, sir, this mornin', it came to me. I don't know how, but it was give tome, anyhow. And I flung down my rake, and I ran in to the old woman, but she wasn't in the way, and so I went back to my work again. Butwhen I saw you, sir, a readin' upon the lilies o' the field, leastways, the lilies o' the water, I couldn't help runnin' out totell you. Isn't it a satisfaction, sir, when yer dead reckonin' runsye right in betwixt the cheeks of the harbour? I see it all now. "

"Well, I want to know, old Rogers. I'm not so old as you, and so IMAY live longer; and every time I read that passage, I should liketo be able to say to myself, 'Old Rogers gave me this. '"

"I only hope I'm right, sir. It was just this: their heads was fullof their dinner because they didn't know where it was to come from. But they ought to ha' known where it always come from. If theirhearts had been full of the dinner He gave the five thousand hungrymen and women and children, they wouldn't have been uncomfortableabout not having a loaf. And so they wouldn't have been set upon thewrong tack when He spoke about the leaven of the Pharisees andSadducees; and they would have known in a moment what He meant. Andif I hadn't been too much of the same sort, I wouldn't have startedsaying it was but reasonable to be in the doldrums because they wereat sea with no biscuit in the locker. "

"You're right; you must be right, old Rogers. It's as plain aspossible, " I cried, rejoiced at the old man's insight. "Thank you. I'll preach about it to-morrow. I thought I had got my sermon inFoxborough Wood, but I was mistaken: you had got it. "

But I was mistaken again. I had not got my sermon yet. 

I walked with him to his cottage and left him, after a greeting withthe "old woman. " Passing then through the village, and seeing by thelight of her candle the form of Catherine Weir behind her counter, Iwent in. I thought old Rogers's tobacco must be nearly gone, and Imight safely buy some more. Catherine's manner was much the same asusual. But as she was weighing my purchase, she broke out all atonce:

"It's no use your preaching at me, Mr Walton. I cannot, I WILL notforgive. I will do anything BUT forgive. And it's no use. "

"It is not I that say it, Catherine. It is the Lord himself. "

I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I thought itbetter to add--

"And I was not preaching AT you. I was preaching to you, as much asto any one there, and no more. "

Of this she took no notice, and I resumed:

"Just think of what HE says; not what I say. "

"I can't help it. If He won't forgive me, I must go without it. Ican't forgive. "

I saw that good and evil were fighting in her, and felt that nowords of mine could be of further avail at the moment. The words ofour Lord had laid hold of her; that was enough for this time. Nordared I ask her any questions. I had the feeling that it would hurt, not help. All I could venture to say, was:

"I won't trouble you with talk, Catherine. Our Lord wants to talk toyou. It is not for me to interfere. But please to remember, if everyou think I can serve you in any way, you have only to send for me. "

She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me my parcel. I paidfor it, bade her good night, and left the shop. 

"O Lord, " I said in my heart, as I walked away, "what a labour Thouhast with us all! Shall we ever, some day, be all, and quite, goodlike Thee? Help me. Fill me with Thy light, that my work may all goto bring about the gladness of Thy kingdom--the holy household of usbrothers and sisters--all Thy children. "

And now I found that I wanted very much to see my friend Dr Duncan. He received me with his stately cordiality, and a smile that wentfarther than all his words of greeting. 

"Come now, Mr Walton, I am just going to sit down to my dinner, andyou must join me. I think there will be enough for us both. Thereis, I believe, a chicken a-piece for us, and we can make up withcheese and a glass of--would you believe it?--my own father's port. He was fond of port--the old man--though I never saw him with oneglass more aboard than the registered tonnage. He always sat lighton the water. Ah, dear me! I'm old myself now. "

"But what am I to do with Mrs Pearson?" I said. "There's somechef-d'oeuvre of hers waiting for me by this time. She always treatsme particularly well on Saturdays and Sundays. "

"Ah! then, you must not stop with me. You will fare better at home. "

"But I should much prefer stopping with you. Couldn't you send amessage for me?"

"To be sure. My boy will run with it at once. "

Now, what is the use of writing all this? I do not know. Only thateven a tete-a-tete dinner with an old friend, now that I am an oldman myself, has such a pearly halo about it in the mists of thepast, that every little circumstance connected with it becomesinteresting, though it may be quite unworthy of record. So, kindreader, let it stand. 

We sat down to our dinner, so simple and so well-cooked that it wasjust what I liked. I wanted very much to tell my friend what hadoccurred in Catherine's shop, but I would not begin till we weresafe from interruption; and so we chatted away concerning manythings, he telling me about his seafaring life, and I telling himsome of the few remarkable things that had happened to me in thecourse of my life-voyage. There is no man but has met with someremarkable things that other people would like to know, and whichwould seem stranger to them than they did at the time to the personto whom they happened. 

At length I brought our conversation round to my interview withCatherine Weir. 

"Can you understand, " I said, "a woman finding it so hard to forgiveher own father?"

"Are you sure it is her father?" he returned. 

"Surely she has not this feeling towards more than one. That she hasit towards her father, I know. "

"I don't know, " he answered. "I have known resentment preponderateover every other feeling and passion--in the mind of a woman too. Ionce heard of a good woman who cherished this feeling against a goodman because of some distrustful words he had once addressed toherself. She had lived to a great age, and was expressing to herclergyman her desire that God would take her away: she had beenwaiting a long time. The clergyman--a very shrewd as well as devoutman, and not without a touch of humour, said: 'Perhaps God doesn'tmean to let you die till you've forgiven Mr---. ' She was as ifstruck with a flash of thought, sat silent during the rest of hisvisit, and when the clergyman called the next day, he found Mr---and her talking together very quietly over a cup of tea. And shehadn't long to wait after that, I was told, but was gathered to herfathers--or went home to her children, whichever is the betterphrase. "

"I wish I had had your experience, Dr Duncan, " I said. 

"I have not had so much experience as a general practitioner, because I have been so long at sea. But I am satisfied that until amedical man knows a good deal more about his patient than mostmedical men give themselves the trouble to find out, hisprescriptions will partake a good deal more than is necessary ofhaphazard. --As to this question of obstinate resentment, I know onecase in which it is the ruling presence of a woman's life--the verylight that is in her is resentment. I think her possessed myself. 

"Tell me something about her. "

"I will. But even to you I will mention no names. Not that I haveher confidence in the least. But I think it is better not. I wascalled to attend a lady at a house where I had never yet been. "

"Was it in---?" I began, but checked myself. Dr Duncan smiled andwent on without remark. I could see that he told his story withgreat care, lest, I thought, he should let anything slip that mightgive a clue to the place or people. 

"I was led up into an old-fashioned, richly-furnished room. A greatwood-fire burned on the hearth. The bed was surrounded with heavydark curtains, in which the shadowy remains of bright colours werejust visible. In the bed lay one of the loveliest young creatures Ihad ever seen. And, one on each side, stood two of the mostdreadful-looking women I had ever beheld. Still as death, while Iexamined my patient, they stood, with moveless faces, one as whiteas the other. Only the eyes of both of them were alive. One wasevidently mistress, and the other servant. The latter looked moreself-contained than the former, but less determined and possiblymore cruel. That both could be unkind at least, was plain enough. There was trouble and signs of inward conflict in the eyes of themistress. The maid gave no sign of any inside to her at all, butstood watching her mistress. A child's toy was lying in a corner ofthe room. "

I may here interrupt my friend's story to tell my reader that I maybe mingling some of my own conclusions with what the good man toldme of his. For he will see well enough already that I had in amoment attached his description to persons I knew, and, as it turnedout, correctly, though I could not be certain about it till thestory had advanced a little beyond this early stage of its progress. 

"I found the lady very weak and very feverish--a quick feeble pulse, now bounding, and now intermitting--and a restlessness in her eyewhich I felt contained the secret of her disorder. She keptglancing, as if involuntarily, towards the door, which would notopen for all her looking, and I heard her once murmur to herself--for I was still quick of hearing then--'He won't come!' Perhaps Ionly saw her lips move to those words--I cannot be sure, but I amcertain she said them in her heart. I prescribed for her as far as Icould venture, but begged a word with her mother. She went with meinto an adjoining room. 

"'The lady is longing for something, ' I said, not wishing to be sodefinite as I could have been. 

"The mother made no reply. I saw her lips shut yet closer thanbefore. 

"'She is your daughter, is she not?'

"'Yes, '--very decidedly. 

"'Could you not find out what she wishes?'

"'Perhaps I could guess. '

"'I do not think I can do her any good till she has what she wants. '

"'Is that your mode of prescribing, doctor?' she said, tartly. 

"'Yes, certainly, ' I answered--'in the present case. Is shemarried?'

"'Yes. '

"'Has she any children?'

"'One daughter. '

"'Let her see her, then. '

"'She does not care to see her. '

"'Where is her husband?'

"'Excuse me, doctor; I did not send for you to ask questions, but togive advice. '

"'And I came to ask questions, in order that I might give advice. Doyou think a human being is like a clock, that can be taken topieces, cleaned, and put together again?'

"'My daughter's condition is not a fit subject for jesting. '

"'Certainly not. Send for her husband, or the undertaker, whicheveryou please, ' I said, forgetting my manners and my temper together, for I was more irritable then than I am now, and there was somethingso repulsive about the woman, that I felt as if I was talking to anevil creature that for her own ends, though what I could not tell, was tormenting the dying lady. 

"'I understood you were a GENTLEMAN--of experience and breeding. '

"'I am not in the question, madam. It is your daughter. '

"'She shall take your prescription. '

"'She must see her husband if it be possible. '

"'It is not possible. '

"'Why?'

"'I say it is not possible, and that is enough. Good morning. '

"I could say no more at that time. I called the next day. She wasjust the same, only that I knew she wanted to speak to me, and darednot, because of the presence of the two women. Her troubled eyesseemed searching mine for pity and help, and I could not tell whatto do for her. There are, indeed, as some one says, strongholds ofinjustice and wrong into which no law can enter to help. 

"One afternoon, about a week after my first visit, I was sitting byher bedside, wondering what could be done to get her out of theclutches of these tormentors, who were, evidently to me, consumingher in the slow fire of her own affections, when I heard a faintnoise, a rapid foot in the house so quiet before; heard doors openand shut, then a dull sound of conflict of some sort. Presently aquick step came up the oak-stair. The face of my patient flushed, and her eyes gleamed as if her soul would come out of them. Weak asshe was she sat up in bed, almost without an effort, and the twowomen darted from the room, one after the other. 

"'My husband!' said the girl--for indeed she was little more in age, turning her face, almost distorted with eagerness, towards me. 

"'Yes, my dear, ' I said, 'I know. But you must be as still as youcan, else you will be very ill. Do keep quiet. '

"'I will, I will, ' she gasped, stuffing her pocket-handkerchiefactually into her mouth to prevent herself from screaming, as ifthat was what would hurt her. 'But go to him. They will murder him. '

"That moment I heard a cry, and what sounded like an articulateimprecation, but both from a woman's voice; and the next, a youngman--as fine a fellow as I ever saw--dressed like a game-keeper, butevidently a gentleman, walked into the room with a quietness thatstrangely contrasted with the dreadful paleness of his face and withhis disordered hair; while the two women followed, as red as he waswhite, and evidently in fierce wrath from a fruitless struggle withthe powerful youth. He walked gently up to his wife, whoseoutstretched arms and face followed his face as he came round thebed to where she was at the other side, till arms, and face, andhead, fell into his embrace. 

"I had gone to the mother. 

"'Let us have no scene now, ' I said, 'or her blood will be on yourhead. '

"She took no notice of what I said, but stood silently glaring, notgazing, at the pair. I feared an outburst, and had resolved, if itcame, to carry her at once from the room, which I was quite able todo then, Mr Walton, though I don't look like it now. But in a momentmore the young man, becoming uneasy at the motionlessness of hiswife, lifted up her head, and glanced in her face. Seeing the lookof terror in his, I hastened to him, and lifting her from him, laidher down--dead. Disease of the heart, I believe. The mother burstinto a shriek--not of horror, or grief, or remorse, but of deadlyhatred. 

"'Look at your work!' she cried to him, as he stood gazing in stuporon the face of the girl. 'You said she was yours, not mine; takeher. You may have her now you have killed her. '

"'He may have killed her; but you have MURDERED her, madam, ' I said, as I took the man by the arm, and led him away, yielding like achild. But the moment I got him out of the house, he gave a groan, and, breaking away from me, rushed down a road leading from the backof the house towards the home-farm. I followed, but he haddisappeared. I went on; but before I could reach the farm, I heardthe gallop of a horse, and saw him tearing away at full speed alongthe London road. I never heard more of him, or of the story. Somewomen can be secret enough, I assure you. "

I need not follow the rest of our conversation. I could hardly doubtwhose was the story I had heard. It threw a light upon severalthings about which I had been perplexed. What a horror of darknessseemed to hang over that family! What deeds of wickedness! But thereason was clear: the horror came from within; selfishness, andfierceness of temper were its source--no unhappy DOOM. The worshipof one's own will fumes out around the being an atmosphere of evil, an altogether abnormal condition of the moral firmament, out ofwhich will break the very flames of hell. The consciousness of birthand of breeding, instead of stirring up to deeds of gentleness and"high emprise, " becomes then but an incentive to violence andcruelty; and things which seem as if they could not happen in acivilized country and a polished age, are proved as possible as everwhere the heart is unloving, the feelings unrefined, self thecentre, and God nowhere in the man or woman's vision. The terriblethings that one reads in old histories, or in modern newspapers, were done by human beings, not by demons. 

I did not let my friend know that I knew all that he concealed; butI may as well tell my reader now, what I could not have told himthen. I know all the story now, and, as no better place will come, as far as I can see, I will tell it at once, and briefly. 

Dorothy--a wonderful name, THE GIFT OF GOD, to be so treated, faringin this, however, like many other of God's gifts--Dorothy Oldcastlewas the eldest daughter of Jeremy and Sibyl Oldcastle, and thesister therefore of Ethelwyn. Her father, who was an easy-going man, entirely under the dominion of his wife, died when she was aboutfifteen, and her mother sent her to school, with especialrecommendation to the care of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, whomMrs Oldcastle knew; for, somehow--and the fact is not so unusual asto justify especial inquiry here--though she paid no attention towhat our Lord or His apostles said, nor indeed seemed to care to askherself if what she did was right, or what she accepted (I cannotsay BELIEVED) was true, she had yet a certain (to me all butincomprehensible) leaning to the clergy. I think it belongs to thesame kind of superstition which many of our own day are turning to. Offered the Spirit of God for the asking, offered it by the Lordhimself, in the misery of their unbelief they betake themselves tonecromancy instead, and raise the dead to ask their advice, ANDFOLLOW IT, and will find some day that Satan had not forgotten howto dress like an angel of light. Nay, he can be more cunning withthe demands of the time. We are clever: he will be cleverer. Whyshould he dress and not speak like an angel of light? Why should henot give good advice if that will help to withdraw people by degreesfrom regarding the source of all good? He knows well enough thatgood advice goes for little, but that what fills the heart and mindgoes for much. What religion is there in being convinced of a futurestate? Is that to worship God? It is no more religion than thebelief that the sun will rise to-morrow is religion. It may be asource of happiness to those who could not believe it before, but itis not religion. Where religion comes that will certainly belikewise, but the one is not the other. The devil can afford a kindof conviction of that. It costs him little. But to believe that thespirits of the departed are the mediators between God and us isessential paganism--to call it nothing worse; and a bad enough nametoo since Christ has come and we have heard and seen theonly-begotten of the Father. Thus the instinctive desire for thewonderful, the need we have of a revelation from above us, deniedits proper food and nourishment, turns in its hunger to feed upongarbage. As a devout German says--I do not quote him quite correctly--"Where God rules not, demons will. " Let us once see with ourspiritual eyes the Wonderful, the Counsellor, and surely we shallnot turn from Him to seek elsewhere the treasures of wisdom andknowledge. 

Those who sympathize with my feeling in regard to this form of thematerialism of our day, will forgive this divergence. I submit tothe artistic blame of such as do not, and return to my story. 

Dorothy was there three or four years. I said I would be brief. Sheand the clergyman's son fell in love with each other. The motherheard of it, and sent for her home. She had other views for her. Ofcourse, in such eyes, a daughter's FANCY was, irrespective of itsobject altogether, a thing to be sneered at. But she found, to herfierce disdain, that she had not been able to keep all her belovedobstinacy to herself: she had transmitted a portion of it to herdaughter. But in her it was combined with noble qualities, and, ceasing to be the evil thing it was in her mother, became anhonourable firmness, rendering her able to withstand her mother'sstormy importunities. Thus Nature had begun to right herself--theright in the daughter turning to meet and defy the wrong in themother, and that in the same strength of character which the motherhad misused for evil and selfish ends. And thus the bad breed wasbroken. She was and would be true to her lover. The consequentSCENES were dreadful. The spirit but not the will of the girl wasall but broken. She felt that she could not sustain the strife long. By some means, unknown to my informant, her lover contrived tocommunicate with her. He had, through means of relations who hadgreat influence with Government, procured a good appointment inIndia, whither he must sail within a month. The end was that sheleft her mother's house. Mr Gladwyn was waiting for her near, andconducted her to his father's, who had constantly refused to aid MrsOldcastle by interfering in the matter. They were married next dayby the clergyman of a neighbouring parish. But almost immediatelyshe was taken so ill, that it was impossible for her to accompanyher husband, and she was compelled to remain behind at the rectory, hoping to join him the following year. 

Before the time arrived, she gave birth to my little friend Judy;and her departure was again delayed by a return of her oldcomplaint, probably the early stages of the disease of which shedied. Then, just as she was about to set sail for India, newsarrived that Mr Gladwyn had had a sunstroke, and would have leave ofabsence and come home as soon as he was able to be moved; so thatinstead of going out to join him, she must wait for him where shewas. His mother had been dead for some time. His father, an elderlyman of indolent habits, was found dead in his chair one Sundaymorning soon after the news had arrived of the illness of his son, to whom he was deeply attached. And so the poor young creature wasleft alone with her child, without money, and in weak health. Theold man left nothing behind him but his furniture and books. Andnothing could be done in arranging his affairs till the arrival ofhis son, of whom the last accounts had been that he was slowlyrecovering. In the meantime his wife was in want of money, without afriend to whom she could apply. I presume that one of the fewparishioners who visited at the rectory had written to acquaint MrsOldcastle with the condition in which her daughter was left, for, influenced by motives of which I dare not take upon me to conjecturean analysis, she wrote, offering her daughter all that she requiredin her old home. Whether she fore-intended her following conduct, orold habit returned with the return of her daughter, I cannot tell;but she had not been more than a few days in the house before shebegan to tyrannise over her, as in old times, and although MrsGladwyn's health, now always weak, was evidently failing inconsequence, she either did not see the cause, or could not restrainher evil impulses. At length the news arrived of Mr Gladwyn'sdeparture for home. Perhaps then for the first time the temptationentered her mind to take her revenge upon him, by making herdaughter's illness a pretext for refusing him admission to herpresence. She told her she should not see him till she was better, for that it would make her worse; persisted in her resolution afterhis arrival; and effected, by the help of Sarah, that he should notgain admittance to the house, keeping all the doors locked exceptone. It was only by the connivance of Ethelwyn, then a girl aboutfifteen, that he was admitted by the underground way, of which sheunlocked the upper door for his entrance. She had then guided him asfar as she dared, and directed him the rest of the way to his wife'sroom. 

My reader will now understand how it came about in the process ofwriting these my recollections, that I have given such a longchapter chiefly to that one evening spent with my good friend, DrDuncan; for he will see, as I have said, that what he told me openedup a good deal to me. 

I had very little time for the privacy of the church that night. Dark as it was, however, I went in before I went home: I had the keyof the vestry-door always in my pocket. I groped my way into thepulpit, and sat down in the darkness, and thought. Nor did mypersonal interest in Dr Duncan's story make me forget poor CatherineWeir and the terrible sore in her heart, the sore ofunforgivingness. And I saw that of herself she would not, could not, forgive to all eternity; that all the pains of hell could not makeher forgive, for that it was a divine glory to forgive, and mustcome from God. And thinking of Mrs Oldcastle, I saw that inourselves we could be sure of no safety, not from the worst andvilest sins; for who could tell how he might not stupify himself bydegrees, and by one action after another, each a little worse thanthe former, till the very fires of Sinai would not flash into eyesblinded with the incense arising to the golden calf of his worship?A man may come to worship a devil without knowing it. Only by beingfilled with a higher spirit than our own, which, having caused ourspirits, is one with our spirits, and is in them the present lifeprinciple, are we or can we be safe from this eternal death of ourbeing. This spirit was fighting the evil spirit in Catherine Weir:how was I to urge her to give ear to the good? If will would butside with God, the forces of self, deserted by their leader, mustsoon quit the field; and the woman--the kingdom within her no longertorn by conflicting forces--would sit quiet at the feet of theMaster, reposing in that rest which He offered to those who couldcome to Him. Might she not be roused to utter one feeble cry to Godfor help? That would be one step towards the forgiveness of others. To ask something for herself would be a great advance in such aproud nature as hers. And to ask good heartily is the very next stepto giving good heartily. 

Many thoughts such as these passed through my mind, chieflyassociated with her. For I could not think how to think about MrsOldcastle yet. And the old church gloomed about me all the time. AndI kept lifting up my heart to the God who had cared to make me, andthen drew me to be a preacher to my fellows, and had surelysomething to give me to say to them; for did He not choose so towork by the foolishness of preaching?--Might not my humbleignorance work His will, though my wrath could not work Hisrighteousness? And I descended from the pulpit thinking with myself, "Let Him do as He will. Here I am. I will say what I see: let Himmake it good. "

And the next morning, I spoke about the words of our Lord:

"If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to yourchildren, how much more shall your heavenly Father give the HolySpirit to them that ask Him!"

And I looked to see. And there Catherine Weir sat, looking me in theface. 

There likewise sat Mrs Oldcastle, looking me in the face too. 

And Judy sat there, also looking me in the face, as serious as mancould wish grown woman to look. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE ORGAN. 

One little matter I forgot to mention as having been talked aboutbetween Dr Duncan and myself that same evening. I happened to referto Old Rogers. 

"What a fine old fellow that is!" said Dr Duncan. 

"Indeed he is, " I answered. "He is a great comfort and help to me. Idon't think anybody but myself has an idea what there is in that oldman. "

"The people in the village don't quite like him, though, I find. Heis too ready to be down upon them when he sees things going amiss. The fact is, they are afraid of him. "

"Something as the Jews were afraid of John the Baptist, because hewas an honest man, and spoke not merely his own mind, but the mindof God in it. "

"Just so. I believe you're quite right. Do you know, the other day, happening to go into Weir's shop to get him to do a job for me, Ifound him and Old Rogers at close quarters in an argument? I couldnot well understand the drift of it, not having been present at thebeginning, but I soon saw that, keen as Weir was, and far surpassingRogers in correctness of speech, and precision as well, the oldsailor carried too heavy metal for the carpenter. It evidentlyannoyed Weir; but such was the good humour of Rogers, that he couldnot, for very shame, lose his temper, the old man's smile again andagain compelling a response on the thin cheeks of ihe other. "

"I know how he would talk exactly, " I returned. "He has a kind ofloving banter with him, if you will allow me the expression, that isirresistible to any man with a heart in his bosom. I am very glad tohear there is anything like communion begun between them. Weir willget good from him. "

"My man-of-all-work is going to leave me. I wonder if the old manwould take his place?"

"I do not know whether he is fit for it. But of one thing you may besure--if Old Rogers does not honestly believe he is fit for it, hewill not take it. And he will tell you why, too. "

"Of that, however, I think I may be a better judge than he. There isnothing to which a good sailor cannot turn his hand, whatever he maythink himself. You see, Mr Walton, it is not like a routine trade. Things are never twice the same at sea. The sailor has a thousandchances of using his judgment, if he has any to use; and that OldRogers has in no common degree. So I should have no fear of him. Ifhe won't let me steer him, you must put your hand to the tiller forme. "

"I will do what I can, " I answered; "for nothing would please memore than to see him in your service. It would be much better forhim, and his wife too, than living by uncertain jobs as he doesnow. "

The result of it all was, that Old Rogers consented to try for amonth; but when the end of the month came, nothing was said oneither side, and the old man remained. And I could see severallittle new comforts about the cottage, in consequence of theregularity of his wages. 

Now I must report another occurrence in regular sequence. 

To my surprise, and, I must confess, not a little to mydiscomposure, when I rose in the reading-desk on the day after thisdinner with Dr Duncan, I saw that the Hall-pew was full. MissOldcastle was there for the first time, and, by her side, thegentleman whom the day before I had encountered on horseback. He satcarelessly, easily, contentedly--indifferently; for, although Inever that morning looked up from my Prayer-book, exceptinvoluntarily in the changes of posture, I could not help seeingthat he was always behind the rest of the congregation, as if he hadno idea of what was coming next, or did not care to conform. Gladlywould I, that day, have shunned the necessity of preaching that waslaid upon me. "But, " I said to myself, "shall the work given me todo fare ill because of the perturbation of my spirit? No harm isdone, though I suffer; but much harm if one tone fails of its forcebecause I suffer. " I therefore prayed God to help me; and feelingthe right, because I felt the need, of looking to Him for aid, Icast my care upon Him, kept my thoughts strenuously away from thatwhich discomposed me, and never turned my eyes towards the Hall-pewfrom the moment I entered the pulpit. And partly, I presume, fromthe freedom given by the sense of irresponsibility for the result, Ibeing weak and God strong, I preached, I think, a better sermon thanI had ever preached before. But when I got into the vestry I foundthat I could scarcely stand for trembling; and I must have lookedill, for when my attendant came in he got me a glass of wine withouteven asking me if I would have it, although it was not my custom totake any there. But there was one of my congregation that morningwho suffered more than I did from the presence of one of those whofilled the Hall-pew. 

I recovered in a few moments from my weakness, but, altogetherdisinclined to face any of my congregation, went out at myvestry-door, and home through the shrubbery--a path I seldom used, because it had a separatist look about it. When I got to my study, Ithrew myself on a couch, and fell fast asleep. How often in troublehave I had to thank God for sleep as for one of His best gifts! Andhow often when I have awaked refreshed and calm, have I thought ofpoor Sir Philip Sidney, who, dying slowly and patiently in the primeof life and health, was sorely troubled in his mind to know how hehad offended God, because, having prayed earnestly for sleep, nosleep came in answer to his cry!

I woke just in time for my afternoon service; and the inward peacein which I found my heart was to myself a marvel and a delight. Ifelt almost as if I was walking in a blessed dream come from a worldof serener air than this of ours. I found, after I was already inthe reading-desk, that I was a few minutes early; and while, withbowed head, I was simply living in the consciousness of the presenceof a supreme quiet, the first low notes of the organ broke upon mystillness with the sense of a deeper delight. Never before had Ifelt, as I felt that afternoon, the triumph of contemplation inHandel's rendering of "I know that my Redeemer liveth. " And I felthow through it all ran a cold silvery quiver of sadness, like thelight in the east after the sun is gone down, which would have beenpain, but for the golden glow of the west, which looks after thelight of the world with a patient waiting. --Before the music ceased, it had crossed my mind that I had never before heard that organutter itself in the language of Handel. But I had no time to thinkmore about it just then, for I rose to read the words of our Lord, "I will arise and go to my Father. "

There was no one in the Hall-pew; indeed it was a rare occurrence ifany one was there in the afternoon. 

But for all the quietness of my mind during that evening service, Ifelt ill before I went to bed, and awoke in the morning with aheadache, which increased along with other signs of perturbation ofthe system, until I thought it better to send for Dr Duncan. I havenot yet got so imbecile as to suppose that a history of thefollowing six weeks would be interesting to my readers--for duringso long did I suffer from low fever; and more weeks passed duringwhich I was unable to meet my flock. Thanks to the care of MrBrownrigg, a clever young man in priest's orders, who was living atAddicehead while waiting for a curacy, kindly undertook my duty forme, and thus relieved me from all anxiety about supplying my place. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE CHURCH-RATE. 

But I cannot express equal satisfaction in regard to everything thatMr Brownrigg took upon his own responsibility, as my reader willsee. He, and another farmer, his neighbour, had been so oftenre-elected churchwardens, that at last they seemed to have gained aprescriptive right to the office, and the form of election fell intodisuse; so much so, that after Mr Summer's death, which took placesome year and a half before I became Vicar of Marshmallows, MrBrownrigg continued to exercise the duty in his own single person, and nothing had as yet been said about the election of a colleague. So little seemed to fall to the duty of the churchwarden that Iregarded the neglect as a trifle, and was remiss in setting itright. I had, therefore, to suffer, as was just. Indeed, MrBrownrigg was not the man to have power in his hands unchecked. 

I had so far recovered that I was able to rise about noon and gointo my study, though I was very weak, and had not yet been out, when one morning Mrs Pearson came into the room and said, --

"Please, sir, here's young Thomas Weir in a great way aboutsomething, and insisting upon seeing you, if you possibly can. "

I had as yet seen very few of my friends, except the Doctor, andthose only for two or three minutes; but although I did not feelvery fit for seeing anybody just then, I could not but yield to hisdesire, confident there must be a good reason for it, and so toldMrs Pearson to show him in. 

"Oh, sir, I know you would be vexed if you hadn't been told, " heexclaimed, "and I am sure you will not be angry with me fortroubling you. "

"What is the matter, Tom?" I said. "I assure you I shall not beangry with you. "

"There's Farmer Brownrigg, at this very moment, taking away MrTempleton's table because he won't pay the church-rate. "

"What church-rate?" I cried, starting up from the sofa. "I neverheard of a church-rate. "

Now, before I go farther, it is necessary to explain some things. One day before I was taken ill, I had had a little talk with MrBrownrigg about some repairs of the church which were necessary, andmust be done before another winter. I confess I was rather pleased;for I wanted my people to feel that the church was their property, and that it was their privilege, if they could regard it as ablessing to have the church, to keep it in decent order and repair. So I said, in a by-the-by way, to my churchwarden, "We must call avestry before long, and have this looked to. " Now my predecessor hadleft everything of the kind to his churchwardens; and theinhabitants from their side had likewise left the whole affair tothe churchwardens. But Mr Brownrigg, who, I must say, had taken morepains than might have been expected of him to make himselfacquainted with the legalities of his office, did not fail to call avestry, to which, as usual, no one had responded; whereupon heimposed a rate according to his own unaided judgment. This, Ibelieve, he did during my illness, with the notion of pleasing me bythe discovery that the repairs had been already effected accordingto my mind. Nor did any one of my congregation throw the leastdifficulty in the churchwarden's way. --And now I must refer toanother circumstance in the history of my parish. 

I think I have already alluded to the fact that there wereDissenters in Marshmallows. There was a little chapel down a laneleading from the main street of the village, in which there wasservice three times every Sunday. People came to it from many partsof the parish, amongst whom were the families of two or threefarmers of substance, while the village and its neighbourhoodcontributed a portion of the poorest of the inhabitants. A year ortwo before I came, their minister died, and they had chosen another, a very worthy man, of considerable erudition, but of extreme views, as I heard, upon insignificant points, and moved by a great disliketo national churches and episcopacy. This, I say, is what I had madeout about him from what I had heard; and my reader will veryprobably be inclined to ask, "But why, with principles such asyours, should you have only hearsay to go upon? Why did you not makethe honest man's acquaintance? In such a small place, men should notkeep each other at arm's length. " And any reader who says so, willsay right. All I have to suggest for myself is simply a certainshyness, for which I cannot entirely account, but which was partlymade up of fear to intrude, or of being supposed to arrogate tomyself the right of making advances, partly of a dread lest weshould not be able to get on together, and so the attempt shouldresult in something unpleasantly awkward. I daresay, likewise, thatthe natural SHELLINESS of the English had something to do with it. At all events, I had not made his acquaintance. 

Mr Templeton, then, had refused, as a point of conscience, to paythe church-rate when the collector went round to demand it; had beensummoned before a magistrate in consequence; had suffered a default;and, proceedings being pushed from the first in all the pride of MrBrownrigg's legality, had on this very day been visited by thechurchwarden, accompanied by a broker from the neighbouring town ofAddicehead, and at the very time when I was hearing of the fact wassuffering distraint of his goods. The porcine head of thechurchwarden was not on his shoulders by accident, nor withoutsignificance. 

But I did not wait to understand all this now. It was enough for methat Tom bore witness to the fact that at that moment proceedingswere thus driven to extremity. I rang the bell for my boots, and, tothe open-mouthed dismay of Mrs Pearson, left the vicarage leaning onTom's arm. But such was the commotion in my mind, that I had becomequite unconscious of illness or even feebleness. Hurrying on in moreterror than I can well express lest I should be too late, I reachedMr Templeton's house just as a small mahogany table was beinghoisted into a spring-cart which stood at the door. Breathless withhaste, I was yet able to call out, --

"Put that table down directly. "

At the same moment Mr Brownrigg appeared from within the door. Heapproached with the self-satisfied look of a man who has done hisduty, and is proud of it. I think he had not heard me. 

"You see I'm prompt, Mr Walton, " he said. "But, bless my soul, howill you look!"

Without answering him--for I was more angry with him than I ought tohave been--I repeated--

"Put that table down, I tell you. "

They did so. 

"Now, " I said, "carry it back into the house. "

"Why, sir, " interposed Mr Brownrigg, "it's all right. "

"Yes, " I said, "as right as the devil would have it. "

"I assure you, sir, I have done everything according to law. "

"I'm not so sure of that. I believe I had the right to be chairmanat the vestry-meeting; but, instead of even letting me know, youtook advantage of my illness to hurry on matters to this shamefuland wicked excess. "

I did the poor man wrong in this, for I believe he had hurriedthings really to please me. His face had lengthened considerably bythis time, and its rubicund hue declined. 

"I did not think you would stand upon ceremony about it, sir. Younever seemed to care for business. "

"If you talk about legality, so will I. Certainly YOU don't standupon ceremony. "

"I didn't expect you would turn against your own churchwarden in theexecution of his duty, sir, " he said in an offended tone. "It's badenough to have a meetin'-house in the place, without one's ownparson siding with t'other parson as won't pay a lawfulchurch-rate. "

"I would have paid the church-rate for the whole parish ten timesover before such a thing should have happened. I feel so disgraced, I am ashamed to look Mr Templeton in the face. Carry that table intothe house again, directly. "

"It's my property, now, " interposed the broker. "I've bought it ofthe churchwarden, and paid for it. "

I turned to Mr Brownrigg. 

"How much did he give you for it?" I asked. 

"Twenty shillings, " returned he, sulkily, "and it won't payexpenses. "

"Twenty shillings!" I exclaimed; "for a table that cost three timesas much at least!--What do you expect to sell it for?"

"That's my business, " answered the broker. 

I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a half on thetable, saying--

"FIFTY PER CENT. Will be, I think, profit enough even on such atransaction. "

"I did not offer you the table, " returned the broker. "I am notbound to sell except I please, and at my own price. "

"Possibly. But I tell you the whole affair is illegal. And if youcarry away that table, I shall see what the law will do for me. Iassure you I will prosecute you myself. You take up that money, or Iwill. It will go to pay counsel, I give you my word, if you do nottake it to quench strife. "

I stretched out my hand. But the broker was before me. Withoutanother word, he pocketed the money, jumped into his cart with hisman, and drove off, leaving the churchwarden and the parson standingat the door of the dissenting minister with his mahogany table onthe path between them. 

"Now, Mr Brownrigg, " I said, "lend me a hand to carry this table inagain. "

He yielded, not graciously, --that could not be expected, --but insilence. 

"Oh! sir, " interposed young Tom, who had stood by during thedispute, "let me take it. You're not able to lift it. "

"Nonsense! Tom. Keep away, " I said. "It is all the reparation I canmake. "

And so Mr Brownrigg and I blundered into the little parlour with ourburden--not a great one, but I began to find myself failing. 

Mr Templeton sat in a Windsor chair in the middle of the room. Evidently the table had been carried away from before him, leavinghis position uncovered. The floor was strewed with the books whichhad lain upon it. He sat reading an old folio, as if nothing hadhappened. But when we entered he rose. 

He was a man of middle size, about forty, with short black hair andoverhanging bushy eyebrows. His mouth indicated great firmness, notunmingled with sweetness, and even with humour. He smiled as herose, but looked embarrassed, glancing first at the table, then atme, and then at Mr Brownrigg, as if begging somebody to tell himwhat to say. But I did not leave him a moment in this perplexity. 

"Mr Templeton, " I said, quitting the table, and holding out my hand, "I beg your pardon for myself and my friend here, mychurchwarden"--Mr Brownrigg gave a grunt--"that you should have beenannoyed like this. I have--"

Mr Templeton interrupted me. 

"I assure you it was a matter of conscience with me, " he said. "Onno other ground--"

"I know it, I know it, " I said, interrupting him in my turn. "I begyour pardon; and I have done my best to make amends for it. Offencesmust come, you know, Mr Templeton; but I trust I have not incurredthe woe that follows upon them by means of whom they come, for Iknew nothing of it, and indeed was too ill--"

Here my strength left me altogether, and I sat down. The room beganto whirl round me, and I remember nothing more till I knew that Iwas lying on a couch, with Mrs Templeton bathing my forehead, and MrTempleton trying to get something into my mouth with a spoon. 

Ashamed to find myself in such circumstances, I tried to rise; butMr Templeton, laying his hand on mine, said--

"My dear sir, add to your kindness this day, by letting my wife andme minister to you. "

Now, was not that a courteous speech? He went on--

"Mr Brownrigg has gone for Dr Duncan, and will be back in a fewmoments. I beg you will not exert yourself. "

I yielded and lay still. Dr Duncan came. His carriage followed, andI was taken home. Before we started, I said to Mr Brownrigg--for Icould not rest till I had said it--

"Mr Brownrigg, I spoke in heat when I came up to you, and I am sureI did you wrong. I am certain you had no improper motive in notmaking me acquainted with your proceedings. You meant no harm to me. But you did very wrong towards Mr Templeton. I will try to show youthat when I am well again; but--"

"But you mustn't talk more now, " said Dr Duncan. 

So I shook hands with Mr Brownrigg, and we parted. I fear, from whatI know of my churchwarden, that he went home with the convictionthat he had done perfectly right; and that the parson had made anapology for interfering with a churchwarden who was doing his bestto uphold the dignity of Church and State. But perhaps I may bedoing him wrong again. 

I went home to a week more of bed, and a lengthened process ofrecovery, during which many were the kind inquiries made after me bymy friends, and amongst them by Mr Templeton. 

And here I may as well sketch the result of that strangeintroduction to the dissenting minister. 

After I was tolerably well again, I received a friendly letter fromhim one day, expostulating with me on the inconsistency of myremaining within the pale of the ESTABLISHED CHURCH. The gist of theletter lay in these words:--

"I confess it perplexes me to understand how to reconcile yourChristian and friendly behaviour to one whom most of your brethrenwould consider as much beneath their notice as inferior to them insocial position, with your remaining the minister of a Church inwhich such enormities as you employed your private influence tocounteract in my case, are not only possible, but certainly lawful, and recognized by most of its members as likewise expedient. "

To this I replied:--

"MY DEAR SIR, --I do not like writing letters, especially on subjectsof importance. There are a thousand chances of misunderstanding. Whereas, in a personal interview, there is a possibility ofcontroversy being hallowed by communion. Come and dine with meto-morrow, at any hour convenient to you, and make my apologies toMrs Templeton for not inviting her with you, on the ground that wewant to have a long talk with each other without the distractinginfluence which even her presence would unavoidably occasion. 

