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[Illustration: ESTHER AND HAMAN.

By M. L. GOW, R.I.]




THE QUIVER

ANNUAL VOLUME, 1899

_PAPERS, ADDRESSES, STORIES POEMS, MUSIC_

BY

  THE BISHOP OF RIPON            THE DEAN OF WINDSOR
  SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.      ROMA WHITE
  DR. R. F. HORTON               ARCHDEACON DIGGLE
  THE BISHOP OF DERRY            GORDON SAUNDERS, MUS.D.
  KATHARINE TYNAN                M. H. CORNWALL LEGH
  DEAN SPENCE                    THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.
  ETHEL F. HEDDLE                H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D.
  THE BISHOP OF STEPNEY          MRS. HERBERT MARTIN
  DR. GEORGE MATHESON            THE REV. SILVESTER HORNE
  ROLAND ROGERS, MUS.D.          ELIZABETH L. BANKS
  CANON TEIGNMOUTH SHORE         DR. HUGH MACMILLAN
  B. FLETCHER ROBINSON           ARCHDEACON MADDEN
  DEAN LEFROY                    D. L. WOOLMER
  LINA ORMAN COOPER              DR. W. H. LONGHURST
  FREDERIC E. WEATHERLY          J. F. ROWBOTHAM
                       ETC. ETC.

[Illustration: logo]

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED

_London, Paris, New York & Melbourne_

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




[Illustration: Index]

INDEX

                                                           PAGE

  AMERICAN BOY-EDITOR, AN By ELIZABETH L. BANKS             267
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  AMERICAN COUNTRY PARSONS AND THEIR WIVES
      By ELIZABETH L. BANKS                                 327
    _With Illustrations by Gordon Browne._

  ANGELS' SONG, THE By the REV. HENRY BIDDELL               893

  ART OF READING, THE By the VEN. ARCHDEACON
      DIGGLE, M.A.                                          147
    _Illustrated._

  AS CHAPLAIN TO MR. SPEAKER By DEAN FARRAR,
      D.D.                                              45, 242
    _Illustrated._

  AT WORK AMONG THE VAN-DWELLERS By T. W.
      WILKINSON                                             995
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  AUTHOR OF "RAB AND HIS FRIENDS," THE By the
      late PROFESSOR W. G. BLAIKIE, D.D., LL.D.            1091
    _Illustrated._


  BELL-RINGERS OF BISHOPS, THE By K. E. VERNHAM             627
    _With Illustrations by Shepperson._

  BIBLE CLASS, THE QUIVER  96, 192, 288, 383, 480,
                            576, 672, 768, 864, 960, 1056, 1146

  BIG CAPTAIN FELLOW, THE By EDITH E. CUTHELL               849
    _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._

  BIRTH OF IRIS, THE By ROMA WHITE                         1137
    _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._

  BROUGHT AGAIN FROM THE DEPTHS By DEAN
      LEFROY, D.D.                                          503


  CAPTAIN JACK'S DAUGHTER By KATHARINE TYNAN                874
    _With Illustrations by W. H. Margetson._

  CARICATURE, THE By SCOTT GRAHAM                           796
    _With Illustrations by G. G. Manton._

  CENTENARY OF THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY,
      THE By the REV. A. R. BUCKLAND, M.A.                  483
    _Illustrated._

  CHASING OF THE SHADOWS, THE By D. L. WOOLMER              771
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  CHAT ABOUT JUVENILE OFFENDERS, A By MAJOR
      ARTHUR GRIFFITHS                                      939
    _With Illustrations by Lady Stanley (Dorothy Tennant)._

  CHILDISH MEMORIES OF LEWIS CARROLL By EDITH
      ALICE MAITLAND                                        407
    _Illustrated._

  CHILDREN'S SERVICES ON THE SANDS                          913
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  CHURCH LIFE IN CANADA By OUR SPECIAL COMMISSIONER         814
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  CHRISTABEL'S REBELLION By E. S. CURRY                     418
    _With Illustrations by P. Tarrant._

  CIRCUMVENTED By R. RAMSAY                                 218
    _With Illustrations by Percy Tarrant._

  CITY OF STRANGE CONTRASTS, THE By F. M. HOLMES            604
    _With Illustrations by Enoch Ward, Sydney Cowell, and
      J. M. Wimbush._

  COALS OF FIRE By J. F. ROWBOTHAM                          284
    _With Illustrations by J. H. Bacon._

  COLINA'S ISLAND By ETHEL F. HEDDLE        589, 728, 834, 929,
    _With Illustrations by Max Cowper._               985, 1069

  COLOURED JEWS, THE By D. L. WOOLMER                        58
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  COME, YE SINNERS, POOR AND WRETCHED Music by
      the REV. W. J. FOXELL, M.A., B.MUS.                   763

  COMMANDANT'S LOVE AFFAIR, THE By A. E. ORPEN             1084
    _With Illustrations by F. H. Townsend._

  CONTENT By ARCHDEACON SINCLAIR                           1079

  COUNTING NOT THE COST By the REV. C. SILVESTER
      HORNE, M.A.                                           423

  CURIOUS CHARITABLE GIFTS By A. PALFREY HOLLINGDALE        454
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  COWARD'S VICTORY, THE By M. BRADFORD-WHITING             1106
    _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._


  DAY IN DAMASCUS, A                                        193
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  DIFFICULT SISTERS, THE By E. L. DE BUTTS                  744
    _With Illustrations by S. Paget._

  DONKEY-BOY TO THE QUEEN By ALFRED T. STORY            82, 177
    _With Illustrations by J. Barnard Davis._

  DON'T BE AFRAID OF GOD By the REV. P. B. POWER,
      M.A.                                                  822
    _Illustrated by W. S. Stacey._


  EASTER EGG ROLLING IN WASHINGTON By ELIZABETH
      L. BANKS                                              519
    _With Illustrations by Lester Ralph._

  EMPEROR'S VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND, THE By OUR
      SPECIAL COMMISSIONER AT BERLIN                          1
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  END OF THE SONG, THE By F. E. WEATHERLY                   225

  EVERYBODY'S HYMNS By the VEN. ARCHDEACON WYNNE, D.D.      831


  FACING DEATH FOR CHRIST By OUR SPECIAL COMMISSIONER       291
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  FICKLE FAMILY, A By R. RAMSAY                             612
    _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._

  FIGHTER TO THE LAST, A                                   1008
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE By the REV. S. J. STONE, M.A.        790

  FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND DUTY By D. L. WOOLMER              899
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILD                  395, 507, 638, 685
    _With Illustrations by P. Tarrant._

  FORGIVEN HITHERTO By PASTOR THOMAS SPURGEON               793

  FORGIVENESS By LOUIS H. VICTORY                           524

  FUNDS, "THE QUIVER"    95, 192, 288, 384, 480, 576, 672, 768,
                                           864, 960, 1056, 1146


  GARDEN IDYLL, A By J. R. EASTWOOD                         706

  GIFT OF GOD, THE By the REV. GEORGE F. PENTECOST, D.D.,   650

  GOD'S SPIRE By J. F. ROWBOTHAM, M.A.                      714
    _With Illustrations by R. Gray._

  GOD'S WAYS EQUAL By the REV. HUGH MACMILLAN D.D., LL.D.,  884

  GREAT ANNIVERSARIES By the REV. A. R. BUCKLAND M.A.,
     35, 120, 200, 298, 416, 501, 587, 683, 791, 882, 981, 1067
  _Illustrated from Photographs._

  GREEN FOLK, THE By ETHEL F. HEDDLE                        426
    _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._

  GROWTH By R. SOMERVELL, M.A.                              925


  HARVEST HYMN, A By CANON TEIGNMOUTH SHORE                 962

  HEAVENLY CHEER Music by H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D.         278

  HERO IN DISGUISE, A By MARGARET WESTRUP                   127
    _With Illustrations by Malcolm Patterson._

  HERO IN HOMESPUN, A By MARGARET MACKINTOSH               1011

  HIS STRANGE REPENTANCE By the VENERABLE ARCHDEACON MADDEN 461
    _Illustrated._

  HOME FOR THE FATHERLESS, A By D. L. WOOLMER               619
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  HOMES OF NOBLE POVERTY By B. FLETCHER ROBINSON             26
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  HOUSE BEAUTIFUL, THE By LINA ORMAN COOPER                  89