 "I am, " &c. &c. 

He accepted my invitation at once. During dinner we talked away, notupon indifferent, but upon the most interesting subjects--connectedwith the poor, and parish work, and the influence of the higher uponthe lower classes of society. At length we sat down on oppositesides of the fire; and as soon as Mrs Pearson had shut the door, Isaid, --

"You ask me, Mr Templeton, in your very kind letter--" and here Iput my hand in my pocket to find it. 

"I asked you, " interposed Mr Templeton, "how you could belong to aChurch which authorizes things of which you yourself so heartilydisapprove. "

"And I answer you, " I returned, "that just to such a Church our Lordbelonged. "

"I do not quite understand you. "

"Our Lord belonged to the Jewish Church. "

"But ours is His Church. "

"Yes. But principles remain the same. I speak of Him as belonging toa Church. His conduct would be the same in the same circumstances, whatever Church He belonged to, because He would always do right. Iwant, if you will allow me, to show you the principle upon which Heacted with regard to church-rates. "

"Certainly. I beg your pardon for interrupting you. "

"The Pharisees demanded a tribute, which, it is allowed, was for thesupport of the temple and its worship. Our Lord did not refuse toacknowledge their authority, notwithstanding the many ways in whichthey had degraded the religious observances of the Jewish Church. Heacknowledged himself a child of the Church, but said that, as achild, He ought to have been left to contribute as He pleased to thesupport of its ordinances, and not to be compelled after such afashion. "

"There I have you, " exclaimed Mr Templeton. "He said they were wrongto make the tribute, or church-rate, if it really was such, compulsory. "

"I grant it: it is entirely wrong--a very unchristian proceeding. But our Lord did not therefore desert the Church, as you would haveme do. HE PAID THE MONEY, lest He should offend. And not having itof His own, He had to ask His Father for it; or, what came to thesame thing, make a servant of His Father, namely, a fish in the seaof Galilee, bring Him the money. And there I have YOU, Mr Templeton. It is wrong to compel, and wrong to refuse, the payment of achurch-rate. I do not say equally wrong: it is much worse to compelthan to refuse. "

"You are very generous, " returned Mr Templeton. "May I hope that youwill do me the credit to believe that if I saw clearly that theywere the same thing, I would not hesitate a moment to follow ourLord's example. "

"I believe it perfectly. Therefore, however we may differ, we are inreality at no strife. "

"But is there not this difference, that our Lord was, as you say, achild of the Jewish Church, which was indubitably established byGod? Now, if I cannot conscientiously belong to the so-calledEnglish Church, why should I have to pay church-rate or tribute?"

"Shall I tell you the argument the English Church might then use?The Church might say, 'Then you are a stranger, and no child;therefore, like the kings of the earth, we MAY take tribute of you. 'So you see it would come to this, that Dissenters alone should beCOMPELLED to pay church-rates. "

We both laughed at this pushing of the argument to illegitimateconclusions. Then I resumed:

"But the real argument is that not for such faults should weseparate from each other; not for such faults, or any faults, solong as it is the repository of the truth, should you separate fromthe Church. "

"I will yield the point when you can show me the same ground forbelieving the Church of England THE NATIONAL CHURCH, appointed suchby God, that I can show you, and you know already, for receiving theJewish Church as the appointment of God. "

"That would involve a long argument, upon which, though I havelittle doubt upon the matter myself, I cannot say I am prepared toenter at this moment. Meantime, I would just ask you whether you arenot sufficiently a child of the Church of England, having receivedfrom it a thousand influences for good, if in no other way, yetthrough your fathers, to find it no great hardship, and not veryunreasonable, to pay a trifle to keep in repair one of thetabernacles in which our forefathers worshipped together, if, as Ihope you will allow, in some imperfect measure God is worshipped, and the truth is preached in it?"

"Most willingly would I pay the money. I object simply because therate is compulsory. "

"And therein you have our Lord's example to the contrary. "

A silence followed; for I had to deal with an honest man, who wasthinking. I resumed:--

"A thousand difficulties will no doubt come up to be considered inthe matter. Do not suppose I am anxious to convince you. I believethat our Father, our Elder Brother, and the Spirit that proceedethfrom them, is teaching you, as I believe I too am being taught bythe same. Why, then, should I be anxious to convince you ofanything? Will you not in His good time come to see what He wouldhave you see? I am relieved to speak my mind, knowing He would haveus speak our minds to each other; but I do not want to proselytize. If you change your mind, you will probably do so on differentgrounds from any I give you, on grounds which show themselves in thecourse of your own search after the foundations of truth in regardperhaps to some other question altogether. "

Again a silence followed. Then Mr Templeton spoke:--

"Don't think I am satisfied, " he said, "because I don't choose tosay anything more till I have thought about it. I think you arewrong in your conclusions about the Church, though surely you areright in thinking we ought to have patience with each other. And nowtell me true, Mr Walton, --I'm a blunt kind of man, descended from anold Puritan, one of Cromwell's Ironsides, I believe, and I haven'tbeen to a university like you, but I'm no fool either, Ihope, --don't be offended at my question: wouldn't you be glad to seeme out of your parish now?"

I began to speak, but he went on. 

"Don't you regard me as an interloper now--one who has no right tospeak because he does not belong to the Church?"

"God forbid!" I answered. "If a word of mine would make you leave myparish to-morrow, I dare not say it. I do not want to incur therebuke of our Lord--for surely the words 'Forbid him not' involvedsome rebuke. Would it not be a fearful thing that one soul, becauseof a deed of mine, should receive a less portion of elevation orcomfort in his journey towards his home? Are there not countlessmodes of saying the truth? You have some of them. I hope I havesome. People will hear you who will not hear me. Preach to them inthe name and love of God, Mr Templeton. Speak that you do know andtestify that you have seen. You and I will help each other, inproportion as we serve the Master. I only say that in separatingfrom us you are in effect, and by your conduct, saying to us, "Donot preach, for you follow not with us. " I will not be guilty of thesame towards you. Your fathers did the Church no end of good byleaving it. But it is time to unite now. "

Once more followed a silence. 

"If people could only meet, and look each other in the face, " saidMr Templeton at length, "they might find there was not such a gulfbetween them as they had fancied. "

And so we parted. 

Now I do not write all this for the sake of the church-ratequestion. I write it to commemorate the spirit in which Mr Templetonmet me. For it is of consequence that two men who love their Mastershould recognize each that the other does so, and thereupon, if notbefore, should cease to be estranged because of difference ofopinion, which surely, inevitable as offence, does not involve thesame denunciation of woe. 

After this Mr Templeton and I found some opportunities of helpingeach other. And many a time ere his death we consulted togetherabout things that befell. Once he came to me about a legaldifficulty in connexion with the deed of trust of his chapel; andalthough I could not help him myself, I directed him to such help aswas thorough and cost him nothing. 

I need not say he never became a churchman, or that I never expectedhe would. All his memories of a religious childhood, all the sourcesof the influences which had refined and elevated him, weresurrounded with other associations than those of the Church and herforms. The Church was his grandmother, not his mother, and he hadnot made any acquaintance with her till comparatively late in life. 

But while I do not say that his intellectual objections to theChurch were less strong than they had been, I am sure that hisfeelings were moderated, even changed towards her. And though thismay seem of no consequence to one who loves the Church more than thebrotherhood, it does not seem of little consequence to me who lovethe Church because of the brotherhood of which it is the type andthe restorer. 

It was long before another church-rate was levied in Marshmallows. And when the circumstance did take place, no one dreamed of callingon Mr Templeton for his share in it. But, having heard of it, hecalled himself upon the churchwarden--Mr Brownrigg still--andoffered the money cheerfully. AND MR BROWRIGG REFUSED TO TAKE ITTILL HE HAD CONSULTED ME! I told him to call on Mr Templeton, andsay he would be much obliged to him for his contribution, and givehim a receipt for it. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

JUDY'S NEWS. 

Perhaps my reader may be sufficiently interested in the person, who, having once begun to tell his story, may possibly have allowed hisfeelings, in concert with the comfortable confidence afforded by themask of namelessness, to run away with his pen, and so have babbledof himself more than he ought--may be sufficiently interested, Isay, in my mental condition, to cast a speculative thought upon thestate of my mind, during my illness, with regard to Miss Oldcastleand the stranger who was her mother's guest at the Hall. Possibly, being by nature gifted, as I have certainly discovered, with more ofhope than is usually mingled with the other elements composing thetemperament of humanity, I did not suffer quite so much as somewould have suffered during such an illness. But I have reason tofear that when I was light-headed from fever, which was a notuncommon occurrence, especially in the early mornings during theworst of my illness--when Mrs Pearson had to sit up with me, andsometimes an old woman of the village who was generally called inupon such occasions--I may have talked a good deal of nonsense aboutMiss Oldcastle. For I remember that I was haunted with visions ofmagnificent conventual ruins which I had discovered, and which, noone seeming to care about them but myself, I was left to wanderthrough at my own lonely will. Would I could see with the waking eyesuch a grandeur of Gothic arches and "long-drawn aisles" as thenarose upon my sick sense! Within was a labyrinth of passages in thewalls, and "long-sounding corridors, " and sudden galleries, whence Ilooked down into the great church aching with silence. Through theseI was ever wandering, ever discovering new rooms, new galleries, newmarvels of architecture; ever disappointed and ever dissatisfied, because I knew that in one room somewhere in the forgotten mysteriesof the pile sat Ethelwyn reading, never lifting those sea-blue eyesof hers from the great volume on her knee, reading every word, slowly turning leaf after leaf; knew that she would sit therereading, till, one by one, every leaf in the huge volume was turned, and she came to the last and read it from top to bottom--down to thefinis and the urn with a weeping willow over it; when she wouldclose the book with a sigh, lay it down on the floor, rise and walkslowly away, and leave the glorious ruin dead to me as it had solong been to every one else; knew that if I did not find her beforethat terrible last page was read, I should never find her at all;but have to go wandering alone all my life through those drearygalleries and corridors, with one hope only left--that I might yetbefore I died find the "palace-chamber far apart, " and see the readand forsaken volume lying on the floor where she had left it, andthe chair beside it upon which she had sat so long waiting for someone in vain. 

And perhaps to words spoken under these impressions may partly beattributed the fact, which I knew nothing of till long afterwards, that the people of the village began to couple my name with that ofMiss Oldcastle. 

When all this vanished from me in the returning wave of health thatspread through my weary brain, I was yet left anxious andthoughtful. There was no one from whom I could ask any informationabout the family at the Hall, so that I was just driven to the bestthing--to try to cast my care upon Him who cared for my care. Howoften do we look upon God as our last and feeblest resource! We goto Him because we have nowhere else to go. And then we learn thatthe storms of life have driven us, not upon the rocks, but into thedesired haven; that we have been compelled, as to the lastremaining, so to the best, the only, the central help, the causingcause of all the helps to which we had turned aside as nearer andbetter. 

One day when, having considerably recovered from my second attack, Iwas sitting reading in my study, who should be announced but myfriend Judy!

"Oh, dear Mr Walton, I am so sorry you have been so ill!" exclaimedthe impulsive girl, taking my hand in both of hers, and sitting downbeside me. "I haven't had a chance of coming to see you before;though we've always managed--I mean auntie and I--to hear about you. I would have come to nurse you, but it was no use thinking of it. "

I smiled as I thanked her. 

"Ah! you think because I'm such a tom-boy, that I couldn't nurseyou. I only wish I had had a chance of letting you see. I am sosorry for you!"

"But I'm nearly well now, Judy, and I have been taken good care of. "

"By that frumpy old thing, Mrs Pearson, and--"

"Mrs Pearson is a very kind woman, and an excellent nurse, " I said;but she would not heed me. 

"And that awful old witch, Mother Goose. She was enough to give youbad dreams all night she sat by you. "

"I didn't dream about Mother Goose, as you call her, Judy. I assureyou. But now I want to hear how everybody is at the Hall. "

"What, grannie, and the white wolf, and all?"

"As many as you please to tell me about. "

"Well, grannie is gracious to everybody but auntie. "

"Why isn't she gracious to auntie?"

"I don't know. I only guess. "

"Is your visitor gone?"

"Yes, long ago. Do you know, I think grannie wants auntie to marryhim, and auntie doesn't quite like it? But he's very nice. He's sofunny! He 'll be back again soon, I daresay. I don't QUITE likehim--not so well as you by a whole half, Mr Walton. I wish you wouldmarry auntie; but that would never do. It would drive grannie out ofher wits. "

To stop the strange girl, and hide some confusion, I said:

"Now tell me about the rest of them. "

"Sarah comes next. She's as white and as wolfy as ever. Mr Walton, Ihate that woman. She walks like a cat. I am sure she is bad. "

"Did you ever think, Judy, what an awful thing it is to be bad? Ifyou did, I think you would be so sorry for her, you could not hateher. "

At the same time, knowing what I knew now, and remembering thatimpressions can date from farther back than the memory can reach, Iwas not surprised to hear that Judy hated Sarah, though I could notbelieve that in such a child the hatred was of the most deadlydescription. 

"I am afraid I must go on hating in the meantime, " said Judy. "Iwish some one would marry auntie, and turn Sarah away. But thatcouldn't be, so long as grannie lives. "

"How is Mr Stoddart?"

"There now! That's one of the things auntie said I was to be sure totell you. "

"Then your aunt knew you were coming to see me?"

"Oh, yes, I told her. Not grannie, you know. --You mustn't let itout. "

"I shall be careful. How is Mr Stoddart, then?"

"Not well at all. He was taken ill before you, and has been in bedand by the fireside ever since. Auntie doesn't know what to do withhim, he is so out of spirits. "

"If to-morrow is fine, I shall go and see him. "

"Thank you. I believe that's just what auntie wanted. He won't likeit at first, I daresay. But he'll come to, and you'll do him good. You do everybody good you come near. "

"I wish that were true, Judy. I fear it is not. What good did I everdo you, Judy?"

"Do me!" she exclaimed, apparently half angry at the question. "Don't you know I have been an altered character ever since I knewyou?"

And here the odd creature laughed, leaving me in absolute ignoranceof how to interpret her. But presently her eyes grew clearer, and Icould see the slow film of a tear gathering. 

"Mr Walton, " she said, "I HAVE been trying not to be selfish. Youhave done me that much good. "

"I am very glad, Judy. Don't forget who can do you ALL good. Thereis One who can not only show you what is right, but can make youable to do and be what is right. You don't know how much you havegot to learn yet, Judy; but there is that one Teacher ever ready toteach if you will only ask Him. "

Judy did not answer, but sat looking fixedly at the carpet. She wasthinking, though, I saw. 

"Who has played the organ, Judy, since your uncle was taken ill?" Iasked, at length. 

"Why, auntie, to be sure. Didn't you hear?"

"No, " I answered, turning almost sick at the idea of having beenaway from church for so many Sundays while she was giving voice andexpression to the dear asthmatic old pipes. And I did feel veryready to murmur, like a spoilt child that had not had his way. Thinkof HER there, and me here!

"Then, " I said to myself at last, "it must have been she that playedI know that my Redeemer liveth, that last time I was in church! Andinstead of thanking God for that, here I am murmuring that He didnot give me more! And this child has just been telling me that Ihave taught her to try not to be selfish. Certainly I should beashamed of myself. "

"When was your uncle taken ill?"

"I don't exactly remember. But you will come and see him to-morrow?And then we shall see you too. For we are always out and in of hisroom just now. "

"I will come if Dr Duncan will let me. Perhaps he will take me inhis carriage. "

"No, no. Don't you come with him. Uncle can't bear doctors. He neverwas ill in his life before, and he behaves to Dr Duncan just as ifhe had made him ill. I wish I could send the carriage for you. But Ican't, you know. "

"Never mind, Judy. I shall manage somehow. --What is the name of thegentleman who was staying with you?"

"Don't you know? Captain George Everard. He would change his name toOldcastle, you know. "

What a foolish pain, like a spear-thrust, they sent throughme--those words spoken in such a taken-for-granted way!

"He's a relation--on grannie's side mostly, I believe. But I nevercould understand the explanation. What makes it harder is, that allthe husbands and wives in our family, for a hundred and fifty years, have been more or less of cousins, or half-cousins, or second orthird cousins. Captain Everard has what grandmamma calls a neatlittle property of his own from his mother, some where inNorthumberland; for he IS only a third son, one of a class granniedoes not in general feel very friendly to, I assure you, Mr Walton. But his second brother is dead, and the eldest something the worsefor the wear, as grannie says; so that the captain comes just withinsight of the coronet of an old uncle who ought to have been deadlong ago. Just the match for auntie!"

"But you say auntie doesn't like him. "

"Oh! but you know that doesn't matter, " returned Judy, withbitterness. "What will grannie care for that? It's nothing toanybody but auntie, and she must get used to it. Nobody makesanything of her. "

It was only after she had gone that I thought how astounding itwould have been to me to hear a girl of her age show such anacquaintance with worldliness and scheming, had I not beenpersonally so much concerned about one of the objects of herremarks. She certainly was a strange girl. But strange as she was itwas a satisfaction to think that the aunt had such a friend and allyin her wild niece. Evidently she had inherited her father'sfearlessness; and if only it should turn out that she had likewiseinherited her mother's firmness, she might render the best possibleservice to her aunt against the oppression of her wilful mother. 

"How were you able to get here to-day?" I asked, as she rose to go. 

"Grannie is in London, and the wolf is with her. Auntie wouldn'tleave uncle. "

"They have been a good deal in London of late, have they not?"

"Yes. They say it's about money of auntie's. But I don't understand. _I_ think it's that grannie wants to make the captain marry her; forthey sometimes see him when they go to London. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE INVALID. 

The following day being very fine, I walked to Oldcastle Hall; but Iremember well how much slower I was forced to walk than I waswilling. I found to my relief that Mrs Oldcastle had not yetreturned. I was shown at once to Mr Stoddart's library. There Ifound the two ladies in attendance upon him. He was seated by asplendid fire, for the autumn days were now chilly on the shadyside, in the most luxurious of easy chairs, with his furred feetburied in the long hair of the hearth-rug. He looked worn andpeevish. All the placidity of his countenance had vanished. Thesmooth expanse of his forehead was drawn into fifty wrinkles, like asea over which the fretting wind has been blowing all night. Nor wasit only suffering that his face expressed. He looked like a man whostrongly suspected that he was ill-used. 

After salutation, --

"You are well off, Mr Stoddart, " I said, "to have two such nurses. "

"They are very kind, " sighed the patient

"You would recommend Mrs Pearson and Mother Goose instead, would younot, Mr Walton?" said Judy, her gray eyes sparkling with fun. 

"Judy, be quiet, " said the invalid, languidly and yet sharply. 

Judy reddened and was silent. 

"I am sorry to find you so unwell, " I said. 

"Yes; I am very ill, " he returned. 

Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly. 

"Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart?"

"Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome death. "

"I do not think, from what Dr Duncan says of you, that there isreason to apprehend more than a lingering illness, " I said--to tryhim, I confess. 

"I hope not indeed, " he exclaimed angrily, sitting up in his chair. "What right has Dr Duncan to talk of me so?"

"To a friend, you know, " I returned, apologetically, "who is muchinterested in your welfare. "

"Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs to you both byprescription. "

"For my part I would rather talk about religion to a whole man thana sick man. A sick man is not a WHOLE man. He is but part of a man, as it were, for the time, and it is not so easy to tell what he cantake. "

"Thank you. I am obliged to you for my new position in the socialscale. Of the tailor species, I suppose. "

I could not help wishing he were as far up as any man that does suchneedful honest work. 

"My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I meant only a glance at thepeculiar relation of the words WHOLE and HEAL. "

"I do not find etymology interesting at present. "

"Not seated in such a library as this?"

"No; I am ill. "

Satisfied that, ill as he was, he might be better if he would, Iresolved to make another trial. 

"Do you remember how Ligarius, in Julius Caesar, discards hissickness?--

"'I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the nameof honour. '"

"I want to be well because I don't like to be ill. But what there isin this foggy, swampy world worth being well for, I'm sure I haven'tfound out yet. "

"If you have not, it must be because you have never tried to findout. But I'm not going to attack you when you are not able to defendyourself. We shall find a better time for that. But can't I dosomething for you? Would you like me to read to you for half anhour?"

"No, thank you. The girls tire me out with reading to me. I hate thevery sound of their voices. "

"I have got to-day's Times in my pocket. "

"I've heard all the news already. "

"Then I think I shall only bore you if I stay. "

He made me no answer. I rose. He just let me take his hand, andreturned my good morning as if there was nothing good in the world, least of all this same morning. 

I found the ladies in the outer room. Judy was on her knees on thefloor occupied with a long row of books. How the books had got thereI wondered; but soon learned the secret which I had in vain asked ofthe butler on my first visit--namely, how Mr Stoddart reached thevolumes arranged immediately under the ceiling, in shelves, as myreader may remember, that looked like beams radiating from thecentre. For Judy rose from the floor, and proceeded to put in motiona mechanical arrangement concealed in one of the divisions of thebook-shelves along the wall; and I now saw that there were strongcords reaching from the ceiling, and attached to the shelf or ratherlong box sideways open which contained the books. 

"Do take care, Judy, " said Ethelwyn. "You know it is very venturousof you to let that shelf down, when uncle is as jealous of his booksas a hen of her chickens. I oughtn't to have let you touch thecords. "

"You couldn't help it, auntie, dear; for I had the shelf half-waydown before you saw me, " returned Judy, proceeding to raise thebooks to their usual position under the ceiling. 

But in another moment, either from Judy's awkwardness, or from thegradual decay and final fracture of some cord, down came the wholeshelf with a thundering noise, and the books were scattered hitherand thither in confusion about the floor. Ethelwyn was gazing indismay, and Judy had built up her face into a defiant look, when thedoor of the inner room opened and Mr Stoddart appeared. His brow wasalready flushed; but when he saw the condition of his idols, (forthe lust of the eye had its full share in his regard for his books, )he broke out in a passion to which he could not have given way butfor the weak state of his health. 

"How DARE you?" he said, with terrible emphasis on the word DARE. "Judy, I beg you will not again show yourself in my apartment till Isend for you. "

"And then, " said Judy, leaving the room, "I am not in the leastlikely to be otherwise engaged. "

"I am very sorry, uncle, " began Miss Oldcastle. 

But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged the door behindhim. So Miss Oldcastle and I were left standing together amid theruins. 

She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She smiled inreturn. 

"I assure you, " she said, "uncle is not a bit like himself. "

"And I fear in trying to rouse him, I have done him no good, --onlymade him more irritable, " I said. "But he will be sorry when hecomes to himself, and so we must take the reversion of hisrepentance now, and think nothing more of the matter than if he hadalready said he was sorry. Besides, when books are in the case, I, for one, must not be too hard upon my unfortunate neighbour. "

"Thank you, Mr Walton. I am so much obliged to you for taking myuncle's part. He has been very good to me; and that dear Judy isprovoking sometimes. I am afraid I help to spoil her; but you wouldhardly believe how good she really is, and what a comfort she is tome--with all her waywardness. "

"I think I understand Judy, " I replied; "and I shall be moremistaken than I am willing to confess I have ever been before, ifshe does not turn out a very fine woman. The marvel to me is thatwith all the various influences amongst which she is placed here, she is not really, not seriously, spoiled after all. I assure you Ihave the greatest regard for, as well as confidence in, my friendJudy. "

Ethelwyn--Miss Oldcastle, I should say--gave me such a pleased lookthat I was well recompensed--if justice should ever talk ofrecompense--for my defence of her niece. 

"Will you come with me?" she said; "for I fear our talk may continueto annoy Mr Stoddart. His hearing is acute at all times, and hasbeen excessively so since his illness. "

"I am at your service, " I returned, and followed her from the room. 

"Are you still as fond of the old quarry as you used to be, MissOldcastle?" I said, as we caught a glimpse of it from the window ofa long passage we were going through. 

"I think I am. I go there most days. I have not been to-day, though. Would you like to go down?"

"Very much, " I said. 

"Ah! I forgot, though. You must not go; it is not a fit place for aninvalid. "

"I cannot call myself an invalid now. "

"Your face, I am sorry to say, contradicts your words. "

And she looked so kindly at me, that I almost broke out into thanksfor the mere look. 

"And indeed, " she went on, "it is too damp down there, not to speakof the stairs. "

By this time we had reached the little room in which I was receivedthe first time I visited the Hall. There we found Judy. 

"If you are not too tired already, I should like to show you mylittle study. It has, I think, a better view than any other room inthe house, " said Miss Oldcastle. 

"I shall be delighted, " I replied. 

"Come, Judy, " said her aunt. 

"You don't want me, I am sure, auntie. "

"I do, Judy, really. You mustn't be cross to us because uncle hasbeen cross to you. Uncle is not well, you know, and isn't a bit likehimself; and you know you should not have meddled with hismachinery. "

And Miss Oldcastle put her arm round Judy, and kissed her. WhereuponJudy jumped from her seat, threw her book down, and ran to one ofthe several doors that opened from the room. This disclosed a littlestaircase, almost like a ladder, only that it wound about, up whichwe climbed, and reached a charming little room, whose window lookeddown upon the Bishop's Basin, glimmering slaty through the tops ofthe trees between. It was panelled in small panels of dark oak, likethe room below, but with more of carving. Consequently it wassombre, and its sombreness was unrelieved by any mirror. I gazedabout me with a kind of awe. I would gladly have carried away theremembrance of everything and its shadow. --Just opposite the windowwas a small space of brightness formed by the backs of nicely-boundbooks. Seeing that these attracted my eye--

"Those are almost all gifts from my uncle, " said Miss Oldcastle. "Heis really very kind, and you will not think of him as you have seenhim to-day ?"

"Indeed I will not, " I replied. 

My eye fell upon a small pianoforte. 

"Do sit down, " said Miss Oldcastle. --"You have been very ill, and Icould do nothing for you who have been so kind to me. "

She spoke as if she had wanted to say this. 

"I only wish I had a chance of doing anything for you, " I said, as Itook a chair in the window. "But if I had done all I ever could hopeto do, you have repaid me long ago, I think. "

"How? I do not know what you mean, Mr Walton. I have never done youthe least service. "

"Tell me first, did you play the organ in church that afternoonwhen--after--before I was taken ill--I mean the same day you had--afriend with you in the pew in the morning ?"

I daresay my voice was as irregular as my construction. I venturedjust one glance. Her face was flushed. But she answered me at once. 

"I did. "

"Then I am in your debt more than you know or I can tell you. "

"Why, if that is all, I have played the organ every Sunday sinceuncle was taken ill, " she said, smiling. 

"I know that now. And I am very glad I did not know it till I wasbetter able to bear the disappointment. But it is only for what Iheard that I mean now to acknowledge my obligation. Tell me, MissOldcastle, --what is the most precious gift one person can giveanother?"

She hesitated; and I, fearing to embarrass her, answered for her. 

"It must be something imperishable, --something which in its ownnature IS. If instead of a gem, or even of a flower, we could castthe gift of a lovely thought into the heart of a friend, that wouldbe giving, as the angels, I suppose, must give. But you did more andbetter for me than that. I had been troubled all the morning; andyou made me know that my Redeemer liveth. I did not know you wereplaying, mind, though I felt a difference. You gave me more trust inGod; and what other gift so great could one give? I think that lastimpression, just as I was taken ill, must have helped me through myillness. Often when I was most oppressed, 'I know that my Redeemerliveth' would rise up in the troubled air of my mind, and sung by avoice which, though I never heard you sing, I never questioned to beyours. "

She turned her face towards me: those sea-blue eyes were full oftears. 

"I was troubled myself, " she said, with a faltering voice, "when Isang--I mean played--that. I am so glad it did somebody good! I fearit did not do me much. --I will sing it to you now, if you like. "

And she rose to get the music. But that instant Judy, who, I thenfound, had left the room, bounded into it, with the exclamation, --

"Auntie, auntie! here's grannie!"

Miss Oldcastle turned pale. I confess I felt embarrassed, as if Ihad been caught in something underhand. 

"Is she come in?" asked Miss Oldcastle, trying to speak withindifference. 

"She is just at the door, --must be getting out of the fly now. WhatSHALL we do?"

"What DO you mean, Judy?" said her aunt. 

"Well you know, auntie, as well as I do, that grannie will look asblack as a thunder-cloud to find Mr Walton here; and if she doesn'tspeak as loud, it will only be because she can't. _I_ don't care formyself, but you know on whose head the storm will fall. Do, dear MrWalton, come down the back-stair. Then she won't be a bit the wiser. I'll manage it all. "

Here was a dilemma for me; either to bring suffering on her, to savewhom I would have borne any pain, or to creep out of the house as ifI were and ought to be ashamed of myself. I believe that had I beenin any other relation to my fellows, I would have resolved at onceto lay myself open to the peculiarly unpleasant reproach of sneakingout of the house, rather than that she should innocently suffer formy being innocently there. But I was a clergyman; and I felt, morethan I had ever felt before, that therefore I could not risk everthe appearance of what was mean. Miss Oldcastle, however, did notleave it to me to settle the matter. All that I have just writtenhad but flashed through my mind when she said:--

"Judy, for shame to propose such a thing to Mr Walton! I am verysorry that he may chance to have an unpleasant meeting with mamma;but we can't help it. Come, Judy, we will show Mr Walton outtogether. "

"It wasn't for Mr Walton's sake, " returned Judy, pouting. "You arevery troublesome, auntie dear. Mr Walton, she is so hard to takecare of! and she's worse since you came. I shall have to give her upsome day. Do be generous, Mr Walton, and take my side--that is, auntie's. "

"I am afraid, Judy, I must thank your aunt for taking the part of myduty against my inclination. But this kindness, at least, " I said toMiss Oldcastle, "I can never hope to return. "

It was a stupid speech, but I could not be annoyed that I had madeit. 

"All obligations are not burdens to be got rid of, are they?" shereplied, with a sweet smile on such a pale troubled face, that I wasmore moved for her, deliberately handing her over to the torture forthe truth's sake, than I care definitely to confess. 

Thereupon, Miss Oldcastle led the way down the stairs, I followed, and Judy brought up the rear. The affair was not so bad as it mighthave been, inasmuch as, meeting the mistress of the house in nopenetralia of the same, I insisted on going out alone, and met MrsOldcastle in the hall only. She held out no hand to greet me. Ibowed, and said I was sorry to find Mr Stoddart so far from well. 

"I fear he is far from well, " she returned; "certainly in my opiniontoo ill to receive visitors. "

So saying, she bowed and passed on. I turned and walked out, notill-pleased, as my readers will believe, with my visit. 

From that day I recovered rapidly, and the next Sunday had thepleasure of preaching to my flock; Mr Aikin, the gentleman alreadymentioned as doing duty for me, reading prayers. I took for mysubject one of our Lord's miracles of healing, I forget which now, and tried to show my people that all healing and all kinds ofhealing come as certainly and only from His hand as those instancesin which He put forth His bodily hand and touched the diseased, andtold them to be whole. 

And as they left the church the organ played, "Comfort ye, comfortye, my people, saith your God. "

I tried hard to prevent my new feelings from so filling my mind asto make me fail of my duty towards my flock. I said to myself, "Letme be the more gentle, the more honourable, the more tender, towardsthese my brothers and sisters, forasmuch as they are her brothersand sisters too. " I wanted to do my work the better that I lovedher. 

Thus week after week passed, with little that I can remember worthyof record. I seldom saw Miss Oldcastle, and during this period neveralone. True, she played the organ still, for Mr Stoddart continuedtoo unwell to resume his ministry of sound, but I never made anyattempt to see her as she came to or went from the organ-loft. Ifelt that I ought not, or at least that it was better not, lest aninterview should trouble my mind, and so interfere with my work, which, if my calling meant anything real, was a consideration ofvital import. But one thing I could not help noting--that sheseemed, by some intuition, to know the music I liked best; and greathelp she often gave me by so uplifting my heart upon the billows ofthe organ-harmony, that my thinking became free and harmonious, andI spoke, as far as my own feeling was concerned, like one upheld onthe unseen wings of ministering cherubim. How it might be to thosewho heard me, or what the value of the utterance in itself might be, I cannot tell. I only speak of my own feelings, I say. 

Does my reader wonder why I did not yet make any further attempt togain favour in the lady's eyes? He will see, if he will think for amoment. First of all, I could not venture until she had seen more ofme; and how to enjoy more of her society while her mother was sounfriendly, both from instinctive dislike to me, and because of theoffence I had given her more than once, I did not know; for I fearedthat to call oftener might only occasion measures upon her part toprevent me from seeing her daughter at all; and I could not tell howfar such measures might expedite the event I most dreaded, or add tothe discomfort to which Miss Oldcastle was already so much exposed. Meantime I heard nothing of Captain Everard; and the comfort thatflowed from such a negative source was yet of a very positivecharacter. At the same time--will my reader understand me?--I was insome measure deterred from making further advances by the doubtwhether her favour for Captain Everard might not be greater thanJudy had represented it. For I had always shrunk, I can hardly saywith invincible dislike, for I had never tried to conquer it, fromrivalry of every kind: it was, somehow, contrary to my nature. Besides, Miss Oldcastle was likely to be rich some day--apparentlyhad money of her own even now; and was it a weakness? was it not aweakness?--I cannot tell--I writhed at the thought of being supposedto marry for money, and being made the object of such remarks as, "Ah! you see! That's the way with the clergy! They talk aboutpoverty and faith, pretending to despise riches and to trust in God;but just put money in their way, and what chance will a poor girlhave beside a rich one! It's all very well in the pulpit. It's theirbusiness to talk so. But does one of them believe what he says? or, at least, act upon it?" I think I may be a little excused for thesense of creeping cold that passed over me at the thought of suchremarks as these, accompanied by compressed lips and down-drawncorners of the mouth, and reiterated nods of the head ofKNOWINGNESS. But I mention this only as a repressing influence, towhich I certainly should not have been such a fool as to yield, hadI seen the way otherwise clear. For a man by showing how to usemoney, or rather simply by using money aright, may do more good thanby refusing to possess it, if it comes to him in an entirelyhonourable way, that is, in such a case as mine, merely as anaccident of his history. But I was glad to feel pretty sure that ifI should be so blessed as to marry Miss Oldcastle--which at the timewhereof I now write, seemed far too gorgeous a castle in the cloudsever to descend to the earth for me to enter it--the POOR of my ownpeople would be those most likely to understand my position andfeelings, and least likely to impute to me worldly motives, aspaltry as they are vulgar, and altogether unworthy of a true man. 

So the time went on. I called once or twice on Mr Stoddart, andfound him, as I thought, better. But he would not allow that he was. Dr Duncan said he was better, and would be better still, if he wouldonly believe it and exert himself. 

He continued in the same strangely irritable humour. 

CHAPTER XX. 

MOOD AND WILL. 

Winter came apace. When we look towards winter from the last bordersof autumn, it seems as if we could not encounter it, and as if itnever would go over. So does threatened trouble of any kind seem tous as we look forward upon its miry ways from the last borders ofthe pleasant greensward on which we have hitherto been walking. Butnot only do both run their course, but each has its ownalleviations, its own pleasures; and very marvellously does thehealthy mind fit itself to the new circumstances; while to those whowill bravely take up their burden and bear it, asking no morequestions than just, "Is this my burden?" a thousand ministrationsof nature and life will come with gentle comfortings. Across a darkverdureless field will blow a wind through the heart of the winterwhich will wake in the patient mind not a memory merely, but aprophecy of the spring, with a glimmer of crocus, or snow-drop, orprimrose; and across the waste of tired endeavour will a gentlehope, coming he knows not whence, breathe springlike upon the heartof the man around whom life looks desolate and dreary. Well do Iremember a friend of mine telling me once--he was then a labourer inthe field of literature, who had not yet begun to earn his penny aday, though he worked hard--telling me how once, when a hope thathad kept him active for months was suddenly quenched--a book refusedon which he had spent a passion of labour--the weight of money thatmust be paid and could not be had, pressing him down like thecoffin-lid that had lately covered the ONLY friend to whom he couldhave applied confidently for aid--telling me, I say, how he stood atthe corner of a London street, with the rain, dripping black fromthe brim of his hat, the dreariest of atmospheres about him in theclosing afternoon of the City, when the rich men were going home, and the poor men who worked for them were longing to follow; and howacross this waste came energy and hope into his bosom, swellingthenceforth with courage to fight, and yield no ear to suggestedfailure. And the story would not be complete--though it is for thefact of the arrival of unexpected and apparently unfounded HOPE thatI tell it--if I did not add, that, in the morning, his wife gave hima letter which their common trouble of yesterday had made herforget, and which had lain with its black border all night in thedarkness unopened, waiting to tell him how the vanished friend hadnot forgotten him on her death-bed, but had left him enough to takehim out of all those difficulties, and give him strength and time todo far better work than the book which had failed of birth. --Some ofmy readers may doubt whether I am more than "a wandering voice, " butwhatever I am, or may be thought to be, my friend's story is true. 

And all this has come out of the winter that I, in the retrospect ofmy history, am looking forward to. It came, with its fogs, anddripping boughs, and sodden paths, and rotting leaves, and rains, and skies of weary gray; but also with its fierce red suns, shiningaslant upon sheets of manna-like hoarfrost, and delicate ice-filmsover prisoned waters, and those white falling chaoses of perfectforms--called snow-storms--those confusions confounded of infinitesymmetries. 

And when the hard frost came, it brought a friend to my door. It wasMr Stoddart. 

He entered my room with something of the countenance Naaman musthave borne, after his flesh had come again like unto the flesh of alittle child. He did not look ashamed, but his pale face lookedhumble and distressed. Its somewhat self-satisfied placidity hadvanished, and instead of the diffused geniality which was its usualexpression, it now showed traces of feeling as well as plain signsof suffering. I gave him as warm a welcome as I could, and havingseated him comfortably by the fire, and found that he would take norefreshment, began to chat about the day's news, for I had just beenreading the newspaper. But he showed no interest beyond what themerest politeness required. I would try something else. 

"The cold weather, which makes so many invalids creep into bed, seems to have brought you out into the air, Mr Stoddart, " I said. 

"It has revived me, certainly. "

"Indeed, one must believe that winter and cold are as beneficent, though not so genial, as summer and its warmth. Winter kills many adisease and many a noxious influence. And what is it to have thefresh green leaves of spring instead of the everlasting brown ofsome countries which have no winter!"

I talked thus, hoping to rouse him to conversation, and I wassuccessful. 

"I feel just as if I were coming out of a winter. Don't you thinkillness is a kind of human winter?"

"Certainly--more or less stormy. With some a winter of snow and hailand piercing winds; with others of black frosts and creeping fogs, with now and then a glimmer of the sun. "

"The last is more like mine. I feel as if I had been in a wet holein the earth. "

"And many a man, " I went on, "the foliage of whose character hadbeen turning brown and seared and dry, rattling rather than rustlingin the faint hot wind of even fortunes, has come out of the winterof a weary illness with the fresh delicate buds of a new lifebursting from the sun-dried bark. "

"I wish it would be so with me. I know you mean me. But I don't feelmy green leaves coming. "

"Facts are not always indicated by feelings. "

"Indeed, I hope not; nor yet feelings indicated by facts. "

"I do not quite understand you. "

"Well, Mr Walton, I will explain myself. I have come to tell you howsorry and ashamed I am that I behaved so badly to you every time youcame to see me. "

"Oh, nonsense!" I said. "It was your illness, not you. "

"At least, my dear sir, the facts of my behaviour did not reallyrepresent my feelings towards you. "

"I know that as well as you do. Don't say another word about it. Youhad the best excuse for being cross; I should have had none forbeing offended. "

"It was only the outside of me. "

"Yes, yes; I acknowledge it heartily. "

"But that does not settle the matter between me and myself, MrWalton; although, by your goodness, it settles it between me andyou. It is humiliating to think that illness should so completely'overcrow' me, that I am no more myself--lose my hold, in fact, ofwhat I call ME--so that I am almost driven to doubt my personalidentity. "

"You are fond of theories, Mr Stoddart--perhaps a little too muchso, "

"Perhaps. "

"Will you listen to one of mine?"

"With pleasure. "

"It seems to me sometimes--I know it is a partial representation--asif life were a conflict between the inner force of the spirit, whichlies in its faith in the unseen--and the outer force of the world, which lies in the pressure of everything it has to show us. Thematerial, operating upon our senses, is always asserting itsexistence; and if our inner life is not equally vigorous, we shallbe moved, urged, what is called actuated, from without, whereas allour activity ought to be from within. But sickness not onlyoverwhelms the mind, but, vitiating all the channels of the senses, causes them to represent things as they are not, of whichmisrepresentations the presence, persistency, and iteration seducethe man to act from false suggestions instead of from what he knowsand believes. "

"Well, I understand all that. But what use am I to make of yourtheory?"

"I am delighted, Mr Stoddart, to hear you put the question. That isalways the point. --The inward holy garrison, that of faith, whichholds by the truth, by sacred facts, and not by appearances, must bestrengthened and nourished and upheld, and so enabled to resist theonset of the powers without. A friend's remonstrance may appear anunkindness--a friend's jest an unfeelingness--a friend's visit anintrusion; nay, to come to higher things, during a mere headache itwill appear as if there was no truth in the world, no reality butthat of pain anywhere, and nothing to be desired but deliverancefrom it. But all such impressions caused from without--for, remember, the body and its innermost experiences are only OUTSIDE OFTHE MAN--have to be met by the inner confidence of the spirit, resting in God and resisting every impulse to act according to thatwhich APPEARS TO IT instead of that which IT BELIEVES. Hence, Faithis thus allegorically represented: but I had better give youSpenser's description of her--Here is the 'Fairy Queen':--

 'She was arrayed all in lily white, And in her right hand bore a cup of gold, With wine and water filled up to the height, In which a serpent did himself enfold, That horror made to all that did behold; But she no whit did change her constant mood. '

This serpent stands for the dire perplexity of things about us, atwhich yet Faith will not blench, acting according to what shebelieves, and not what shows itself to her by impression andappearance. "

"I admit all that you say, " returned Mr Stoddart. "But still thepractical conclusion--which I understand to be, that the inwardgarrison must be fortified--is considerably incomplete unless webuttress it with the final HOW. How is it to be fortified? For, 'I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so. '

(You see I read Shakespeare as well as you, Mr Walton. ) I daresay, from a certain inclination to take the opposite side, and a certaindislike to the dogmatism of the clergy--I speak generally--I mayhave appeared to you indifferent, but I assure you that I havelaboured much to withdraw my mind from the influence of money, andambition, and pleasure, and to turn it to the contemplation ofspiritual things. Yet on the first attack of a depressing illness Icease to be a gentleman, I am rude to ladies who do their best andkindest to serve me, and I talk to the friend who comes to cheer andcomfort me as if he were an idle vagrant who wanted to sell me aworthless book with the recommendation of the pretence that he wroteit himself. Now that I am in my right mind, I am ashamed of myself, ashamed that it should be possible for me to behave so, andhumiliated yet besides that I have no ground of assurance that, should my illness return to-morrow, I should not behave in the samemanner the day after. I want to be ALWAYS in my right mind. When Iam not, I know I am not, and yet yield to the appearance of being. "

"I understand perfectly what you mean, for I fancy I know a littlemore of illness than you do. Shall I tell you where I think thefault of your self-training lies?"

"That is just what I want. The things which it pleased me tocontemplate when I was well, gave me no pleasure when I was ill. Nothing seemed the same. "

"If we were always in a right mood, there would be no room for theexercise of the will. We should go by our mood and inclination only. But that is by the by. --Where you have been wrong is--that you havesought to influence your feelings only by thought and argument withyourself--and not also by contact with your fellows. Besides theladies of whom you have spoken, I think you have hardly a friend inthis neighbourhood but myself. One friend cannot afford you halfexperience enough to teach you the relations of life and of humanneeds. At best, under such circumstances, you can only have righttheories: practice for realising them in yourself is nowhere. It isno more possible for a man in the present day to retire from hisfellows into the cave of his religion, and thereby leave the worldof his own faults and follies behind, than it was possible for theeremites of old to get close to God in virtue of declining theduties which their very birth of human father and mother laid uponthem. I do not deny that you and the eremite may both come NEARER toGod, in virtue of whatever is true in your desires and your worship;'but if a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can helove God whom he hath not seen?'--which surely means to imply atleast that to love our neighbour is a great help towards loving God. How this love is to come about without intercourse, I do not see. And how without this love we are to bear up from within against thethousand irritations to which, especially in sickness, ourunavoidable relations with humanity will expose us, I cannot telleither. "

"But, " returned Mr Stoddart, "I had had a true regard for you, andsome friendly communication with you. If human intercourse were whatis required in my case, how should I fail just with respect to theonly man with whom I had held such intercourse?"

"Because the relations in which you stood with me were those of theindividual, not of the race. You like me, because I am fortunateenough to please you--to be a gentleman, I hope--to be a man of someeducation, and capable of understanding, or at least docile enoughto try to understand, what you tell me of your plans and pursuits. But you do not feel any relation to me on the ground of myhumanity--that God made me, and therefore I am your brother. It isnot because we grow out of the same stem, but merely because my leafis a little like your own that you draw to me. Our Lord took on Himthe nature of man: you will only regard your individual attractions. Disturb your liking and your love vanishes. "

"You are severe. "

"I don't mean really vanishes, but disappears for the time. Yet youwill confess you have to wait till, somehow, you know not how, itcomes back again--of itself, as it were. "

"Yes, I confess. To my sorrow, I find it so. "

"Let me tell you the truth, Mr Stoddart. You seem to me to have beenhitherto only a dilettante or amateur in spiritual matters. Do notimagine I mean a hypocrite. Very far from it. The word amateuritself suggests a real interest, though it may be of a superficialnature. But in religion one must be all there. You seem to me tohave taken much interest in unusual forms of theory, and in mysticalspeculations, to which in themselves I make no objection. But to becontent with those, instead of knowing God himself, or to substitutea general amateur friendship towards the race for the love of yourneighbour, is a mockery which will always manifest itself to anhonest mind like yours in such failure and disappointment in yourown character as you are now lamenting, if not indeed in some modefar more alarming, because gross and terrible. "

"Am I to understand you, then, that intercourse with one'sneighbours ought to take the place of meditation?"

"By no means: but ought to go side by side with it, if you wouldhave at once a healthy mind to judge and the means of eitherverifying your speculations or discovering their falsehood. "

"But where am I to find such friends besides yourself with whom tohold spiritual communion?"

"It is the communion of spiritual deeds, deeds of justice, of mercy, of humility--the kind word, the cup of cold water, the visitation insickness, the lending of money--not spiritual conference or talk, that I mean: the latter will come of itself where it is natural. Youwould soon find that it is not only to those whose spiritual windowsare of the same shape as your own that you are neighbour: there isone poor man in my congregation who knows more--practically, I mean, too--of spirituality of mind than any of us. Perhaps you could notteach him much, but he could teach you. At all events, ourneighbours are just those round about us. And the most ignorant manin a little place like Marshmallows, one like you with leisure oughtto know and understand, and have some good influence upon: he isyour brother whom you are bound to care for and elevate--I do notmean socially, but really, in himself--if it be possible. You oughtat least to get into some simple human relation with him, as youwould with the youngest and most ignorant of your brothers andsisters born of the same father and mother; approaching him, notwith pompous lecturing or fault-finding, still less with thatabomination called condescension, but with the humble service of theelder to the younger, in whatever he may be helped by you withoutinjury to him. Never was there a more injurious mistake than that itis the business of the clergy only to have the care of souls. "

"But that would be endless. It would leave me no time for myself. "

"Would that be no time for yourself spent in leading a noble, Christian life; in verifying the words of our Lord by doing them; inbuilding your house on the rock of action instead of the sands oftheory; in widening your own being by entering into the nature, thoughts, feelings, even fancies of those around you? In suchintercourse you would find health radiating into your own bosom;healing sympathies springing up in the most barren acquaintance;channels opened for the in-rush of truth into your own mind; andopportunities afforded for the exercise of that self-discipline, thelack of which led to the failures which you now bemoan. Soon thenwould you have cause to wonder how much some of your speculationshad fallen into the background, simply because the truth, showingitself grandly true, had so filled and occupied your mind that itleft no room for anxiety about such questions as, while secured inthe interest all reality gives, were yet dwarfed by the side of it. Nothing, I repeat, so much as humble ministration to yourneighbours, will help you to that perfect love of God which castethout fear; nothing but the love of God--that God revealed inChrist--will make you able to love your neighbour aright; and theSpirit of God, which alone gives might for any good, will by theseloves, which are life, strengthen you at last to believe in thelight even in the midst of darkness; to hold the resolution formedin health when sickness has altered the appearance of everythingaround you; and to feel tenderly towards your fellow, even when youyourself are plunged in dejection or racked with pain. --But, " Isaid, "I fear I have transgressed the bounds of all propriety byenlarging upon this matter as I have done. I can only say I havespoken in proportion to my feeling of its weight and truth. "

"I thank you, heartily, " returned Mr Stoddart, rising. "And Ipromise you at least to think over what you have been saying--I hopeto be in my old place in the organ-loft next Sunday. "

So he was. And Miss Oldcastle was in the pew with her mother. Nordid she go any more to Addicehead to church. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE DEVIL IN THOMAS WEIR. 

As the winter went on, it was sad to look on the evident though slowdecline of Catherine Weir. It seemed as if the dead season wasdragging her to its bosom, to lay her among the leaves of pastsummers. She was still to be found in the shop, or appeared in it asoften as the bell suspended over the door rang to announce theentrance of a customer; but she was terribly worn, and her stepindicated much weakness. Nor had the signs of restless troublediminished as these tide-marks indicated ebbing strength. There wasthe same dry fierce fire in her eyes; the same forceful compressionof her lips; the same evidences of brooding over some one absorbingthought or feeling. She seemed to me, and to Dr Duncan as well, tobe dying of resentment. Would nobody do anything for her? I thought. Would not her father help her? He had got more gentle now; whence Ihad reason to hope that Christian principles and feelings had begunto rise and operate in him; while surely the influence of his sonmust, by this time, have done something not only to soften hischaracter generally, but to appease the anger he had cherishedtowards the one ewe-lamb, against which, having wandered away intothe desert place, he had closed and barred the door of thesheep-fold. I would go and see him, and try what could be done forher. 

I may be forgiven here if I make the remark that I cannot helpthinking that what measure of success I had already had with mypeople, was partly owing to this, that when I thought of a thing andhad concluded it might do, I very seldom put off the consequentaction. I found I was wrong sometimes, and that the particularaction did no good; but thus movement was kept up in my operativenature, preventing it from sinking towards the inactivity to which Iwas but too much inclined. Besides, to find out what will not do, isa step towards finding out what will do. Moreover, an attempt initself unsuccessful may set something or other in motion that willhelp. 

My present attempt turned out one of my failures, though I cannotthink that it would have been better left unmade. 

A red rayless sun, which one might have imagined sullen anddisconsolate because he could not make the dead earth smile intoflowers, was looking through the frosty fog of the winter morning asI walked across the bridge to find Thomas Weir in his workshop. Thepoplars stood like goblin sentinels, with black heads, upon whichthe long hair stood on end, all along the dark cold river. Naturelooked like a life out of which the love has vanished. I turned fromit and hastened on. 

Thomas was busy working with a spoke-sheave at the spoke of acart-wheel. How curiously the smallest visual fact will sometimeskeep its place in the memory, when it cannot with all earnestness ofendeavour recall a thought--a far more important fact! That willcome again only when its time comes first. 

"A cold morning, Thomas, " I called from the door. 

"I can always keep myself warm, sir, " returned Thomas, cheerfully. 

"What are you doing, Tom?" I said, going up to him first. 

"A little job for myself, sir. I'm making a few bookshelves. "

"I want to have a little talk with your father. Just step out in aminute or so, and let me have half-an-hour. "

"Yes, sir, certainly. "

I then went to the other end of the shop, for, curiously, as itseemed to me, although father and son were on the best of terms, they always worked as far from each other as the shop would permit, and it was a very large room. 

"It is not easy always to keep warm through and through, Thomas, " Isaid. 

I suppose my tone revealed to his quick perceptions that "more wasmeant than met the ear. " He looked up from his work, his tool filledwith an uncompleted shaving. 

"And when the heart gets cold, " I went on, "it is not easily warmedagain. The fire's hard to light there, Thomas. "

Still he looked at me, stooping over his work, apparently with apresentiment of what was coming. 

"I fear there is no way of lighting it again, except theblacksmith's way. "

"Hammering the iron till it is red-hot, you mean, sir?"

"I do. When a man's heart has grown cold, the blows of afflictionmust fall thick and heavy before the fire can be got that will lightit. --When did you see your daughter Catherine, Thomas?"

His head dropped, and he began to work as if for bare life. Not aword came from the form now bent over his tool as if he had neverlifted himself up since he first began in the morning. I could justsee that his face was deadly pale, and his lips compressed likethose of one of the violent who take the kingdom of heaven by force. But it was for no such agony of effort that his were thus closed. Hewent on working till the silence became so lengthened that it seemedsettled into the endless. I felt embarrassed. To break a silence issometimes as hard as to break a spell. What Thomas would have doneor said if he had not had this safety-valve of bodily exertion, Icannot even imagine. 

"Thomas, " I said, at length, laying my hand on his shoulder, "youare not going to part company with me, I hope?"

"You drive a man too far, sir. I've given in more to you than ever Idid to man, sir; and I don't know that I oughtn't to be ashamed ofit. But you don't know where to stop. If we lived a thousand yearsyou would be driving a man on to the last. And there's no good inthat, sir. A man must be at peace somewhen. "

"The question is, Thomas, whether I would be driving you ON or BACK. You and I too MUST go on or back. I want to go on myself, and tomake you go on too. I don't want to be parted from you now or then. "

"That's all very well, sir, and very kind, I don't doubt; but, as Isaid afore, a man must be at peace SOMEWHEN. "

"That's what I want so much that I want you to go on. Peace! I trustin God we shall both have it one day, SOMEWHEN, as you say. Have yougot this peace so plentifully now that you are satisfied as you are?You will never get it but by going on. "

"I do not think there is any good got in stirring a puddle. Letby-gones be by-gones. You make a mistake, sir, in rousing an angerwhich I would willingly let sleep. "

"Better a wakeful anger, and a wakeful conscience with it, than ananger sunk into indifference, and a sleeping dog of a consciencethat will not bark. To have ceased to be angry is not one stepnearer to your daughter. Better strike her, abuse her, with thechance of a kiss to follow. Ah, Thomas, you are like Jonas with hisgourd. "

"I don't see what that has to do with it. "

"I will tell you. You are fierce in wrath at the disgrace to yourfamily. Your pride is up in arms. You don't care for the misery ofyour daughter, who, the more wrong she has done, is the more to bepitied by a father's heart. Your pride, I say, is all that you careabout. The wrong your daughter has done, you care nothing about; oryou would have taken her to your arms years ago, in the hope thatthe fervour of your love would drive the devil out of her and makeher repent. I say it is not the wrong, but the disgrace you carefor. The gourd of your pride is withered, and yet you will water itwith your daughter's misery. "

"Go out of my shop, " he cried; "or I may say what I should be sorryfor. "

I turned at once and left him. I found young Tom round the corner, leaning against the wall, and reading his Virgil. 

"Don't speak to your father, Tom, " I said, "for a while. I've puthim out of temper. He will be best left alone. "

He looked frightened. 

"There's no harm done, Tom, my boy. I've been talking to him aboutyour sister. He must have time to think over what I have said tohim. "

"I see, sir; I see. "

"Be as attentive to him as you can. "

"I will, sir. "

It was not alone resentment at my interference that had thus put thepoor fellow beside himself, I was certain: I had called up all theold misery--set the wound bleeding again. Shame was once more wideawake and tearing at his heart. That HIS daughter should have doneso! For she had been his pride. She had been the belle of thevillage, and very lovely; but having been apprenticed to adressmaker in Addicehead, had, after being there about a year and ahalf, returned home, apparently in a decline. After the birth of herchild, however, she had, to her own disappointment, and no doubt tothat of her father as well, begun to recover. What a time ofwretchedness it must have been to both of them until she left hishouse, one can imagine. Most likely the misery of the father venteditself in greater unkindness than he felt, which, sinking into theproud nature she had derived from him, roused such a resentment asrarely if ever can be thoroughly appeased until Death comes in tohelp the reconciliation. How often has an old love blazed up againunder the blowing of his cold breath, and sent the spirit warm atheart into the regions of the unknown! She never would utter a wordto reveal the name or condition of him by whom she had been wronged. To his child, as long as he drew his life from her, she behaved withstrange alternations of dislike and passionate affection; afterwhich season the latter began to diminish in violence, and theformer to become more fixed, till at length, by the time I had madetheir acquaintance, her feelings seemed to have settled into whatwould have been indifference but for the constant reminder of hershame and her wrong together, which his very presence necessarilywas. 

They were not only the gossips of the village who judged that thefact of Addicehead's being a garrison town had something to do withthe fate that had befallen her; a fate by which, in its veryspring-time, when its flowers were loveliest, and hope was strongestfor its summer, her life was changed into the dreary wind-swept, rain-sodden moor. The man who can ACCEPT such a sacrifice from awoman, --I say nothing of WILING it from her--is, in his meanness, selfishness, and dishonour, contemptible as the Pharisee who, withhis long prayers, devours the widow's house. He leaves her desolate, while he walks off free. Would to God a man like the great-hearted, pure-bodied Milton, a man whom young men are compelled to respect, would in this our age, utter such a word as, making "mad theguilty, " if such grace might be accorded them, would "appal thefree, " lest they too should fall into such a mire of selfishdishonour!

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR. 

About this time my father was taken ill, and several journeys toLondon followed. It is only as vicar that I am writing thesememorials--for such they should be called, rather than ANNALS, though certainly the use of the latter word has of late become vagueenough for all convenience--therefore I have said nothing about myhome-relations; but I must just mention here that I had ahalf-sister, about half my own age, whose anxiety during my father'sillness rendered my visits more frequent than perhaps they wouldhave been from my own. But my sister was right in her anxiety. Myfather grew worse, and in December he died. I will not eulogize oneso dear to me. That he was no common man will appear from the factof his unconventionality and justice in leaving his property to mysister, saying in his will that he had done all I could require ofhim, in giving me a good education; and that, men having means intheir power which women had not, it was unjust to the latter to makethem, without a choice, dependent upon the former. After thefuneral, my sister, feeling it impossible to remain in the house anylonger, begged me to take her with me. So, after arranging affairs, we set out, and reached Marshmallows on New Year's Day. 

My sister being so much younger than myself, her presence in myhouse made very little change in my habits. She came into my wayswithout any difficulty, so that I did not experience the leastrestraint from having to consider her. And I soon began to find herof considerable service among the poor and sick of my flock, thelatter class being more numerous this winter on account of thegreater severity of the weather. 

I now began to note a change in the habits of Catherine Weir. As faras I remember, I had never up to this time seen her out of her ownhouse, except in church, at which she had been a regular attendantfor many weeks. Now, however, I began to meet her when and where Ileast expected--I do not say often, but so often as to make mebelieve she went wandering about frequently. It was always at night, however, and always in stormy weather. The marvel was, not that asick woman could be there--for a sick woman may be able to doanything; but that she could do so more than once--that was themarvel. At the same time, I began to miss her from church. 

Possibly my reader may wonder how I came to have the chance ofmeeting any one again and again at night and in stormy weather. Ican relieve him from the difficulty. Odd as it will appear to somereaders, I had naturally a predilection for rough weather. I think Ienjoyed fighting with a storm in winter nearly as much as lying onthe grass under a beech-tree in summer. Possibly this assertion mayseem strange to one likewise who has remarked the ordinarypeaceableness of my disposition. But he may have done me the justiceto remark at the same time, that I have some considerable pleasurein fighting the devil, though none in fighting my fellow-man, evenin the ordinary form of disputation in which it is not heart'sblood, but soul's blood, that is so often shed. Indeed there aremany controversies far more immoral, as to the manner in which theyare conducted, than a brutal prize-fight. There is, however, apleasure of its own in conflict; and I have always experienced acertain indescribable, though I believe not at all unusualexaltation, even in struggling with a well-set, thoroughly rousedstorm of wind and snow or rain. The sources of this by no meansunusual delight, I will not stay to examine, indicating only that Ibelieve the sources are deep. --I was now quite well, and had noreason to fear bad consequences from the indulgence of this surelyinnocent form of the love of strife. 

But I find I must give another reason as well, if I would bethoroughly honest with my reader. The fact was, that as I hadrecovered strength, I had become more troubled and restless aboutMiss Oldcastle. I could not see how I was to make any progresstowards her favour. There seemed a barrier as insurmountable asintangible between her and me. The will of one woman came betweenand parted us, and that will was as the magic line over which noeffort of will or strength could enable the enchanted knight to makea single stride. And this consciousness of being fettered byinsensible and infrangible bonds, this need of doing something withnothing tangible in the reach of the outstretched hand, so workedupon my mind, that it naturally sought relief, as often as theelemental strife arose, by mingling unconstrained with the tumult ofthe night. --Will my readers find it hard to believe that thisdisquietude of mind should gradually sink away as the hours ofSaturday glided down into night, and the day of my best labour drewnigh? Or will they answer, "We believe it easily; for then you couldat least see the lady, and that comforted you?" Whatever it was thatquieted me, not the less have I to thank God for it. 

All might have been so different. What a fearful thing would it havebeen for me to have found my mind so full of my own cares, that Iwas unable to do God's work and bear my neighbour's burden! But eventhen I would have cried to Him, and said, "I know Thee that Thou artNOT a hard master. "

Now, however, that I have quite accounted, as I believe, by thepeculiarity both of my disposition and circumstances, for unusualwanderings under conditions when most people consider themselvesfortunate within doors, I must return to Catherine Weir, theeccentricity of whose late behaviour, being in the particularsdiscussed identical with that of mine, led to the necessity for theexplanation of my habits given above. 

One January afternoon, just as twilight was folding her gray cloakabout her, and vanishing in the night, the wind blowing hard fromthe south-west, melting the snow under foot, and sorely disturbingthe dignity of the one grand old cedar which stood before my studywindow, and now filled my room with the great sweeps of its moaning, I felt as if the elements were calling me, and rose to obey thesummons. My sister was, by this time, so accustomed to my going outin all weathers, that she troubled me with no expostulation. Myspirits began to rise the moment I was in the wind. Keen, and cold, and unsparing, it swept through the leafless branches around me, with a different hiss for every tree that bent, and swayed, andtossed in its torrent. I made my way to the gate and out upon theroad, and then, turning to the right, away from the village, Isought a kind of common, open and treeless, the nearest approach toa moor that there was in the county, I believe, over which a windlike this would sweep unstayed by house, or shrub, or fence, theonly shelter it afforded lying in the inequalities of its surface. 

I had walked with my head bent low against the blast, for the betterpart of a mile, fighting for every step of the way, when, coming toa deep cut in the common, opening at right angles from the road, whence at some time or other a large quantity of sand had beencarted, I turned into its defence to recover my breath, and listento the noise of the wind in the fierce rush of its sea over the openchannel of the common. And I remember I was thinking with myself:"If the air would only become faintly visible for a moment, what asight it would be of waste grandeur with its thousands of billowingeddies, and self-involved, conflicting, and swallowing whirlpoolsfrom the sea-bottom of this common!" when, with my imaginationresting on the fancied vision, I was startled by such a moan asseemed about to break into a storm of passionate cries, but wasfollowed by the words:

"O God! I cannot bear it longer. Hast thou NO help for me?"

Instinctively almost I knew that Catherine Weir was beside me, though I could not see where she was. In a moment more, however, Ithought I could distinguish through the darkness--imagination nodoubt filling up the truth of its form--a figure crouching in suchan attitude of abandoned despair as recalled one of Flaxman'soutlines, the body bent forward over the drawn-up knees, and theface thus hidden even from the darkness. I could not help saying tomyself, as I took a step or two towards her, "What is thy trouble tohers!"

I may here remark that I had come to the conclusion, from ponderingover her case, that until a yet deeper and bitterer resentment thanthat which she bore to her father was removed, it would be of no useattacking the latter. For the former kept her in a state ofhostility towards her whole race: with herself at war she had nogentle thoughts, no love for her kind; but ever

"She fed her wound with fresh-renewed bale"

from every hurt that she received from or imagined to be offered herby anything human. So I had resolved that the next time I had anopportunity of speaking to her, I would make an attempt to probe theevil to its root, though I had but little hope, I confess, of doingany good. And now when I heard her say, "Hast thou NO help for me?"I went near her with the words:

"God has, indeed, help for His own offspring. Has He not sufferedthat He might help? But you have not yet forgiven. "

When I began to speak, she gave a slight start: she was far toomiserable to be terrified at anything. Before I had finished, shestood erect on her feet, facing me with the whiteness of her faceglimmering through the blackness of the night. 

"I ask Him for peace, " she said, "and He sends me more torment. "

And I thought of Ahab when he said, "Hast thou found me, O mineenemy?"

"If we had what we asked for always, we should too often find it wasnot what we wanted, after all. "

"You will not leave me alone, " she said. "It is too bad. "

Poor woman! It was well for her she could pray to God in hertrouble; for she could scarcely endure a word from her fellow-man. She, despairing before God, was fierce as a tigress to herfellow-sinner who would stretch a hand to help her out of the mire, and set her beside him on the rock which he felt firm under his ownfeet. 

"I will not leave you alone, Catherine, " I said, feeling that I mustat length assume another tone of speech with her who resistedgentleness. "Scorn my interference as you will, " I said, "I have yetto give an account of you. And I have to fear lest my Master shouldrequire your blood at my hands. I did not follow you here, you maywell believe me; but I have found you here, and I must speak. "

All this time the wind was roaring overhead. But in the hollow wasstillness, and I was so near her, that I could hear every word shesaid, although she spoke in a low compressed tone. 

"Have you a right to persecute me, " she said, "because I amunhappy?"

"I have a right, and, more than a right, I have a duty to aid yourbetter self against your worse. You, I fear, are siding with yourworse self. "

"You judge me hard. I have had wrongs that--"

And here she stopped in a way that let me know she WOULD say nomore. 

"That you have had wrongs, and bitter wrongs, I do not for a momentdoubt. And him who has done you most wrong, you will not forgive. "

"No. "

"No. Not even for the sake of Him who, hanging on the tree, afterall the bitterness of blows and whipping, and derision, and rudestgestures and taunts, even when the faintness of death was upon Him, cried to His Father to forgive their cruelty. He asks you to forgivethe man who wronged you, and you will not--not even for Him! Oh, Catherine, Catherine!"

"It is very easy to talk, Mr Walton, " she returned with forced butcool scorn. 

"Tell me, then, " I said, "have YOU nothing to repent of? Have YOUdone no wrong in this same miserable matter?"

"I do not understand you, sir, " she said, freezingly, petulantly, not sure, perhaps, or unwilling to believe, that I meant what I didmean. 

I was fully resolved to be plain with her now. 

"Catherine Weir, " I said, "did not God give you a house to keep fairand pure for Him? Did you keep it such?"

"He told me lies, " she cried fiercely, with a cry that seemed topierce through the storm over our heads, up towards the everlastingjustice. "He lied, and I trusted. For his sake I sinned, and hethrew me from him. "

"You gave him what was not yours to give. What right had you to castyour pearl before a swine? But dare you say it was ALL FOR HIS SAKEyou did it? Was it ALL self-denial? Was there no self-indulgence?"

She made a broken gesture of lifting her hands to her head, let themdrop by her side, and said nothing. 

"You knew you were doing wrong. You felt it even more than he did. For God made you with a more delicate sense of purity, with ashrinking from the temptation, with a womanly foreboding ofdisgrace, to help you to hold the cup of your honour steady, whichyet you dropped on the ground. Do not seek refuge in the cant abouta woman's weakness. The strength of the woman is as needful to herwomanhood as the strength of the man is to his manhood; and a womanis just as strong as she will be. And now, instead of humblingyourself before your Father in heaven, whom you have wronged moreeven than your father on earth, you rage over your injuries andcherish hatred against him who wronged you. But I will go yetfurther, and show you, in God's name, that you wronged your seducer. For you were his keeper, as he was yours. What if he had found anoble-hearted girl who also trusted him entirely--just until sheknew she ought not to listen to him a moment longer? who, when hislove showed itself less than human, caring but for itself, rose inthe royalty of her maidenhood, and looked him in the face? Would henot have been ashamed before her, and so before himself, seeing inthe glass of her dignity his own contemptibleness? But instead ofsuch a woman he found you, who let him do as he would. No redemptionfor him in you. And now he walks the earth the worse for you, defiled by your spoil, glorying in his poor victory over you, despising all women for your sake, unrepentant and proud, ruiningothers the easier that he has already ruined you. "

"He does! he does!" she shrieked; "but I will have my revenge. I canand I will. "

And, darting past me, she rushed out into the storm. I followed, andcould just see that she took the way to the village. Her dim shapewent down the wind before me into the darkness. I followed in thesame direction, fast and faster, for the wind was behind me, and avague fear which ever grew in my heart urged me to overtake her. What had I done? To what might I not have driven her? And althoughall I had said was true, and I had spoken from motives which, as faras I knew my own heart, I could not condemn, yet, as I sped afterher, there came a reaction of feeling from the severity with which Ihad displayed her own case against her. "Ah! poor sister, " Ithought, "was it for me thus to reproach thee who had sufferedalready so fiercely? If the Spirit speaking in thy heart could notwin thee, how should my words of hard accusation, true though theywere, every one of them, rouse in thee anything but the wrath thatsprings from shame? Should I not have tried again, and yet again, towaken thy love; and then a sweet and healing shame, like that of herwho bathed the Master's feet with her tears, would have bred freshlove, and no wrath. "

But again I answered for myself, that my heart had not been the lesstender towards her that I had tried to humble her, for it was thatshe might slip from under the net of her pride. Even when my tonguespoke the hardest things I could find, my heart was yearning overher. If I could but make her feel that she too had been wrong, wouldnot the sense of common wrong between them help her to forgive? Andwith the first motion of willing pardon, would not a spring oftenderness, grief, and hope, burst from her poor old dried-up heart, and make it young and fresh once more! Thus I reasoned with myselfas I followed her back through the darkness. 

The wind fell a little as we came near the village, and the rainbegan to come down in torrents. There must have been a moonsomewhere behind the clouds, for the darkness became less dense, andI began to fancy I could again see the dim shape which had rushedfrom me. I increased my speed, and became certain of it. Suddenly, her strength giving way, or her foot stumbling over something in theroad, she fell to the earth with a cry. 

I was beside her in a moment. She was insensible. I did what I couldfor her, and in a few minutes she began to come to herself. 

"Where am I? Who is it?" she asked, listlessly. 

When she found who I was, she made a great effort to rise, andsucceeded. 

"You must take my arm, " I said, "and I will help you to thevicarage. "

"I will go home, " she answered. 

"Lean on me now, at least; for you must get somewhere. "

"What does it matter?" she said, in such a tone of despair, that itwent to my very heart. 

A wild half-cry, half-sob followed, and then she took my arm, andsaid nothing more. Nor did I trouble her with any words, except, when we readied the gate, to beg her to come into the vicarageinstead of going home. But she would not listen to me, and so I tookher home. 

She pulled the key of the shop from her pocket. Her hand trembled sothat I took it from her, and opened the door. A candle with a longsnuff was flickering on the counter; and stretched out on thecounter, with his head about a foot from the candle, lay littleGerard, fast asleep. 

"Ah, little darling!" I said in my heart, "this is not much likepainting the sky yet. But who knows?" And as I uttered thecommonplace question in my mind, in my mind it was suddenly changedinto the half of a great dim prophecy by the answer which arose toit there, for the answer was "God. "

I lifted the little fellow in my arms. He had fallen asleep weeping, and his face was dirty, and streaked with the channels of his tears. Catherine had snuffed the candle, and now stood with it in her hand, waiting for me to go. But, without heeding her, I bore my child tothe door that led to their dwelling. I had never been up thosestairs before, and therefore knew nothing of the way. But withoutoffering any opposition, his mother followed, and lighted me. What asad face of suffering and strife it was upon which that dim lightfell! She set the candle down upon the table of a small room at thetop of the stairs, which might have been comfortable enough but thatit was neglected and disordered; and now I saw that she did not evenhave her child to sleep with her, for his crib stood in a corner ofthis their sitting-room. 

I sat down on a haircloth couch, and proceeded to undress littleGerard, trying as much as I could not to wake him. In this I wasalmost successful. Catherine stood staring at me without saying aword. She looked dazed, perhaps from the effects of her fall. Butshe brought me his nightgown notwithstanding. Just as I had finishedputting it on, and was rising to lay him in his crib, he opened hiseyes, and looked at me; then gave a hurried look round, as if forhis mother; then threw his arms about my neck and kissed me. I laidhim down and the same moment he was fast asleep. In the morning itwould not be even a dream to him. 

"Now, " I thought, "you are safe for the night, poor fatherlesschild. Even your mother's hardness will not make you sad now. Perhaps the heavenly Father will send you loving dreams. "

I turned to Catherine, and bade her good-night. She just put herhand in mine; but, instead of returning my leave-taking, said:

"Do not fancy you will get the better of me, Mr Walton, by beingkind to that boy. I will have my revenge, and I know how. I am onlywaiting my time. When he is just going to drink, I will dash it fromhis hand. I will. At the altar I will. "

Her eyes were flashing almost with madness, and she made fiercegestures with her arm. I saw that argument was useless. 

"You loved him once, Catherine, " I said. "Love him again. Love himbetter. Forgive him. Revenge is far worse than anything you havedone yet. "

"What do I care? Why should I care?"

And she laughed terribly. 

I made haste to leave the room and the house; but I lingered fornearly an hour about the place before I could make up my mind to gohome, so much was I afraid lest she should do something altogetherinsane. 

But at length I saw the candle appear in the shop, which was somerelief to my anxiety; and reflecting that her one consuming thoughtof revenge was some security for her conduct otherwise, I went home. 

That night my own troubles seemed small to me, and I did not broodover them at all. My mind was filled with the idea of the sad miserywhich, rather than in which, that poor woman was; and I prayed forher as for a desolate human world whose sun had deserted theheavens, whose fair fields, rivers, and groves were hardening intothe frost of death, and all their germs of hope becoming butportions of the lifeless mass. "If I am sorrowful, " I said, "Godlives none the less. And His will is better than mine, yea, is myhidden and perfected will. In Him is my life. His will be done. What, then, is my trouble compared to hers? I will not sink into itand be selfish. "

In the morning my first business was to inquire after her. I foundher in the shop, looking very ill, and obstinately reserved. Gerardsat in a corner, looking as far from happy as a child of his yearscould look. As I left the shop he crept out with me. 

"Gerard, come back, " cried his mother. 

"I will not take him away, " I said. 

The boy looked up in my face, as if he wanted to whisper to me, andI stooped to listen. 

"I dreamed last night, " said the boy, "that a big angel with whitewings came and took me out of my bed, and carried me high, highup--so high that I could not dream any more. "

"We shall be carried up so high one day, Gerard, my boy, that weshall not want to dream any more. For we shall be carried up to Godhimself. Now go back to your mother. "

He obeyed at once, and I went on through the village. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DEVIL IN THE VICAR. 

I wanted just to pass the gate, and look up the road towardsOldcastle Hall. I thought to see nothing but the empty road betweenthe leafless trees, lying there like a dead stream that would notbear me on to the "sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice" that laybeyond. But just as I reached the gate, Miss Oldcastle came out ofthe lodge, where I learned afterwards the woman that kept the gatewas ill. 

When she saw me she stopped, and I entered hurriedly, and addressedher. But I could say nothing better than the merest commonplaces. For her old manner, which I had almost forgotten, a certain coldnessshadowed with haughtiness, whose influence I had strongly felt whenI began to make her acquaintance, had returned. I cannot make myreader understand how this could be blended with the sweetness inher face and the gentleness of her manners; but there the oppositeswere, and I could feel them both. There was likewise a certaindrawing of herself away from me, which checked the smallest advanceon my part; so that--I wonder at it now, but so it was--after a fewwords of very ordinary conversation, I bade her good morning andwent away, feeling like "a man forbid"--as if I had done her somewrong, and she had chidden me for it. What a stone lay in my breast!I could hardly breathe for it. What could have caused her to changeher manner towards me? I had made no advance; I could not haveoffended her. Yet there she glided up the road, and here stood I, outside the gate. That road was now a flowing river that bore fromme the treasure of the earth, while my boat was spell-bound, andcould not follow. I would run after her, fall at her feet, andintreat to know wherein I had offended her. But there I stoodenchanted, and there she floated away between the trees; till atlength she turned the slow sweep, and I, breathing deep as shevanished from my sight, turned likewise, and walked back the drearyway to the village. And now I knew that I had never been miserablein my life before. And I knew, too, that I had never loved her as Iloved her now. 

But, as I had for the last ten years of my life been striving to bea right will, with a thousand failures and forgetfulnesses every oneof those years, while yet the desire grew stronger as hope recoveredfrom every failure, I would now try to do my work as if nothing hadhappened to incapacitate me for it. So I went on to fulfil the planwith which I had left home, including, as it did, a visit to ThomasWeir, whom I had not seen in his own shop since he had ordered meout of it. This, as far as I was concerned, was more accidental thanintentional. I had, indeed, abstained from going to him for a while, in order to give him time TO COME ROUND; but then circumstanceswhich I have recorded intervened to prevent me; so that as yet noadvance had been made on my part any more than on his towards areconciliation; which, however, could have been such only on oneside, for I had not been in the least offended by the way he hadbehaved to me, and needed no reconciliation. To tell the truth, Iwas pleased to find that my words had had force enough with him torouse his wrath. Anything rather than indifference! That the heartof the honest man would in the end right me, I could not doubt; inthe meantime I would see whether a friendly call might not improvethe state of affairs. Till he yielded to the voice within him, however, I could not expect that our relation to each other would bequite restored. As long as he resisted his conscience, and knew thatI sided with his conscience, it was impossible he should regard mewith peaceful eyes, however much he might desire to be friendly withme. 