  HOUSE COMFORTABLE, THE By LINA ORMAN COOPER               175

  HOUSE ECONOMICAL, THE By LINA ORMAN COOPER                249

  HOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED By SCOTT GRAHAM              37
   _With Illustrations by V. Anrooy._

  HYMN TUNES, NEW:--
    Jeshurun of Christ, The   By SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.   86
    O Wondrous Night! By CHARLES BASSETT                    174
    Heavenly Cheer By H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D.             278
    Who Can Forbear to Sing? By ROLAND ROGERS, MUS.D.       377
    Rise, Gracious God, and Shine By H. WALFORD DAVIES,
          MUS.D.                                            469
    Remembrance By GORDON SAUNDERS, MUS.D.                  562
    Lord's Table, The By E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B.            658
    Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Wretched By the REV. W. J.
          FOXELL, M.A., B.MUS.                              763
    Jerusalem, My Happy Home By W. H. LONGHURST, MUS.D.     848
    Wondrous Cross, The By E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B.          927
    Lord of the Harvest By PHILIP ARMES, D.MUS.            1025
    O Thou Who Makest Souls to Shine By W. ELLIS, MUS.B.   1102


  INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE, AN                    383, 479

  INTERVENTION OF TODDLELUMS, THE By HELEN BODDINGTON        53
    _With Illustrations by W. Rainey._


  JANE AUSTEN'S PRIVATE LIFE                                845
    _Illustrated._

  JERUSALEM, MY HAPPY HOME Music by W. H. LONGHURST, MUS.D. 848

  JESHURUN OF CHRIST, THE Words by the REV. S. J. STONE,
        M.A. Music by SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.              86

  JESUS SINGING By the REV. DAVID BURNS                    1103

  JOSH THE POET By HARRY DAVIES                            1001
    _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._


  KINGDOM OF HEAVEN, THE By the LORD BISHOP OF DERRY         23

  KNOWLEDGE OF THE FUTURE By the LORD BISHOP OF RIPON       214
    _With Illustrations by Herbert Railton._


  LADY DOCTORS IN HEATHEN LANDS By D. L. WOOLMER             97
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  LAND IN SIGHT By CLARA THWAITES                           980

  LIFE SENTENCE, THE By HELEN BODDINGTON                    920
    _With Illustrations by Gordon Browne._

  LIGHT THROUGH DULL PANES By D. L. WOOLMER                 553
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  LIMITS OF HUMAN GENIUS, THE By the VERY REV. H. DONALD M.
        SPENCE, D.D.                                        122
    _Illustrated._

  LITTLE LADY WILMERTON By the REV. P. B. POWER             274
    _Illustrated._

  LORD OF THE HARVEST Music by PHILIP ARMES, D.MUS.        1025

  LORD'S TABLE, THE Music by E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B.        658

  LOVE-LIGHT By M. H. CORNWALL LEGH        779, 887, 1026, 1122
    _With Illustrations by Fred Pegram._

  LOVE'S DEBT By LOUIS H. VICTORY                            57


  "MAN PROPOSES" By ALAN ST. AUBYN                          825
    _With Illustrations by W. D. Almond_.

  MASTERFUL YOUNG MAN, THE By MARGARET WESTRUP              493
    _With Illustrations by G. Grenville Manton._

  MAY QUEENS OF WHITELANDS, THE By D. L. WOOLMER            579
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  "ME AND TURK" By K. E. VERNHAM                            654
    _With Illustrations by W. H. C. Groome._

  METHODS OF PRAYER By the REV. WILLIAM MURDOCH JOHNSTON,
        M.A.                                                983

  MIDGET CHURCHES By J. A. REID                             151
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER, THE By E. S. CURRY.
    _With Illustrations by W. H. Margetson._   66, 160, 251, 30

  MISS CRANE'S FORTUNE By A. B. ROMNEY                      337
    _With Illustrations by Gordon Browne._

  MISS LUCRETIA'S NEW IDEA By M. H. CORNWALL LEGH           526
    _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._

  MOTHER'S BIBLE, A                                         140

  MOTHERHOOD By LINA ORMAN COOPER     561, 752, 944, 1037, 1133

  MOTIVES OF JUDAS, THE By the REV. W. J. DAWSON, B.A.      748


  NEGRO CAMP-MEETINGS IN THE STATES By ELIZABETH L. BANKS   867
    _Illustrated._

  NEW CREATION, A By the REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.  78

  NEW VOCATIONS FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS                        1017
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  "NOT TOO LATE" By the late REV. GORDON CALTHROP, M.A.     267


  O THOU WHO MAKEST SOULS TO SHINE Music by
        W. ELLIS, MUS.B.                                   1102

  O WONDROUS NIGHT! A New Christmas Carol. Words
   by ARTHUR BRYANT. Music by CHARLES BASSETT.              174

  OUR CHRISTMAS STOCKING DISTRIBUTION                       384

  OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDS              22, 106, 241, 290, 468,
                            525, 659, 697, 808, 928, 1007, 1083


  PARABLES IN MARBLE By ARTHUR FISH                         344
    _Illustrated._

  PEASANT GIRL POET OF ITALY, THE By the late
  CANON BELL, D.D.                                          721
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  PICKING THEM UP By D. L. WOOLMER                          675
    _Illustrated._

  PICTORIAL SERMONS By ARTHUR FISH                          387
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  PLEDGED By KATHARINE TYNAN        10, 107, 202, 350, 442, 542
    _With Illustrations by F. H. Townsend._

  POWER OF A GREAT PURPOSE, THE By the DEAN OF WINDSOR      311

  PRINCE'S MESSAGE, THE By ROMA WHITE                       464
    _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._

  PROSPECT AND RETROSPECT By the REV. GEORGE MATHESON,
        M.A., D.D., F.R.S.E.                                263

  PULPIT MANNER, THE By F. M. HOLMES                        133
    _Illustrated from Life._


  QUIVER SANTA CLAUS, THE                               96, 187


  READING OF THE LAW, THE By the REV. WILLIAM BURNET, M.A.  739
    _With Illustrations by J. Finnemore._

  REAL EAST LONDON, THE By the LORD BISHOP OF STEPNEY       434
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  REAL PROPERTY. By the REV. R. F. HORTON, M.A., D.D.       333

  REGINALD'S LAST TRY A Complete Story By M. A. BALLIOL    1098
    _With Illustrations by G. Nicolet._

  REMARKABLE "CHURCH" TREES, SOME By A. PALFREY
        HOLLINGDALE                                        1114
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  REMEMBRANCE Music by GORDON SAUNDERS, MUS.D.              562

  RISE, GRACIOUS GOD, AND SHINE Music by H. WALFORD
        DAVIES, MUS.D.                                      469

  ROGER PETTINGDALE By H. A. DAVIES                         141
    _With Illustrations by H. M. Brock._

  ROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY SCHOOL WORKERS
    95, 191, 288, 382, 480, 576, 672, 768, 864, 960, 1056, 1146

  ROSY PALM, THE By MYRA HAMILTON                           946
    _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._


  SACRED BOND IN NORTHERN CLIMES, THE By the
        REV. E. J. HARDY, M.A.                              660

  SARAH'S DELIVERANCE By MRS. HERBERT MARTIN           809, 907
    _With Illustrations by W. Rainey._

  SCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME By the REV.
        J. W. GEDGE, M.A.               91, 185, 281, 378, 473,
                            570, 665, 761, 857, 954, 1050, 1140

  SEEKING AND SERVING GOD By the REV. OWEN THOMAS, M.A.    1039

  SELF-HEALING By the REV. HUGH MACMILLAN, D.D., LL.D.      539

  SHORT ARROWS           93, 187, 283, 380, 475, 572, 667, 764,
                                           860, 956, 1052, 1142

  SILENT SERMONS By J. A. REID                              707
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  SOME FAMOUS EASTER HYMNS                                  534
    _Illustrated from Photographs_.