I found him busy, as usual, for he was one of the most diligent menI have ever known. But his face was gloomy, and I thought or fanciedthat the old scorn had begun once more to usurp the expression ofit. Young Tom was not in the shop. 

"It is a long time since I saw you, now, Thomas. "

"I can hardly wonder at that, " he returned, as if he were trying todo me justice; but his eyes dropped, and he resumed his work, andsaid no more. I thought it better to make no reference to the pasteven by assuring him that it was not from resentment that I had beena stranger. 

"How is Tom?" I asked. 

"Well enough, " he returned. Then, with a smile of peevishness notunmingled with contempt, he added: "He's getting too uppish for me. I don't think the Latin agrees with him. "

I could not help suspecting at once how the matter stood--namely, that the father, unhappy in his conduct to his daughter, and unableto make up his mind to do right with regard to her, had beenbehaving captiously and unjustly to his son, and so had renderedhimself more miserable than ever. 

"Perhaps he finds it too much for him without me, " I said, evasively; "but I called to-day partly to inform him that I am quiteready now to recommence our readings together; after which I hopeyou will find the Latin agree with him better. "

"I wish you would let him alone, sir--I mean, take no more troubleabout him. You see I can't do as you want me; I wasn't made to goanother man's way; and so it's very hard--more than I can bear--tobe under so much obligation to you. "

"But you mistake me altogether, Thomas. It is for the lad's own sakethat I want to go on reading with him. And you won't interferebetween him and any use I can be of to him. I assure you, to haveyou go my way instead of your own is the last thing I could wish, though I confess I do wish very much that you would choose the rightway for your own way. "

He made me no answer, but maintained a sullen silence. 

"Thomas, " I said at length, "I had thought you were breaking everybond of Satan that withheld you from entering into the kingdom ofheaven; but I fear he has strengthened his bands and holds you nowas much a captive as ever. So it is not even your own way you arewalking in, but his. "

"It's no use your trying to frighten me. I don't believe in thedevil. "

"It is God I want you to believe in. And I am not going to disputewith you now about whether there is a devil or not. In a matter oflife and death we have no time for settling every disputed point. "

"Life or death! What do you mean?"

"I mean that whether you believe there is a devil or not, you KNOWthere is an evil power in your mind dragging you down. I am notspeaking in generals; I mean NOW, and you know as to what I mean it. And if you yield to it, that evil power, whatever may be your theoryabout it, will drag you down to death. It is a matter of life ordeath, I repeat, not of theory about the devil. "

"Well, I always did say, that if you once give a priest an inchhe'll take an ell; and I am sorry I forgot it for once. "

Having said this, he shut up his mouth in a manner that indicatedplainly enough he would not open it again for some time. This, morethan his speech, irritated me, and with a mere "good morning, " Iwalked out of the shop. 

No sooner was I in the open air than I knew that I too, I as well aspoor Thomas Weir, was under a spell; knew that I had gone to himbefore I had recovered sufficiently from the mingled disappointmentand mortification of my interview with Miss Oldcastle; that while Ispoke to him I was not speaking with a whole heart; that I had beendischarging a duty as if I had been discharging a musket; that, although I had spoken the truth, I had spoken it ungraciously andselfishly. 

I could not bear it. I turned instantly and went back into the shop. 

"Thomas, my friend, " I said, holding out my hand, "I beg yourpardon. I was wrong. I spoke to you as I ought not. I was troubledin my own mind, and that made me lose my temper and be rude to you, who are far more troubled than I am. Forgive me!"

He did not take my hand at first, but stared at me as if, notcomprehending me, he supposed that I was backing up what I had saidlast with more of the same sort. But by the time I had finished hesaw what I meant; his countenance altered and looked as if the evilspirit were about to depart from him; he held out his hand, gavemine a great grasp, dropped his head, went on with his work, andsaid never a word. 

I went out of the shop once more, but in a greatly altered mood. 

On the way home, I tried to find out how it was that I had thatmorning failed so signally. I had little virtue in keeping mytemper, because it was naturally very even; therefore I had the moreshame in losing it. I had borne all my uneasiness about MissOldcastle without, as far as I knew, transgressing in this fashiontill this very morning. Were great sorrows less hurtful to thetemper than small disappointments? Yes, surely. But Shakespearerepresents Brutus, after hearing of the sudden death of his wife, aslosing his temper with Cassius to a degree that bewildered thelatter, who said he did not know that Brutus could have been soangry. Is this consistent with the character of the stately-mindedBrutus, or with the dignity of sorrow? It is. For the loss of hiswife alone would have made him only less irritable; but the wholeweight of an army, with its distracting cares and conflictinginterests, pressed upon him; and the battle of an empire was to befought at daybreak, so that he could not be alone with his grief. Between the silence of death in his mind, and the roar of life inhis brain, he became irritable. 

Looking yet deeper into it, I found that till this morning I hadexperienced no personal mortification with respect to MissOldcastle. It was not the mere disappointment of having no more talkwith her, for the sight of her was a blessing I had not in the leastexpected, that had worked upon me, but the fact that she hadrepelled or seemed to repel me. And thus I found that self was atthe root of the wrong I had done to one over whose mental condition, especially while I was telling him the unwelcome truth, I ought tohave been as tender as a mother over her wounded child. I could notsay that it was wrong to feel disappointed or even mortified; butsomething was wrong when one whose especial business it was to servehis people in the name of Him who was full of grace and truth, madethem suffer because of his own inward pain. 

No sooner had I settled this in my mind than my trouble returnedwith a sudden pang. Had I actually seen her that morning, and spokento her, and left her with a pain in my heart? What if that face ofhers was doomed ever to bring with it such a pain--to be ever to meno more than a lovely vision radiating grief? If so, I would endurein silence and as patiently as I could, trying to make up for thelack of brightness in my own fate by causing more brightness in thefate of others. I would at least keep on trying to do my work. 

That moment I felt a little hand poke itself into mine. I lookeddown, and there was Gerard Weir looking up in my face. I foundmyself in the midst of the children coming out of school, for it wasSaturday, and a half-holiday. He smiled in my face, and I hope Ismiled in his; and so, hand in hand, we went on to the vicarage, where I gave him up to my sister. But I cannot convey to my readerany notion of the quietness that entered my heart with the grasp ofthat childish hand. I think it was the faith of the boy in me thatcomforted me, but I could not help thinking of the words of our Lordabout receiving a child in His name, and so receiving Him. By thetime we reached the vicarage my heart was very quiet. As the littlechild held by my hand, so I seemed to be holding by God's hand. Anda sense of heart-security, as well as soul-safety, awoke in me; andI said to myself, --Surely He will take care of my heart as well asof my mind and my conscience. For one blessed moment I seemed to beat the very centre of things, looking out quietly upon my owntroubled emotions as upon something outside of me--apart from me, even as one from the firm rock may look abroad upon the vexed sea. And I thought I then knew something of what the apostle meant whenhe said, "Your life is hid with Christ in God. " I knew that therewas a deeper self than that which was thus troubled. 

I had not had my usual ramble this morning, and was otherwise illprepared for the Sunday. So I went early into the church; butfinding that the sexton's wife had not yet finished lighting thestove, I sat down by my own fire in the vestry. 

Suppose I am sitting there now while I say one word for ourcongregations in winter. I was very particular in having the churchwell warmed before Sunday. I think some parsons must neglect seeingafter this matter on principle, because warmth may make a wearycreature go to sleep here and there about the place: as if anyhealing doctrine could enter the soul while it is on the rack of thefrost. The clergy should see--for it is their business--that theirpeople have no occasion to think of their bodies at all while theyare in church. They have enough ado to think of the truth. When ourLord was feeding even their bodies, He made them all sit down on thegrass. It is worth noticing that there was much grass in theplace--a rare thing I should think in those countries--andtherefore, perhaps, it was chosen by Him for their comfort infeeding their souls and bodies both. If I may judge from experiencesof my own, one of the reasons why some churches are of all placesthe least likely for anything good to be found in, is, that they areas wretchedly cold to the body as they are to the soul--too coldevery way for anything to grow in them. Edelweiss, "Noble-white"--asthey call a plant growing under the snow on some of the Alps--couldnot survive the winter in such churches. There is small welcome in acold house. And the clergyman, who is the steward, should look toit. It is for him to give his Master's friends a welcome to hisMaster's house--for the welcome of a servant is precious, andnow-a-days very rare. 

And now Mrs Stone must have finished. I go into the old church whichlooks as if it were quietly waiting for its people. No. She has notdone yet. Never mind. --How full of meaning the vaulted roof looks!as if, having gathered a soul of its own out of the generations thathave worshipped here for so long, it had feeling enough to growhungry for a psalm before the end of the week. 

Some such half-foolish fancy was now passing through mytranquillized mind or rather heart--for the mind would have rejectedit at once--when to my--what shall I call it?--not amazement, forthe delight was too strong for amazement--the old organ woke up andbegan to think aloud. As if it had been brooding over it all theweek in the wonderful convolutions of its wooden brain, it began tosigh out the Agnus Dei of Mozart's twelfth mass upon the air of thestill church, which lay swept and garnished for the Sunday. --Howcould it be? I know now; and I guessed then; and my guess was right;and my reader must be content to guess too. I took no step to verifymy conjecture, for I felt that I was upon my honour, but sat in oneof the pews and listened, till the old organ sobbed itself intosilence. Then I heard the steps of the sexton's wife vanish from thechurch, heard her lock the door, and knew that I was alone in theancient pile, with the twilight growing thick about me, and feltlike Sir Galahad, when, after the "rolling organ-harmony, " he heard"wings flutter, voices hover clear. " In a moment the mood changed;and I was sorry, not that the dear organ was dead for the night, butactually felt gently-mournful that the wonderful old thing never hadand never could have a conscious life of its own. So strangely doesthe passion--which I had not invented, reader, whoever thou artthat thinkest love and a church do not well harmonize--so strangely, I say, full to overflowing of its own vitality, does it radiatelife, that it would even of its own superabundance quicken intoblessed consciousness the inanimate objects around it, thinking whatthey would feel had they a consciousness correspondent to theirform, were their faculties moved from within themselves instead offrom the will and operation of humanity. 

I lingered on long in the dark church, as my reader knows I had doneoften before. Nor did I move from the seat I had first taken till Ileft the sacred building. And there I made my sermon for the nextmorning. And herewith I impart it to my reader. But he need not beafraid of another such as I have already given him, for I impart itonly in its original germ, its concentrated essence of sermon--thesefour verses:

 Had I the grace to win the grace Of some old man complete in lore, My face would worship at his face, Like childhood seated on the floor. 

 Had I the grace to win the grace Of childhood, loving shy, apart, The child should find a nearer place, And teach me resting on my heart. 

 Had I the grace to win the grace Of maiden living all above, My soul would trample down the base, That she might have a man to love. 

 A grace I have no grace to win Knocks now at my half-open door: Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in, Thy grace divine is all and more. 

This was what I made for myself. I told my people that God hadcreated all our worships, reverences, tendernesses, loves. That theyhad come out of His heart, and He had made them in us because theywere in Him first. That otherwise He would not have cared to makethem. That all that we could imagine of the wise, the lovely, thebeautiful, was in Him, only infinitely more of them than we couldnot merely imagine, but understand, even if He did all He could toexplain them to us, to make us understand them. That in Him was allthe wise teaching of the best man ever known in the world and more;all the grace and gentleness and truth of the best child and more;all the tenderness and devotion of the truest type of womankind andmore; for there is a love that passeth the love of woman, not thelove of Jonathan to David, though David said so: but the love of Godto the men and women whom He has made. Therefore, we must be allGod's; and all our aspirations, all our worships, all our honours, all our loves, must centre in Him, the Best. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

AN ANGEL UNAWARES. 

Feeling rather more than the usual reaction so well-known toclergymen after the concentrated duties of the Sunday, I resolved onMonday to have the long country walk I had been disappointed of onthe Saturday previous. It was such a day as it seems impossible todescribe except in negatives. It was not stormy, it was not rainy, it was not sunshiny, it was not snowy, it was not frosty, it was notfoggy, it was not clear, it was nothing but cloudy and quiet andcold and generally ungenial, with just a puff of wind now and thento give an assertion to its ungeniality. I should not in the leasthave cared to tell what sort the day was, had it not been an exactrepresentation of my own mind. It was not the day that made me suchas itself. The weather could always easily influence the surface ofmy mind, my external mood, but it could never go much further. Thesmallest pleasure would break through the conditions that merelycame of such a day. But this morning my whole mind and heart seemedlike the day. The summer was thousands of miles off on the otherside of the globe. Ethelwyn, up at the old house there across theriver, seemed millions of miles away. The summer MIGHT come back;she never would come nearer: it was absurd to expect it. For in suchmoods stupidity constantly arrogates to itself the qualities andclaims of insight. In fact, it passes itself off for common sense, making the most dreary ever appear the most reasonable. In suchmoods a man might almost be persuaded that it was ridiculous toexpect any such poetic absurdity as the summer, with its diamondmornings and its opal evenings, ever to come again; nay, to thinkthat it ever had had any existence except in the fancies of thehuman heart--one of its castles in the air. The whole of life seemedfaint and foggy, with no red in it anywhere; and when I glanced atmy present relations in Marshmallows, I could not help findingseveral circumstances to give some appearance of justice to thisappearance of things. I seemed to myself to have done no good. I haddriven Catherine Weir to the verge of suicide, while at the sametime I could not restrain her from the contemplation of some direrevenge. I had lost the man upon whom I had most reckoned as a sealof my ministry, namely, Thomas Weir. True there was Old Rogers; butOld Rogers was just as good before I found him. I could not dream ofhaving made him any better. And so I went on brooding over all thedisappointing portions of my labour, all the time thinking aboutmyself, instead of God and the work that lay for me to do in thedays to come. 

"Nobody, " I said, "but Old Rogers understands me. Nobody would care, as far as my teaching goes, if another man took my place from nextSunday forward. And for Miss Oldcastle, her playing the Agnus Dei onSaturday afternoon, even if she intended that I should hear it, could only indicate at most that she knew how she had behaved to mein the morning, and thought she had gone too far and been unkind, orperhaps was afraid lest she should be accountable for any failure Imight make in my Sunday duties, and therefore felt bound to dosomething to restore my equanimity. "

Choosing, though without consciously intending to do so, thedreariest path to be found, I wandered up the side of the slow blackriver, with the sentinel pollards looking at themselves in itsgloomy mirror, just as I was looking at myself in the mirror of mycircumstances. They leaned in all directions, irregular as theheadstones in an ancient churchyard. In the summer they looked likeexplosions of green leaves at the best; now they looked like theburnt-out cases of the summer's fireworks. How different, too, wasthe river from the time when a whole fleet of shining white lilieslay anchored among their own broad green leaves upon its clearwaters, filled with sunlight in every pore, as they themselves wouldfill the pores of a million-caverned sponge! But I could not evenrecall the past summer as beautiful. I seemed to care for nothing. The first miserable afternoon at Marshmallows looked now as if ithad been the whole of my coming relation to the place seen through areversed telescope. And here I was IN it now. 

The walk along the side was tolerably dry, although the river wasbank-full. But when I came to the bridge I wanted to cross--a woodenone--I found that the approach to it had been partly undermined andcarried away, for here the river had overflowed its banks in one ofthe late storms; and all about the place was still very wet andswampy. I could therefore get no farther in my gloomy walk, and soturned back upon my steps. Scarcely had I done so, when I saw a mancoming hastily towards me from far upon the straight line of theriver walk. I could not mistake him at any distance. It was OldRogers. I felt both ashamed and comforted when I recognized him. 

"Well, Old Rogers, " I said, as soon as he came within hail, tryingto speak cheerfully, "you cannot get much farther this way--withoutwading a bit, at least. "

"I don't want to go no farther now, sir. I came to find you. "

"Nothing amiss, I hope?"

"Nothing as I knows on, sir. I only wanted to have a little chatwith you. I told master I wanted to leave for an hour or so. Heallus lets me do just as I like. "

"But how did you know where to find me?"

"I saw you come this way. You passed me right on the bridge, anddidn't see me, sir. So says I to myself, 'Old Rogers, summat's amisswi' parson to-day. He never went by me like that afore. This won'tdo. You just go and see. ' So I went home and told master, and here Ibe, sir. And I hope you're noways offended with the liberty of me. "

"Did I really pass you on the bridge?" I said, unable to understandit. 

"That you did, sir. I knowed parson must be a goodish bit in his ownin'ards afore he would do that. "

"I needn't tell you I didn't see you, Old Rogers. "

"I could tell you that, sir. I hope there's nothing gone main wrong, sir. Miss is well, sir, I hope?"

"Quite well, I thank you. No, my dear fellow, nothing's gone mainwrong, as you say. Some of my running tackle got jammed a bit, that's all. I'm a little out of spirits, I believe. "

"Well, sir, don't you be afeard I'm going to be troublesome. Don'tthink I want to get aboard your ship, except you fling me a rope. There's a many things you mun ha' to think about that an ignorantman like me couldn't take up if you was to let 'em drop. And being agentleman, I do believe, makes the matter worse betuxt us. Andthere's many a thing that no man can go talkin' about to any butonly the Lord himself. Still you can't help us poor folks seeingwhen there's summat amiss, and we can't help havin' our own thoughtsany more than the sailor's jackdaw that couldn't speak. Andsometimes we may be nearer the mark than you would suppose, for Godhas made us all of one blood, you know. "

"What ARE you driving at, Old Rogers?" I said with a smile, whichwas none the less true that I suspected he had read some of theworst trouble of my heart. For why should I mind an honourable manlike him knowing what oppressed me, though, as things went, Icertainly should not, as he said, choose to tell it to any but one?

"I don't want to say what I was driving at, if it was anything butthis--that I want to put to the clumsy hand of a rough old tar, witha heart as soft as the pitch that makes his hand hard--to trim yoursails a bit, sir, and help you to lie a point closer to the wind. You're not just close-hauled, sir. "

"Say on, Old Rogers. I understand you, and I will listen with all myheart, for you have a good right to speak. "

And Old Rogers spoke thus:--

"Oncet upon a time, I made a voyage in a merchant barque. We werebecalmed in the South Seas. And weary work it wur, a doin' ofnothin' from day to day. But when the water began to come up thickfrom the bottom of the water-casks, it was wearier a deal. Then athick fog came on, as white as snow a'most, and we couldn't see morethan a few yards ahead or on any side of us. But the fog didn't keepthe heat off; it only made it worse, and the water was fast goingdone. The short allowance grew shorter and shorter, and the men, some of them, were half-mad with thirst, and began to look bad atone another. I kept up my heart by looking ahead inside me. For daysand days the fog hung about us as if the air had been made o' flockso' wool. The captain took to his berth, and several of the crew totheir hammocks, for it was just as hot on deck as anywhere else. Themate lay on a sparesail on the quarter-deck, groaning. I had astrong suspicion that the schooner was drifting, and hove the leadagain and again, but could find no bottom. Some of the men got holdof the spirits, and THAT didn't quench their thirst. It drove themclean mad. I had to knock one of them down myself with a capstanbar, for he ran at the mate with his knife. At last I began to loseall hope. And still I was sure the schooner was slowly drifting. Myhead was like to burst, and my tongue was like a lump of holystonein my mouth. Well, one morning, I had just, as I thought, lain downon the deck to breathe my last, hoping I should die before I wentquite mad with thirst, when all at once the fog lifted, like thefoot of a sail. I sprung to my feet. There was the blue skyoverhead; but the terrible burning sun was there. A moment more anda light air blew on my cheek, and, turning my face to it as if ithad been the very breath of God, there was an island within half amile, and I saw the shine of water on the face of a rock on theshore. I cried out, 'Land on the weather-quarter! Water in sight!'In a moment more a boat was lowered, and in a few minutes the boat'screw, of which I was one, were lying, clothes and all, in a littlestream that came down from the hills above. --There, Mr Walton!that's what I wanted to say to you. "

This is as near the story of my old friend as my limited knowledgeof sea affairs allows me to report it. 

"I understand you quite, Old Rogers, and I thank you heartily, " Isaid. 

"No doubt, " resumed he, "King Solomon was quite right, as he alwayswas, I suppose, in what he SAID, for his wisdom mun ha' laid mostlyin the tongue--right, I say, when he said, 'Boast not thyself ofto-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth;' but Ican't help thinking there's another side to it. I think it would beas good advice to a man on the other tack, whose boasting lay far towindward, and he close on a lee-shore wi' breakers--it wouldn't beamiss to say to him, 'Don't strike your colours to the morrow; forthou knowest not what a day may bring forth. ' There's just as manygood days as bad ones; as much fair weather as foul in the days tocome. And if a man keeps up heart, he's all the better for that, andnone the worse when the evil day does come. But, God forgive me! I'mtalking like a heathen. As if there was any chance about what thedays would bring forth. No, my lad, " said the old sailor, assumingthe dignity of his superior years under the inspiration of thetruth, "boast nor trust nor hope in the morrow. Boast and trust andhope in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health of thycountenance and thy God. "

I could but hold out my hand. I had nothing to say. For he hadspoken to me as an angel of God. 

The old man was silent for some moments: his emotion needed time tostill itself again. Nor did he return to the subject. He held outhis hand once more, saying--

"Good day, sir. I must go back to my work. "

"I will go back with you, " I returned. 

And so we walked back side by side to the village, but not a worddid we speak the one to the other, till we shook hands and partedupon the bridge, where we had first met. Old Rogers went to hiswork, and I lingered upon the bridge. I leaned upon the low parapet, and looked up the stream as far as the mists creeping about thebanks, and hovering in thinnest veils over the surface of the water, would permit. Then I turned and looked down the river crawling on tothe sweep it made out of sight just where Mr Brownrigg's farm beganto come down to its banks. Then I looked to the left, and therestood my old church, as quiet in the dreary day, though not sobright, as in the sunshine: even the graves themselves must look yetmore "solemn sad" in a wintry day like this, than they look when thesunlight that infolds them proclaims that God is not the God of thedead but of the living. One of the great battles that we have tofight in this world--for twenty great battles have to be fought allat once and in one--is the battle with appearances. I turned me tothe right, and there once more I saw, as on that first afternoon, the weathercock that watched the winds over the stables at OldcastleHall. It had caught just one glimpse of the sun through some rent inthe vapours, and flung it across to me, ere it vanished again amidthe general dinginess of the hour. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

TWO PARISHIONERS. 

I HAVE said, near the beginning of my story, that my parish was alarge one: how is it that I have mentioned but one of the greatfamilies in it, and have indeed confined my recollections entirelyto the village and its immediate neighbourhood? Will my reader havepatience while I explain this to him a little? First, as he may haveobserved, my personal attraction is towards the poor rather than therich. I was made so. I can generally get nearer the poor than therich. But I say GENERALLY, for I have known a few rich people quiteas much to my mind as the best of the poor. Thereupon, of course, their education would give them the advantage with me in thepossibilities of communion. But when the heart is right, and thereis a good stock of common sense as well, --a gift predominant, as faras I am aware, in no one class over another, education will turn thescale very gently with me. And then when I reflect that some ofthese poor people would have made nobler ladies and gentlemen thanall but two or three I know, if they had only had the opportunity, there is a reaction towards the poor, something like a feeling offavour because they have not had fair play--a feeling soon modified, though not altered, by the reflection that they are such because Godwho loves them better than we do, has so ordered their lot, and bythe recollection that not only was our Lord himself poor, but Hesaid the poor were blessed. And let me just say in passing that Inot only believe it because He said it, but I believe it because Isee that it is so. I think sometimes that the world must have beenespecially created for the poor, and that particular allowances willbe made for the rich because they are born into such disadvantages, and with their wickednesses and their miseries, their love ofspiritual dirt and meanness, subserve the highest growth andemancipation of the poor, that they may inherit both the earth andthe kingdom of heaven. 

But I have been once more wandering from my subject. 

Thus it was that the people in the village lying close to my doorattracted most of my attention at first; of which attention thosemore immediately associated with the village, as, for instance, theinhabitants of the Hall, came in for a share, although they did notbelong to the same class. 

Again, the houses of most of the gentlefolk lay considerably apartfrom the church and from each other. Many of them went elsewhere tochurch, and I did not feel bound to visit those, for I had enough tooccupy me without, and had little chance of getting a hold of themto do them good. Still there were one or two families which I wouldhave visited oftener, I confess, had I been more interested in them, or had I had a horse. Therefore, I ought to have bought a horsesooner than I did. Before this winter was over, however, I did buyone, partly to please Dr Duncan, who urged me to it for the sake ofmy health, partly because I could then do my duty better, andpartly, I confess, from having been very fond of an old mare of myfather's, when I was a boy, living, after my mother's death, at afarm of his in B--shire. Happening to come across a gray mare verymuch like her, I bought her at once. 

I think it was the very day after the events recorded in my lastchapter that I mounted her to pay a visit to two rich maiden ladies, whose carriage stopped at the Lych-gate most Sundays when theweather was favourable, but whom I had called upon only once since Icame to the parish. I should not have thought this visit worthmentioning, except for the conversation I had with them, duringwhich a hint or two were dropped which had an influence in colouringmy thoughts for some time after. 

I was shown with much ceremony by a butler, as old apparently as hislivery of yellow and green, into the presence of the two ladies, oneof whom sat in state reading a volume of the Spectator. She was verytall, and as square as the straight long-backed chair upon which shesat. A fat asthmatic poodle lay at her feet upon the hearth-rug. Theother, a little lively gray-haired creature, who looked like a mostancient girl whom no power of gathering years would ever make old, was standing upon a high chair, making love to a demoniacal-lookingcockatoo in a gilded cage. As I entered the room, the latter all butjumped from her perch with a merry though wavering laugh, andadvanced to meet me. 

"Jonathan, bring the cake and wine, " she cried to the retreatingservant. 

The former rose with a solemn stiff-backedness, which was moreamusing than dignified, and extended her hand as I approached her, without moving from her place. 

"We were afraid, Mr Walton, " said the little lady, "that you hadforgotten we were parishioners of yours. "

"That I could hardly do, " I answered, "seeing you are such regularattendants at church. But I confess I have given you ground for yourrebuke, Miss Crowther. I bought a horse, however, the other day, andthis is the first use I have put him to. "

"We're charmed to see you. It is very good of you not to forget suchuninteresting girls as we are. "

"You forget, Jemima, " interposed her sister, in a feminine bass, "that time is always on the wing. I should have thought we were bothdecidedly middle-aged, though you are the elder by I will not sayhow many years. "

"All but ten years, Hester. I remember rocking you in your cradlescores of times. But somehow, Mr Walton, I can't help feeling as ifshe were my elder sister. She is so learned, you see; and I don'tread anything but the newspapers. "

"And your Bible, Jemima. Do yourself justice. "

"That's a matter of course, sister. But this is not the way toentertain Mr Walton. "

"The gentlemen used to entertain the ladies when I was young, Jemima. I do not know how it may have been when you were. "

"Much the same, I believe, sister. But if you look at Mr Walton, Ithink you will see that he is pretty much entertained as it is. "

"I agree with Miss Hester, " I said. "It is the duty of gentlemen toentertain ladies. But it is so much the kinder of ladies when theysurpass their duty, and condescend to entertain gentlemen. "

"What can surpass duty, Mr Walton? I confess I do not agree withyour doctrines upon that point. "

"I do not quite understand you, Miss Hester, " I returned. 

"Why, Mr Walton--I hope you will not think me rude, but it alwaysseems to me--and it has given me much pain, when I consider thatyour congregation is chiefly composed of the lower classes, who maybe greatly injured by such a style of preaching. I must say I thinkso, Mr Walton. Only perhaps you are one of those who think a lady'sopinion on such matters is worth nothing. "

"On the contrary, I respect an opinion just as far as the lady orgentleman who holds it seems to me qualified to have formed itfirst. But you have not yet told me what you think so objectionablein my preaching. "

"You always speak as if faith in Christ was something greater thanduty. Now I think duty the first thing. "

"I quite agree with you, Miss Crowther. For how can I, or anyclergyman, urge a man to that which is not his duty? But tell me, isnot faith in Christ a duty? Where you have mistaken me is, that youthink I speak of faith as higher than duty, when indeed I speak offaith as higher than any OTHER duty. It is the highest duty of man. I do not say the duty he always sees clearest, or even sees at all. But the fact is, that when that which is a duty becomes the highestdelight of a man, the joy of his very being, he no more thinks orneeds to think about it as a duty. What would you think of the loveof a son who, when an appeal was made to his affections, should say, 'Oh yes, I love my mother dearly: it is my duty, of course?'"

"That sounds very plausible, Mr Walton; but still I cannot helpfeeling that you preach faith and not works. I do not say that youare not to preach faith, of course; but you know faith without worksis dead. "

"Now, really, Hester, " interposed Miss Jemima, "I cannot think howit is, but, for my part, I should have said that Mr Walton wasconstantly preaching works. He's always telling you to do somethingor other. I know I always come out of the church with something onmy mind; and I've got to work it off somehow before I'mcomfortable. "

And here Miss Jemima got up on the chair again, and began to flirtwith the cockatoo once more, but only in silent signs. 

I cannot quite recall how this part of the conversation drew to aclose. But I will tell a fact or two about the sisters which maypossibly explain how it was that they took up such different notionsof my preaching. The elder scarce left the house, but spent almostthe whole of her time in reading small dingy books of eighteenthcentury literature. She believed in no other; thought Shakespearesentimental where he was not low, and Bacon pompous; Addisonthoroughly respectable and gentlemanly. Pope was the great Englishpoet, incomparably before Milton. The "Essay on Man" contained thedeepest wisdom; the "Rape of the Lock" the most graceful imaginationto be found in the language. The "Vicar of Wakefield" was pretty, but foolish; while in philosophy, Paley was perfect, especially inhis notion of happiness, which she had heard objected to, andtherefore warmly defended. Somehow or other, respectability--inposition, in morals, in religion, in conduct--was everything. Theconsequence was that her very nature was old-fashioned, and hadnothing in it of that lasting youth which is the birthright--sooften despised--of every immortal being. But I have already saidmore about her than her place in my story justifies. 

Miss Crowther, on the contrary, whose eccentricities did not lie onthe side of respectability, had gone on shocking the stiffproprieties of her younger sister till she could be shocked no more, and gave in as to the hopelessness of fate. She had had a severedisappointment in youth, had not only survived it, but saved herheart alive out of it, losing only, as far as appeared to the eyesof her neighbours at least, any remnant of selfish care aboutherself; and she now spent the love which had before beenconcentrated upon one object, upon every living thing that came nearher, even to her sister's sole favourite, the wheezing poodle. Shewas very odd, it must be confessed, with her gray hair, her cleargray eye with wrinkled eyelids, her light step, her laugh at oncegirlish and cracked; darting in and out of the cottages, scoldingthis matron with a lurking smile in every tone, hugging that baby, boxing the ears of the other little tyrant, passing this one's rent, and threatening that other with awful vengeances, but it was a verylovely oddity. Their property was not large, and she knew everyliving thing on the place down to the dogs and pigs. And MissJemima, as the people always called her, transferring the MISSCROWTHER of primogeniture to the younger, who kept, like King HenryIV. , --

 "Her presence, like a robe pontifical, Ne'er seen but wonder'd at, "

was the actual queen of the neighbourhood; for, though she was thevery soul of kindness, she was determined to have her own way, andhad it. 

Although I did not know all this at the time, such were the twoladies who held these different opinions about my preaching; the onewho did nothing but read Messrs Addison, Pope, Paley, and Co. , considering that I neglected the doctrine of works as the seal offaith, and the one who was busy helping her neighbours from morningto night, finding little in my preaching, except incentive tobenevolence. 

The next point where my recollection can take up the conversation, is where Miss Hester made the following further criticism on mypulpit labours. 

"You are too anxious to explain everything, Mr Walton. "

I pause in my recording, to do my critic the justice of remarkingthat what she said looks worse on paper than it sounded from herlips; for she was a gentlewoman, and the tone has much to do withthe impression made by the intellectual contents of all speech. 

"Where can be the use of trying to make uneducated people see thegrounds of everything?" she said. "It is enough that this or that isin the Bible. "

"Yes; but there is just the point. What is in the Bible? Is it thisor that?"

"You are their spiritual instructor: tell them what is in theBible. "

"But you have just been objecting to my mode of representing what isin the Bible. "

"It will be so much the worse, if you add argument to convince themof what is incorrect. "

"I doubt that. Falsehood will expose itself the sooner that honestargument is used to support it. "

"You cannot expect them to judge of what you tell them. "

"The Bible urges upon us to search and understand. "

"I grant that for those whose business it is, like yourself. "

"Do you think, then, that the Church consists of a few privileged tounderstand, and a great many who cannot understand, and thereforeneed not be taught?"

"I said you had to teach them. "

"But to teach is to make people understand. "

"I don't think so. If you come to that, how much can the wisest ofus understand? You remember what Pope says, --

 'Superior beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfold all Nature's law, Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, And show'd a Newton as we show an ape'?"

"I do not know the passage. Pope is not my Bible. I should call suchsuperior beings very inferior beings indeed. "

"Do you call the angels inferior beings?"

"Such angels, certainly. "

"He means the good angels, of course. "

"And I say the good angels could never behave like that, forcontempt is one of the lowest spiritual conditions in which anybeing can place himself. Our Lord says, 'Take heed that ye despisenot one of these little ones, for their angels do always behold theface of my Father, who is in heaven. '"

"Now will you even say that you understand that passage?"

"Practically, well enough; just as the poorest man of mycongregation may understand it. I am not to despise one of thelittle ones. Pope represents the angels as despising a Newton even. "

"And you despise Pope. "

"I hope not. I say he was full of despising, and therefore, if forno other reason, a small man. "

"Surely you do not jest at his bodily infirmities?"

"I had forgotten them quite. "

"In every other sense he was a great man. "

"I cannot allow it. He was intellectually a great man, but morally asmall man. "

"Such refinements are not easily followed. "

"I will undertake to make the poorest woman in my congregationunderstand that. "

"Why don't you try your friend Mrs Oldcastle, then? It might do hera little good, " said Miss Hester, now becoming, I thought, a littlespiteful at hearing her favourite treated so unceremoniously. Ifound afterwards that there was some kindness in it, however. 

"I should have very little influence with Mrs Oldcastle if I were tomake the attempt. But I am not called upon to address my flockindividually upon every point of character. "

"I thought she was an intimate friend of yours. "

"Quite the contrary. We are scarcely friendly. "

"I am very glad to hear it, " said Miss Jemima, who had been silentduring the little controversy that her sister and I had beencarrying on. "We have been quite misinformed. The fact is, wethought we might have seen more of you if it had not been for her. And as very few people of her own position in society care to visither, we thought it a pity she should be your principal friend in theparish. "

"Why do they not visit her more?"

"There are strange stories about her, which it is as well to leavealone. They are getting out of date too. But she is not a fit womanto be regarded as the clergyman's friend. There!" said Miss Jemima, as if she had wanted to relieve her bosom of a burden, and had doneit. 

"I think, however, her religious opinions would correspond with yourown, Mr Walton, " said Miss Hester. 

"Possibly, " I answered, with indifference; "I don't care much aboutopinion. "

"Her daughter would be a nice girl, I fancy, if she weren't keptdown by her mother. She looks scared, poor thing! And they say she'snot quite--the thing, you know, " said Miss Jemima. 

"What DO you mean, Miss Crowther?"

She gently tapped her forehead with a forefinger. 

I laughed. I thought it was not worth my while to enter as thechampion of Miss Oldcastle's sanity. 

"They are, and have been, a strange family as far back as I canremember; and my mother used to say the same. I am glad she comes toour church now. You mustn't let her set her cap at you, though, MrWalton. It wouldn't do at all. She's pretty enough, too!"

"Yes, " I returned, "she is rather pretty. But I don't think shelooks as if she had a cap to set at anybody. "

I rose to go, for I did not relish any further pursuit of theconversation in the same direction. 

I rode home slowly, brooding on the lovely marvel, that out of sucha rough ungracious stem as the Oldcastle family, should have sprungsuch a delicate, pale, winter-braved flower, as Ethelwyn. And Iprayed that I might be honoured to rescue her from the ungenial soiland atmosphere to which the machinations of her mother threatened toconfine her for the rest of a suffering life. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

SATAN CAST OUT. 

I was within a mile of the village, returning from my visit to theMisses Crowther, when my horse, which was walking slowly along thesoft side of the road, lifted his head, and pricked up his ears atthe sound, which he heard first, of approaching hoofs. The riderssoon came in sight--Miss Oldcastle, Judy, and Captain Everard. MissOldcastle I had never seen on horseback before. Judy was on a littlewhite pony she used to gallop about the fields near the Hall. TheCaptain was laughing and chatting gaily as they drew near, now tothe one, now to the other. Being on my own side of the road I heldstraight on, not wishing to stop or to reveal the signs of adistress which had almost overwhelmed me. I felt as cold as death, or rather as if my whole being had been deprived of vitality by asudden exhaustion around me of the ethereal element of life. Ibelieve I did not alter my bearing, but remained with my head bent, for I had been thinking hard just before, till we were on the pointof meeting, when I lifted my hat to Miss Oldcastle without drawingbridle, and went on. The Captain returned my salutation, andlikewise rode on. I could just see, as they passed me, that MissOldcastle's pale face was flushed even to scarlet, but she onlybowed and kept alongside of her companion. I thought I had escapedconversation, and had gone about twenty yards farther, when I heardthe clatter of Judy's pony behind me, and up she came at fullgallop. 

"Why didn't you stop to speak to us, Mr Walton?" she said. "I pulledup, but you never looked at me. We shall be cross all the rest ofthe day, because you cut us so. What have we done?"

"Nothing, Judy, that I know of, " I answered, trying to speakcheerfully. "But I do not know your companion, and I was not in thehumour for an introduction. "

She looked hard at me with her keen gray eyes; and I felt as if thechild was seeing through me. 

"I don't know what to make of it, Mr Walton. You're very differentsomehow from what you used to be. There's something wrong somewhere. But I suppose you would all tell me it's none of my business. So Iwon't ask questions. Only I wish I could do anything for you. "

I felt the child's kindness, but could only say--

"Thank you, Judy. I am sure I should ask you if there were anythingyou could do for me. But you'll be left behind. "

"No fear of that. My Dobbin can go much faster than their bighorses. But I see you don't want me, so good-bye. "

She turned her pony's head as she spoke, jumped the ditch at theside of the road, and flew after them along the grass like aswallow. I likewise roused my horse and went off at a hard trot, with the vain impulse so to shake off the tormenting thoughts thatcrowded on me like gadflies. But this day was to be one of moretrial still. 

As I turned a corner, almost into the street of the village, TomWeir was at my side. He had evidently been watching for me. His facewas so pale, that I saw in a moment something had happened. 

"What is the matter, Tom?" I asked, in some alarm. 

He did not reply for a moment, but kept unconsciously stroking myhorse's neck, and staring at me "with wide blue eyes. "

"Come, Tom, " I repeated, "tell me what is the matter. "

I could see his bare throat knot and relax, like the motion of aserpent, before he could utter the words. 

"Kate has killed her little boy, sir. "

He followed them with a stifled cry--almost a scream, and hid hisface in his hands. 

"God forbid!" I exclaimed, and struck my heels in my horse's sides, nearly overturning poor Tom in my haste. 

"She's mad, sir; she's mad, " he cried, as I rode off. 

"Come after me, " I said, "and take the mare home. I shan't be ableto leave your sister. "

Had I had a share, by my harsh words, in driving the woman beyondthe bounds of human reason and endurance? The thought was dreadful. But I must not let my mind rest on it now, lest I should be unfittedfor what might have to be done. Before I reached the door, I saw alittle crowd of the villagers, mostly women and children, gatheredabout it. I got off my horse, and gave him to a woman to hold tillTom should come up. With a little difficulty, I prevailed on therest to go home at once, and not add to the confusions and terrorsof the unhappy affair by the excitement of their presence. As soonas they had yielded to my arguments, I entered the shop, which to myannoyance I found full of the neighbours. These likewise I got ridof as soon as possible, and locking the door behind them, went up tothe room above. 

To my surprise, I found no one there. On the hearth and in thefender lay two little pools of blood. All in the house was utterlystill. It was very dreadful. I went to the only other door. It wasnot bolted as I had expected to find it. I opened it, peeped in, andentered. On the bed lay the mother, white as death, but with herblack eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling: and on her arm laylittle Gerard, as white, except where the blood had flowed from thebandage that could not confine it, down his sweet deathlike face. His eyes were fast closed, and he had no sign of life about him. Ishut the door behind me, and approached the bed. When Catherinecaught sight of me, she showed no surprise or emotion of any kind. Her lips, with automaton-like movement, uttered the words--

"I have done it at last. I am ready. Take me away. I shall behanged. I don't care. I confess it. Only don't let the people stareat me. "

Her lips went on moving, but I could hear no more till suddenly shebroke out--

"Oh! my baby! my baby!" and gave a cry of such agony as I hope neverto hear again while I live. 

At this moment I heard a loud knocking at the shop-door, which wasthe only entrance to the house, and remembering that I had lockedit, I went down to see who was there. I found Thomas Weir, thefather, accompanied by Dr Duncan, whom, as it happened, he had hadsome difficulty in finding. Thomas had sped to his daughter themoment he heard the rumour of what had happened, and his fiercenessin clearing the shop had at least prevented the neighbours, even inhis absence, from intruding further. 

We went up together to Catherine's room. Thomas said nothing to meabout what had happened, and I found it difficult even to conjecturefrom his countenance what thoughts were passing through his mind. 

Catherine looked from one to another of us, as if she did not knowthe one from the other. She made no motion to rise from her bed, nordid she utter a word, although her lips would now and then move asif moulding a sentence. When Dr Duncan, after looking at the child, proceeded to take him from her, she gave him one imploring look, andyielded with a moan; then began to stare hopelessly at the ceilingagain. The doctor carried the child into the next room, and thegrandfather followed. 

"You see what you have driven me to!" cried Catherine, the moment Iwas left alone with her. "I hope you are satisfied. "

The words went to my very soul. But when I looked at her, her eyeswere wandering about over the ceiling, and I had and still havedifficulty in believing that she spoke the words, and that they werenot an illusion of my sense, occasioned by the commotion of my ownfeelings. I thought it better, however, to leave her, and join theothers in the sitting-room. The first thing I saw there was Thomason his knees, with a basin of water, washing away the blood of hisgrandson from his daughter's floor. The very sight of the child hadhitherto been nauseous to him, and his daughter had been beyond thereach of his forgiveness. Here was the end of it--the blood of theone shed by the hand of the other, and the father of both, who haddisdained both, on his knees, wiping it up. Dr Duncan was giving thechild brandy; for he had found that he had been sick, and that theloss of blood was the chief cause of his condition. The blood flowedfrom a wound on the head, extending backwards from the temple, whichhad evidently been occasioned by a fall upon the fender, where theblood lay both inside and out; and the doctor took the sickness as asign that the brain had not been seriously injured by the blow. In afew minutes he said--

"I think he'll come round. "

"Will it be safe to tell his mother so?" I asked. 

"Yes: I think you may. "

I hastened to her room. 

"Your little darling is not dead, Catherine. He is coming to. "

She THREW herself off the bed at my feet, caught them round with herarms, and cried--

"I will forgive him. I will do anything you like. I forgive GeorgeEverard. I will go and ask my father to forgive me. "

I lifted her in my arms--how light she was!--and laid her again onthe bed, where she burst into tears, and lay sobbing and weeping. Iwent to the other room. Little Gerard opened his eyes and closedthem again, as I entered. The doctor had laid him in his own crib. He said his pulse was improving. I beckoned to Thomas. He followedme. 

"She wants to ask you to forgive her, " I said. "Do not, in God'sname, wait till she asks you, but go and tell her that you forgiveher. "

"I dare not say I forgive her, " he answered. "I have more need toask her to forgive me. "

I took him by the hand, and led him into her room. She feebly liftedher arms towards him. Not a word was said on either side. I leftthem in each other's embrace. The hard rocks had been struck withthe rod, and the waters of life had flowed forth from each, and hadmet between. 

I have more than once known this in the course of my experience--theice and snow of a long estrangement suddenly give way, and theboiling geyser-floods of old affection rush from the hot deeps ofthe heart. I think myself that the very lastingness and strength ofanimosity have their origin sometimes in the reality of affection:the love lasts all the while, freshly indignant at every new loadheaped upon it; till, at last, a word, a look, a sorrow, a gladness, sets it free; and, forgetting all its claims, it rushes irresistiblytowards its ends. Thus was it with Thomas and Catherine Weir. 

When I rejoined Dr Duncan, I found little Gerard asleep, andbreathing quietly. 

"What do you know of this sad business, Mr Walton?" said the doctor. 

"I should like to ask the same question of you, " I returned. "YoungTom told me that his sister had murdered the child. That is all Iknow. "

"His father told me the same; and that is all I know. Do you believeit?"

"At least we have no evidence about it. It is tolerably certainneither of those two could have been present. They must havereceived it by report. We must wait till she is able to explain thething herself. "

"Meantime, " said Dr Duncan, "all I believe is, that she struck thechild, and that he fell upon the fender. "

I may as well inform my reader that, as far as Catherine could givean account of the transaction, this conjecture was corroborated. Butthe smallest reminder of it evidently filled her with such a horrorof self-loathing, that I took care to avoid the subject entirely, after the attempt at explanation which she made at my request. Shecould not remember with any clearness what had happened. All sheremembered was that she had been more miserable than ever in herlife before; that the child had come to her, as he seldom did, withsome childish request or other; that she felt herself seized withintense hatred of him; and the next thing she knew was that hisblood was running in a long red finger towards her. Then it seemedas if that blood had been drawn from her own over-charged heart andbrain; she knew what she had done, though she did not know how shehad done it; and the tide of her ebbed affection flowed like thereturning waters of the Solway. But beyond her restored love, sheremembered nothing more that happened till she lay weeping with thehope that the child would yet live. Probably more particularsreturned afterwards, but I took care to ask no more questions. Inthe increase of illness that followed, I more than once saw hershudder while she slept, and thought she was dreaming what herwaking memory had forgotten; and once she started awake, crying, "Ihave murdered him again. "

To return to that first evening:--When Thomas came from hisdaughter's room, he looked like a man from whom the bitterness ofevil had passed away. To human eyes, at least, it seemed as if selfhad been utterly slain in him. His face had that child-likeexpression in its paleness, and the tearfulness without tearshaunting his eyes, which reminds one of the feeling of an evening insummer between which and the sultry day preceding it has fallen thegauzy veil of a cooling shower, with a rainbow in the east. 

"She is asleep, " he said. 

"How is it your daughter Mary is not here?" I asked. 

"She was taken with a fit the moment she heard the bad news, sir. Ileft her with nobody but father. I think I must go and look afterher now. It's not the first she's had neither, though I never toldany one before. You won't mention it, sir. It makes people look shyat you, you know, sir. "

"Indeed, I won't mention it. --Then she mustn't sit up, and twonurses will be wanted here. You and I must take it to-night, Thomas. You'll attend to your daughter, if she wants anything, and I knowthis little darling won't be frightened if he comes to himself, andsees me beside him. "

"God bless you, sir, " said Thomas, fervently. 

And from that hour to this there has never been a coolness betweenus. 

"A very good arrangement, " said Dr Duncan; "only I feel as if Iought to have a share in it. "

"No, no, " I said. "We do not know who may want you. Besides, we areboth younger than you. "

"I will come over early in the morning then, and see how you aregoing on. "

As soon as Thomas returned with good news of Mary's recovery, I lefthim, and went home to tell my sister, and arrange for the night. Wecarried back with us what things we could think of to make the twopatients as comfortable as possible; for, as regarded Catherine, nowthat she would let her fellows help her, I was even anxious that sheshould feel something of that love about her which she had so longdriven from her door. I felt towards her somewhat as towards anew-born child, for whom this life of mingled weft must be made assoft as its material will admit of; or rather, as if she had been myown sister, as indeed she was, returned from wandering in weary andmiry ways, to taste once more the tenderness of home. I wanted herto read the love of God in the love that even I could show her. And, besides, I must confess that, although the result had been, in God'sgreat grace, so good, my heart still smote me for the severity withwhich I had spoken the truth to her; and it was a relief to myselfto endeavour to make some amends for having so spoken to her. But Ihad no intention of going near her that night, for I thought theless she saw of me the better, till she should be a little stronger, and have had time, with the help of her renewed feelings, to getover the painful associations so long accompanying the thought ofme. So I took my place beside Gerard, and watched through the night. The little fellow repeatedly cried out in that terror which is sooften the consequence of the loss of blood; but when I laid my handon him, he smiled without waking, and lay quite still again for awhile. Once or twice he woke up, and looked so bewildered that Ifeared delirium; but a little jelly composed him, and he fell fastasleep again. He did not seem even to have headache from the blow. 

But when I was left alone with the child, seated in a chair by thefire, my only light, how my thoughts rushed upon the facts bearingon my own history which this day had brought before me! Horror itwas to think of Miss Oldcastle even as only riding with the seducerof Catherine Weir. There was torture in the thought of his touchingher hand; and to think that before the summer came once more, hemight be her husband! I will not dwell on the sufferings of thatnight more than is needful; for even now, in my old age, I cannotrecall without renewing them. But I must indicate one train ofthought which kept passing through my mind with constantrecurrence:--Was it fair to let her marry such a man in ignorance?Would she marry him if she knew what I knew of him? Could I speakagainst my rival?--blacken him even with the truth--the onlydefilement that can really cling? Could I for my own dignity do so?And was she therefore to be sacrificed in ignorance? Might not someone else do it instead of me? But if I set it agoing, was it notprecisely the same thing as if I did it myself, only more cowardly?There was but one way of doing it, and that was--with the full andsolemn consciousness that it was and must be a barrier between usfor ever. If I could give her up fully and altogether, then I mighttell her the truth which was to preserve her from marrying such aman as my rival. And I must do so, sooner than that she, my verydream of purity and gentle truth, should wed defilement. But howbitter to cast away my CHANCE! as I said, in the gathering despairof that black night. And although every time I said it--for the samewords would come over and over as in a delirious dream--I repeatedyet again to myself that wonderful line of Spenser, --

"It chanced--eternal God that chance did guide, "

yet the words never grew into spirit in me; they remained "words, words, words, " and meant nothing to my feeling--hardly even to myjudgment meant anything at all. Then came another bitter thought, the bitterness of which was wicked: it flashed upon me that my ownearnestness with Catherine Weir, in urging her to the duty offorgiveness, would bear a main part in wrapping up in secrecy thatevil thing which ought not to be hid. For had she not vowed--withthe same facts before her which now threatened to crush my heartinto a lump of clay--to denounce the man at the very altar? Had notthe revenge which I had ignorantly combated been my best ally? Andfor one brief, black, wicked moment I repented that I had acted as Ihad acted. The next I was on my knees by the side of the sleepingchild, and had repented back again in shame and sorrow. Then camethe consolation that if I suffered hereby, I suffered from doing myduty. And that was well. 

Scarcely had I seated myself again by the fire when the door of theroom opened softly, and Thomas appeared. 

"Kate is very strange, sir, " he said, "and wants to see you. "

I rose at once. 

"Perhaps, then, you had better stay with Gerard. "

"I will, sir; for I think she wants to speak to you alone. "

I entered her chamber. A candle stood on a chest of drawers, and itslight fell on her face, once more flushed in those two spots withthe glow of the unseen fire of disease. Her eyes, too, glitteredagain, but the fierceness was gone, and only the suffering remained. I drew a chair beside her, and took her hand. She yielded itwillingly, even returned the pressure of kindness which I offered tothe thin trembling fingers. 

"You are too good, sir, " she said. "I want to tell you all. Hepromised to marry me, I believed him. But I did very wrong. And Ihave been a bad mother, for I could not keep from seeing his face inGerard's. Gerard was the name he told me to call him when I had towrite to him, and so I named the little darling Gerard. How is he, sir?"

"Doing nicely, " I replied. "I do not think you need be at all uneasyabout him now. "

"Thank God. I forgive his father now with all my heart. I feel iteasier since I saw how wicked I could be myself. And I feel iteasier, too, that I have not long to live. I forgive him with all myheart, and I will take no revenge. I will not tell one who he is. Ihave never told any one yet. But I will tell you. His name is GeorgeEverard--Captain Everard. I came to know him when I was apprenticedat Addicehead. I would not tell you, sir, if I did not know that youwill not tell any one. I know you so well that I will not ask younot. I saw him yesterday, and it drove me wild. But it is all overnow. My heart feels so cool now. Do you think God will forgive me?"

Without one word of my own, I took out my pocket Testament and readthese words:--

"For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father willalso forgive you. "

Then I read to her, from the seventh chapter of St Luke's Gospel, the story of the woman who was a sinner and came to Jesus in Simon'shouse, that she might see how the Lord himself thought and feltabout such. When I had finished, I found that she was gentlyweeping, and so I left her, and resumed my place beside the boy. Itold Thomas that he had better not go near her just yet. So we satin silence together for a while, during which I felt so weary andbenumbed, that I neither cared to resume my former train of thought, nor to enter upon the new one suggested by the confession ofCatherine. I believe I must have fallen asleep in my chair, for Isuddenly returned to consciousness at a cry from Gerard. I startedup, and there was the child fast asleep, but standing on his feet inhis crib, pushing with his hands from before him, as if resistingsome one, and crying--

"Don't. Don't. Go away, man. Mammy! Mr Walton!"

I took him in my arms, and kissed him, and laid him down again; andhe lay as still as if he had never moved. At the same moment, Thomascame again into the room. 

"I am sorry to be so troublesome, sir, " he said; "but my poordaughter says there is one thing more she wanted to say to you. "

I returned at once. As soon as I entered the room, she saideagerly:--

"I forgive him--I forgive him with all my heart; but don't let himtake Gerard. "

I assured her I would do my best to prevent any such attempt on hispart, and making her promise to try to go to sleep, left her oncemore. Nor was either of the patients disturbed again during thenight. Both slept, as it appeared, refreshingly. 

In the morning, that is, before eight o'clock, the old doctor madehis welcome appearance, and pronounced both quite as well as he hadexpected to find them. In another hour, he had sent young Tom totake my place, and my sister to take his father's. I was determinedthat none of the gossips of the village should go near the invalidif I could help it; for, though such might be kind-hearted andestimable women, their place was not by such a couch as that ofCatherine Weir. I enjoined my sister to be very gentle in herapproaches to her, to be careful even not to seem anxious to serveher, and so to allow her to get gradually accustomed to herpresence, not showing herself for the first day more than she couldhelp, and yet taking good care she should have everything shewanted. Martha seemed to understand me perfectly; and I left her incharge with the more confidence that I knew Dr Duncan would callseveral times in the course of the day. As for Tom, I had equalassurance that he would attend to orders; and as Gerard was veryfond of him, I dismissed all anxiety about both, and allowed my mindto return with fresh avidity to the contemplation of its own cares, and fears, and perplexities. 

It was of no use trying to go to sleep, so I set out for a walk. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE MAN AND THE CHILD. 

It was a fine frosty morning, the invigorating influences of which, acting along with the excitement following immediately upon asleepless night, overcame in a great measure the depressionoccasioned by the contemplation of my circumstances. Disinclinednotwithstanding for any more pleasant prospect, I sought the ruggedcommon where I had so lately met Catherine Weir in the storm anddarkness, and where I had stood without knowing it upon the veryverge of the precipice down which my fate was now threatening tohurl me. I reached the same chasm in which I had sought a breathingspace on that night, and turning into it, sat down upon a block ofsand which the frost had detached from the wall above. And now thetumult began again in my mind, revolving around the vortex of a newcentre of difficulty. 

For, first of all, I found my mind relieved by the fact that, havingurged Catherine to a line of conduct which had resulted inconfession, --a confession which, leaving all other considerations ofmy office out of view, had the greater claim upon my secrecy that itwas made in confidence in my uncovenanted honour, --I was not, couldnot be at liberty to disclose the secret she confided to me, which, disclosed by herself, would have been the revenge from which I hadwarned her, and at the same time my deliverance. I was relieved Isay at first, by this view of the matter, because I might thus keepmy own chance of some favourable turn; whereas, if I once told MissOldcastle, I must give her up for ever, as I had plainly seen in thewatch of the preceding night. But my love did not long remainskulking thus behind the hedge of honour. Suddenly I woke and sawthat I was unworthy of the honour of loving her, for that I was gladto be compelled to risk her well-being for the chance of my ownhappiness; a risk which involved infinitely more wretchedness to herthan the loss of my dearest hopes to me; for it is one thing for aman not to marry the woman he loves, and quite another for a womanto marry a man she cannot ever respect. Had I not been withheldpartly by my obligation to Catherine, partly by the feeling that Iought to wait and see what God would do, I should have risen thatmoment and gone straight to Oldcastle Hall, that I might plunge atonce into the ocean of my loss, and encounter, with the full senseof honourable degradation, every misconstruction that might justlybe devised of my conduct. For that I had given her up first couldnever be known even to her in this world. I could only save her byencountering and enduring and cherishing her scorn. At least so itseemed to me at the time; and, although I am certain the otherhigher motives had much to do in holding me back, I am equallycertain that this awful vision of the irrevocable fate to followupon the deed, had great influence, as well, in inclining me tosuspend action. 

I was still sitting in the hollow, when I heard the sound of horses'hoofs in the distance, and felt a foreboding of what would appear. Iwas only a few yards from the road upon which the sand-cleft opened, and could see a space of it sufficient to show the persons even ofrapid riders. The sounds drew nearer. I could distinguish the stepof a pony and the steps of two horses besides. Up they came andswept past--Miss Oldcastle upon Judy's pony, and Mr Stoddart uponher horse; with the captain upon his own. How grateful I felt to MrStoddart! And the hope arose in me that he had accompanied them atMiss Oldcastle's request. 

I had had no fear of being seen, sitting as I was on the side fromwhich they came. One of the three, however, caught a glimpse of me, and even in the moment ere she vanished I fancied I saw thelily-white grow rosy-red. But it must have been fancy, for she couldhardly have been quite pale upon horseback on such a keen morning. 

I could not sit any longer. As soon as I ceased to hear the sound oftheir progress, I rose and walked home--much quieter in heart andmind than when I set out. 

As I entered by the nearer gate of the vicarage, I saw Old Rogersenter by the farther. He did not see me, but we met at the door. Igreeted him. 

"I'm in luck, " he said, "to meet yer reverence just coming home. How's poor Miss Weir to-day, sir?"

"She was rather better, when I left her this morning, than she hadbeen through the night. I have not heard since. I left my sisterwith her. I greatly doubt if she will ever get up again. That'sbetween ourselves, you know. Come in. "

"Thank you, sir. I wanted to have a little talk with you. --You don'tbelieve what they say--that she tried to kill the poor littlefellow?" he asked, as soon as the study door was closed behind us. 

"If she did, she was out of her mind for the moment. But I don'tbelieve it. "

And thereupon I told him what both his master and I thought aboutit. But I did not tell him what she had said confirmatory of ourconclusions. 

"That's just what I came to myself, sir, turning the thing over inmy old head. But there's dreadful things done in the world, sir. There's my daughter been a-telling of me--"

I was instantly breathless attention. What he chose to tell me Ifelt at liberty to hear, though I would not have listened to Janeherself. --I must here mention that she and Richard were not yetmarried, old Mr Brownrigg not having yet consented to any day hisson wished to fix; and that she was, therefore, still in her placeof attendance upon Miss Oldcastle. 

"--There's been my daughter a-telling of me, " said Rogers, "that theold lady up at the Hall there is tormenting the life out of thatdaughter of hers--she don't look much like hers, do she, sir?--wanting to make her marry a man of her choosing. I saw him gopast o' horseback with her yesterday, and I didn't more than halflike the looks on him. He's too like a fair-spoken captain I sailedwith once, what was the hardest man I ever sailed with. His own waywas everything, even after he saw it wouldn't do. Now, don't youthink, sir, somebody or other ought to interfere? It's as bad asmurder that, and anybody has a right to do summat to perwent it. "

"I don't know what can be done, Rogers. I CAN'T interfere. "

The old man was silent. Evidently he thought I might interfere if Ipleased. I could see what he was thinking. Possibly his daughter hadtold him something more than he chose to communicate to me. I couldnot help suspecting the mode in which he judged I might interfere. But I could see no likelihood before me but that of confusion andprecipitation. In a word, I had not a plain path to follow. 

"Old Rogers, " I said, "I can almost guess what you mean. But I am inmore difficulty with regard to what you suggest than I can easilyexplain to you. I need not tell you, however, that I will turn thewhole matter over in my mind. "

"The prey ought to be taken from the lion somehow, if it pleaseGod, " returned the old man solemnly. "The poor young lady keeps upas well as she can before her mother; but Jane do say there's apower o' crying done in her own room. "

Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden resolve to dosomething, if anything could be done, I said:--

"I will call on Mr Stoddart this evening. I may hear something fromhim to suggest a mode of action. "

"I don't think you'll get anything worth while from Mr Stoddart. Hetakes things a deal too easy like. He'll be this man's man and thatman's man both at oncet. I beg your pardon, sir. But HE won't helpus. "

"That's all I can think of at present, though, " I said; whereuponthe man-of-war's man, with true breeding, rose at once, and took akindly leave. 

I was in the storm again. She suffering, resisting, and I standingaloof! But what could I do? She had repelled me--she would repel me. Were I to dare to speak, and so be refused, the separation would befinal. She had said that the day might come when she would ask helpfrom me: she had made no movement towards the request. I wouldgladly die to serve her--yea, more gladly far than live, if thatservice was to separate us. But what to do I could not see. Still, just to do something, even if a useless something, I would go andsee Mr Stoddart that evening. I was sure to find him alone, for henever dined with the family, and I might possibly catch a glimpse ofMiss Oldcastle. 

I found little Gerard so much better, though very weak, and hismother so quiet, notwithstanding great feverishness, that I mightsafely leave them to the care of Mary, who had quite recovered fromher attack, and her brother Tom. So there was something off my mindfor the present. 

The heavens were glorious with stars, --Arcturus and his host, thePleiades, Orion, and all those worlds that shine out when ours isdark; but I did not care for them. Let them shine: they could notshine into me. I tried with feeble effort to lift my eyes to Him whois above the stars, and yet holds the sea, yea, the sea of humanthought and trouble, in the hollow of His hand. How much sustaining, although no conscious comforting, I got from that region

"Where all men's prayers to Thee raised Return possessed of whatthey pray Thee, "

I cannot tell. It was not a time favourable to the analysis offeeling--still less of religious feeling. But somehow things didseem a little more endurable before I reached the house. 

I was passing across the hall, following the "white wolf" to MrStoddart's room, when the drawing-room door opened, and MissOldcastle came half out, but seeing me drew back instantly. A momentafter, however, I heard the sound of her dress following us. Lightas was her step, every footfall seemed to be upon my heart. I didnot dare to look round, for dread of seeing her turn away from me. Ifelt like one under a spell, or in an endless dream; but gladlywould I have walked on for ever in hope, with that silken vortex ofsound following me. Soon, however, it ceased. She had turned asidein some other direction, and I passed on to Mr Stoddart's room. 

He received me kindly, as he always did; but his smile flickereduneasily. He seemed in some trouble, and yet pleased to see me. 

"I am glad you have taken to horseback, " I said. "It gives me hopethat you will be my companion sometimes when I make a round of myparish. I should like you to see some of our people. You would findmore in them to interest you than perhaps you would expect. "

I thus tried to seem at ease, as I was far from feeling. 

"I am not so fond of riding as I used to be, " returned Mr Stoddart. 

"Did you like the Arab horses in India?"

"Yes, after I got used to their careless ways. That horse you musthave seen me on the other day, is very nearly a pure Arab. Hebelongs to Captain Everard, and carries Miss Oldcastle beautifully. I was quite sorry to take him from her, but it was her own doing. She would have me go with her. I think I have lost much firmnesssince I was ill. "

"If the loss of firmness means the increase of kindness, I do notthink you will have to lament it, " I answered. "Does Captain Everardmake a long stay?"

"He stays from day to day. I wish he would go. I don't know what todo. Mrs Oldcastle and he form one party in the house; Miss Oldcastleand Judy another; and each is trying to gain me over. I don't wantto belong to either. If they would only let me alone!"

"What do they want of you, Mr Stoddart?"

"Mrs Oldcastle wants me to use my influence with Ethelwyn, topersuade her to behave differently to Captain Everard. The old ladyhas set her heart on their marriage, and Ethelwyn, though she daresnot break with him, she is so much afraid of her mother, yet keepshim somehow at arm's length. Then Judy is always begging me to standup for her aunt. But what's the use of my standing up for her if shewon't stand up for herself; she never says a word to me about itherself. It's all Judy's doing. How am I to know what she wants?"

"I thought you said just now she asked you to ride with her?"

"So she did, but nothing more. She did not even press it, only thetears came in her eyes when I refused, and I could not bear that; soI went against my will. I don't want to make enemies. I am sure Idon't see why she should stand out. He's a very good match in pointof property and family too. "

"Perhaps she does not like him?" I forced myself to say. 

"Oh! I suppose not, or she would not be so troublesome. But shecould arrange all that if she were inclined to be agreeable to herfriends. After all I have done for her! Well, one must not look tobe repaid for anything one does for others. I used to be very fondof her: I am getting quite tired of her miserable looks. "

And what had this man done for her, then? He had, for his ownamusement, taught her Hindostanee; he had given her some insightinto the principles of mechanics, and he had roused in her sometaste for the writings of the Mystics. But for all that regarded thedignity of her humanity and her womanhood, if she had had noteaching but what he gave her, her mind would have been merely "anunweeded garden that grows to seed. " And now he complained that inreturn for his pains she would not submit to the degradation ofmarrying a man she did not love, in order to leave him in theenjoyment of his own lazy and cowardly peace. Really he was a worseman than I had thought him. Clearly he would not help to keep her inthe right path, not even interfere to prevent her from being pushedinto the wrong one. But perhaps he was only expressing his owndiscomfort, not giving his real judgment, and I might be censuringhim too hardly. 

"What will be the result, do you suppose?" I asked. 

"I can't tell. Sooner or later she will have to give in to hermother. Everybody does. She might as well yield with a good grace. "

"She must do what she thinks right, " I said. "And you, Mr Stoddart, ought to help her to do what is right. You surely would not urge herto marry a man she did not love. "

"Well, no; not exactly urge her. And yet society does not object toit. It is an acknowledged arrangement, common enough. "

"Society is scarcely an interpreter of the divine will. Society willhonour vile things enough, so long as the doer has money sufficientto clothe them in a grace not their own. There is a God's-way ofdoing everything in the world, up to marrying, or down to paying abill. "

"Yes, yes, I know what you would say; and I suppose you are right. Iwill not urge any opinion of mine. Besides, we shall have a littlerespite soon, for he must join his regiment in a day or two. "

It was some relief to hear this. But I could not with equanimityprosecute a conversation having Miss Oldcastle for the subject ofit, and presently took my leave. 

As I walked through one of the long passages, but dimly lighted, leading from Mr Stoddart's apartment to the great staircase, Istarted at a light touch on my arm. It was from Judy's hand. 

"Dear Mr Walton----" she said, and stopped. 

For at the same moment appeared at the farther end of the passagetowards which I had been advancing, a figure of which little morethan a white face was visible; and the voice of Sarah, through whosesoftness always ran a harsh thread that made it unmistakable, said, "Miss Judy, your grandmamma wants you. "

Judy took her hand from my arm, and with an almost martial stridethe little creature walked up to the speaker, and stood before herdefiantly. I could see them quite well in the fuller light at theend of the passage, where there stood a lamp. I followed slowly thatI might not interrupt the child's behaviour, which moved mestrangely in contrast with the pusillanimity I had so latelywitnessed in Mr Stoddart. 

"Sarah, " she said, "you know you are telling a lie Grannie does NOTwant me. You have NOT been in the dining-room since I left it onemoment ago. Do you think, you BAD woman, _I_ am going to be afraidof you? I know you better than you think. Go away directly, or Iwill make you. "

She stamped her little foot, and the "white wolf" turned and walkedaway without a word. 

If the mothers among my readers are shocked at the want of decorumin my friend Judy, I would just say, that valuable as propriety ofdemeanour is, truth of conduct is infinitely more precious. Gladshould I be to think that the even tenor of my children's goodmanners could never be interrupted, except by such righteousindignation as carried Judy beyond the strict bounds of goodbreeding. Nor could I find it in my heart to rebuke her wherein shehad been wrong. In the face of her courage and uprightness, thefault was so insignificant that it would have been giving it analtogether undue importance to allude to it at all, and might weakenher confidence in my sympathy with her rectitude. When I joined hershe put her hand in mine, and so walked with me down the stair andout at the front door. 

"You will take cold, Judy, going out like that, " I said. 

"I am in too great a passion to take cold, " she answered. "But Ihave no time to talk about that creeping creature. --Auntie DOESN'Tlike Captain Everard; and grannie keeps insisting on it that sheshall have him whether she likes him or not. Now do tell me what youthink. "

"I do not quite understand you, my child. "

"I know auntie would like to know what you think. But I know shewill never ask you herself. So _I_ am asking you whether a ladyought to marry a gentleman she does not like, to please her mother. "

"Certainly not, Judy. It is often wicked, and at best a mistake. "

"Thank you, Mr Walton. I will tell her. She will be glad to hearthat you say so, I know. "

"Mind you tell her you asked me, Judy. I should not like her tothink I had been interfering, you know. "

"Yes, yes; I know quite well. I will take care. Thank you. He'sgoing to-morrow. Good night. "

She bounded into the house again, and I walked away down the avenue. I saw and felt the stars now, for hope had come again in my heart, and I thanked the God of hope. "Our minds are small because they arefaithless, " I said to myself. "If we had faith in God, as our Lordtells us, our hearts would share in His greatness and peace. For weshould not then be shut up in ourselves, but would walk abroad inHim. " And with a light step and a light heart I went home. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

OLD MRS TOMKINS. 

Very severe weather came, and much sickness followed, chieflyamongst the poorer people, who can so ill keep out the cold. Yetsome of my well-to-do parishioners were laid up likewise--amongstothers Mr Boulderstone, who had an attack of pleurisy. I had grownquite attached to Mr Boulderstone by this time, not because he waswhat is called interesting, for he was not; not because he wasclever, for he was not; not because he was well-read, for he wasnot; not because he was possessed of influence in the parish, thoughhe had that influence; but simply because he was true; he was whathe appeared, felt what he professed, did what he said; appearingkind, and feeling and acting kindly. Such a man is rare andprecious, were he as stupid as the Welsh giant in "Jack theGiant-Killer. " I could never see Mr Boulderstone a mile off, but myheart felt the warmer for the sight. 

Even in his great pain he seemed to forget himself as he receivedme, and to gain comfort from my mere presence. I could not helpregarding him as a child of heaven, to be treated with the morereverence that he had the less aid to his goodness from his slowunderstanding. It seemed to me that the angels might gather withreverence around such a man, to watch the gradual and tardyawakening of the intellect in one in whom the heart and theconscience had been awake from the first. The latter safe, they atleast would see well that there was no fear for the former. Intelligence is a consequence of love; nor is there any trueintelligence without it. 

But I could not help feeling keenly the contrast when I went fromhis warm, comfortable, well-defended chamber, in which everyappliance that could alleviate suffering or aid recovery was athand, like a castle well appointed with arms and engines against theinroads of winter and his yet colder ally Death, --when, I say, Iwent from his chamber to the cottage of the Tomkinses, and found it, as it were, lying open and bare to the enemy. What holes and cracksthere were about the door, through which the fierce wind rushed atonce into the room to attack the aged feet and hands and throats!There were no defences of threefold draperies, and no soft carpet onthe brick floor, --only a small rug which my sister had carried themlaid down before a weak-eyed little fire, that seemed to despair ofmaking anything of it against the huge cold that beleaguered andinvaded the place. True, we had had the little cottage patched up. The two Thomas Weirs had been at work upon it for a whole day and ahalf in the first of the cold weather this winter; but it was likeputting the new cloth on the old garment, for fresh places hadbroken out, and although Mrs Tomkins had fought the cold well withwhat rags she could spare, and an old knife, yet such razor-edgedwinds are hard to keep out, and here she was now, lying in bed, andbreathing hard, like the sore-pressed garrison which had retreatedto its last defence, the keep of the castle. Poor old Tomkins satshivering over the little fire. 

"Come, come, Tomkins! this won't do, " I said, as I caught up abroken shovel that would have let a lump as big as one's fistthrough a hole in the middle of it. "Why don't you burn your coalsin weather like this? Where do you keep them?"

It made my heart ache to see the little heap in a box hardly biggerthan the chest of tea my sister brought from London with her. Ithrew half of it on the fire at once. 

"Deary me, Mr Walton! you ARE wasteful, sir. The Lord never sent Hisgood coals to be used that way. "

"He did though, Tomkins, " I answered. "And He'll send you a littlemore this evening, after I get home. Keep yourself warm, man. Thisworld's cold in winter, you know. "

"Indeed, sir, I know that. And I'm like to know it worse afore long. She's going, " he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumbtowards the bed where his wife lay. 

I went to her. I had seen her several times within the last fewweeks, but had observed nothing to make me consider her seriouslyill. I now saw at a glance that Tomkins was right. She had not longto live. 

"I am sorry to see you suffering so much, Mrs Tomkins, " I said. 

"I don't suffer so wery much, sir; though to be sure it be hard toget the breath into my body, sir. And I do feel cold-like, sir. "

"I'm going home directly, and I'll send you down another blanket. It's much colder to-day than it was yesterday. "

"It's not weather-cold, sir, wi' me. It's grave-cold, sir. Blanketswon't do me no good, sir. I can't get it out of my head howperishing cold I shall be when I'm under the mould, sir; though Ioughtn't to mind it when it's the will o' God. It's only till theresurrection, sir. "

"But it's not the will of God, Mrs Tomkins. "

"Ain't it, sir? Sure I thought it was. "

"You believe in Jesus Christ, don't you, Mrs Tomkins?"

"That I do, sir, with all my heart and soul. "

"Well, He says that whosoever liveth and believeth in Him shallnever die. "

"But, you know, sir, everybody dies. I MUST die, and be laid in thechurchyard, sir. And that's what I don't like. "

"But I say that is all a mistake. YOU won't die. Your body will die, and be laid away out of sight; but you will be awake, alive, morealive than you are now, a great deal. "

And here let me interrupt the conversation to remark upon the greatmistake of teaching children that they have souls. The consequenceis, that they think of their souls as of something which is notthemselves. For what a man HAS cannot be himself. Hence, when theyare told that their souls go to heaven, they think of their SELVESas lying in the grave. They ought to be taught that they havebodies; and that their bodies die; while they themselves live on. Then they will not think, as old Mrs Tomkins did, that THEY will belaid in the grave. It is making altogether too much of the body, andis indicative of an evil tendency to materialism, that we talk as ifwe POSSESSED souls, instead of BEING souls. We should teach ourchildren to think no more of their bodies when dead than they do oftheir hair when it is cut off, or of their old clothes when theyhave done with them. 

"Do you really think so, sir?"

"Indeed I do. I don't know anything about where you will be. But youwill be with God--in your Father's house, you know. And that isenough, is it not?"

"Yes, surely, sir. But I wish you was to be there by the bedside ofme when I was a-dyin'. I can't help bein' summat skeered at it. Itdon't come nat'ral to me, like. I ha' got used to this old bed here, cold as it has been--many's the night--wi' my good man there by theside of me. "

"Send for me, Mrs Tomkins, any moment, day or night, and I'll bewith you directly. "

"I think, sir, if I had a hold ov you i' the one hand, and my manthere, the Lord bless him, i' the other, I could go comfortable. "

"I'll come the minute you send for me--just to keep you in mind thata better friend than I am is holding you all the time, though youmayn't feel His hands. If it is some comfort to have hold of a humanfriend, think that a friend who is more than man, a divine friend, has a hold of you, who knows all your fears and pains, and sees hownatural they are, and can just with a word, or a touch, or a lookinto your soul, keep them from going one hair's-breadth too far. Heloves us up to all out need, just because we need it, and He is alllove to give. "

"But I can't help thinking, sir, that I wouldn't be troublesome. Hehas such a deal to look after! And I don't see how He can think ofeverybody, at every minute, like. I don't mean that He will letanything go wrong. But He might forget an old body like me for aminute, like. "

"You would need to be as wise as He is before you could see how Hedoes it. But you must believe more than you can understand. It isonly common sense to do so. Think how nonsensical it would be tosuppose that one who could make everything, and keep the whole goingas He does, shouldn't be able to help forgetting. It would beunreasonable to think that He must forget because you couldn'tunderstand how He could remember. I think it is as hard for Him toforget anything as it is for us to remember everything; forforgetting comes of weakness, and from our not being finished yet, and He is all strength and all perfection. "

"Then you think, sir, He never forgets anything?"

I knew by the trouble that gathered on the old woman's brow whatkind of thought was passing through her mind. But I let her go on, thinking so to help her the better. She paused for one moment only, and then resumed--much interrupted by the shortness of herbreathing. 