  SOME REMARKABLE SERVICES By GEORGE WINSOR                 226
    _Illustrated from Photographs._


  TEMPERANCE ENTERPRISE IN NEW YORK By A. PALFREY
        HOLLINGDALE                                         854
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS By A LEADING TEMPERANCE
        ADVOCATE              87, 182, 279, 375, 470, 567, 663,
                                      754, 854, 951, 1047, 1135
   _Illustrated._

  TEN LITTLE INDIANS, THE By HOWARD ANGUS KENNEDY           563
    _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._

  THEIR LITTLE MANOEUVRE By EVELYN EVERETT GREEN            319
    _With Illustrations by Sydney Cowell._

  "THEY SEEK A COUNTRY"                                     603

  THREE SONGS OF BIRTH By the REV. HUGH MILLER, M.A.        172

  TIRED By H. BROOKE DAVIES                                 552

  TO AND FRO By MRS. NEIL MACLEOD                           972
    _With Illustrations by W. H. C. Groome._

  TRIXIE'S TALENT By EDITH E. CUTHELL                       757
    _With Illustrations by R. Cubitt Cooke._

  TRUE NAZARITES By the REV. E. A. STUART, M.A.             600

  TWICE ROUND THE BIBLE CLOCK                               314
    _Illustrated._

  TWO VIEWS OF LIFE By F. J. CROSS                         1121


  UNANSWERED TELEGRAM, AN By M. PENROSE                     701
    _With Illustrations by G. G. Manton._


  VANISHED ARTS FROM THE CHRISTIAN HOME                     369
    _Illustrated from Photographs._

  VISIT TO THE KINGDOM OF SILENCE, A By D. L. Woolmer       964
    _Illustrated from Photographs._


  WAIFS, NEW QUIVER                                    192, 475

  WAY OF HOLINESS, THE By the VEN. ARCHDEACON DIGGLE        698

  WE CAN By E. W. HOWSON, M.A.                              362

  WEATHER WISDOM OF THE BIBLE By the REV. H. B.
        FREEMAN, M.A.                                       802
    _With Illustrations by Henry A. Harper._

  WHO CAN FORBEAR TO SING? Music by ROLAND ROGERS, MUS.D.   377

  WITTY SCOTSMAN, A By the late PROFESSOR W. G.
        BLAIKIE, D.D.                                       632
    _Illustrated._

  WONDERFUL PURSE, THE By MYRA HAMILTON                     365
   _With Illustrations by H. R. Millar._

  WONDROUS CROSS, THE Music by E. BURRITT LANE, MUS.B.      927

  WORK AND PLAY IN CRUTCHLAND By D. L. WOOLMER             1059
    _Illustrated from Photographs._


  ZET By E. E. CUTHELL                                     1043
    _Illustrated by A. Campbell Cross._

[Illustration: decorative]




THE QUIVER.

THE EMPEROR'S VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND.

By Our Special Commissioner at Berlin.

_Illustrated from Photographs._


Few projects of Church extension have attracted so much attention
as the forthcoming opening of the Lutheran church in Jerusalem: a
movement which has been zealously pushed forward by his Imperial
Majesty the Kaiser of Germany and King of Prussia, and will be
happily consummated by an imposing ceremony, at which his Majesty
and his illustrious consort will be the central figures, just about
the time that this number reaches its thousands of subscribers. So
important is the movement, and with such close attention has it
been watched by the religious bodies of England, that a special
representative was sent to Berlin, who was fortunate enough to be
received by some most distinguished Personages and kindly furnished
with many details of the scheme, and all the information that it was
possible to give--so much in advance as the exigencies of a monthly
periodical demand.

[Illustration: A VIEW OF VENICE.

(_The Imperial Party's Place of Embarcation._)]

It will be as well to first speak of the requirements for a new
Lutheran church in Jerusalem. For a great many years there has been
a considerable German colony in the city, its members steadily
augmenting year by year. In the time of Frederick William IV. of
Prussia a joint Protestant bishopric (German and English) was
established, the right of appointment to lie with each country
alternately. The first Bishop was a converted German Jew holding
orders in the English Church; two others succeeded him, and then in
1886 Prussia withdrew from the agreement.

[Illustration: THE LATEST PORTRAIT-GROUP OF THE GERMAN ROYAL FAMILY.

(_Photo: J. Baruch, Berlin._)]

Nearly twenty years previous to this latter date the Sultan had
presented to King William I. a disused building, which formerly was
the property of the Knights of St. John, in order that a Protestant
Lutheran church might be erected on the site. For some reason, the
work was delayed for a considerable period, and the members of the
German Evangelical Church have been worshipping in a small temporary
chapel, by the side of which the handsome new church has been
reared. The work has been carried on by a pastor and an assistant
teacher, and there has also been a good school in conjunction with
it. The foundation stone of the church was laid on October 31st,
1893, and it was thought the consecration would take place in 1897;
but things were not in readiness, and so the event was fixed for
October 31st of this year--the anniversary of the birth of the
Evangelical Church, being the day on which Luther nailed his thesis
to the church door in Wittenberg.

The Kaiser and Kaiserin have long cherished a wish to visit the
Holy City and tread the land which Christ trod when on earth; and
no better opportunity could possibly occur than when a new Lutheran
church was about to be consecrated. Both their Majesties have done
much--not only by rightly using the immense influence which they
possess, but also financially--to further Church work; and, apart
from any other cause, the opening of this sacred building for the
use of their countrymen in a foreign land could not fail to enlist
their sympathetic interest. The undertaking is a pious and domestic,
and _not_ a political, one, spite of several assertions to the
contrary; and all who have the cause of true religion at heart
cannot but rejoice that there will be another pulpit from which the
risen Saviour will be proclaimed to the residents of God's chosen
land.

Their Imperial Majesties will leave Berlin by special train for
Venice, where a brief rest will be taken previous to the embarkation
on the royal yacht _Hohenzollern_. The dignitaries of the Lutheran
Church and invited personages will travel in another direction.
Leaving Berlin by train, they embark on the _Midnight Sun_ (an
English vessel flying the English flag) at Trieste; thence they
will proceed to Alexandria. Having explored that city, they will
visit Cairo, and thence, returning to Alexandria, they will go on
to Jaffa, and so through Palestine to Jerusalem, where they arrive
about midday on October 25th. The next few days will be spent in
viewing the city and neighbourhood, and on the 31st the entire party
will be present at the formal opening of the "Erlöser-Kirche" in the
presence of the Kaiser and Kaiserin.

[Illustration: JAFFA (JOPPA) AT THE PRESENT DAY.]

But I wish more particularly to draw your attention to the route
taken by their Majesties, as this was particularly pointed out to
me in Berlin. Venice--the principal port on the Adriatic--will
naturally claim some share of the interest of the Imperial couple,
and the Palace of the Doges, dating from the fourteenth century,
with its many historical and awful associations; the famous
cathedral of St. Mark--a venerable building of the eleventh century,
rich in cupolas and mosaics, and marble columns to the number of
five hundred--as well as other renowned places, will be visited.

At Venice their Majesties will go on board for a voyage of four
days down the Adriatic, and up in a northerly direction through
the Dardanelles and Sea of Marmora, direct to Constantinople and
the Golden Horn. Here the Sultan has made great preparations for
their reception. Special buildings are being erected, old roads
widened, and new roads made; moreover, all streets to be traversed
by the Imperial party are being properly paved--not before it was
requisite--thousands of gas-jets are being added to the meagre
number which have hitherto done duty, and the Yildiz Palace has
been completely overhauled and refitted. In short, Abdul Hamid is
incurring tremendous expense in order to entertain his distinguished
visitors right regally. The sojourn will extend over several days,
and many places will be visited, including the royal palaces--which
abound in Constantinople--the mosques, tombs, towers, and bazaars;
and as their Majesties will be in the city on a Friday, the
"Selamlik," or Sultan's procession to the mosque, will be included
in the programme.

On leaving Constantinople, the Imperial yacht will steam round
Asia Minor to the Syrian coast, passing many attractive places,
amongst which may be mentioned the Plains of Troy and the Isle of
Patmos. A run of about three days will bring them to Kaiffa, more
generally known as Haifa. Here the Kaiser and Kaiserin will land
about midday on October 25th, at the special new landing-stage
which has lately been erected for the purpose. The first stone of
this was laid amidst much ceremony by the Mutessarif of Acre, in the
presence of the entire Consular body, the troops, and all the local
notabilities. The ceremony was, of course, a Mohammedan one, a sheep
being sacrificed upon the stone, and the blessing of Allah invoked
upon the coming Imperial guests.

[Illustration: A VIEW OF MODERN JERUSALEM.]

Once landed at Haifa, thenceforth the Imperial expedition will be
entirely under the guidance of Messrs. Thomas Cook and Son, the
well-known tourist agents, Mr. Cook himself personally conducting
the party to Jerusalem. The Sultan had previously offered tents,
horses and carriages for the journey, but these the Emperor at
first declined, as he was anxious to avoid giving any political
significance to an expedition undertaken solely on religious
grounds, and for the purpose of the formal opening of the Church
of St. Saviour or the Redeemer. At the earnest solicitation of
the Sultan, he, however, finally consented to use horses, mules,
carriages, and wagons provided by the Turkish monarch. The journey
will be performed in true Oriental style, everything else necessary
being furnished by Thomas Cook and Son.

[Illustration: HAIFA, AND THE BAY OF ACRE.

(_The Landing-Place of the Imperial Party._)]

The Kaiser will make the journey on horseback, the Kaiserin in an
open carriage. The route is to be exactly the same as that followed
by ordinary tourists, and the entire party will camp out at night
in the usual way. The first day's journey will occupy nine or ten
hours, and tents will be pitched for the night outside Cæsarea,
in full view of the Mediterranean. Thence the party will ride to
Jaffa, a journey of ten hours. The town is beautifully situated, and
extensively planted with orange groves. There is a good carriage
road from it direct to Jerusalem, and a railway, which was opened
some six years since. The Imperial party will spend the night under
canvas outside the city, the view of which has an added interest,
inasmuch as there is within its walls a considerable German colony.
The remainder of the journey to Jerusalem will be carried out in
the same manner over ground that is scripturally historical and
highly picturesque, passing as it does over the Plains of Sharon, by
Lydda and Emmaus--where Christ walked with His disciples after the
Resurrection--and so on through the Valley of Ajalon, by Kirjath and
Jesrun; arriving at Jerusalem on Saturday, October 29th, where tents
will be pitched on ground acquired by the Evangelical Jerusalem Fund.

[Illustration: THE JAFFA GATE AT JERUSALEM.

(_From here the Emperor and Empress go on foot to the Holy
Sepulchre._)]

The actual entrance of the procession into the city will be
imposing, but, once within the Jaffa Gate, the Kaiser and Kaiserin
purpose going on foot to the Holy Sepulchre, with an entire absence
of any State surroundings. The route from the gate to the Sepulchre
has been entirely renovated for their Majesties by the Sultan.
Needless to say, this block of buildings containing the Chapel of
the Sepulchre is surrounded by much that is legendary, and has
been the scene of many and fierce contentions. Now it is under the
protection of the Sultan, and Moslem soldiers guard it, and are
stationed within the vestibule to keep order amongst the various
Christian pilgrims who visit it. Various chapels credited to various
nations are within its portals, the Church of the Sepulchre being,
of course, the chief place of interest.

The rotunda of the sepulchre is the principal part of the building.
In the centre of the adjoining vestibule, or Angel's Chapel, lies
the stone which is said to be that which the angel rolled away from
the mouth of the sepulchre; then by passing through a lower door you
enter the Chapel of the Sepulchre; it is very small, only holding
three or four persons at one time. Very much controversy has taken
place regarding the correctness of the site of the Holy Sepulchre.
It must of necessity be an uncertain matter, as the course of
the city wall has not been clearly ascertained, and it seems an
undoubted fact that in the fourth century the actual site of the
tomb was completely lost sight of. Pilgrims who visited Jerusalem
at that period centred their entire interest on the place of the
Ascension of the Lord, worshipping and revering the living, and not
the dead, Christ.

It is perhaps hardly necessary here to point out the difference
between ancient and modern Jerusalem. Many of the old landmarks are
still in existence, some of which I shall have occasion to mention
later. There is a large German colony now resident there, and during
his Majesty's visit he will receive representatives of this colony
at the German Consulate.

[Illustration: CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE.]

Sunday will be a memorable day for the expedition, the first event
being the attendance at morning service in the Church of the
Nativity at Bethlehem, to be followed by the opening of an orphanage
for Armenian children.

In the afternoon certain sacred places on the Mount of Olives will
be visited. The entire Mount is replete with interest, for there is
no other place which was frequented so much by Christ when on earth.
It is a significant fact that, so far as can be ascertained from
the Scriptures, Jesus never spent one night within the precincts of
Jerusalem, but was wont to spend them on the Mount of Olives.

The Brook Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat are each near, and
are amongst the places to be visited by the Kaiser and the Kaiserin
on that special Sunday. But as interesting as any event of the day
will be an open-air service to be held on the Mount, attended by
their Majesties, the whole of the personages forming the expedition,
and the German settlement in Jerusalem. The bands of the royal yacht
and the escorting squadron, which will have journeyed up from Haifa
for the purpose, will perform the musical part of the service.

[Illustration: DR. BARKHAUSEN OF BERLIN.

(_Organiser of the Tour_.)

(Photo: Johannes Hülsen, Berlin.)]

The next day--Monday, the 31st--the consecration of the Church
of the Redeemer in the Mâristân will take place; the ceremony
will be somewhat imposing, as a large number of clergy and
distinguished personages will be taking part in it. The list of
representatives who will be present reads as follows:--The members
of the Evangelical Church Council specially formed for the
Jerusalem expedition; the representatives of the German Evangelical
Ecclesiastical Governments; the invited Foreign Church Corporations;
the Knights of the Order of St. John; the invited representatives
of the missionary societies who are working in Palestine and
Syria; the Gustave Adolf Society; the whole of the Evangelical
Church in Jerusalem; their Imperial Majesties and suite. I may say
that everyone present who has gone out from Germany will wear a
decoration that has been specially designed, known as the Jerusalem
cross; these, in fact, will be worn the whole route of the journey.
The military element will be in the minority, consisting only of
about sixteen men, eight of them belonging to the Imperial Body
Gendarmerie, and eight to the Kaiserin's bodyguard; these, however,
will not travel up with the Imperial party, having gone out from
Berlin some little time beforehand to accustom themselves to the
habits of the country.

[Illustration: THE NEW LUTHERAN CHURCH, JERUSALEM.]

Immediately subsequent to the ceremony at the church the Kaiser and
Kaiserin will start for a two or three days' visit to places of
interest around Jerusalem, commencing by riding to Jericho, which
will take about six hours. The Imperial party will halt there for
the night, camping at the foot of Jebel Harantel.

On the succeeding day visits will be paid to the Dead Sea and the
Jordan, the latter one of the most wonderful rivers of the world,
with a history running through the entire Bible. Various other
places of much interest will be seen, and then their Majesties
return to Jerusalem, going back to the coast by train, and taking
ship again at Jaffa for Haifa.

From here they will visit Nazareth--which is memorable as the home
of Jesus. It is still a flourishing place, partly built on rocky
ridges. There is a Latin chapel which is supposed to be built over
the workshop of Joseph; also a small chapel known as the Table of
Christ, which is merely a vaulted chamber containing the table
at which the Saviour and His disciples sat. Tiberias and the Sea
of Galilee will be visited. Bethsaida, the birthplace of some of
Christ's disciples, and other small places in the vicinity, will
each come in for a share of attention.

[Illustration: A PRESENT-DAY VIEW ON THE JORDAN.]