"When I was brought to bed first, " she said, "it was o' twins, sir. And oh! sir, it was VERY hard. As I said to my man after I got myhead up a bit, 'Tomkins, ' says I, 'you don't know what it is to haveTWO on 'em cryin' and cryin', and you next to nothin' to give 'em;till their cryin' sticks to your brain, and ye hear 'em when they'refast asleep, one on each side o' you. ' Well, sir, I'm ashamed toconfess it even to you; and what the Lord can think of me, I don'tknow. "

"I would rather confess to Him than to the best friend I ever had, "I said; "I am so sure that He will make every excuse for me thatought to be made. And a friend can't always do that. He can't knowall about it. And you can't tell him all, because you don't know allyourself. He does. "

"But I would like to tell YOU, sir. Would you believe it, sir, Iwished 'em dead? Just to get the wailin' of them out o' my head, Iwished 'em dead. In the courtyard o' the squire's house, where myTomkins worked on the home-farm, there was an old draw-well. Itwasn't used, and there was a lid to it, with a hole in it, throughwhich you could put a good big stone. And Tomkins once took me toit, and, without tellin' me what it was, he put a stone in, and toldme to hearken. And I hearkened, but I heard nothing, --as I told himso. 'But, ' says he, 'hearken, lass. ' And in a little while therecome a blast o' noise like from somewheres. 'What's that, Tomkins?'I said. 'That's the ston', ' says he, 'a strikin' on the water downthat there well. ' And I turned sick at the thought of it. And it'sdown there that I wished the darlin's that God had sent me; forthere they'd be quiet. "

"Mothers are often a little out of their minds at such times, MrsTomkins. And so were you. "

"I don't know, sir. But I must tell you another thing. The Sundayafore that, the parson had been preachin' about 'Suffer littlechildren, ' you know, sir, 'to come unto me. ' I suppose that was whatput it in my head; but I fell asleep wi' nothin' else in my head butthe cries o' the infants and the sound o' the ston' in thedraw-well. And I dreamed that I had one o' them under each arm, cryin' dreadful, and was walkin' across the court the way to thedraw-well; when all at once a man come up to me and held out his twohands, and said, 'Gie me my childer. ' And I was in a terrible fear. And I gave him first one and then the t'other, and he took them, andone laid its head on one shoulder of him, and t'other upon t'other, and they stopped their cryin', and fell fast asleep; and away hewalked wi' them into the dark, and I saw him no more. And then Iawoke cryin', I didn't know why. And I took my twins to me, and mybreasts was full, if ye 'll excuse me, sir. And my heart was as fullo' love to them. And they hardly cried worth mentionin' again. Butafore they was two year old, they both died o' the brown chytis, sir. And I think that He took them. "

"He did take them, Mrs Tomkins; and you'll see them again soon. "

"But, if He never forgets anything----"

"I didn't say that. I think He can do what He pleases. And if Hepleases to forget anything, then He can forget it. And I think thatis what He does with our sins--that is, after He has got them awayfrom us, once we are clean from them altogether. It would be adreadful thing if He forgot them before that, and left them stickingfast to us and defiling us. How then should we ever be madeclean?--What else does the prophet Isaiah mean when he says, 'Thouhast cast my sins behind Thy back?' Is not that where He does notchoose to see them any more? They are not pleasant to Him to thinkof any more than to us. It is as if He said--'I will not think ofthat any more, for my sister will never do it again, ' and so Hethrows it behind His back. "

"They ARE good words, sir. I could not bear Him to think of me andmy sins both at once. "

I could not help thinking of the words of Macbeth, "To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. "

The old woman lay quiet after this, relieved in mind, though not inbody, by the communication she had made with so much difficulty, andI hastened home to send some coals and other things, and then callupon Dr Duncan, lest he should not know that his patient was so muchworse as I had found her. 

From Dr Duncan's I went to see old Samuel Weir, who likewise wasailing. The bitter weather was telling chiefly upon the aged. Ifound him in bed, under the old embroidery. No one was in the roomwith him. He greeted me with a withered smile, sweet and true, although no flash of white teeth broke forth to light up the welcomeof the aged head. 

"Are you not lonely, Mr Weir?"

"No, sir. I don't know as ever I was less lonely. I've got my stick, you see, sir, " he said, pointing to a thorn stick which lay besidehim. 

"I do not quite understand you, " I returned, knowing that the oldman's gently humorous sayings always meant something. 

"You see, sir, when I want anything, I've only got to knock on thefloor, and up comes my son out of the shop. And then again, when Iknock at the door of the house up there, my Father opens it andlooks out. So I have both my son on earth and my Father in heaven, and what can an old man want more?"

"What, indeed, could any one want more?"

"It's very strange, " the old man resumed after a pause, "but as Ilie here, after I've had my tea, and it is almost dark, I begin tofeel as if I was a child again. --They say old age is a secondchildhood; but before I grew so old, I used to think that meant onlythat a man was helpless and silly again, as he used to be when hewas a child: I never thought it meant that a man felt like a childagain, as light-hearted and untroubled as I do now. "

"Well, I suspect that is not what people do mean when they say so. But I am very glad--you don't know how pleased it makes me to hearthat you feel so. I will hope to fare in the same way when my timecomes. "

"Indeed, I hope you will, sir; for I am main and happy. Just beforeyou came in now, I had really forgotten that I was a toothless oldman, and thought I was lying here waiting for my mother to come inand say good-night to me before I went to sleep. Wasn't thatcurious, when I never saw my mother, as I told you before, sir?"

"It was very curious. "

"But I have no end of fancies. Only when I begin to think about it, I can always tell when they are fancies, and they never put me out. There's one I see often--a man down on his knees at that cupboardnigh the floor there, searching and searching for somewhat. And Iwish he would just turn round his face once for a moment that Imight see him. I have a notion always it's my own father. "

"How do you account for that fancy, now, Mr Weir?"

"I've often thought about it, sir, but I never could account for it. I'm none willing to think it's a ghost; for what's the good of it?I've turned out that cupboard over and over, and there's nothingthere I don't know. "

"You're not afraid of it, are you?"

"No, sir. Why should I be? I never did it no harm. And God cansurely take care of me from all sorts. "

My readers must not think anything is going to come out of thisstrange illusion of the old man's brain. I questioned him a littlemore about it, and came simply to the conclusion, that when he was achild he had found the door open and had wandered into the house, atthe time uninhabited, had peeped in at the door of the same roomwhere he now lay, and had actually seen a man in the position hedescribed, half in the cupboard, searching for something. His mindhad kept the impression after the conscious memory had lost its holdof the circumstance, and now revived it under certain physicalconditions. It was a glimpse out of one of the many stories whichhaunted the old mansion. But there he lay like a child, as he said, fearless even of such usurpations upon his senses. 

I think instances of quiet unSELFconscious faith are more commonthan is generally supposed. Few have along with it the genialcommunicative impulse of old Samuel Weir, which gives theopportunity of seeing into their hidden world. He seemed to havebeen, and to have remained, a child, in the best sense of the word. He had never had much trouble with himself, for he was of a kindly, gentle, trusting nature; and his will had never been called upon toexercise any strong effort to enable him to walk in the straightpath. Nor had his intellect, on the other hand, while capableenough, ever been so active as to suggest difficulties to his faith, leaving him, even theoretically, far nearer the truth than those whostart objections for their own sakes, liking to feel themselves in aposition of supposed antagonism to the generally acknowledgedsources of illumination. For faith is in itself a light thatlightens even the intellect, and hence the shield of the completesoldier of God, the shield of faith, is represented by Spenser as"framed all of diamond, perfect, pure, and clean, " (the power of thediamond to absorb and again radiate light being no poetic fiction, but a well-known scientific fact, ) whose light falling upon anyenchantment or false appearance, destroys it utterly: for

 "all that was not such as seemed in sight. Before that shield did fade, and suddaine fall. "

Old Rogers had passed through a very much larger experience. Manymore difficulties had come to him, and he had met them in his ownfashion and overcome them. For while there is such a thing as truth, the mind that can honestly beget a difficulty must at the same timebe capable of receiving that light of the truth which annihilatesthe difficulty, or at least of receiving enough to enable it toforesee vaguely some solution, for a full perception of which theintellect may not be as yet competent. By every such victory OldRogers had enlarged his being, ever becoming more childlike andfaithful; so that, while the childlikeness of Weir was thechildlikeness of a child, that of Old Rogers was the childlikenessof a man, in which submission to God is not only a gladness, but aconscious will and choice. But as the safety of neither depended onhis own feelings, but on the love of God who was working in him, wemay well leave all such differences of nature and education to thecare of Him who first made the men different, and then broughtdifferent conditions out of them. The one thing is, whether we areletting God have His own way with us, following where He leads, learning the lessons He gives us. 

I wished that Mr Stoddart had been with me during these two visits. Perhaps he might have seen that the education of life was amarvellous thing, and, even in the poorest intellectual results, farmore full of poetry and wonder than the outcome of that constantwatering with the watering-pot of self-education which, dissociatedfrom the duties of life and the influences of his fellows, had madeof him what he was. But I doubt if he would have seen it. 

A week had elapsed from the night I had sat up with Gerard Weir, andhis mother had not risen from her bed, nor did it seem likely shewould ever rise again. On a Friday I went to see her, just as thedarkness was beginning to gather. The fire of life was burningitself out fast. It glowed on her cheeks, it burned in her hands, itblazed in her eyes. But the fever had left her mind. That was cool, oh, so cool, now! Those fierce tropical storms of passion had passedaway, and nothing of life was lost. Revenge had passed away, butrevenge is of death, and deadly. Forgiveness had taken its place, and forgiveness is the giving, and so the receiving of life. Gerard, his dear little head starred with sticking-plaster, sat on her bed, looking as quietly happy as child could look, over a wooden horsewith cylindrical body and jointless legs, covered with an eruptionof red and black spots. --Is it the ignorance or the imagination ofchildren that makes them so easily pleased with the merest hint atrepresentation? I suspect the one helps the other towards that mostdesirable result, satisfaction. --But he dropped it when he saw me, in a way so abandoning that--comparing small things with great--itcalled to my mind those lines of Milton:--

 "From his slack hand the garland wreathed for Eve, Down dropt, and all the faded roses shed. "

The quiet child FLUNG himself upon my neck, and the mother's facegleamed with pleasure. 

"Dear boy!" I said, "I am very glad to see you so much better. "

For this was the first time he had shown such a revival of energy. He had been quite sweet when he saw me, but, until this evening, listless. 

"Yes, " he said, "I am quite well now. " And he put his hand up to hishead. 

"Does it ache?"

"Not much now. The doctor says I had a bad fall. "

"So you had, my child. But you will soon be well again. "

The mother's face was turned aside, yet I could see one tear forcingits way from under her closed eyelid. 

"Oh, I don't mind it, " he answered. "Mammy is so kind to me! Shelets me sit on her bed as long as I like. "

"That IS nice. But just run to auntie in the next room. I think yourmammy would like to talk to me for a little while. "

The child hurried off the bed, and ran with overflowing obedience. 

"I can even think of HIM now, " said the mother, "without going intoa passion. I hope God will forgive him. _I_ do. I think He willforgive me. "

"Did you ever hear, " I asked, "of Jesus refusing anybody that wantedkindness from Him? He wouldn't always do exactly what they askedHim, because that would sometimes be of no use, and sometimes wouldeven be wrong; but He never pushed them away from Him, neverrepulsed their approach to Him. For the sake of His disciples, Hemade the Syrophenician woman suffer a little while, but only to giveher such praise afterwards and such a granting of her prayer as isjust wonderful. "

She said nothing for a little while; then murmured, "Shall I have to be ashamed to all eternity? I do not want not to beashamed; but shall I never be able to be like other people--inheaven I mean?"

"If He is satisfied with you, you need not think anything more aboutyourself. If He lets you once kiss His feet, you won't care to thinkabout other people's opinion of you even in heaven. But things willgo very differently there from here. For everybody there will bemore or less ashamed of himself, and will think worse of himselfthan he does of any one else. If trouble about your past life wereto show itself on your face there, they would all run to comfortyou, trying to make the best of it, and telling you that you mustthink about yourself as He thinks about you; for what He thinks isthe rule, because it is the infallible right way. But perhapsrather, they would tell you to leave that to Him who has taken awayour sins, and not trouble yourself any more about it. But to tellthe truth, I don't think such thoughts will come to you at all whenonce you have seen the face of Jesus Christ. You will be so filledwith His glory and goodness and grace, that you will just live inHim and not in yourself at all. "

"Will He let us tell Him anything we please?"

"He lets you do that now: surely He will not be less our God, ourfriend there. "

"Oh, I don't mind how soon He takes me now! Only there's that poorchild that I've behaved so badly to! I wish I could take him withme. I have no time to make it up to him here. "

"You must wait till he comes. He won't think hardly of you. There'sno fear of that. "

"What will become of him, though? I can't bear the idea of burdeningmy father with him. "

"Your father will be glad to have him, I know. He will feel it aprivilege to do something for your sake. But the boy will do himgood. If he does not want him, I will take him myself. "

"Oh! thank you, thank you, sir. "

A burst of tears followed. 

"He has often done me good, " I said. 

"Who, sir? My father?"

"No. Your son. "

"I don't quite understand what you mean, sir. "

"I mean just what I say. The words and behaviour of your lovely boyhave both roused and comforted my heart again and again. "

She burst again into tears. 

"That is good to hear. To think of your saying that! The poor littleinnocent! Then it isn't all punishment?"

"If it were ALL punishment, we should perish utterly. He is yourpunishment; but look in what a lovely loving form your punishmenthas come, and say whether God has been good to you or not. "

"If I had only received my punishment humbly, things would have beenvery different now. But I do take it--at least I want to takeit--just as He would have me take it. I will bear anything He likes. I suppose I must die?"

"I think He means you to die now. You are ready for it now, I think. You have wanted to die for a long time; but you were not ready forit before. "

"And now I want to live for my boy. But His will be done. "

"Amen. There is no such prayer in the universe as that. It meanseverything best and most beautiful. Thy will, O God, evermore bedone. "

She lay silent. A tap came to the chamber-door. It was Mary, whonursed her sister and attended to the shop. 

"If you please, sir, here's a little girl come to say that MrsTomkins is dying, and wants to see you. "

"Then I must say good-night to you, Catherine. I will see youto-morrow morning. Think about old Mrs Tomkins; she's a good oldsoul; and when you find your heart drawn to her in the trouble ofdeath, then lift it up to God for her, that He will please tocomfort and support her, and make her happier than health--strongerthan strength, taking off the old worn garment of her body, andputting upon her the garment of salvation, which will be a grand newbody, like that the Saviour had when He rose again. "

"I will try. I will think about her. "

For I thought this would be a help to prepare her for her own death. In thinking lovingly about others, we think healthily aboutourselves. And the things she thought of for the comfort of MrsTomkins, would return to comfort herself in the prospect of her ownend, when perhaps she might not be able to think them out forherself. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

CALM AND STORM. 

But of the two, Catherine had herself to go first. Again and againwas I sent for to say farewell to Mrs Tomkins, and again and again Ireturned home leaying her asleep, and for the time better. But on aSaturday evening, as I sat by my vestry-fire, pondering on manythings, and trying to make myself feel that they were as God sawthem and not as they appeared to me, young Tom came to me with thenews that his sister seemed much worse, and his father would be muchobliged if I would go and see her. I sent Tom on before, because Iwished to follow alone. 

It was a brilliant starry night; no moon, no clouds, no wind, nothing but stars. They seemed to lean down towards the earth, as Ihave seen them since in more southern regions. It was, indeed, aglorious night. That is, I knew it was; I did not feel that it was. For the death which I went to be near, came, with a strange sense ofseparation, between me and the nature around me. I felt as if natureknew nothing, felt nothing, meant nothing, did not belong tohumanity at all; for here was death, and there shone the stars. Iwas wrong, as I knew afterwards. 

I had had very little knowledge of the external shows of death. Strange as it may appear, I had never yet seen a fellow-creaturepass beyond the call of his fellow-mortals. I had not even seen myfather die. And the thought was oppressive to me. "To think, " I saidto myself, as I walked over the bridge to the village-street--"tothink that the one moment the person is here, and the next--whoshall say WHERE? for we know nothing of the region beyond the grave!Not even our risen Lord thought fit to bring back from Hades anynews for the human family standing straining their eyes after theirbrothers and sisters that have vanished in the dark. Surely it iswell, all well, although we know nothing, save that our Lord hasbeen there, knows all about it, and does not choose to tell us. Welcome ignorarance then! the ignorance in which he chooses to leaveus. I would rather not know, if He gave me my choice, but preferredthat I should not know. " And so the oppression passed from me, and Iwas free. 

But little as I knew of the signs of the approach of death, I wascertain, the moment I saw Catherine, that the veil that hid the"silent land" had begun to lift slowly between her and it. And for amoment I almost envied her that she was so soon to see and know thatafter which our blindness and ignorance were wondering andhungering. She could hardly speak. She looked more patient thancalm. There was no light in the room but that of the fire, whichflickered flashing and fading, now lighting up the troubled eye, andnow letting a shadow of the coming repose fall gently over it. Thomas sat by the fire with the child on his knee, both lookingfixedly into the glow. Gerard's natural mood was so quiet andearnest, that the solemnity about him did not oppress him. He lookedas if he were present at some religious observance of which he feltmore than he understood, and his childish peace was in no wiseinharmonious with the awful silence of the coming change. He was nomore disquieted at the presence of death than the stars were. 

And this was the end of the lovely girl--to leave the fair worldstill young, because a selfish man had seen that she was fair! Notime can change the relation of cause and effect. The poison thatoperates ever so slowly is yet poison, and yet slays. And that manwas now murdering her, with weapon long-reaching from out of thepast. But no, thank God! this was not the end of her. Though thereis woe for that man by whom the offence cometh, yet there isprovision for the offence. There is One who bringeth light out ofdarkness, joy out of sorrow, humility out of wrong. Back to theFather's house we go with the sorrows and sins which, instead ofinheriting the earth, we gathered and heaped upon our wearyshoulders, and a different Elder Brother from that angry one whowould not receive the poor swine-humbled prodigal, takes the burdenfrom our shoulders, and leads us into the presence of the Good. 

She put out her hand feebly, let it lie in mine, looked as if shewanted me to sit down by her bedside, and when I did so, closed hereyes. She said nothing. Her father was too much troubled to meet mewithout showing the signs of his distress, and his was a nature thatever sought concealment for its emotion; therefore he sat still. ButGerard crept down from his knee, came to me, clambered up on mine, and laid his little hand upon his mother's, which I was holding. Sheopened her eyes, looked at the child, shut them again, and tearscame out from between the closed lids. 

"Has Gerard ever been baptized?" I asked her. 

Her lips indicated a NO. 

"Then I will be his godfather. And that will be a pledge to you thatI will never lose sight of him. "

She pressed my hand, and the tears came faster. 

Believing with all my heart that the dying should remember theirdying Lord, and that the "Do this in remembrance of me" can never bebetter obeyed than when the partaker is about to pass, supported bythe God of his faith, through the same darkness which lay before ourLord when He uttered the words and appointed the symbol, we kneeled, Thomas and I, and young Tom, who had by this time joined us with hissister Mary, around the bed, and partook with the dying woman of thesigns of that death, wherein our Lord gave Himself entirely to us, to live by His death, and to the Father of us all in holiestsacrifice as the high-priest of us His people, leading us to thealtar of a like self-abnegation. Upon what that bread and that winemean, the sacrifice of our Lord, the whole world of humanity hangs. It is the redemption of men. 

After she had received the holy sacrament, she lay still as before. I heard her murmur once, "Lord, I do not deserve it. But I do loveThee. " And about two hours after, she quietly breathed her last. Weall kneeled, and I thanked the Father of us aloud that He had takenher to Himself. Gerard had been fast asleep on his aunt's lap, andshe had put him to bed a little before. Surely he slept a deepersleep than his mother's; for had she not awaked even as she fellasleep?

When I came out once more, I knew better what the stars meant. Theylooked to me now as if they knew all about death, and thereforecould not be sad to the eyes of men; as if that unsympathetic lookthey wore came from this, that they were made like the happy truth, and not like our fears. 

But soon the solemn feeling of repose, the sense that the world andall its cares would thus pass into nothing, vanished in its turn. For a moment I had been, as it were, walking on the shore of theEternal, where the tide of time had left me in its retreat. Far awayacross the level sands I heard it moaning, but I stood on the firmground of truth, and heeded it not. In a few moments more it wasraving around me; it had carried me away from my rest, and I wasfilled with the noise of its cares. 

For when I returned home, my sister told me that Old Rogers hadcalled, and seemed concerned not to find me at home. He would havegone to find me, my sister said, had I been anywhere but by adeathbed. He would not leave any message, however, saying he wouldcall in the morning. 

I thought it better to go to his house. The stars were still shiningas brightly as before, but a strong foreboding of trouble filled mymind, and once more the stars were far away, and lifted me no nearerto "Him who made the seven stars and Orion. " When I examined myself, I could give no reason for my sudden fearfulness, save this: that asI went to Catherine's house, I had passed Jane Rogers on her way toher father's, and having just greeted her, had gone on; but, as itnow came back upon me, she had looked at me strangely--that is, with some significance in her face which conveyed nothing to me; andnow her father had been to seek me: it must have something to dowith Miss Oldcastle. 

But when I came to the cottage, it was dark and still, and I couldnot bring myself to rouse the weary man from his bed. Indeed it waspast eleven, as I found to my surprise on looking at my watch. So Iturned and lingered by the old mill, and fell a pondering on theprofusion of strength that rushed past the wheel away to the greatsea. Doing nothing. "Nature, " I thought, "does not demand that powershould always be force. Power itself must repose. He that believethshall--not make haste, says the Bible. But it needs strength to bestill. Is my faith not strong enough to be still?" I looked up tothe heavens once more, and the quietness of the stars seemed toreproach me. "We are safe up here, " they seemed to say: "we shine, fearless and confident, for the God who gave the primrose its roughleaves to hide it from the blast of uneven spring, hangs us in theawful hollows of space. We cannot fall out of His safety. Lift upyour eyes on high, and behold! Who hath created these things--thatbringeth out their host by number! He calleth them all by names. Bythe greatness of His might, for that He is strong in power, not onefaileth. Why sayest thou, O Jacob! and speakest, O Israel! my way ishid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my God?"

The night was very still; there was, I thought, no one awake withinmiles of me. The stars seemed to shine into me the divine reproachof those glorious words. "O my God!" I cried, and fell on my kneesby the mill-door. 

What I tried to say more I will not say here. I MAY say that I criedto God. What I said to Him ought not, cannot be repeated to another. 

When I opened my eyes I saw the door of the mill was open too, andthere in the door, his white head glimmering, stood Old Rogers, witha look on his face as if he had just come down from the mount. Istarted to my feet, with that strange feeling of something likeshame that seizes one at the very thought of other eyes than thoseof the Father. The old man came forward, and bowed his head with anunconscious expression of humble dignity, but would have passed mewithout speech, leaving the mill-door open behind him. I could notbear to part with him thus. 

"Won't you speak to me, Rogers ?" I said. 

He turned at once with evident pleasure. 

"I beg your pardon, sir. I was ashamed of having intruded on you, and I thought you would rather be left alone. I thought--Ithought---" hesitated the old man, "that you might like to go intothe mill, for the night's cold out o' doors. "

"Thank you, Rogers. I won't now. I thought you had been in bed. Howdo you come to be out so late?"

"You see, sir, when I'm in any trouble, it's no use to go to bed. Ican't sleep. I only keep the old 'oman wakin'. And the key o' themill allus hangin' at the back o' my door, and knowin' it to be agood place to--to--shut the door in, I came out as soon as she wasasleep; but I little thought to see you, sir. "

"I came to find you, not thinking how the time went. Catherine Weiris gone home. "

"I am right glad to hear it, poor woman. And perhaps something willcome out now that will help us. "

"I do not quite understand you, " I said, with hesitation. 

But Rogers made no reply. 

"I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night. Can I help you?" Iresumed. 

"If you can help yourself, sir, you can help me. But I have noright to say so. Only, if a pair of old eyes be not blind, a man maypray to God about anything he sees. I was prayin' hard about you inthere, sir, while you was on your knees o' the other side o' thedoor. "

I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I could not ask himfor further explanation. 

"What did you want to see me about?" I inquired. 

He hesitated for a moment. 

"I daresay it was very foolish of me, sir. But I just wanted to tellyou that--our Jane was down here from the Hall this arternoon----"

"I passed her on the bridge. Is she quite well?"

"Yes, yes, sir. You know that's not the point. "

The old man's tone seemed to reprove me for vain words, and I heldmy peace. 

"The captain's there again. "

An icy spear seemed to pass through my heart. I could make no reply. The same moment a cold wind blew on me from the open door of themill. 

Although Lear was of course right when he said, "The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there, "

yet it is also true, that sometimes, in the midst of its greatestpain, the mind takes marvellous notice of the smallest things thathappen around it. This involves a law of which illustrations couldbe plentifully adduced from Shakespeare himself, namely, that theintellectual part of the mind can go on working with strangeindependence of the emotional. 

From the door of the mill, as from a sepulchral tavern, blew a coldwind like the very breath of death upon me, just when that pangshot, in absolute pain, through my heart. For a wind had arisen frombehind the mill, and we were in its shelter save where a windowbehind and the door beside me allowed free passage to the first ofthe coming storm. 

I believed I turned away from the old man without a word. He made noattempt to detain me. Whether he went back into his closet, the oldmill, sacred in the eyes of the Father who honours His children, even as the church wherein many prayers went up to Him, or turnedhomewards to his cottage and his sleeping wife, I cannot tell. Thefirst I remember after that cold wind is, that I was fighting withthat wind, gathered even to a storm, upon the common where I haddealt so severely with her who had this very night gone into thatregion into which, as into a waveless sea, all the rivers of liferush and are silent. Is it the sea of death? No. The sea of life--alife too keen, too refined, for our senses to know it, and thereforewe call it death--because we cannot lay hold upon it. 

I will not dwell upon my thoughts as I wandered about over thatwaste. The wind had risen to a storm charged with fierce showers ofstinging hail, which gave a look of gray wrath to the invisible windas it swept slanting by, and then danced and scudded along thelevels. The next point in that night of pain is when I found myselfstanding at the iron gate of Oldcastle Hall. I had left the common, passed my own house and the church, crossed the river, walkedthrough the village, and was restored to self-consciousness--thatis, I knew that I was there--only when first I stood in the shelterof one of those great pillars and the monster on its top. Findingthe gate open, for they were not precise about having it fastened, Ipushed it and entered. The wind was roaring in the trees as I thinkI have never heard it roar since; for the hail clashed upon the barebranches and twigs, and mingled an unearthly hiss with the roar. Inthe midst of it the house stood like a tomb, dark, silent, withoutone dim light to show that sleep and not death ruled within. I couldhave fancied that there were no windows in it, that it stood, likean eyeless skull, in that gaunt forest of skeleton trees, empty anddesolate, beaten by the ungenial hail, the dead rain of the countryof death. I passed round to the other side, stepping gently lestsome ear might be awake--as if any ear, even that of Judy's whitewolf, could have heard the loudest step in such a storm. I heard thehailstones crush between my feet and the soft grass of the lawn, butI dared not stop to look up at the back of the house. I went on tothe staircase in the rock, and by its rude steps, dangerous in theflapping of such storm-wings as swept about it that night, descendedto the little grove below, around the deep-walled pool. Here thewind did not reach me. It roared overhead, but, save an occasionalsigh, as if of sympathy with their suffering brethren abroad in thewoild, the hermits of this cell stood upright and still around thesleeping water. But my heart was a well in which a storm boiled andraged; and all that "pother o'er my head" was peace itself comparedto what I felt. I sat down on the seat at the foot of a tree, whereI had first seen Miss Oldcastle reading. And then I looked up to thehouse. Yes, there was a light there! It must be in her window. Shethen could not rest any more than I. Sleep was driven from her eyesbecause she must wed the man she would not; while sleep was drivenfrom mine because I could not marry the woman I would. Was that it?No. My heart acquitted me, in part at least, of thinking only of myown sorrow in the presence of her greater distress. Gladly would Ihave given her up for ever, without a hope, to redeem her from sucha bondage. "But it would be to marry another some day, " suggestedthe tormentor within. And then the storm, which had a little abated, broke out afresh in my soul. But before I rose from her seat I wasready even for that--at least I thought so--if only I might deliverher from the all but destruction that seemed to be impending overher. The same moment in which my mind seemed to have arrived at thepossibility of such a resolution, I rose almost involuntarily, andglancing once more at the dull light in her window--for I did notdoubt that it was her window, though it was much too dark todiscern, the shape of the house--almost felt my way to the stair, and climbed again into the storm. 

But I was quieter now, and able to go home. It must have been nearlymorning, though at this season of the year the morning is undefined, when I reached my own house. My sister had gone to bed, for I couldalways let myself in; nor, indeed, did any one in Marshmailows thinkthe locking of the door at night an imperative duty. 

When I fell asleep, I was again in the old quarry, staring into thedeep well. I thought Mrs Oldcastle was murdering her daughter in thehouse above, while I was spell-bound to the spot, where, if I stoodlong enough, I should see her body float into the well from thesubterranean passage, the opening of which was just below where Istood. I was thus confusing and reconstructing the two dreadfulstories of the place--that told me by old Weir, about thecircumstances of his birth; and that told me by Dr Duncan, about MrsOldcastle's treatment of her elder daughter. But as a white hand andarm appeared in the water below me, sorrow and pity more than horrorbroke the bonds of sleep, and I awoke to less trouble than that ofmy dreams, only because that which I feared had not yet come. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

A SERMON TO MYSELF. 

It was the Sabbath morn. But such a Sabbath! The day seemed all wanwith weeping, and gray with care. The wind dashed itself against thecasement, laden with soft heavy sleet. The ground, the bushes, thevery outhouses seemed sodden with the rain. The trees, which lookedstricken as if they could die of grief, were yet tormented withfear, for the bare branches went streaming out in the torrent of thewind, as cowering before the invisible foe. The first thing I knewwhen I awoke was the raving of that wind. I could lie in bed not amoment longer. I could not rest. But how was I to do the work of myoffice? When a man's duty looks like an enemy, dragging him into thedark mountains, he has no less to go with it than when, like afriend with loving face, it offers to lead him along green pasturesby the river-side. I had little power over my feelings; I could notprevent my mind from mirroring itself in the nature around me; but Icould address myself to the work I had to do. "My God!" was all theprayer I could pray ere I descended to join my sister at thebreakfast-table. But He knew what lay behind the one word. 

Martha could not help seeing that something was the matter. I saw byher looks that she could read so much in mine. But her eyes alonequestioned me, and that only by glancing at me anxiously from, timeto time. I was grateful to her for saying nothing. It is a finething in friendship to know when to be silent. 

The prayers were before me, in the hands of all my friends, and inthe hearts of some of them; and if I could not enter into them as Iwould, I could yet read them humbly before God as His servant tohelp the people to worship as one flock. But how was I to preach? Ihad been in difficulty before now, but never in so much. How was Ito teach others, whose mind was one confusion? The subject on whichI was pondering when young Weir came to tell me his sister wasdying, had retreated as if into the far past; it seemed as if yearshad come between that time and this, though but one black night hadrolled by. To attempt to speak upon that would have been vain, for Ihad nothing to say on the matter now. And if I could have recalledmy former thoughts, I should have felt a hypocrite as I deliveredthem, so utterly dissociated would they have been from anything thatI was thinking or feeling now. Here would have been my visible formand audible voice, uttering that as present to me now, as felt by menow, which I did think and feel yesterday, but which, although Ibelieved it, was not present to my feeling or heart, and must waitthe revolution of months, or it might be of years, before I shouldfeel it again, before I should be able to exhort my people about itwith the fervour of a present faith. But, indeed, I could not evenrecall what I had thought and felt. Should I then tell them that Icould not speak to them that morning?--There would be nothing wrongin that. But I felt ashamed of yielding to personal trouble when thetruths of God were all about me, although I could not feel them. Might not some hungry soul go away without being satisfied, becauseI was faint and down-hearted? I confess I had a desire likewise toavoid giving rise to speculation and talk about myself, a desirewhich, although not wrong, could neither have strengthened me tospeak the truth, nor have justified me in making the attempt. --Whatwas to be done?

All at once the remembrance crossed my mind of a sermon I hadpreached before upon the words of St Paul: "Thou therefore whichteachest another, teachest thou not thyself?" a subject suggested bythe fact that on the preceding Sunday I had especially felt, inpreaching to my people, that I was exhorting myself whose necessitywas greater than theirs--at least I felt it to be greater than Icould know theirs to be. And now the converse of the thought came tome, and I said to myself, "Might I not try the other way now, andpreach to myself? In teaching myself, might I not teach others?Would it not hold? I am very troubled and faithless now. If I knewthat God was going to lay the full weight of this grief upon me, yetif I loved Him with all my heart, should I not at least be morequiet? There would not be a storm within me then, as if the Fatherhad descended from the throne of the heavens, and 'chaos were comeagain. ' Let me expostulate with myself in my heart, and the words ofmy expostulation will not be the less true with my people. "

All this passed through my mind as I sat in my study afterbreakfast, with the great old cedar roaring before my window. It waswithin an hour of church-time. I took my Bible, read and thought, got even some comfort already, and found myself in my vestry notquite unwilling to read the prayers and speak to my people. 

There were very few present. The day was one of the worst--violentlystormy, which harmonized somewhat with my feelings; and, to myfurther relief, the Hall pew was empty. Instead of finding myself amere minister to the prayers of others, I found, as I read, that myheart went out in crying to God for the divine presence of HisSpirit. And if I thought more of myself in my prayers than was well, yet as soon as I was converted, would I not strengthen my brethren?And the sermon I preached to myself and through myself to my people, was that which the stars had preached to me, and thereby driven meto my knees by the mill-door. I took for my text, "The glory of theLord shall be revealed;" and then I proceeded to show them how theglory of the Lord was to be revealed. I preached to myself thatthroughout this fortieth chapter of the prophecies of Isaiah, thepower of God is put side by side with the weakness of men, not thatHe, the perfect, may glory over His feeble children; not that He maysay to them--"Look how mighty I am, and go down upon your knees andworship"--for power alone was never yet worthy of prayer; but thathe may say thus: "Look, my children, you will never be strong butwith MY strength. I have no other to give you. And that you can getonly by trusting in me. I cannot give it you any other way. There isno other way. But can you not trust in me? Look how strong I am. Youwither like the grass. Do not fear. Let the grass wither. Lay holdof my word, that which I say to you out of my truth, and that willbe life in you that the blowing of the wind that withers cannotreach. I am coming with my strong hand and my judging arm to do mywork. And what is the work of my strong hand and ruling arm? To feedmy flock like a shepherd, to gather the lambs with my arm, and carrythem in my bosom, and gently lead those that are with young. I havemeasured the waters in the hollow of my hand, and held the mountainsin my scales, to give each his due weight, and all the nations, sostrong and fearful in your eyes, are as nothing beside my strengthand what I can do. Do not think of me as of an image that your handscan make, a thing you can choose to serve, and for which you can dothings to win its favour. I am before and above the earth, and overyour life, and your oppressors I will wither with my breath. I cometo you with help I need no worship from you. But I say love me, forlove is life, and I love you. Look at the stars I have made. I knowevery one of them. Not one goes wrong, because I keep him right. Whysayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest, O Israel--my way is HID from theLord, and my judgment is passed over from my God! I give POWER tothe FAINT, and to them that have no might, plenty of strength. "

"Thus, " I went on to say, "God brings His strength to destroy ourweakness by making us strong. This is a God indeed! Shall we nottrust Him?"

I gave my people this paraphrase of the chapter, to help them to seethe meanings which their familiarity with the words, and theirnon-familiarity with the modes of Eastern thought, and the forms ofEastern expression, would unite to prevent them from catching morethan broken glimmerings of. And then I tried to show them that itwas in the commonest troubles of life, as well as in the spiritualfears and perplexities that came upon them, that they were to trustin God; for God made the outside as well as the inside, and theyaltogether belonged to Him; and that when outside things, such aspain or loss of work, or difficulty in getting money, were referredto God and His will, they too straightway became spiritual affairs, for nothing in the world could any longer appear common or uncleanto the man who saw God in everything. But I told them they must notbe too anxious to be delivered from that which troubled them: butthey ought to be anxious to have the presence of God with them tosupport them, and make them able in patience to possess their souls;and so the trouble would work its end--the purification of theirminds, that the light and gladness of God and all His earth, whichthe pure in heart and the meek alone could inherit, might shine inupon them. And then I repeated to them this portion of a prayer outof one of Sir Philip Sidney's books:--

"O Lord, I yield unto Thy will, and joyfully embrace what sorrowThou wilt have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of Thee, (letmy craving, O Lord, be accepted of Thee, since even that proceedsfrom Thee, ) let me crave, even by the noblest title, which in mygreatest affliction I may give myself, that I am Thy creature, andby Thy goodness (which is Thyself) that Thou wilt suffer some beamof Thy majesty so to shine into my mind, that it may still dependconfidently on Thee. "

All the time I was speaking, the rain, mingled with sleet, wasdashing against the windows, and the wind was howling over thegraves all about. But the dead were not troubled by the storm; andover my head, from beam to beam of the roof, now resting on one, nowflitting to another, a sparrow kept flying, which had taken refugein the church till the storm should cease and the sun shine out inthe great temple. "This, " I said aloud, "is what the church is for:as the sparrow finds there a house from the storm, so the humanheart escapes thither to hear the still small voice of God when itsfaith is too weak to find Him in the storm, and in the sorrow, andin the pain. " And while I spoke, a dim watery gleam fell on thechancel-floor, and the comfort of the sun awoke in my heart. Norlet any one call me superstitious for taking that pale sun-ray ofhope as sent to me; for I received it as comfort for the race, andfor me as one of the family, even as the bow that was set in thecloud, a promise to the eyes of light for them that sit in darkness. As I write, my eye falls upon the Bible on the table by my side, andI read the words, "For the Lord God is a sun and shield, the Lordwill give grace and glory. " And I lift my eyes from my paper andlook abroad from my window, and the sun is shining in its strength. The leaves are dancing in the light wind that gives them each itsshare of the sun, and my trouble has passed away for ever, like thestorm of that night and the unrest of that strange Sabbath. 

Such comforts would come to us oftener from Nature, if we reallybelieved that our God was the God of Nature; that when He made, orrather when He makes, He means; that not His hands only, but Hisheart too, is in the making of those things; that, therefore, theinfluences of Nature upon human minds and hearts are because Heintended them. And if we believe that our God is everywhere, whyshould we not think Him present even in the coincidences thatsometimes seem so strange? For, if He be in the things thatcoincide, He must be in the coincidence of those things. 

Miss Oldcastle told me once that she could not take her eyes off abutterfly which was flitting about in the church all the time I wasspeaking of the resurrection of the dead. I told the people that inGreek there was one word for the soul and for a butterfly--Psyche;that I thought as the light on the rain made the natural symbol ofmercy--the rainbow, so the butterfly was the type in nature, andmade to the end, amongst other ends, of being such a type--of theresurrection of the human body; that its name certainly expressedthe hope of the Greeks in immortality, while to us it speakslikewise of a glorified body, whereby we shall know and love eachother with our eyes as well as our hearts. --My sister saw thebutterfly too, but only remembered that she had seen it when it wasmentioned in her hearing: on her the sight made no impression; shesaw no coincidence. 

I descended from the pulpit comforted by the sermon I had preachedto myself. But I was glad to feel justified in telling my peoplethat, in consequence of the continued storm, for there had been nomore of sunshine than just that watery gleam, there would be noservice in the afternoon, and that I would instead visit some of mysick poor, whom the weather might have discomposed in their worndwellings. 

The people were very slow in dispersing. There was so much puttingon of clogs, gathering up of skirts over the head, and expanding ofumbrellas, soon to be taken down again as worse than useless in theviolence of the wind, that the porches were crowded, and the fewleft in the church detained till the others made way. I lingeredwith these. They were all poor people. 

"I am sorry you will have such a wet walk home, " I said to MrsBaird, the wife of old Reginald Baird, the shoemaker, a littlewizened creature, with more wrinkles than hairs, who the older andmore withered she grew, seemed like the kernels of some nuts only togrow the sweeter. 