Proceeding northward, the expedition will view other places, but
none, perhaps, so beautiful as one at which they will make a brief
stay--Damascus, the oldest city in the world. It is situated on the
western side of the great plain, at an elevation of two thousand two
hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea, and is beautiful
beyond all description. On an elevated part of the Anti-Libanus,
which rises to a height of nearly four thousand feet, there is
erected a dome of victory, from which the best view of the city and
the seven rivers can be obtained, as also of the white-streaked
mountains, the chocolate plain, and the rich and varied colours
of the foliage of the trees. Within the city stands a citadel and
a palace. Damascus has seventy mosques, and about one hundred and
fifty other places of worship in addition; and each of the principal
religious communities occupy different parts of the city. In the
same way different industries are carried on, each in their own
quarters exclusively, having their own bazaars for the sale of
goods. The place is highly prosperous, and its appearance is, as I
have said, extremely beautiful. Thence the Kaiser and Kaiserin will
journey on to Egypt, seeing Alexandria, Cairo, and going up the
Nile; but here space forbids us following them.

It is a visit which cannot fail to impress all; the Kaiser himself
to no ordinary extent, considering his remarkable power of grasping
the religious and romantic elements of ancient history and its
famous scenes. What he will see will stir his heart to no ordinary
degree, sensitive as is his mind to all such impressions. It must
also sensibly appeal to the cultured members of every religious
community, and all will watch this Imperial pilgrimage with unusual
interest, and wish for it a happy and prosperous finale.

I cannot close this without tendering my respectful thanks for
the gracious kindness accorded me in Berlin, and for the valuable
assistance rendered me by Dr. Barkhausen, the President of the
Evangelical Church Council for the Jerusalem Expedition, this
gentleman being chiefly responsible for the entire arrangements.




[Illustration: PLEDGED]

PLEDGED

By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.




CHAPTER I.

FATHER AND DAUGHTER.


Mr. Graydon and his daughter Pamela were jogging leisurely home from
the little market town of Lettergort. There was no reason to hurry,
and if there had been, Frisky, the little fat pony, whose frisky
days were long over, would not have been aware of it.

It was very hot, a morning of late summer; but Pamela's creamy
cheeks were as cool as the firm petals of a lily. She bore as if
accustomed to it the jog-trot of the pony and the frequent ruts into
which their chariot bumped, flinging her from the seat as though she
were the football in a hotly contested game.

Mr. Graydon kept up a contented whistling when he was not commenting
on the fields and the cattle as they passed. That had been a long,
hot summer, and for once in a century people had begun to long for
the patter of rain on the leaves.

"Woa, Frisky--woa, little lad! That's a nice colt of Whelan's down
there by the sally-tree. Do you see, Pam? Now, I hope the poor
fellow will get a handful of money for it. He'll need it this
summer," Mr. Graydon would say.

Or, again, it would be a farmer going their own way from Lettergort.

"Good-morning, John."

"Good-morning, your honour. How did the calves do wid your honour?"

"I'm not complaining, John. Murray of Slievenahoola gave me thirty
shillings apiece for them. It was as much as I hoped for."

"Aye, they wor but weanlin's. An' 'tis no use keepin' stock this
summer."

"How did you do with the heifers, John?"

"Didn't get the price of their feed, your honour. Wirra! 'tis a
desperate summer. The hay wasn't worth cuttin', and the oats is
pitiful."

Again, it would be a labourer with a scythe on his shoulder whom Mr.
Graydon would stop to ask after his household concerns. Everywhere
they passed a smile followed Mr. Graydon's broad back in its faded
homespuns.

"'Tis a rale pleasant word he has in his mouth, God bless him! an'
him a rale gentleman an' all," followed him from many a cottage-door.

"You've done your marketing, Pam," said her father, turning to her.

"I'd plenty of time, dad, while you chatted to your million
acquaintances."

"And sold my calves, Pam."

"You might have sold a thousand in the time."

"Well, well, Pam, it is my little world, you see. I hope the
perishable things won't be broken when we come to the rut by
Murphy's gate. 'Tis a foot and a half deep at least. Johnny Maher
ought really to mend this road."

"You ought to make him, dad. What's the good of being a magistrate?"

"What indeed, Pam! Sure, I never get a job done for myself. There's
old Inverbarry now, and he a lord, and he's getting the private road
through his park mended at the public expense. And he as rich as
Croesus, the old sinner!"

Mr. Graydon rubbed his hands with benevolent amusement. His
daughter glanced at him with a pucker between her white brows. The
violet-blue eyes under curling black lashes exactly reproduced
her father's, though at this moment the expressions were widely
different.

"You're too easy-going, dad. You should make Johnny Maher mend the
road."

Mr. Graydon dropped a rein to pull one of his daughter's silky black
curls.

"You wouldn't be having me too hard on the poor fellow, and he with
a sick wife and an old mother and a pack of children. Eh, little
Pam?"

Pamela shook her head severely, and the red mouth, which had drooped
at the corners when she was serious, parted over white teeth in a
laugh fresh as a child's.

[Illustration: "How did the calves do wid your honour?"]

"You've no conscience, dad, any more than Lord Inverbarry or Johnny
Maher. You're conniving at their wrongdoing, you see."

"Maybe I am, Pam--maybe I am. Only I don't suppose it seems
wrongdoing to them--at least, not to Johnny Maher, poor fellow.
Inverbarry ought to know better."

They jogged along for a few minutes till there was another jolt.
Simultaneously there was a crash at their feet, and Mr. Graydon
pulled up with an exclamation.

"There goes some of your crockery, Pam. I hope it's not the lad's
looking-glass."

"Never mind," said Pam, with a sigh of despair. "Perhaps now you'll
get Johnny Maher to see to the road. If it's his looking-glass,
he'll have to shave as Mick St. Leger used, with the lid of a can
for his looking-glass."

"Ah, poor Mick was used to our ways. He didn't mind. But this is a
public-school man. We'll have to furbish up for him, little Pam, and
put our best foot foremost, eh?"

"It looks like it," said Pam, gazing down at the jumbled parcels at
her feet. "I'll tell you what it is," she said: "it's the glass for
his bedroom window. It is all in smithereens. He'll have to put up
with the brown-paper panes, as Mick St. Leger did."

"Never mind, never mind. The lad's a gentleman, and he'll see we're
gentlefolk, though we're as poor as church mice. He won't mind,
you'll see, Pam; gentlemen never do mind these things."

"You're thinking of Mick still, dad. You forget that Gwynne man who
wouldn't stay because he got nothing but potatoes for three days.
As if we could help the roads being frozen and Frisky not being
able to get to Lettergort! Do you remember Gwynne's face over the
potato-cake the third day? Yet I'm sure Bridget had done her best.
What with potatoes in their jackets, and mashed, and with butter,
and without, and in a salad, and at last in a cake, I'm sure there
was no sameness about the diet."

"Gwynne was a--well, of course, he was a gentleman, but as
disagreeable as a gentleman can be. Besides, Pam, potatoes probably
didn't agree with him; they don't with everyone, you know, and
Gwynne was dyspeptic. I don't know what the lads are coming to. In
my young days we didn't even know the word dyspepsia, much less the
thing."

"Gwynne was hateful," said Pamela. "He expected us to kill the
chickens for him when every single chicken was a pet, and so tame,
dear things! that they would walk into the drawing-room and perch on
your knee."

"Perhaps that's why Gwynne wanted them killed," said Mr. Graydon.

"Nasty thing!" said Pamela. "I was glad when we saw his back. He
couldn't bear the dear dogs lying on his bed either, though Mary
told him it was a proof of their friendliness towards him. He fired
his bootjack after Mark Antony, you remember, and though it's not
easy to stir up Mark Antony, yet I'm glad he had the spirit to go
for Gwynne's legs."

"Mark Antony had been burying bones under Gwynne's pillow, my dear."

"Only because it was a wet day, and he never liked to go out in the
rain. I daresay if he'd had time he'd have removed the bones to the
garden. However, I don't suppose this youth will be like Gwynne.
What do you think, dad?"

"His father was the best fellow ever stepped on shoe-leather. If the
lad is like him, we shan't complain. What a handsome, dashing fellow
he was! I can see him now in his scarlet and gold lace that night at
Lady Westbury's ball, where I first met----"

He broke off suddenly with a little sigh. "That was another world,
Pam."

"A world well lost--was it not?--dad."

"Aye, a world well lost, little girl."

It was plain to see that a tender intimacy existed between this
father and daughter.

"I daresay he'll find my ways rather old-fashioned, Pam. It was an
odd thing that his father should have remembered me, and have wished
the lad to come to me."

"It would have been odd if he hadn't," said Pam shortly.

"There are new ways and new methods in the world since I was at
Oxford. I daresay the lad'll find me rather rusty in my knowledge."

"You'll teach over his head, as you always do, and you'll get great
delight out of it. You'll forget all about your pupil, and you'll
go mouthing Greek poetry till we think downstairs that the study
chimney is on fire. And while you're growling and thundering the
youth will be making caricatures of you under the table, or cutting
his name deep in the oak of your precious study table."

"Is that my way, little Pam?"

"That's your way, dad. There was never one of your pupils that could
follow you, only little Sells, and he died young, poor boy!"

"Ah, little Sells. I am proud of Sells. He died fighting the
small-pox with all the heroic soul in his little body. He had the
making of a fine scholar."

"Never mind, dad. None of us can do more than die heroically. And
Sells would always have been a poor curate. They'd never have made
him a bishop."

"I suppose not, poor lad! Scholarship doesn't count for much, Pam."

"Or you wouldn't be here, dad."

"I'd always be in the ruck, Pam; I'm afraid I'm a worthless old
fellow. From what you say, Pam, I'm as much of a failure at the
teaching as anything else. I'm really afraid it's true."

"Never mind, dad. As Mick St. Leger said, you taught them better
things. It isn't your fault that you're over their heads."

"Did poor Mick say that, now?" said Mr. Graydon, answering the first
part of her sentence. "Mick was a good boy; but no scholarship in
him. A child could beat Mick at the Greek verbs."

"He was more at home with a rod or a gun," assented Pamela. "Only
for the noise he made you'd never know he was in the house. There
was no fun he wasn't up to."

Mr. Graydon's face suddenly became serious.

"You'll remember this lad's not Mick, Pam," he said; "you and
Sylvia, I mean, for, of course, Mary is always prudent. Don't behave
with him as if you were all boys together. Now, that locking Mick in
the hayloft, or going with him to Whiddy Fair, would never do with
this boy."

"That was five years ago, dad," answered Pamela, looking with a
demure smile at the hem of her pink cotton frock where it covered
her shoes. "We were wild little colts of girls, then, with our hair
down our backs. Besides, we never meant to _leave_ Mick in the
hayloft; we only forgot he was there in the delight of finding a
wild bees' nest; and we cried coming home from Whiddy Fair, we were
so tired and so hungry."

"Till I overtook you with Frisky, and drove you home and comforted
you."

"You should have spanked us, dad, and sent Mick to the right-about."

"So I should. If you'd been boys, I daresay I'd have known a better
way with you. But what can one do with little girls? Then poor Mick.
I knew it wasn't Mick's fault. You'd been leading him astray, as
usual."

But Frisky had pulled up suddenly at a rather dilapidated gate, with
a post falling to pieces, and the two halves of the gate fastened
together with a piece of string. Out of the lodge within poured a
stream of blue-eyed and chubby children, who stood regarding Frisky
and his freight with shy and friendly smiles.

"Halloa, you rascals," called out Mr. Graydon, "run and call your
mother, some of you. Gone with your father's dinner, is she? She
seems to be always gone with your father's dinner. You can't get
down to open the gate, Pam? No, I see you can't; you're built in
with parcels round your feet. Here, take the reins, and I'll get
down myself. Only don't let Frisky get his head, or he'll run off
with the other post, as he did with that one."

"Frisky is not likely to do that, dad. He's got more sedate since
those days. It was about the same time that Sylvia and I locked Mick
in the hayloft."

"Five years ago, Pam? It can't be five years ago. I'd never have
left that post unmended five years. Why, it was only the other day I
was saying I'd have over the mason from Lettergort to mend it."

He had now done fumbling with the tie of the gate, and Pamela drove
into the overgrown avenue. While he was replacing the bit of string
he kept up a running fire of jests with the small, shame-faced
children, to which she listened with a half-smile.

"Dear old dad," she said to herself. "He has been so long letting
things go that he even forgets that he has let them go. And I'm his
own daughter."

She took up a breadth of her pink frock and looked at it. There was
a rent of at least three inches in it. Pamela shook her head in mute
self-reproach.

"It'll never do for 'Trevithick's lad,' as the dear dad calls him. I
don't suppose he's used to young women with rents in their frocks.
And I am a young woman, and so is Sylvia, though our own father has
never found it out."

As she sat waiting, a dreamy smile came to her lips and a softness
to her eyes. It was like a prophecy of what "Trevithick's lad" was
to bring--like the dawn of love, sweet and bitter, that was to bring
Pam the hoyden into her woman's inheritance.

"Come along, dear," she said with a start, turning to her father:
it seemed as if his head-pattings of the children would never come
to an end. "Frisky's getting uneasy, and will bolt with me and the
crockery, if you don't hurry up."

Her father jumped into the little cart with a laugh.

"I forgot that you were waiting, Pam, those infants have such
pleasing ways. But as for Frisky running away with you, why, bless
me! he's had time to get old since he ran away with the post; at
least, so you say, though I should never have believed it--never!"

"And now," said Pam, "you're going to be turned out of house and
home for the next few days. Unhappy man, you little know how you've
carried soap and scrubbing brushes for your own destruction."

Mr. Graydon gave a gasp of genuine alarm.

"Soap and scrubbing brushes! But what for, Pam? I am sure everything
is very clean--except my books; and I won't have the books touched,
mind that--I won't have my books touched."

"Indeed, then, and I'd advise you to say that to Bridget yourself,
for I'm sure I won't. She's taken a fit of industry, and says she
might as well be living among haythens, wid th' ould dust an' dirt
the masther's for ever gatherin'. 'Them ould books of his,' she
says, 'would be a dale better for a rub of a damp cloth, and then a
polish up wid a duster.'"

"Pam!" cried the unhappy gentleman. "She wouldn't dare put a damp
cloth near my books."

"She'd dare most things, would Bridget. It's your vellum covers
she's after chiefly. She says they're unnaturally dirty."

She looked at the beloved face, which bore a look of genuine dismay
over its genial ruddiness.

"Never mind, dad," she said. "Bridget promises great things; but
between you and me I believe the great clearing up will just end in
what she herself calls a lick and a promise. I don't suppose she'll
ever get so far as your possessions--I don't really believe she
will."

"Don't let her, Pamela darling, will you?" said her father
entreatingly. "Why, good gracious! my classics in vellum! A damp
cloth! And Bridget's damp cloth! It would be enough to send me to an
asylum."

[Illustration: "Come along," she said.]




CHAPTER II.

PREPARATIONS.


"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's," began Bridget.

"Bother Lord Carrickmines!" said Miss Sylvia Graydon. "We know
everything that happened at Lord Carrickmines', and that can't have
been much, seeing you've lived in this house since before I was
born."

"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's," went on Bridget with a kindling
eye, "the young ladies--and sweet young ladies they were, Miss Mabel
and Miss Alice--would have scorned to sit on the kitchen table
swingin' their feet an' givin' advice they worn't asked for when
there was work to be done in the house. They were more likely to
come an' help----"

"In their pink and blue silks, Bridget dear. You know they always
wore pink and blue silks. Besides, I only advised you for your good.
You're going the wrong way entirely about mending that chair. The
first time Sir Anthony sits on it he'll go flat on the floor."

"Well, then, it won't be you'll go flat on the floor, Miss Sylvy,
so you needn't be talkin' about it. There, bother the thing! The
more nails I drives in it the more it splits, till the cracks in
it is like the spokes of a wheel. I believe 'tis you sittin' there
givin' me impudence, Miss Sylvy. Sure it's the contrary ould thing
entirely. I wish I'd never bothered after it."

"Why did you, then? Why can't he sit on his trunk, as Mick used to
do? I'm sure he can't be better than Mick."

"There's a deal o' differ, Miss Sylvy, between the rank of a 'Sir'
an' the rank of a meleetia leftenant, though Mr. St. Leger was a
real nice young gentleman, when not led into mischief by you or Miss
Pamela. You see, I learnt the differ when I was at Lord----"

"I'll tell you what, Bridget," said Miss Sylvia, jumping off the
table, "I'll go and pick currants in the garden. You were saying
yesterday they were dropping off their stalks for want of picking."