"It's very good of you to let us off this afternoon, sir. Not as Iminds the wet: it finds out the holes in people's shoes, and gets myhusband into more work. "

This was in fact the response of the shoemaker's wife to my sermon. If we look for responses after our fashion instead of after people'sown fashion, we ought to be disappointed. Any recognition of truth, whatever form it may take, whether that of poetic delight, intellectual corroboration, practical commonplace; or even vulgaraphorism, must be welcomed by the husbandmen of the God of growth. Aresponse which jars against the peculiar pitch of our mentalinstrument, must not therefore be turned away from with dislike. Ourmood of the moment is not that by which the universe is tuned intoits harmonies. We must drop our instrument and listen to the other, and if we find that the player upon it is breathing after a higherexpression, is, after his fashion, striving to embody something hesees of the same truth the utterance of which called forth this hisanswer, let us thank God and take courage. God at least is pleased:and if our refinement and education take away from our pleasure, itis because of something low, false, and selfish, not divine in aword, that is mingled with that refinement and that education. Ifthe shoemaker's wife's response to the prophet's grand poem aboutthe care of God over His creatures, took the form of acknowledgmentfor the rain that found out the holes in the people's shoes, it wasthe more genuine and true, for in itself it afforded proof that itwas not a mere reflex of the words of the prophet, but sprung fromthe experience and recognition of the shoemaker's wife. Nor wasthere anything necessarily selfish in it, for if there are holes inpeople's shoes, the sooner they are found out the better. 

While I was talking to Mrs Baird, Mr Stoddart, whose love for theold organ had been stronger than his dislike to the storm, had comedown into the church, and now approached me. 

"I never saw you in the church before, Mr Stoddart, " I said, "thoughI have heard you often enough. You use your own private dooralways. "

"I thought to go that way now, but there came such a fierce burst ofwind and rain in my face, that my courage failed me, and I turnedback--like the sparrow--for refuge in the church. "

"A thought strikes me, " I said. "Come home with me, and have somelunch, and then we will go together to see some of my poor people. Ihave often wished to ask you. "

His face fell. 

"It is such a day!" he answered, remonstratingly, but not positivelyrefusing. It was not his way ever to refuse anything positively. 

"So it was when you set out this morning, " I returned; "but youwould not deprive us of the aid of your music for the sake of acharge of wind, and a rattle of rain-drops. "

"But I shan't be of any use. You are going, and that is enough. "

"I beg your pardon. Your very presence will be of use. Nothing yetgiven him or done for him by his fellow, ever did any man so muchgood as the recognition of the brotherhood by the common signs offriendship and sympathy. The best good of given money depends on thedegree to which it is the sign of that friendship and sympathy. OurLord did not make little of visiting: 'I was sick, and ye visitedme. ' 'Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye didit not to me. ' Of course, if the visitor goes professionally and nothumanly, --as a mere religious policeman, that is--whether he onlydistributes tracts with condescending words, or gives moneyliberally because he thinks he ought, the more he does not go thebetter, for he only does harm to them and himself too. "

"But I cannot pretend to feel any of the interest you consideressential: why then should I go?"

"To please me, your friend. That is a good human reason. You neednot say a word--you must not pretend anything. Go as my companion, not as their visitor. Will you come?"

"I suppose I must. "

"You must, then. Thank you. You will help me. I have seldom acompanion. "

So when the storm-fit had abated for the moment, we hurried to thevicarage, had a good though hasty lunch, (to which I was pleased tosee Mr Stoddart do justice; for it is with man as with beast, if youwant work out of him, he must eat well--and it is the onejustification of eating well, that a man works well upon it, ) andset out for the village. The rain was worse than ever. There was nosleet, and the wind was not cold, but the windows of heaven wereopened, and if the fountains of the great deep were not broken up, it looked like it, at least, when we reached the bridge and saw howthe river had spread out over all the low lands on its borders. Wecould not talk much as we went along. 

"Don't you find some pleasure in fighting the wind?" I said. 

"I have no doubt I should, " answered Mr Stoddart, "if I thought Iwere going to do any good; but as it is, to tell the truth, I wouldrather be by my own fire with my folio Dante on the reading desk. "

"Well, I would rather help the poorest woman in creation, thancontemplate the sufferings of the greatest and wickedest, " I said. 

"There are two things you forget, " returned Mr Stoddart. "First, that the poem of Dante is not nearly occupied with the sufferings ofthe wicked; and next, that what I have complained of in thisexpedition--which as far as I am concerned, I would call a wildgoose chase, were it not that it is your doing and not mine--is thatI am not going to help anybody. "

"You would have the best of the argument entirely, " I replied, "ifyour expectation was sure to turn out correct. "

As I spoke, we had come within a few yards of the Tomkins's cottage, which lay low down from the village towards the river, and I sawthat the water was at the threshold. I turned to Mr Stoddart, who, to do him justice, had not yet grumbled in the least. 

"Perhaps you had better go home, after all, " I said; "for you mustwade into Tomkins's if you go at all. Poor old man! what can he bedoing, with his wife dying, and the river in his house!"

"You have constituted yourself my superior officer, Mr Walton. Inever turned my back on my leader yet. Though I confess I wish Icould see the enemy a little clearer. "

"There is the enemy, " I said, pointing to the water, and walkinginto it. 

Mr Stoddart followed me without a moment's hesitation. 

When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a small stream ofwater running straight from the door to the fire on the hearth, which it had already drowned. The old man was sitting by his wife'sbedside. Life seemed rapidly going from the old woman. She laybreathing very hard. 

"Oh, sir, " said the old man, as he rose, almost crying, "you're comeat last!"

"Did you send for me?" I asked. 

"No, sir. I had nobody to send. Leastways, I asked the Lord if Hewouldn't fetch you. I been prayin' hard for you for the last hour. Icouldn't leave her to come for you. And I do believe the wind 'udha' blown me off my two old legs. "

"Well, I am come, you see. I would have come sooner, but I had noidea you would be flooded. "

"It's not that I mind, sir, though it IS cold sin' the fire went. But she IS goin' now, sir. She ha'n't spoken a word this two hoursand more, and her breathin's worse and worse. She don't know me now, sir. "

A moan of protestation came from the dying woman. 

"She does know you, and loves you too, Tomkins, " I said. "And you'llboth know each other better by and by. "

The old woman made a feeble motion with her hand. I took it in mine. It was cold and deathlike. The rain was falling in large slow dropsfrom the roof upon the bedclothes. But she would be beyond the reachof all the region storms before long, and it did not matter much. 

"Look if you can find a basin or plate, Mr Stoddart, and put it tocatch the drop here, " I said. 

For I wanted to give him the first chance of being useful. 

"There's one in the press there, " said the old man, rising feebly. 

"Keep your seat, " said Mr Stoddart. "I'll get it. "

And he got a basin from the cupboard, and put it on the bed to catchthe drop. 

The old woman held my hand in hers; but by its motion I knew thatshe wanted something; and guessing what it was from what she hadsaid before, I made her husband sit on the bed on the other side ofher and take hold of her other hand, while I took his place on thechair by the bedside. This seemed to content her. So I went andwhispered to Mr Stoddart, who had stood looking on disconsolately:--

"You heard me say I would visit some of my sick people thisafternoon. Some will be expecting me with certainty. You must goinstead of me, and tell them that I cannot come, because old MrsTomkins is dying; but I will see them soon. "

He seemed rather relieved at the commission. I gave him thenecessary directions to find the cottages, and he left me. 

I may mention here that this was the beginning of a relation betweenMr Stoddart and the poor of the parish--a very slight one indeed, at first, for it consisted only in his knowing two or three of them, so as to ask after their health when he met them, and give them anoccasional half-crown. But it led to better things before many yearshad passed. It seems scarcely more than yesterday--though it istwenty years ago--that I came upon him in the avenue, standing indismay over the fragments of a jug of soup which he had dropped, tothe detriment of his trousers as well as the loss of his soup. "Whatam I to do?" he said. "Poor Jones expects his soup to-day. "--"Why, go back and get some more. "--"But what will cook say?" The poor manwas more afraid of the cook than he would have been of a squadron ofcavalry. "Never mind the cook. Tell her you must have some more assoon as it can be got ready. " He stood uncertain for a moment. Thenhis face brightened. "I will tell her I want my luncheon. I alwayshave soup. And I'll get out through the greenhouse, and carry it toJones. "--"Very well, " I said; "that will do capitally. " And I wenton, without caring to disturb my satisfaction by determining whetherthe devotion of his own soup arose more from love to Jones, or fearof the cook. He was a great help to me in the latter part of hislife, especially after I lost good Dr Duncan, and my beloved friendOld Rogers. He was just one of those men who make excellentfront-rank men, but are quite unfit for officers. He could do whathe was told without flinching, but he always required to be told. 

I resumed my seat by the bedside, where the old woman was againmoaning. As soon as I took her hand she ceased, and so I sat till itbegan to grow dark. 

"Are you there, sir?" she would murmur. 

"Yes, I am here. I have a hold of your hand. "

"I can't feel you, sir. "

"But you can hear me. And you can hear God's voice in your heart. Iam here, though you can't feel me. And God is here, though you can'tsee Him. "

She would be silent for a while, and then murmur again--

"Are you there, Tomkins?"

"Yes, my woman, I'm here, " answered the old man to one of thesequestions; "but I wish I was there instead, wheresomever it be asyou're goin', old girl. "

And all that I could hear of her answer was, "Bym by; bym by. "

Why should I linger over the death-bed of an illiterate woman, oldand plain, dying away by inches? Is it only that she died with ahold of my hand, and that therefore I am interested in the story? Itrust not. I was interested in HER. Why? Would my readers be moreinterested if I told them of the death of a young lovely creature, who said touching things, and died amidst a circle of friends, whofelt that the very light of life was being taken away from them? Itwas enough for me that here was a woman with a heart like my own;who needed the same salvation I needed; to whom the love of God wasthe one blessed thing; who was passing through the same dark passageinto the light that the Lord had passed through before her, that Ihad to pass through after her. She had no theories--at least, shegave utterance to none; she had few thoughts of her own--and gavestill fewer of them expression; you might guess at a true notion inher mind, but an abstract idea she could scarcely lay hold of; herspeech was very common; her manner rather brusque than gentle; butshe could love; she could forget herself; she could be sorry forwhat she did or thought wrong; she could hope; she could wish to bebetter; she could admire good people; she could trust in God herSaviour. And now the loving God-made human heart in her was goinginto a new school that it might begin a fresh beautiful growth. Shewas old, I have said, and plain; but now her old age and plainnesswere about to vanish, and all that had made her youth attractive toyoung Tomkins was about to return to her, only rendered tenfold morebeautiful by the growth of fifty years of learning according to herability. God has such patience in working us into vessels of honour!in teaching us to be children! And shall we find the human heart inwhich the germs of all that is noblest and loveliest and likest toGod have begun to grow and manifest themselves uninteresting, because its circumstances have been narrow, bare, andpoverty-stricken, though neither sordid nor unclean; because thewoman is old and wrinkled and brown, as if these were more than thetransient accidents of humanity; because she has neither learnedgrammar nor philosophy; because her habits have neither beendelicate nor self-indulgent? To help the mind of such a woman tounfold to the recognition of the endless delights of truth; to watchthe dawn of the rising intelligence upon the too still face, and thetransfiguration of the whole form, as the gentle rusticity vanishesin yet gentler grace, is a labour and a delight worth the time andmind of an archangel. Our best living poet says--but no; I will notquote. It is a distinct wrong that befalls the best books to havemany of their best words quoted till in their own place andconnexion they cease to have force and influence. The meaning of thepassage is that the communication of truth is one of the greatestdelights the human heart can experience. Surely this is true. Doesnot the teaching of men form a great part of the divine gladness?

Therefore even the dull approaches of death are full of deepsignificance and warm interest to one who loves his fellows, whodesires not to be distinguished by any better fate than theirs; andshrinks from the pride of supposing that his own death, or that ofthe noblest of the good, is more precious in the sight of God thanthat of "one of the least of these little ones. "

At length, after a long silence, the peculiar sounds of obstructedbreathing indicated the end at hand. The jaw fell, and the eyes werefixed. The old man closed the mouth and the eyes of his oldcompanion, weeping like a child, and I prayed aloud, giving thanksto God for taking her to Himself. It went to my heart to leave theold man alone with the dead; but it was better to let him be alonefor a while, ere the women should come to do the last offices forthe abandoned form. 

I went to Old Rogers, told him the state in which I had left poorTomkins, and asked him what was to be done. 

"I'll go and bring him home, sir, directly. He can't be left there. "

"But how can you bring him in such a night?"

"Let me see, sir. I must think. Would your mare go in a cart, do youthink?"

"Quite quietly. She brought a load of gravel from the common a fewdays ago. But where's your cart? I haven't got one. "

"There's one at Weir's to be repaired, sir. It wouldn't be stealingto borrow it. "

How he managed with Tomkins I do not know. I thought it better toleave all the rest to him. He only said afterwards, that he couldhardly get the old man away from the body. But when I went in nextday, I found Tomkins sitting, disconsolate, but as comfortable as hecould be, in the easy chair by the side of the fire. Mrs Rogers wasbustling about cheerily. The storm had died in the night. The sunwas shining. It was the first of the spring weather. The wholecountry was gleaming with water. But soon it would sink away, andthe grass be the thicker for its rising. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

A COUNCIL OF FRIENDS. 

My reader will easily believe that I returned home that Sundayevening somewhat jaded, nor will he be surprised if I say that nextmorning I felt disinclined to leave my bed. I was able, however, torise and go, as I have said, to Old Rogers's cottage. 

But when I came home, I could no longer conceal from myself that Iwas in danger of a return of my last attack. I had been sitting forhours in wet clothes, with my boots full of water, and now I had tosuffer for it. But as I was not to blame in the matter, and had nochoice offered me whether I should be wet or dry while I sat by thedying woman, I felt no depression at the prospect of the comingillness. Indeed, I was too much depressed from other causes, frommental strife and hopelessness, to care much whether I was well orill. I could have welcomed death in the mood in which I sometimesfelt myself during the next few days, when I was unable to leave mybed, and knew that Captain Everard was at the Hall, and knew nothingbesides. For no voice reached me from that quarter any more than ifOldcastle Hall had been a region beyond the grave. Miss Oldcastleseemed to have vanished from my ken as much as Catherine Weir andMrs Tomkins--yes, more--for there was only death between these andme; whereas, there was something far worse--I could not always tellwhat--that rose ever between Miss Oldcastle and myself, andparalysed any effort I might fancy myself on the point of making forher rescue. 

One pleasant thing happened. On the Thursday, I think it was, I feltbetter. My sister came into my room and said that Miss Crowther hadcalled, and wanted to see me. 

"Which Miss Crowther is it?" I asked. 

"The little lady that looks like a bird, and chirps when she talks. "

Of course I was no longer in any doubt as to which of them it was. 

"You told her I had a bad cold, did you not?"

"Oh, yes. But she says if it is only a cold, it will do you no harmto see her. "

"But you told her I was in bed, didn't you?"

"Of course. But it makes no difference. She says she's used toseeing sick folk in bed; and if you don't mind seeing her, shedoesn't mind seeing you. "

"Well, I suppose I must see her, " I said. 

So my sister made me a little tidier, and introduced Miss Crowther. 

"O dear Mr Walton, I am SO sorry! But you're not very ill, are you?"

"I hope not, Miss Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think this morning thatI am going to get off easier than I expected. "

"I am glad of that. Now listen to me. I won't keep you, and it is amatter of some importance. I hear that one of your people is dead, ayoung woman of the name of Weir, who has left a little boy behindher. Now, I have been wanting for a long time to adopt a child----"

"But, " I interrupted her, "What would Miss Hester say?"

"My sister is not so very dreadful as perhaps you think her, MrWalton; and besides, when I do want my own way very particularly, which is not often, for there are not so many things that it's worthwhile insisting upon--but when I DO want my own way, I always haveit. I then stand upon my right of--what do you call it?--primo--primogeniture--that's it! Well, I think I know something ofthis child's father. I am sorry to say I don't know much good ofhim, and that's the worse for the boy. Still----"

"The boy is an uncommonly sweet and lovable child, whoever was hisfather, " I interposed. 

"I am very glad to hear it. I am the more determined to adopt him. What friends has he?"

"He has a grandfather, and an uncle and aunt, and will have agodfather--that's me--in a few days, I hope. "

"I am very glad to hear it. There will be no opposition on the partof the relatives, I presume?"

"I am not so sure of that. I fear I shall object for one, MissJemima. "

"You? I didn't expect that of you, Mr Walton, I must say. "

And there was a tremor in the old lady's voice more ofdisappointment and hurt than of anger. 

"I will think it over, though, and talk about it to his grandfather, and we shall find out what's best, I do hope. You must not think Ishould not like you to have him. "

"Thank you, Mr Walton. Then I won't stay longer now. But I warn youI will call again very soon, if you don't come to see me. Goodmorning. "

And the dear old lady shook hands with me and left me ratherhurriedly, turning at the door, however, to add--

"Mind, I've set my heart upon having the boy, Mr Walton. I've seenhim often. "

What could have made Miss Crowther take such a fancy to the boy? Icould not help associating it with what I had heard of her youthfuldisappointment, but never having had my conjectures confirmed, Iwill say no more about them. Of course I talked the matter over withThomas Weir; but, as I had suspected, I found that he was now asunwilling to part with the boy as he had formerly disliked the sightof him. Nor did I press the matter at all, having a belief that thecircumstances of one's natal position are not to be rudely handledor thoughtlessly altered, besides that I thought Thomas and hisdaughter ought to have all the comfort and good that were to be gotfrom the presence of the boy whose advent had occasioned them somuch trouble and sorrow, yea, and sin too. But I did not give apositive and final refusal to Miss Crowther. I only said "for thepresent;" for I did not feel at liberty to go further. I thoughtthat such changes might take place as would render the trial of sucha new relationship desirable; as, indeed, it turned out in the end, though I cannot tell the story now, but must keep it for a possiblefuture. 

I have, I think, entirely as yet, followed, in these memoirs, theplan of relating either those things only at which I was present, or, if other things, only in the same mode in which I heard them. Iwill now depart from this plan--for once. Years passed before someof the following facts were reported to me, but it is only here thatthey could be interesting to my readers. 

At the very time Miss Crowther was with me, as nearly as I canguess, Old Rogers turned into Thomas Weir's workshop. The usual, onthe present occasion somewhat melancholy, greetings having passedbetween them, Old Rogers said--

"Don't you think, Mr Weir, there's summat the matter wi' parson?"

"Overworked, " returned Weir. "He's lost two, ye see, and had to seethem both safe over, as I may say, within the same day. He's got abad cold, I'm sorry to hear, besides. Have ye heard of him to-day?"

"Yes, yes; he's badly, and in bed. But that's not what I mean. There's summat on his mind, " said Old Rogers. 

"Well, I don't think it's for you or me to meddle with parson'smind, " returned Weir. 

"I'm not so sure o' that, " persisted Rogers. "But if I had thought, Mr Weir, as how you would be ready to take me up short formentionin' of the thing, I wouldn't ha' opened my mouth to you aboutparson--leastways, in that way, I mean. "

"But what way DO you mean, Old Rogers?"

"Why, about his in'ards, you know. "

"I'm no nearer your meanin' yet. "

"Well, Mr Weir, you and me's two old fellows, now--leastways I'm adeal older than you. But that doesn't signify to what I want tosay. "

And here Old Rogers stuck fast--according to Weir's story. 

"It don't seem easy to say no how, Old Rogers, " said Weir. 

"Well, it ain't. So I must just let it go by the run, and hope theparson, who'll never know, would forgive me if he did. "

"Well, then, what is it?"

"It's my opinion that that parson o' ours--you see, we knows aboutit, Mr Weir, though we're not gentlefolks--leastways, I'm none. "

"Now, what DO you mean, Old Rogers?"

"Well, I means this--as how parson's in love. There, that's paidout. "

"Suppose he was, I don't see yet what business that is of yours ormine either. "

"Well, I do. I'd go to Davie Jones for that man. "

A heathenish expression, perhaps; but Weir assured me, with muchamusement in his tone, that those were the very words Old Rogersused. Leaving the expression aside, will the reader think for amoment on the old man's reasoning? My condition WAS his business;for he was ready to die for me! Ah! love does indeed make us alleach other's keeper, just as we were intended to be. 

"But what CAN we do?" returned Weir. 

Perhaps he was the less inclined to listen to the old man, that hewas busy with a coffin for his daughter, who was lying dead down thestreet. And so my poor affairs were talked of over thecoffin-planks. Well, well, it was no bad omen. 

"I tell you what, Mr Weir, this here's a serious business. And itseems to me it's not shipshape o' you to go on with that plane o'yours, when we're talkin' about parson. "

"Well, Old Rogers, I meant no offence. Here goes. NOW, what have youto say? Though if it's offence to parson you're speakin' of, I know, if I were parson, who I'd think was takin' the greatest liberty, mewi' my plane, or you wi' your fancies. "

"Belay there, and hearken. "

So Old Rogers went into as many particulars as he thought fit, toprove that his suspicion as to the state of my mind was correct;which particulars I do not care to lay in a collected form before myreader, he being in no need of such a summing up to give hisverdict, seeing the parson has already pleaded guilty. When he hadfinished, "Supposing all you say, Old Rogers, " remarked Thomas, "I don't yetsee what WE'VE got to do with it. Parson ought to know best whathe's about. "

"But my daughter tells me, " said Rogers, "that Miss Oldcastle has nomind to marry Captain Everard. And she thinks if parson would onlyspeak out he might have a chance. "

Weir made no reply, and was silent so long, with his head bent, thatRogers grew impatient. 

"Well, man, ha' you nothing to say now--not for your best friend--onearth, I mean--and that's parson? It may seem a small matter to you, but it's no small matter to parson. "

"Small to me!" said Weir, and taking up his tool, a constantrecourse with him when agitated, he began to plane furiously. 

Old Rogers now saw that there was more in it than he had thought, and held his peace and waited. After a minute or two of fierceactivity, Thomas lifted up a face more white than the deal board hewas planing, and said, "You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old Rogers. "

He then laid down his plane, and went out of the workshop, leavingRogers standing there in bewilderment. But he was not gone manyminutes. He returned with a letter in his hand. 

"There, " he said, giving it to Rogers. 

"I can't read hand o' write, " returned Rogers. "I ha' enough adowith straight-foret print But I'll take it to parson. "

"On no account, " returned Thomas, emphatically "That's not what Igave it you for. Neither you nor parson has any right to read thatletter; and I don't want either of you to read it. Can Jane readwriting?"

"I don't know as she can, for, you see, what makes lasses take towritin' is when their young man's over the seas, leastways not inthe mill over the brook. "

"I'll be back in a minute, " said Thomas, and taking the letter fromRogers's hand, he left the shop again. 

He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an envelope, addressed to Miss Oldcastle. 

"Now, you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Oldcastle fromme--mind, from ME; and she must give it into her own hands, and letno one else see it. And I must have it again. Mind you tell her allthat, Old Rogers. "

"I will. It's for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know on't. Andyou're to have it again all safe when done with. "

"Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?"

"I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can't know anythink inthe letter now, Mr Weir. "

I know that; but Marshmallows is a talkin' place. And poor Kateain't right out o' hearin' yet. --You'll come and see her buriedto-morrow, won't ye, Old Rogers?"

"I will, Thomas. You've had a troubled life, but thank God the suncame out a bit before she died. "

"That's true, Rogers. It's all right, I do think, though I grumbledlong and sore. But Jane mustn't speak of that letter. "

"No. That she shan't. "

"I'll tell you some day what's in it. But I can't bear to talk aboutit yet"

And so they parted. 

I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead out of mysight or to comfort my living the next Sunday. I got help fromAddicehead, however, and the dead bodies were laid aside in theancient wardrobe of the tomb. They were both buried by myvestry-door, Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, inthe grave of her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the other side ofthe path. 

On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she carried itto the Hall. It was not till she had to wait on her mistress beforeleaving her for the night that she found an opportunity of giving itinto her own hands. 

Then when her bell rang, Jane went up to her room, and found her sopale and haggard that she was frightened. She had thrown herselfback on the couch, with her hands lying by her sides, as if shecared for nothing in this world or out of it. But when Jane entered, she started and sat up, and tried to look like herself. Her face, however, was so pitiful, that honest-hearted Jane could not helpcrying, upon which the responsive sisterhood overcame the proudlady, and she cried too. Jane had all but forgotten the letter, ofthe import of which she had no idea, for her father had taken careto rouse no suspicions in her mind. But when she saw her cry, thelonging to give her something, which comes to us all when we witnesstrouble--for giving seems to mean everything-brought to her mind theletter she had undertaken to deliver to her. Now she had no notion, as I have said, that the letter had anything to do with her presentperplexity, but she hoped it might divert her thoughts for a moment, which is all that love at a distance can look for sometimes. 

"Here is a letter, " said Jane, "that Mr Weir the carpenter gave tomy father to give to me to bring to you, miss. "

"What is it about, Jane?" she asked listlessly. 

Then a sudden flash broke from her eyes, and she held out her handeagerly to take it. She opened it and read it with changing colour, but when she had finished it, her cheeks were crimson, and her eyesglowing like fire. 

"The wretch, " she said, and threw the letter from her into themiddle of the floor. 

Jane, who remembered the injunctions of her father as to the safetyand return of the letter, stooped to pick it up: but had hardlyraised herself when the door opened, and in came Mrs Oldcastle. Themoment she saw her mother, Ethelwyn rose, and advancing to meet her, said, "Mother, I will NOT marry that man. You may do what you please withme, but I WILL NOT. "

"Heigho!" exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle with spread nostrils, and turningsuddenly upon Jane, snatched the letter out of her hand. 

She opened and read it, her face getting more still and stony as sheread. Miss Oldcastle stood and looked at her mother with cheeks nowpale but with still flashing eyes. The moment her mother hadfinished the letter, she walked swiftly to the fire, tearing theletter as she went, and thrust it between the bars, pushing it infiercely with the poker, and muttering--

"A vile forgery of those low Chartist wretches! As if he would everhave looked at one of THEIR women! A low conspiracy to get moneyfrom a gentleman in his honourable position!"

And for the first time since she went to the Hall, Jane said, therewas colour in that dead white face. 

She turned once more, fiercer than ever, upon Jane, and in a tone ofrage under powerful repression, began:--

"You leave the house--THIS INSTANT. "

The last two words, notwithstanding her self-command, rose to ascream. And she came from the fire towards Jane, who stood tremblingnear the door, with such an expression on her countenance thatabsolute fear drove her from the room before she knew what she wasabout. The locking of the door behind her let her know that she hadabandoned her young mistress to the madness of her mother's eviltemper and disposition. But it was too late. She lingered by thedoor and listened, but beyond an occasional hoarse tone ofsuppressed energy, she heard nothing. At length the lock--assuddenly turned, and she was surprised by Mrs Oldcastle, if not in alistening attitude, at least where she had no right to be after thedismissal she had received. 

Opposite Miss Oldcastle's bedroom was another, seldom used, the doorof which was now standing open. Instead of speaking to Jane, MrsOldcastle gave her a violent push, which drove her into this room. Thereupon she shut the door and locked it. Jane spent the wholeof the night in that room, in no small degree of trepidation as towhat might happen next. But she heard no noise all the rest of thenight, part of which, however, was spent in sound sleep, for Jane'sconscience was in no ways disturbed as to any part she had played inthe current events. 

It was not till the morning that she examined the door, to see ifshe could not manage to get out and escape from the house, for sheshared with the rest of the family an indescribable fear of MrsOldcastle and her confidante, the White Wolf. But she found it wasof no use: the lock was at least as strong as the door. Being asensible girl and self-possessed, as her parents' child ought to be, she made no noise, but waited patiently for what might come. Atlength, hearing a step in the passage, she tapped gently at the doorand called, "Who's there?" The cook's voice answered. 

"Let me out, " said Jane. "The door's locked. " The cook tried, butfound there was no key. Jane told her how she came there, and thecook promised to get her out as soon as she could. Meantime all shecould do for her was to hand her a loaf of bread on a stick from thenext window. It had been long dark before some one unlocked thedoor, and left her at liberty to go where she pleased, of which shedid not fail to make immediate use. 

Unable to find her young mistress, she packed her box, and, leavingit behind her, escaped to her father. As soon as she had told himthe story, he came straight to me. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE NEXT THING. 

As I sat in my study, in the twilight of that same day, the door washurriedly opened, and Judy entered. She looked about the room with aquick glance to see that we were alone, then caught my hand in bothof hers, and burst out crying. 

"Why, Judy!" I said, "what IS the matter?" But the sobs would notallow her to answer. I was too frightened to put any more questions, and so stood silent--my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waitedfor death to fill it. At length with a strong effort she checked thesuccession of her sobs, and spoke. 

"They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already, " said thechild, again bursting into tears. 

"Tell me, Judy, what CAN I do for her?"

"You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved her as much as I do, youwould find out what to do. "

"But she will not let me do anything for her. "

"Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some day. "

"Did she send you, then?"

"No. She did not send me. "

"Then how--what--what can I do!"

"Oh, you exact people! You must have everything square and in printbefore you move. If it had been me now, wouldn't I have been offlike a shot! Do get your hat, Mr Walton. "

"Come, then, Judy. I will go at once. --Shall I see her?"

And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her from herpersecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea how it was to beeffected. 

"We will talk about that as we go, " said Judy, authoritatively. 

In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a still night, withan odour of damp earth, and a hint of green buds in it. A palehalf-moon hung in the sky, now and then hidden by the clouds thatswept across it, for there was wind in the heavens, though uponearth all was still. I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand, and we walked on without a word till we had got through the villageand out upon the road. 

"Now, Judy, " I said at last, "tell me what they are doing to youraunt?"

"I don't know what they are doing. But I am sure she will die. "

"Is she ill?"

"She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room. Granniemust have frightened her dreadfully. Everybody is frightened at herbut me, and I begin to be frightened too. And what will become ofauntie then?"

"But what can her mother do to her?"

"I don't know. I think it is her determination to have her own waythat makes auntie afraid she will get it somehow; and she says nowshe will rather die than marry Captain Everard. Then there is no oneallowed to wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of heris enough to turn auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane Idon't know. I haven't seen her all day, and the servants arewhispering together more than usual. Auntie can't eat what Sarahbrings her, I am sure; else I should almost fancy she was starvingherself to death to keep clear of that Captain Everard. "

"Is he still at the Hall?"

"Yes. But I don't think it is altogether his fault. Grannie won'tlet him go. I don't believe he knows how determined auntie is not tomarry him. Only, to be sure, though grannie never lets her have morethan five shillings in her pocket at a time, she will be worthsomething when she is married. "

"Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy, " I said, perhapswith some discontent in my tone. 

"That's as you and I think, Mr Walton; not as grannie and thecaptain think at all. I daresay he would not care much more thangrannie whether she was willing or not, so long as she married him. "

"But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach the Hall;else my coming will be of no use. "

"Of course. I know how much I can do, and you must arrange the restwith her. I will take you to the little room up-stairs--we call itthe octagon. That you know is just under auntie's room. They will beat dinner--the captain and grannie. I will leave you there, andtell auntie that you want to see her. "

"But, Judy, ---"

"Don't you want to see her, Mr Walton?"

"Yes, I do; more than you can think. "

"Then I will tell her so. "

"But will she come to me?"

"I don't know. We have to find that out. "

"Very well. I leave myself in your hands. "

I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and distress weregone, for I had something to do, although what I could not yet tell. That she did not love Captain Everard was plain, and that she had asyet resisted her mother was also plain, though it was not equallycertain that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to resist her. This was what I hoped to strengthen her to do. I saw nothing morewithin my reach as yet. But from what I knew of Miss Oldcastle, Isaw plainly enough that no greater good could be done for her thanthis enabling to resistance. Self-assertion was so foreign to hernature, that it needed a sense of duty to rouse her even toself-defence. As I have said before, she was clad in the mail ofendurance, but was utterly without weapons. And there was a dangerof her conduct and then of her mind giving way at last, from thegradual inroads of weakness upon the thews which she leftunexercised. In respect of this, I prayed heartily that I might helpher. 

Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from the moment we enteredthe gate till I found myself at a side door which I had neverobserved till now. It was fastened, and Judy told me to wait tillshe went in and opened it. The moon was now quite obscured, and Iwas under no apprehension of discovery. While I stood there I couldnot help thinking of Dr Duncan's story, and reflecting that thedaughter was now returning the kindness shown to the mother. 

I had not to wait long before the door opened behind me noiselessly, and I stepped into the dark house. Judy took me by the hand, and ledme along a passage, and then up a stair into the littledrawing-room. There was no light. She led me to a seat at thefarther end, and opening a door close beside me, left me in thedark. 

There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, broken ever bystartled expectation. Castle after castle I built up; castle aftercastle fell to pieces in my hands. Still she did not come. At lengthI got so restless and excited that only the darkness kept me fromstarting up and pacing the room. Still she did not come, and partlyfrom weakness, partly from hope deferred, I found myself beginningto tremble all over. Nor could I control myself. As the tremblingincreased, I grew alarmed lest I should become unable to carry outall that might be necessary. 

Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my arm. I looked upand could just see the whiteness of a face. Before I could speak, avoice said brokenly, in a half-whisper:--

"WILL you save me, Mr Walton? But you're trembling; you are ill; youought not to have come to me. I will get you something. "

And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trembling was gone in amoment. Her words, so careful of me even in her deep misery, went tomy heart and gave me strength. The suppressed feelings of manymonths rushed to my lips. What I said I do not know, but I know thatI told her I loved her. And I know that she did not draw her handfrom mine when I said so. 

But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling. 

"Forgive me, " I said, "I am selfishness itself to speak to you thusnow, to take advantage of your misery to make you listen to mine. But, at least, it will make you sure that if all I am, all I havewill save you--"

"But I am saved already, " she interposed, "if you love me--for Ilove you. "

And for some moments there were no words to speak. I stood holdingher hand, conscious only of God and her. At last I said:

"There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see anything but togo with me at once. Will you come home to my sister? Or I will takeyou wherever you please. "

"I will go with you anywhere you think best. Only take me away. "

"Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle allabout it as we go. "

She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door. 

"No lights here!" she said. "Sarah, bring candles, and tell CaptainEverard, when he will join us, to come to the octagon room. Wherecan that little Judy be? The child gets more and more troublesome, Ido think. I must take her in hand. "

I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that I was there;for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice out of the darkness ofher boudoir, or to wait for candles to discover you where shethought she was quite alone--neither is a pleasant way of presentingyourself to her consciousness. But I was helped out of the beginninginto the middle of my difficulties, once more by that blessed littleJudy. I did not know she was in the room till I heard her voice. Nordo I yet know how much she had heard of the conversation between heraunt and myself; for although I sometimes see her look roguish evennow that she is a middle-aged woman with many children, whenanything is said which might be supposed to have a possiblereference to that night, I have never cared to ask her. 

"Here I" am, grannie, " said her voice. "But I won't be taken in handby you or any one else. I tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton ishere, too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a long walk. "

"What do you mean, you silly child ?"

"I mean what I say, " and "Miss Judy speaks the truth, " fell togetherfrom her lips and mine. 

"Mr Walton, " began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, "it is scarcely likea gentleman to come where you are not wanted---"

Here Judy interrupted her. 

"I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted--very muchwanted. I went and fetched him. "

But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding. 

"---and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!"

"That couldn't be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with candles. "

"Sarah, " said Mrs Oldcastle, "ask Captain Everard to be kind enoughto step this way. "

"Yes, ma'am, " answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at me asshe set down the candles. 

We could now see each other. Knowing words to be but idle breath, Iwould not complicate matters by speech, but stood silent, regardingMrs Oldcastle. She on her part did not flinch, but returned my lookwith one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few moments, CaptainEverard entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs Oldcastle as iffor an explanation. Whereupon she spoke, but to me. 

"Mr Walton, " she said, "will you explain to Captain Everard to whatwe owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?"

"Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation from me. To you, Mrs Oldcastle, I would have answered, had you asked me, that I waswaiting for Miss Oldcastle. "

"Pray inform Miss Oldcastle, Judy, that Mr Walton insists uponseeing her at once. "

"That is quite unnecessary. Miss Oldcastle will be here presently, "I said. 

Mrs Oldcastle turned slightly livid with wrath. She was alwayswhite, as I have said: the change I can describe only by the word Ihave used, indicating a bluish darkening of the whiteness. Shewalked towards the door beside me. I stepped between her and it. 

"Pardon me, Mrs Oldcastle. That is the way to Miss Oldcastle's room. I am here to protect her. "

Without saying a word she turned and looked at Captain Everard. Headvanced with a long stride of determination. But ere he reached me, the door behind me opened, and Miss Oldcastle appeared in her bonnetand shawl, catrying a small bag in her hand. Seeing how things were, the moment she entered, she put her hand on my arm, and stoodfronting the enemy with me. Judy was on my right, her eyes flashing, and her cheek as red as a peony, evidently prepared to do battle atoute outrance for her friends. 

"Miss Oldcastle, go to your room instantly, I COMMAND you, " said hermother; and she approached as if to remove her hand from my arm. Iput my other arm between her and her daughter. 

"No, Mrs Oldcastle, " I said. "You have lost all a mother's rights byceasing to behave like a mother, Miss Oldcastle will never more doanything in obedience to your commands, whatever she may do incompliance with your wishes. "

"Allow me to remark, " said Captain Everard, with attemptednonchalance, "that that is strange doctrine for your cloth. "

"So much the worse for my cloth, then, " I answered, "and the betterfor yours if it leads you to act more honourably. "

Still keeping himself entrenched in the affectation of asupercilious indifference, he smiled haughtily, and gave a look ofdramatic appeal to Mrs Oldcastle. 

"At least, " said that lady, "do not disgrace yourself, Ethelwyn, byleaving the house in this unaccountable manner at night and on foot. If you WILL leave the protection of your mother's roof, wait atleast till tomorrow. "

"I would rather spend the night in the open air than pass anotherunder your roof, mother. You have been a strange mother to me--andDorothy too!"

"At least do not put your character in question by going in thisunmaidenly fashion. People will talk to your prejudice--and MrWalton's too. "

Ethelwyn smiled. --She was now as collected as I was, seeming to havecast off all her weakness. My heart was uplifted more than I cansay. --She knew her mother too well to be caught by the change in hertone. 

I had not hitherto interrupted her once when she took the answerupon herself, for she was not one to be checked when she chose tospeak. But now she answered nothing, only looked at me, and Iunderstood her, of course. 

"They will hardly have time to do so, I trust, before it will be outof their power. It rests with Miss Oldcastle herself to say whenthat shall be. "

As if she had never suspected that such was the result of herscheming, Mrs Oldcastle's demeanour changed utterly. The form of hervisage was altered. She made a spring at her daughter, and seizedher by the arm. 

"Then I forbid it, " she screamed; "and I WILL be obeyed. I stand onmy rights. Go to your room, you minx. "

"There is no law human or divine to prevent her from marrying whomshe will. How old are you, Ethelwyn?"

I thought it better to seem even cooler than I was. 

"Twenty-seven, " answered Miss Oldcastle. 

"Is it possible you can be so foolish, Mrs Oldcastle, as to thinkyou have the slightest hold on your daughter's freedom? Let her armgo. "

But she kept her grasp. 