"Aye, do, dearie. I'll be makin' jam as soon as I get this weary
cleanin' done, an' you'll help me with the stirrin', Miss Sylvy, an'
write the labels for me?"

"That I will, Bridget, on condition you give me a pot for myself."

Bridget looked fondly after the slender young figure as it went out
in the sunlight, followed by a very fat bull-dog which had been
basking before the fire.

"There," she said to herself, "Miss Sylvy's real willin', if you
only take her the right way. Sure, as I was sayin' to the master the
other day, you'd never miss a young gentleman in the house as long
as you'd Miss Sylvy. Miss Pamela's real pleasant, too, but give me
Miss Sylvy, for all she's more like a boy nor a girl. But there, a
household of females is apt to weigh on the spirits, as I say, so
it's well we have Miss Sylvy, for the master's ever abroad or shut
up wid his musty ould books."

At this moment a lieutenant of Bridget's appeared on the scene. This
was Mrs. Murphy, a stout village matron, who had been brought in to
assist in the great cleaning up, preparatory to the arrival of the
new pupil.

The good woman was steaming like her suds, of which she carried a
very dirty bucketful.

"Well, that job's done," she observed, "an' the room ought to be
clane enough to sarve him another twelvemonth. I don't know what the
gentry wants wid all the clanin' at all. 'Tis meself wouldn't like
ould buckets o' suds rowled round the flure o' my little room at
home. They say washin' flures is the cause of a many coulds. How is
the work wid ye, ma'am?"

"I'm not progressin' much, ma'am. I was just tellin' Miss Sylvy that
it was her sittin' and laughin' at me was puttin' out my hand. Sit
down for a minute, ma'am, an' have a noggin o' buttermilk to cool
ye. There's time enough to be pullin' up the master's ould carpet
that hasn't been up in the memory o' man. He won't be home this hour
yet."

"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan," Mrs. Murphy
observed, as she seated herself.

"Indeed, they're contrairy cratures, like all men. They like
claneness, but they don't like to be claned. See how they're always
moppin' themselves in could baths enough to give them their end, and
yet water about their rooms is somethin' they can't endure. When I
was at Lord Carrickmines's, the housekeeper put me, as it might be
you, ma'am, to pelt an ould bucket o' water round his lordship's
studio. He was a hasty man, an' he caught sight o' me enterin' the
door--oh, bedad! he took the ould blunderbuss an' promised me the
contints of it if I didn't quit."

"The master here's rale quiet, though. He won't be for murdherin'
you, glory be to goodness!"

"I daresay he'll raise a pillalew all the time," said Bridget
philosophically, "but 'tis no use mindin' him."

"Yez have great preparations anyway, an' people's comfort all out
o' the windy. I suppose 'tis a rale grand young gentleman yez are
gettin'?"

"Well enough, well enough," said Bridget loftily. "He's what ye call
a baronite."

"Rowlin' in gould, I suppose?"

"Well, then, ma'am, I was never curious enough to ax his fortin'."

Undeterred by this glaring snub, Mrs. Murphy went on placidly:

"He'll be a fine match for wan o' the young ladies."

"He might be," assented Bridget, as if she had thought of it for the
first time.

"Miss Sylvy now'll dazzle the eyes of him wid beauty. I wouldn't ask
a greater beauty meself if I wor a young gentleman."

"Oh, the beauty's there, never fear. You wouldn't find a sweeter
angel than Miss Sylvy sittin' up in church on Sunday, wid the
feathery hat she made herself, poor lamb. The little face of her,
and the big shiny eyes, an' the darlin' hair puffed out about her.
Och, indeed, you'd go a long way to bate Miss Sylvia in beauty."

"So the young gentleman'll think, I'll be bound."

"Indeed, then, I hope he won't be wastin' his time, for if he was
to come makin' love to Miss Sylvy, 'tis as like as not she'd make a
face at him."

"Well, then, it'll be Miss Pamela."

"May be, may be. Anyhow, it won't be Miss Sylvy, for she's just an
imp of mischief, for all she has the face of an angel. The master
calls her 'Boy.' 'I was lookin' for a boy,' says he, 'an' 'twas
herself that come. But sure, after all,' says he, 'I'm not sure
'twas any mistake at all, at all.'"

"And now, Mrs. Murphy," said Bridget, with a sudden return to
authority, "I'd be obliged to you if it was your work you was
gettin' about, an' not sittin' here idlin' all day. Stir your lazy
bones, woman, an' be off to the master's studio, or 'tis never done
'twill be at all."

"Well, indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Murphy, with a justly aggrieved
air. "Here I wouldn't be at all, exceptin' by your own invitation."

[Illustration: "Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss
Flanagan."]

Bridget hurried upstairs through the quiet house flooded with
morning sunshine. Carrickmoyle stood on a plateau, and looked away
over the bleached country and the summer-dark coppices. It was a
square house, kindly of aspect, despite its ruinous condition, and
around it lay a rich old garden, full of damask roses and such
wealth of fruit as only come with years to a garden.

An orchard, gnarled and overgrown, was down in the hollow. A
delightful place it was to dream away a summer day, with no sound
to break the stillness save only the moan of the wood-dove or the
dropping of ripe fruit.

As Bridget went upstairs she paused at a window. Below her, flitting
here and there through the raspberry canes and currant bushes, she
caught a glimpse of Sylvia's blue frock.

"There she is, the lamb," muttered the old woman, her face
softening. "There she is, wid that Mark Antony at her heels, helpin'
himself to the raspberries, I'll be bound. An' she, pretty lamb!
'tis more she'll be atin' thin pickin', I'm thinkin'. But never
mind, never mind, we can't be young but wance."

In the room intended for the new pupil Mary Graydon, the eldest of
the three girls, was sitting, puckering her forehead over a mass of
muslin that overflowed her lap.

"What are you in trouble about, Miss Mary?" asked Bridget.

"I don't know how to cut this into curtains for the window at all,
Bridget dear," said the sweetest, most plaintive voice; "it's so
narrow and the window so wide."

"What have you got at all, child? 'Tisn't your poor mamma's muslin
slips?"

"It is indeed, Bridget. They were only going to pieces where they
were, and we can't afford curtains, and I'm sure if mamma was alive
she'd tell me to 'take them.'"

"Indeed, then, I'm sure she would, Miss Mary, for she was like
yourself; she'd give the clothes off her back to anyone she thought
wanted them worse. Give me the scissors, jewel, an' I'll just
cut them out for you. I once got a prize in Major Healy's lady's
sewin'-class for cuttin'-out when I was a girl; though you'd never
believe it, to see the botch I made of the chair I was tryin' to
mend."

"It isn't quite the same thing, Bridget, you know. Oh! thank you,
that _is_ clever. How are you getting on downstairs?"

"Pretty well, Miss Mary, but 'tis aisy does it wid that woman, Mrs.
Murphy. She's a great ould gossip of a woman; 'tis no wonder Tim an'
the childher are the shows of the place. I was hard put to it to
shut her mouth--her tongue's longer thin my arm--an' get her to the
master's studio before he came home."

"Oh, poor papa! You're surely not invading him, Bridget?"

"Aye, am I. The woman's up to her shoulders in dirty soap-suds by
this time, unless she's found someone more ready to listen to her
thin I was. There, Miss Mary, there's the curtain; I've made a nate
job of it, haven't I?"

"You have indeed, Bridget. I wish you'd teach me some of your
cleverness."

"Arrah! what would you want with the like? Sure, 'tis only by
rayson of a little inconvaynience that rale blood-ladies like
yourselves has to lift your hands, if it was only to wash your
faces."

Mary Graydon shook her head. Hers was a face which seemed irradiated
with a quiet inward light, and her eyes were gentler than the eyes
of doves.

"You must teach me all you know, Bridget, for I shall always be
poor."

"You mane when you marry Mr. St. Leger, Miss Mary?"

The girl nodded without speaking, but a sudden rush of happy colour
covered her innocent face.

"Don't be thinkin' of that, my lamb. The ould lord'll come round
before that. Sure he couldn't be as hard-hearted a naygur as he lets
on."