"You hurt me, mother, " said Miss Oldcastle. 

"Hurt you? you smooth-faced hypocrite! I will hurt you then!"

But I took Mrs Oldcastle's arm in my hand, and she let go her hold. 

"How dare you touch a woman?" she said. 

"Because she has so far ceased to be a woman as to torture her owndaughter. "

Here Captain Everard stepped forward, saying, --

"The riot-act ought to be read, I think. It is time for the militaryto interfere. "

"Well put, Captain Everard, " I said. "Our side will disperse if youwill only leave room for us to go. "

"Possibly _I_ may have something to say in the matter. "

"Say on. "

"This lady has jilted me. "

"Have you, Ethelwyn?"

"I have not. "

"Then, Captain Everard, you lie. "

"You dare to tell me so?"

And he strode a pace nearer. 

"It needs no daring. I know you too well; and so does another whotrusted you and found you false as hell. "

"You presume on your cloth, but--" he said, lifting his hand. 

"You may strike me, presuming on my cloth, " I answered; "and I willnot return your blow. Insult me as you will, and I will bear it. Call me coward, and I will say nothing. But lay one hand on me toprevent me from doing my duty, and I knock you down--or find youmore of a man than I take you for. "

It was either conscience or something not so good that made a cowardof him. He turned on his heel. 

"I really am not sufficiently interested in the affair to opposeyou. You may take the girl for me. Both your cloth and the presenceof ladies protect your insolence. I do not like brawling where onecannot fight. You shall hear from me before long, Mr Walton. "

"No, Captain Everard, I shall not hear from you. You know you darenot write to me. I know that of you which, even on the code of theduellist, would justify any gentleman in refusing to meet you. Standout of my way!"

I advanced with Miss Oldcastle on my arm. He drew back; and we leftthe room. 

As we reached the door, Judy bounded after us, threw her arms roundher aunt's neck, then round mine, kissing us both, and returned toher place on the sofa. Mrs Oldcastle gave a scream, and sunkfainting on a chair. It was a last effort to detain her daughter andgain time. Miss Oldcastle would have returned, but I would notpermit her. 

"No, " I said; "she will be better without you. Judy, ring the bellfor Sarah. "

"How dare you give orders in my house?" exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, sitting bolt upright in the chair, and shaking her fist at us. Thenassuming the heroic, she added, "From this moment she is no daughterof mine. Nor can you touch one farthing of her money, sir. You havemarried a beggar after all, and that you'll both know before long. "

"Thy money perish with thee!" I said, and repented the moment I hadsaid it. It sounded like an imprecation, and I know I had nocorrespondent feeling; for, after all, she was the mother of myEthelwyn. But the allusion to money made me so indignant, that thewords burst from me ere I could consider their import. 

The cool wind greeted us like the breath of God, as we left thehouse and closed the door behind us. The moon was shining from theedge of a vaporous mountain, which gradually drew away from her, leaving her alone in the midst of a lake of blue. But we had notgone many paces from the house when Miss Oldcastle began to trembleviolently, and could scarcely get along with all the help I couldgive her. Nor, for the space of six weeks did one word pass betweenus about the painful occurrences of that evening. For all that timeshe was quite unable to bear it. 

When we managed at last to reach the vicarage, I gave her in chargeto my sister, with instructions to help her to bed at once, while Iwent for Dr Duncan. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

OLD ROGERS'S THANKSGIVING. 

I found the old man seated at his dinner, which he left immediatelywhen he heard that Miss Oldcastle needed his help. In a few words Itold him, as we went, the story of what had befallen at the Hall, towhich he listened with the interest of a boy reading a romance, asking twenty questions about the particulars which I hurried over. Then he shook me warmly by the hand, saying--

"You have fairly won her, Walton, and I am as glad of it as I couldbe of anything I can think of. She is well worth all you must havesuffered. This will at length remove the curse from that wretchedfamily. You have saved her from perhaps even a worse fate than hersister's. "

"I fear she will be ill, though, " I said, "after all that she hasgone through. "

But I did not even suspect how ill she would be. 

As soon as I heard Dr Duncan's opinion of her, which was not verydefinite, a great fear seized upon me that I was destined to loseher after all. This fear, however, terrible as it was, did nottorture me like the fear that had preceded it. I could oftener feelable to say, "Thy will be done" than I could before. 

Dr Duncan was hardly out of the house when Old Rogers arrived, andwas shown into the study. He looked excited. I allowed him to tellout his story, which was his daughter's of course, withoutinterruption. He ended by saying:--

"Now, sir, you really must do summat. This won't do in a Christiancountry. We ain't aboard ship here with a nor'-easter a-walkin' thequarter-deck. "

"There's no occasion, my dear old fellow, to do anything. "

He was taken aback. 

"Well, I don't understand you, Mr Walton. You're the last man I'dhave expected to hear argufy for faith without works. It's right totrust in God; but if you don't stand to your halliards, your craft'll miss stays, and your faith 'll be blown out of the bolt-ropes inthe turn of a marlinspike. "

I suspect there was some confusion in the figure, but the old man'smeaning was plain enough. Nor would I keep him in a moment more ofsuspense. 

"Miss Oldcastle is in the house, Old Rogers, " I said. 

"What house, sir?" returned the old man, his gray eyes opening wideras he spoke. 

"This house, to be sure. "

I shall never forget the look the old man cast upwards, or thereality given to it by the ordinarily odd sailor-fashion of pullinghis forelock, as he returned inward thanks to the Father of all forHis kindness to his friend. And never in my now wide circle ofreaders shall I find one, the most educated and responsive, who willlisten to my story with a more gracious interest than that old manshowed as I recounted to him the adventures of the evening. Therewere few to whom I could have told them: to Old Rogers I felt thatit was right and natural and dignified to tell the story even of mylove's victory. 

How then am I able to tell it to the world as now? I can easilyexplain the seeming inconsistency. It is not merely that I amspeaking, as I have said before, from behind a screen, or as clothedin the coat of darkness of an anonymous writer; but I find that, asI come nearer and nearer to the invisible world, all my brothers andsisters grow dearer and dearer to me; I feel towards them more andmore as the children of my Father in heaven; and although some ofthem are good children and some naughty children, some very lovableand some hard to love, yet I never feel that they are below me, orunfit to listen to the story even of my love, if they only care tolisten; and if they do not care, there is no harm done, except theyread it. Even should they, and then scoff at what seemed and seemsto me the precious story, I have these defences: first, that it wasnot for them that I cast forth my precious pearls, for precious tome is the significance of every fact in my history--not that it ismine, for I have only been as clay in the hands of the potter, butthat it is God's, who made my history as it seemed and was good toHim; and second, that even should they trample them under theirfeet, they cannot well get at me to rend me. And more, the nearer Icome to the region beyond, the more I feel that in that land a manneeds not shrink from uttering his deepest thoughts, inasmuch as hethat understands them not will not therefore revile him. --"But youare not there yet. You are in the land in which the brother speakethevil of that which he understandeth not. "--True, friend; too true. But I only do as Dr Donne did in writing that poem in his sickness, when he thought he was near to the world of which we speak: Irehearse now, that I may find it easier then. 

 "Since I am coming to that holy room, Where, with the choir of saints for evermore, I shall be made thy music, as I come, I tune the instrument here at the door; And what I must do then, think here before. "

When Rogers had thanked God, he rose, took my hand, and said:--

"Mr Walton, you WILL preach now. I thank God for the good we shallall get from the trouble you have gone through. "

"I ought to be the better for it, " I answered. 

"You WILL be the better for it, " he returned. "I believe I've allusbeen the better for any trouble as ever I had to go through with. Icouldn't quite say the same for every bit of good luck I had;leastways, I considei trouble the best luck a man can have. And Iwish you a good night, sir. Thank God! again. "

"But, Rogers, you don't mean it would be good for us to have badluck always, do you? You shouldn't be pleased at what's come to menow, in that case. "

"No, sir, sartinly not. "

"How can you say, then, that bad luck is the best luck?"

"I mean the bad luck that comes to us--not the bad luck that doesn'tcome. But you're right, sir. Good luck or bad luck's both best whenHE sends 'em, as He allus does. In fac', sir, there is no bad luckbut what comes out o' the man hisself. The rest's all good. "

But whether it was the consequence of a reaction from the mentalstrain I had suffered, or the depressing effect of Miss Oldcastle'sillness coming so close upon the joy of winning her; or that I wasmore careless and less anxious to do my duty than I ought to havebeen--I greatly fear that Old Rogers must have been painfullydisappointed in the sermons which I did preach for several of thefollowing Sundays. He never even hinted at such a fact, but I feltit much myself. A man has often to be humbled through failure, especially after success. I do not clearly know how my failuresworked upon me; but I think a man may sometimes get spiritual goodwithout being conscious of the point of its arrival, or being ableto trace the process by which it was wrought in him. I believe thatmy failures did work some humility in me, and a certain carelessnessof outward success even in spiritual matters, so far as the successaffected me, provided only the will of God was done in the dishonourof my weakness. And I think, but I am not sure, that soon after Iapproached this condition of mind, I began to preach better. Butstill I found for some time that however much the subject of mysermon interested me in my study or in the church or vestry on theSaturday evening; nay, even although my heart was full of fervourduring the prayers and lessons; no sooner had I begun to speak thanthe glow died out of the sky of my thoughts; a dull clearness of theintellectual faculties took its place; and I was painfully awarethat what I could speak without being moved myself was not the mostlikely utterance to move the feelings of those who only listened. Still a man may occasionally be used by the Spirit of God as theinglorious "trumpet of a prophecy" instead of being inspired withthe life of the Word, and hence speaking out of a full heart intestimony of that which he hath known and seen. 

I hardly remember when or how I came upon the plan, but now, asoften as I find myself in such a condition, I turn away from anyattempt to produce a sermon; and, taking up one of the sayings ofour Lord which He himself has said "are spirit and are life, " Ilabour simply to make the people see in it what I see in it; andwhen I find that thus my own heart is warmed, I am justified in thehope that the hearts of some at least of my hearers are therebywarmed likewise. 

But no doubt the fact that the life of Miss Oldcastle seemed totremble in the balance, had something to do with those results ofwhich I may have already said too much. My design had been to go atonce to London and make preparation for as early a wedding as shewould consent to; but the very day after I brought her home, lifeand not marriage was the question. Dr Duncan looked very grave, andalthough he gave me all the encouragement he could, all hisencouragement did not amount to much. There was such a lack ofvitality about her! The treatment to which she had been for so longa time subjected had depressed her till life was nearly quenchedfrom lack of hope. Nor did the sudden change seem able to restorethe healthy action of what the old physicians called the animalspirits. Possibly the strong reaction paralysed their channels, andthus prevented her gladness from reaching her physical nature so asto operate on its health. Her whole complaint appeared in excessiveweakness. Finding that she fainted after every little excitement, Ileft her for four weeks entirely to my sister and Dr Duncan, duringwhich time she never saw me; and it was long before I could ventureto stay in her room more than a minute or two. But as the summerapproached she began to show signs of reviving life, and by the endof May was able to be wheeled into the garden in a chair. 

During her aunt's illness, Judy came often to the vicarage. But MissOldcastle was unable to see her any more than myself without thepainful consequence which I have mentioned. So the dear child alwayscame to me in the study, and through her endless vivacity infectedme with some of her hope. For she had no fears whatever about heraunt's recovery. 

I had had some painful apprehensions as to the treatment Judyherself might meet with from her grandmother, and had been doubtfulwhether I ought not to hive carried her off as well as her aunt; butthe first time she came, which was the next day, she set my mind atrest on that subject. 

"But does your grannie know where you are come?" I had asked her. 

"So well, Mr Walton, " sne replied, "that there was no occasion totell her. Why shouldn't I rebel as well as Aunt Wynnie, I wonder?"she added, looking archness itself. 

"How does she bear it?"

"Bear what, Mr Walton?"

"The loss of your aunt. "

"You don't think grannie cares about that, do you! She's vexedenough at the loss of Captain Everard, --Do you know, I think he hadtoo much wine yesterday, or he wouldn't have made quite such a foolof himself. "

"I fear he hadn't had quite enough to give him courage, Judy. Idaresay he was brave enough once, but a bad conscience soon destroysa man's courage. "

"Why do you call it a bad conscience, Mr Walton? I should havethought that a bad conscience was one that would let a girl go onanyhow and say nothing about it to make her uncomfortable. "

"You are quite right, Judy; that is the worst kind of conscience, certainly. But tell me, how does Mrs Oldcastle bear it?"

"You asked me that already. "

Somehow Judy's words always seem more pert upon paper than they didupon her lips. Her naivete, the twinkling light in her eyes, and thesmile flitting about her mouth, always modified greatly theexpression of her words. 

"--Grannie never says a word about you or auntie either. "

"But you said she was vexed: how do you know that?"

"Because ever since the captain went away this morning, she won'tspeak a word to Sarah even. "

"Are you not afraid of her locking you up some day or other?"

"Not a bit of it. Grannie won't touch me. And you shouldn't tempt meto run away from her like auntie. I won't. Grannie is a naughty oldlady, and I don't believe anybody loves her but me--not Sarah, I'mcertain. Therefore I can't leave her, and I won't leave her, MrWalton, whatever you may say about her. "

"Indeed, I don't want you to leave her, Judy. "

And Judy did not leave her as long as she lived. And the old lady'slove to that child was at least one redeeming point in her fiercecharacter. No one can tell how mucn good it may have done her beforeshe died--though but a few years passed before her soul was requiredof her. Before that time came, however, a quarrel took place betweenher and Sarah, which quarrel I incline to regard as a hopeful sign. And to this day Judy has never heard how her old grannie treated hermother. When she learns it now from these pages I think she will beglad that she did not know it before her death. 

The old lady would see neither doctor nor parson; nor would she hearof sending for her daughter. The only sign of softening that shegave was that once she folded her granddaughter in her arms and weptlong and bitterly. Perhaps the thought of her dying child came backupon her, along with the reflection that the only friend she had wasthe child of that marriage which she had persecuted to dissolution. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

TOM'S STORY. 

My reader will perceive that this part of my story is drawing to aclose. It embraces but a brief period of my life, and I have plentymore behind not altogether unworthy of record. But the portions ofany man's life most generally interesting are those in which, whilethe outward history is most stirring, it derives its chiefsignificance from accompanying conflict within. It is not the rapidchange of events, or the unusual concourse of circumstances thatalone can interest the thoughtful mind; while, on the other hand, internal change and tumult can be ill set forth to the reader, savethey be accompanied and in part, at least, occasioned by outwardevents capable of embodying and elucidating the things that are ofthemselves unseen. For man's life ought to be a whole; and not tomention the spiritual necessities of our nature--to leave the factalone that a man is a mere thing of shreds and patches until hisheart is united, as the Psalmist says, to fear the name of God--toleave these considerations aside, I say, no man's life is fit forrepresentation as a work of art save in proportion as there has beena significant relation between his outer and inner life, a visibleoutcome of some sort of harmony between them. Therefore I chose theportion in which I had suffered most, and in which the outwardoccurrences of my own life had been most interesting, for thefullest representation; while I reserve for a more occasional andfragmentary record many things in the way of experience, thought, observation, and facts in the history both of myself and individualsof my flock, which admit of, and indeed require, a more individualtreatment than would be altogether suitable to a continuous story. But before I close this part of my communications with those whom Icount my friends, for till they assure me of the contrary I mean toflatter myself with considering my readers generally as such, I mustgather up the ends of my thread, and dispose them in such a mannerthat they shall neither hang too loose, nor yet refuse length enoughfor what my friend Rogers would call splicing. 

It was yet summer when Miss Oldcastle and I were married. It was tome a day awful in its gladness. She was now quite well, and noshadow hung upon her half-moon forehead. We went for a fortnightinto Wales, and then returned to the vicarage and the duties of theparish, in which my wife was quite ready to assist me. 

Perhaps it would help the wives of some clergymen out of somedifficulties, and be their protection against some reproaches, ifthey would at once take the position with regard to the parishionerswhich Mrs Walton took, namely, that of their servant, but not in herown right--in her husband's. She saw, and told them so, that thebest thing she could do for them was to help me, that she held nooffice whatever in the parish, and they must apply to me whenanything went amiss. Had she not constantly refused to be a "judgeor a divider, " she would have been constantly troubled with quarrelstoo paltry to be referred to me, and which were the sooner forgottenthat the litigants were not drawn on further and further into thedesert of dispute by the mirage of a justice that could quench nothirst. Only when any such affair was brought before me, did she useher good offices to bring about a right feeling between thecontending parties, generally next-door neighbours, and mostlywomen, who, being at home all day, found their rights clash in amanner that seldom happened with those that worked in the fields. Whatever her counsel could do, however, had full scope through me, who earnestly sought it. And whatever she gave the poor, she gave asa private person, out of her own pocket. She never administered thecommunion offering--that is, after finding out, as she soon did, that it was a source of endless dispute between some of therecipients, who regarded it as their common property, and were neversatisfied with what they received. This is the case in many countryparishes, I fear. As soon as I came to know it, I simply told therecipients that, although the communion offering belonged to them, yet the distribution of it rested entirely with me; and that I woulddistribute it neither according to their fancied merits nor thedegree of friendship I felt for them, but according to the bestjudgment I could form as to their necessities; and if any of themthought these were underrated, they were quite at liberty to make afresh representation of them to me; but that I, who knew more abouttheir neighbours than it was likely they did, and was not prejudicedby the personal regards which they could hardly fail to beinfluenced by, was more likely than they were to arrive at anequitable distribution of the money--upon my principles if not ontheirs. And at the same time I tried to show them that a very greatpart of the disputes in the world came from our having a very keenfeeling of our own troubles, and a very dull feeling of ourneighbour's; for if the case was reversed, and our neighbour'scondition became ours, ten to one our judgment would be reversedlikewise. And I think some of them got some sense out of what Isaid. But I ever found the great difficulty in my dealing with mypeople to be the preservation of the authority which was needful forservice; for when the elder serve the younger--and in many cases itis not age that determines seniority--they must not forget thatwithout which the service they offer will fail to be received assuch by those to whom it is offered. At the same time they must evertake heed that their claim to authority be founded on the truth, andnot on ecclesiastical or social position. Their standing in thechurch accredits their offer of service: the service itself can onlybe accredited by the Truth and the Lord of Truth, who is the servantof all. 

But it cost both me and my wife some time and some suffering beforewe learned how to deport ourselves in these respects. 

In the same manner she avoided the too near, because unprofitable, approaches of a portion of the richer part of the community. Forfrom her probable position in time to come, rather than her positionin time past, many of the fashionable people in the county began tocall upon her--in no small degree to her annoyance, simply from thefact that she and they had so little in common. So, while sheperformed all towards them that etiquette demanded, she excusedherself from the closer intimacy which some of them courted, on theground of the many duties which naturally fell to the parson's wifein a country parish like ours; and I am sure that long before we hadgained the footing we now have, we had begun to reap the benefits ofthis mode of regarding our duty in the parish as one, springing fromthe same source, and tending to the same end. The parson's wife whotakes to herself authority in virtue of her position, and theparson's wife who disclaims all connexion with the professional workof her husband, are equally out of place in being parsons' wives. The one who refuses to serve denies her greatest privilege; the onewho will be a mistress receives the greater condemnation. When thewife is one with her husband, and the husband is worthy, theposition will soon reveal itself. 

But there cannot be many clergymen's wives amongst my readers; and Imay have occupied more space than reasonable with this "largediscourse. " I apologize, and, there is room to fear, go on to dothe same again. 

As I write I am seated in that little octagonal room overlooking thequarry, with its green lining of trees, and its deep central well. It is my study now. My wife is not yet too old to prefer the littleroom in which she thought and suffered so much, to every other, although the stair that leads to it is high and steep. Nor do Iobject to her preference because there is no ready way to reach itsave through this: I see her the oftener. And although I do not likeany one to look over my shoulder while I write--it disconcerts mesomehow--yet the moment the sheet is finished and flung on the heap, it is her property, as the print, reader, is yours. I hear her stepoverhead now. She is opening her window. Now I hear her door close;and now her foot is on the stair. 

"Come in, love. I have just finished another sheet. There it is. What shall I end the book with? What shall I tell the friends withwhom I have been conversing so often and so long for the last thingere for a little while I bid them good-bye?"

And Ethelwyn bends her smooth forehead--for she has a smoothforehead still, although the hair that crowns it is almostwhite--over the last few sheets; and while she reads, I will tellthose who will read, one of the good things that come of beingmarried. It is, that there is one face upon which the changes comewithout your seeing them; or rather, there is one face which you canstill see the same through all the shadows which years have gatheredand heaped upon it. No, stay; I have got a better way of putting itstill: there is one face whose final beauty you can see the mereclearly as the bloom of youth departs, and the loveliness of wisdomand the beauty of holiness take its place; for in it you behold allthat you loved before, veiled, it is true, but glowing with gatheredbrilliance under the veil ("Stop one moment, my dear") from which itwill one day shine out like the moon from under a cloud, when astream of the upper air floats it from off her face. 

"Now, Ethelwyn, I am ready. What shall I write about next?"

"I don't think you have told them anywhere about Tom. "

"No more I have. I meant to do so. But I am ashamed of it. "

"The more reason to tell it. "

"You are quite right. I will go on with it at once. But you must notstand there behind me. When I was a child, I could always confessbest when I hid my face with my hands. "

"Besides, " said Ethelwyn, without seeming to hear what I said, "I donot want to have people saying that the vicar has made himself outso good that nobody can believe in him. "

"That would be a great fault in my book, Ethelwyn. What does it comefrom in me? Let me see. I do not think I want to appear better thanI am; but it sounds hypocritical to make merely general confessions, and it is indecorous to make particular ones. Besides, I doubt if itis good to write much about bad things even in the way ofconfession---"

"Well, well, never mind justifying it, " said Ethelwyn. "_I_ don'twant any justification. But here is a chance for you. The storywill, I think, do good, and not harm. You had better tell it, I dothink. So if you are inclined, I will go away at once, and let yougo on without interruption. You will have it finished before dinner, and Tom is coming, and you can tell him what you have done. "

So, reader, now my wife has left me, I will begin. It shall not be along story. 

As soon as my wife and I had settled down at home, and I had begunto arrange my work again, it came to my mind that for a long time Ihad been doing very little for Tom Weir. I could not blame myselfmuch for this, and I was pretty sure neither he nor his fatherblamed me at all; but I now saw that it was time we shouldrecommence something definite in the way of study. When he came tomy house the next morning, and I proceeded to acquaint myself withwhat he had been doing, I found to my great pleasure that he hadmade very considerable progress both in Latin and Mathematics, and Iresolved that I would now push him a little. I found this onlybrought out his mettle; and his progress, as it seemed to me, wasextraordinary. Nor was this all. There were such growing signs ofgoodness in addition to the uprightness which had first led to ouracquaintance, that although I carefully abstained from making thesuggestion to him, I was more than pleased when I discovered, fromsome remark he made, that he would gladly give himself to theservice of the Church. At the same time I felt compelled to be themore cautious in anything I said, from the fact that the prospect ofthe social elevation which would be involved in the change might bea temptation to him, as no doubt it has been to many a man of humblebirth. However, as I continued to observe him closely, my convictionwas deepened that he was rarely fitted for ministering to hisfellows; and soon it came to speech between his father and me, whenI found that Thomas, so far from being unfavourably inclined to theproposal, was prepared to spend the few savings of his careful lifeupon his education. To this, however, I could not listen, becausethere was his daughter Mary, who was very delicate, and hisgrandchild too, for whom he ought to make what little provision hecould. I therefore took the matter in my own hands, and by means ofa judicious combination of experience and what money I could spare, I managed, at less expense than most parents suppose to beunavoidable, to maintain my young friend at Oxford till such time ashe gained a fellowship. I felt justified in doing so in part fromthe fact that some day or other Mrs Walton would inherit theOldcastle property, as well as come into possession of certainmoneys of her own, now in the trust of her mother and two gentlemenin London, which would be nearly sufficient to free the estate fromincumbrance, although she could not touch it as long as her motherlived and chose to refuse her the use of it, at least without alaw-suit, with which neither of us was inclined to have anything todo. But I did not lose a penny by the affair. For of the very firstmoney Tom received after he had got his fellowship, he brought thehalf to me, and continued to do so until he had repaid me everyshilling I had spent upon him. As soon as he was in deacon's orders, he came to assist me for a while as curate, and I found him a greathelp and comfort. He occupied the large room over his father's shopwhich had been his grandfather's: he had been dead for some years. 

I was now engaged on a work which I had been contemplating for along time, upon the development of the love of Nature as shown inthe earlier literature of the Jews and Greeks, through that of theRomans, Italians, and other nations, with the Anglo-Saxon for afresh starting-point, into its latest forms in Gray, Thomson, Cowper, Crabbe, Wordsworth, Keats, and Tennyson; and Tom supplied mewith much of the time which I bestowed upon this object, and I wasreally grateful to him. But, in looking back, and trying to accountto myself for the snare into which I fell, I see plainly enough thatI thought too much of what I had done for Tom, and too little of thehonour God had done me in allowing me to help Tom. I took thehigh-dais-throne over him, not consciously, I believe, but stillwith a contemptible condescension, not of manner but of heart, sodelicately refined by the innate sophistry of my selfishness, thatthe better nature in me called it only fatherly friendship, and didnot recognize it as that abominable thing so favoured of all thosethat especially worship themselves. But I abuse my fault instead ofconfessing it. 

One evening, a gentle tap came to my door, and Tom entered. Helooked pale and anxious, and there was an uncertainty about hismotions which I could not understand. 

"What is the matter, Tom?" I asked. 

"I wanted to say something to you, sir, " answered Tom. 

"Say on, " I returned, cheerily. 

"It is not so easy to say, sir, " rejoined Tom, with a faint smile. "Miss Walton, sir--"

"Well, what of her? There's nothing happened to her? She was here afew minutes ago--though, now I think of it--"

Here a suspicion of the truth flashed on me, and struck me dumb. Iam now covered with shame to think how, when the thing approachedmyself on that side, it swept away for the moment all my finetheories about the equality of men in Christ their Head. How couldTom Weir, whose father was a joiner, who had been a lad in a Londonshop himself, dare to propose marrying my sister? Instead ofthinking of what he really was, my regard rested upon this and thatstage through which he had passed to reach his present condition. Infact, I regarded him rather as of my making than of God's. 

Perhaps it might do something to modify the scorn of all classes forthose beneath them, to consider that, by regarding others thus, theyjustify those above them in looking down upon them in their turn. InLondon shops, I am credibly informed, the young women who serve inthe show-rooms, or behind the counters, are called LADIES, and talkof the girls who make up the articles for sale as PERSONS. To thelearned professions, however, the distinction between the shopwomenand milliners is, from their superior height, unrecognizable; whiledoctors and lawyers are again, I doubt not, massed by countesses andother blue-blooded realities, with the literary lions who roar atsoirees and kettle-drums, or even with chiropodists andviolin-players! But I am growing scornful at scorn, and forget thatI too have been scornful. Brothers, sisters, all good men and truewomen, let the Master seat us where He will. Until he says, "Come uphigher, " let us sit at the foot of the board, or stand behind, honoured in waiting upon His guests. All that kind of thing is worthnothing in the kingdom; and nothing will be remembered of us but theMaster's judgment. 

I have known a good churchwoman who would be sweet as a sister tothe abject poor, but offensively condescending to a shopkeeper or adissenter, exactly as if he was a Pariah, and she a Brahmin. I haveknown good people who were noble and generous towards theirso-called inferiors and full of the rights of the race--until ittouched their own family, and just no longer. Yea I, who had talkedlike this for years, at once, when Tom Weir wanted to marry mysister, lost my faith in the broad lines of human distinction. Judged according to appearances in which I did not even believe, andjudged not righteous judgment. 

"For, " reasoned the world in me, "is it not too bad to drag yourwife in for such an alliance? Has she not lowered herself enoughalready? Has she not married far below her accredited position insociety? Will she not feel injured by your family if she see itcapable of forming such a connexion?"

What answer I returned to Tom I hardly know. I remember that thepoor fellow's face fell, and that he murmured something which I didnot heed. And then I found myself walking in the garden under thegreat cedar, having stepped out of the window almost unconsciously, and left Tom standing there alone. It was very good of him ever toforgive me. 

Wandering about in the garden, my wife saw me from her window, andmet me as I turned a corner in the shrubbery. 

And now I am going to have my revenge upon her in a way she does notexpect, for making me tell the story: I will tell her share in it. 

"What is the matter with you, Henry?" she asked. 

"Oh, not much, " I answered. "Only that Weir has been making merather uncomfortable. "

"What has he been doing?" she inquired, in some alarm. "It is notpossible he has done anything wrong. "

My wife trusted him as much as I did. 

"No--o--o, " I answered. "Not anything exactly wrong. "

"It must be very nearly wrong, Henry, to make you look somiserable. "

I began to feel ashamed and more uncomfortable. 

"He has been falling in love with Martha, " I said; "and when I putone thing to another, I fear he may have made her fall in love withhim too. " My wife laughed merrily. 

"Whal a wicked curate!"

"Well, but you know it is not exactly agreeable. "

"Why?"

"You know why well enough. "

"At least, I am not going to take it for granted. Is he not a goodman?"

"Yes. "

"Is he not a well-educated man?"

"As well as myself--for his years. "

"Is he not clever?"

"One of the cleverest fellows I ever met"

"Is he not a gentleman?"

"I have not a fault to find with his manners. "

"Nor with his habits?" my wife went on. 

"No. "

"Nor with his ways of thinking?"

"No. --But, Ethelwyn, you know what I mean quite well. His family, you know. "

"Well, is his father not a respectable man?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. Thoroughly respectable. "

"He wouldn't borrow money of his tailor instead of paying for hisclothes, would he?"

"Certainly not"

"And if he were to die to-day he would carry no debts to heaven withhim?"

"I believe not. "

"Does he bear false witness against his neighbour?"

"No. He scorns a lie as much as any man I ever knew. "

"Which of the commandments is it in particular that he breaks, then?"

"None that I know of; excepting that no one can keep them yet thatis only human. He tries to keep every one of them I do believe. "

"Well, I think Tom very fortunate in having such a father. I wish mymother had been as good. "

"That is all true, and yet--"

"And yet, suppose a young man you liked had had a fashionable fatherwho had ruined half a score of trades-people by hisextravagance--would you object to him because of his family?"

"Perhaps not. "

"Then, with you, position outweighs honesty--in fathers, at least. "

To this I was not ready with an answer, and my wife went on. 

"It might be reasonable if you did though, from fear lest he shouldturn out like his father. --But do you know why I would not acceptyour offer of taking my name when I should succeed to the property?"

"You said you liked mine better, " I answered. 

"So I did. But I did not tell you that I was ashamed that my goodhusband should take a name which for centuries had been borne byhard-hearted, worldly minded people, who, to speak the truth of myancestors to my husband, were neither gentle nor honest, norhigh-minded. "

"Still, Ethelwyn, you know there is something in it, though it isnot so easy to say what. And you avoid that. I suppose Martha hasbeen talking you over to her side. "

"Harry, " my wife said, with a shade of solemnity, "I am almostashamed of you for the first time. And I will punish you by tellingyou the truth. Do you think I had nothing of that sort to get overwhen I began to find that I was thinking a little more about youthan was quite convenient under the circumstances? Your manners, dear Harry, though irreproachable, just had not the tone that I hadbeen accustomed to. There was a diffidence about you also that didnot at first advance you in my regard. "

"Yes, yes, " I answered, a little piqued, "I dare say. I have nodoubt you thought me a boor. "

"Dear Harry!"

"I beg your pardon, wifie. I know you didn't. But it is quite badenough to have brought you down to my level, without sinking youstill lower. "

"Now there you are wrong, Harry. And that is what I want to showyou. I found that my love to you would not be satisfied with makingan exception in your favour. I must see what force there really wasin the notions I had been bred in. "

"Ah!" I said. "I see. You looked for a principle in what you hadthought was an exception. "

"Yes, " returned my wife; "and I soon found one. And the next stepwas to throw away all false judgment in regard to such things. Andso I can see more clearly than you into the right of thematter. --Would you hesitate a moment between Tom Weir and thedissolute son of an earl, Harry?"

"You know I would not. "

"Well, just carry out the considerations that suggests, and you willfind that where there is everything personally noble, pure, simple, and good, the lowliness of a man's birth is but an added honour tohim; for it shows that his nobility is altogether from within him, and therefore is his own. It cannot then have been put on him byeducation or imitation, as many men's manners are, who wear theirgood breeding like their fine clothes, or as the Pharisee hisprayers, to be seen of men. "

"But his sister?"

"Harry, Harry! You were preaching last Sunday about the way Godthinks of things. And you said that was the only true way ofthinking about them. Would the Mary that poured the ointment onJesus's head have refused to marry a good man because he was thebrother of that Mary who poured it on His feet? Have you thoughtwhat God would think of Tom for a husband to Martha?"

I did not answer, for conscience had begun to speak. When I liftedmy eyes from the ground, thinking Ethelwyn stood beside me, she wasgone. I felt as if she were dead, to punish me for my pride. Butstill I could not get over it, though I was ashamed to follow andfind her. I went and got my hat instead, and strolled out. 

What was it that drew me towards Thomas Weir's shop? I think it musthave been incipient repentance--a feeling that I had wronged theman. But just as I turned the corner, and the smell of the woodreached me, the picture so often associated in my mind with such ascene of human labour, rose before me. I saw the Lord of Lifebending over His bench, fashioning some lowly utensil for somehousewife of Nazareth. And He would receive payment for it too; forHe at least could see no disgrace in the order of things that HisFather had appointed. It is the vulgar mind that looks down on theearning and worships the inheriting of money. How infinitely morepoetic is the belief that our Lord did His work like any otherhonest man, than that straining after His glorification in the earlycenturies of the Church by the invention of fables even to thedisgrace of his father! They say that Joseph was a bad carpenter, and our Lord had to work miracles to set the things right which hehad made wrong! To such a class of mind as invented these fables dothose belong who think they honour our Lord when they judge anythinghuman too common or too unclean for Him to have done. 

And the thought sprung up at once in my mind--"If I ever see ourLord face to face, how shall I feel if He says to me; 'Didst thoudo well to murmur that thy sister espoused a certain man for that inhis youth he had earned his bread as I earned mine? Where was thenthy right to say unto me, Lord, Lord?'"

I hurried into the workshop. 

"Has Tom told you about it?" I said. 

"Yes, sir. And I told him to mind what he was about; for he was nota gentleman, and you was, sir. "

"I hope I am. And Tom is as much a gentleman as I have any claim tobe. "

Thomas Weir held out his hand. 

"Now, sir, I do believe you mean in my shop what you say in yourpulpit; and there is ONE Christian in the world at least. --But whatwill your good lady say? She's higher-born than you--no offence, sir. "

"Ah, Thomas, you shame me. I am not so good as you think me. It wasmy wife that brought me to reason about it. "

"God bless her. "

"Amen. I'm going to find Tom. "

At the same moment Tom entered the shop, with a very melancholyface. He started when he saw me, and looked confused. 

"Tom, my boy, " I said, "I behaved very badly to you. I am sorry forit. Come back with me, and have a walk with my sister. I don't thinkshe'll be sorry to see you. "

His face brightened up at once, and we left the shop together. Evidently with a great effort Tom was the first to speak. 

"I know, sir, how many difficulties my presumption must put you in. "

"Not another word about it, Tom. You are blameless. I wish I were. If we only act as God would have us, other considerations may lookafter themselves--or, rather, He will look after them. The worldwill never be right till the mind of God is the measure of things, and the will of God the law of things. In the kingdom of Heavennothing else is acknowledged. And till that kingdom come, the mindand will of God must, with those that look for that kingdom, over-ride every other way of thinking, feeling, and judging. I seeit more plainly than ever I did. Take my sister, in God's name, Tom, and be good to her. "

Tom went to find Martha, and I to find Ethelwyn. 

"It is all right, " I said, "even to the shame I feel at havingneeded your reproof. "

"Don't think of that. God gives us all time to come to our rightminds, you know, " answered my wife. 

"But how did you get on so far a-head of me, wifie?"

Ethelwyn laughed. 

"Why, " she said, "I only told you back again what you have beentelling me for the last seven or eight years. "

So to me the message had come first, but my wife had answered firstwith the deed. 

And now I have had my revenge on her. 

Next to her and my children, Tom has been my greatest comfort formany years. He is still my curate, and I do not think we shall parttill death part us for a time. My sister is worth twice what she wasbefore, though they have no children. We have many, and they havetaught me much. 

Thomas Weir is now too old to work any longer. He occupies hisfather's chair in the large room of the old house. The workshop Ihave had turned into a school-room, of the external condition ofwhich his daughter takes good care, while a great part of herbrother Tom's time is devoted to the children; for he and I agreethat, where it can be done, the pastoral care ought to be at leastequally divided between the sheep and the lambs. For the sooner thechildren are brought under right influences--I do not mean a greatdeal of religious speech, but the right influences of truth andhonesty, and an evident regard to what God wants of us--not only arethey the more easily wrought upon, but the sooner do they recognizethose influences as right and good. And while Tom quite agrees withme that there must not be much talk about religion, he thinks thatthere must be just the more acting upon religion; and that if it beeverywhere at hand in all things taught and done, it will be readyto show itself to every one who looks for it. And besides thataction is more powerful than speech in the inculcation of religion, Tom says there is no such corrective of sectarianism of every kindas the repression of speech and the encouragement of action. 

Besides being a great help to me and everybody else almost inMarshmallows, Tom has distinguished himself in the literary world jand when I read his books I am yet prouder of my brother-in-law. Iam only afraid that Martha is not good enough for him. But shecertainly improves, as I have said already. 

Jane Rogers was married to young Brownrigg about a year after wewere married. The old man is all but confined to the chimney-cornernow, and Richard manages the farm, though not quite to his father'ssatisfaction, of course. But they are doing well notwithstanding. The old mill has been superseded by one of new and rare device, built by Richard; but the old cottage where his wife's parents livedhas slowly mouldered back to the dust. 

For the old people have been dead for many years. 

Often in the summer days as I go to or come from the vestry, I sitdown for a moment on the turf that covers my old friend, and thinkthat every day is mouldering away this body of mine till it shallfall a heap of dust into its appointed place. But what is that tome? It is to me the drawing nigh of the fresh morning of life, whenI shall be young and strong again, glad in the presence of the wiseand beloved dead, and unspeakably glad in the presence of my God, which I have now but hope to possess far more hereafter. 

I will not take a solemn leave of my friends iust yet. For I hope tohold a little more communion with them ere I go hence. I know thatmy mental faculty is growing weaker, but some power yet remains; andI say to myself, "Perhaps this is the final trial of your faith--totrust in God to take care of your intellect for you, and to believe, in weakness, the truths He revealed to you in strength. Rememberthat Truth depends not upon your seeing it, and believe as you sawwhen your sight was at its best. For then you saw that the Truth wasbeyond all you could see. " Thus I try to prepare for dark days thatmay come, but which cannot come without God in them. 

And meantime I hope to be able to communicate some more of the goodthings experience and thought have taught me, and it may be somemore of the events that have befallen my friends and myself in ourpilgrimage. So, kind readers, God be with you. That is the older andbetter form of GOOD-BYE.