"I'm afraid not, Bridget. He has a little son of his own now, you
see, and so the less reason for forgiving papa."

Bridget lifted her eyes and hands.

"Him wid a little son indeed! Cock him up wid a little son, an' him
wid wan foot in the grave! Well, there's no gettin' over the ways of
some people. But 'tis time for me to be gettin' about my work, or
I'll be as bad as that Murphy woman. Just you call to me, Miss Mary,
if you want to know anything; but don't go spoiling them eyes on Mr.
Mick, puttin' too fine work into that baronite's curtains."

She went off then, and for a time there was silence in the room,
broken only by the occasional efforts of Pamela's Irish terrier,
Pat, to better Bridget's bed-making. The windows, brown-paper panes
and all, were flung wide open, and there was a lovely prospect
of plain and hill, and wood and river, stretching away into the
pearl-grey distances. A little wind sang like a lullaby in the
leaves of the sycamore outside the window, and from the garden below
came a drowsy humming of bees.

But to the girl who sat there dreaming dreams a scene widely
different presented itself. She saw a parched Indian plain and a
row of low white buildings. All around there was a clearing, but
beyond was the mass of the jungle, where the jackals cried by night
and the lions roared thunderously. Somewhere in that baking place
she saw the face she loved--the plain, honest, devoted face of Mick
St. Leger, who had passed from the Militia to be a subaltern in a
marching regiment. Five years at least would elapse before he came
home--five years, with all their chances of trouble and loneliness,
and, alas! of death.

Mary Graydon trembled over her sewing as the longing for her lover
became almost intolerable. Then she snapped a thread off short, and
lifted her eyes in a quiet way which had become natural to her when
she was alone. She could not know what was happening to her dear boy
under those deadly skies; but there was One who knew and whose love
was greater still, and she could trust that love even if its will
was to slay her.

There was a quick step on the stones, and the sound of someone
rushing up two steps at a time.

"Oh! here you are, Molly," cried Pamela, rushing in breathless.
"We've got home, papa and I; and the glass for these windows is
all in a smash, and three of the new tumblers, and the youth's
shaving-glass. And what do you think, darling? The youth's coming
to-day--this afternoon. That dear old dunderhead of a father of
ours has been reading 'Thursday' for 'Tuesday,' and has just had a
telegram to undeceive him."

Mary lifted her hands in dismay.

"Dad's to meet him at Lettergort at four-thirty. It's just as well
it happened, anyhow, for, instead of going into his study to read
the _Sentinel_, I've headed him off for the stables to see if Frisky
must have a shoe. So he hasn't discovered yet the terrible havoc
among his household gods. Maybe, if we can get things to rights
before he finds out, he'll never know his room has been cleaned at
all, at all. I'm sure Mrs. Murphy will leave as few traces of the
cleaning as possible."

"What _are_ we to do, Pam?"

"Why, do nothing. It's just as well the glass is broken, for there'd
be no time to put it in. Besides, I'm of Bridget's opinion, that
brown paper's a deal comfortabler-looking in the could weather."

"But his dinner, Pamela?"

"Why, kill the red cock. He's been insufferable, strutting about
with his hoarse crow, since he killed my dear bantam. Besides, he
can't live much longer; you know he's very old."

"But won't he be tough? Besides, how are we to catch him?"

"As to the toughness, the youth will think it's the habit of Irish
fowl. As to catching him, I think he might be trapped in the
rose-bush opposite the hall-door, where he and his wives have taken
to roosting; and a nice thing they've made of the rose-bush. He's
so old, poor dear! that he goes to bed while yet the sun's high;
but, mind, I'll have nothing to say to catching him, lest it should
savour of revenge for my Dick."

"But, Pam, the house is upside down; and Sir Anthony comes at
four-thirty, you say?"

"Four-thirty his train is due. But papa must take him a round
that'll keep him till seven. You may trust Frisky, if Frisky gets a
chance, though in the ordinary course of things they'd arrive here
from Lettergort in half an hour. Then the train _may_ be more late
than usual, to oblige us."

"I suppose papa must keep him out?"

"Yes, of course, he must. It's an interesting country and a charming
day. Later on, of course, he'll find out that Lettergort Station is
only round the corner, so to speak; but he'll think the long drive
was an aberration of his Irish host."

"But won't he be tired after his long journey?"

"He'll be more tired if he has to help us to catch the red cock;
that is, if we don't succeed in surprising the poor thing."

"Yes, I suppose we'll have to ask papa to do that. And Pam, darling,
do run down and see what Mrs. Murphy is doing in the poor dear's
study. He has always been so happy there that it's a shame to
disturb him with the knowledge that it has been invaded."

"Leave that to me. You'd say I was a born general if you saw the
way I headed him off when he came in. I'll lock Mrs. Murphy in, if
necessary, and then make a prodigious search for the key."

"Don't do that, Pam, darling."

"Only as a last resource. Never you fear, I'll keep the poor
darling's mind undisturbed. You'll see he never suspects anything,
even when I ask him at lunch where I shall find the quotation,
'Alas, unconscious of their doom, the little infants play.'"

And Pamela did ask him at lunch, and the poor gentleman gave
her innocently the information she asked. Though, as she said
afterwards, it was a shame to keep him in the dark, for he loved
a joke so dearly that he would have enjoyed one even at his own
expense.

[Illustration: Mary lifted her hands in dismay.]




CHAPTER III.

SIB ANTHONY TREVITHICK.


"Well, if the ould train isn't batin' herself for bein' up to time!"
said Pat Sheehan, the porter at Lettergort Station. "She'll draw
up at this platform twenty-five minits before she's due be the
time-table, an' an hour an' twenty-five before her usual time."

"'Tis Timothy Dolan that's drivin' her," said the person addressed,
a little old woman like a robin, with a soft little voice hardly
bigger than a bird's twitter.

"The power of love is wonderful," she went on; "sure Tim's spakin'
to Mrs. Doyle's little Katty, an' he's raced the thrain so that he
can dart up an' see the little girl while the ould ingin' is pantin'
the sides out of her like a dog after a gallop."

"More than punctual!" commented a young gentleman, who was standing
in a first-class carriage, looking from the shining landscape to the
face of his chronometer.

He was a good-looking fellow, with honest brown eyes and a face that
told of constant living in the open air. He was lean as a hound,
and almost as long; presumably he would fill out, but even now his
long-legged youthfulness was not without its attractive side.

As the train drew up at the platform he pocketed his watch, and
began to gather his belongings leisurely. They seemed to be a good
many--gun-case, golf-sticks, fishing-tackle, hat-case, rugs and
umbrellas, and all the rest of it. While he was thus engaged a
good-natured face, belonging to the red-bearded and red-haired giant
who was guard of the train, looked in at the window.

"No hurry, sir, if you're not goin' on. If you are, there'll be time
to take a dander up the town an' get a bit of dinner."

"Indeed? I didn't know you made a long stop here," said the youth,
pausing in his occupation of locking a small portmanteau.

"No more we do. We're supposed to skelp along wid the letters
for Ballintaggart beyant the mountains there. But you see,
sir"--insinuatingly--"the driver's gone to see his sweetheart.
That's how we got in so early. Tim is the boy for not lettin' the
grass grow under the thrain when he has a mind. I remember when this
ould thrain was bet in a race wid a pig; but Tim's put another face
on her."

"Oh--indeed. And when will you start again?"

"Whenever your honour likes. I wouldn't be for hurryin' a gentleman
over his dinner, to say nothin' of Tim, that's a dacent boy, an'
deserves a good turn."

The traveller laughed with an enjoyment that lit up a face grave in
repose.

"You don't mind letting the people at Ballin--what's-its-name?--wait
for their letters?"

"Och, surely not. Maybe 'tis a week before some o' them 'ud hear be
chance there was a letter for 'em at the post-office, an' be that
time every wan in the place'll know what's in it. It'll be: 'There's
a letter below at the post-office for you, Judy, wid an order in it
for a pound from your Uncle Con in Philadelphy'; or, 'Miss Geraghty
below at the post-office was tellin' me there's grand news from the
daughter in New York--twins, no less, an' all doin' well.' Sure, the
people themselves is the last to hear, barrin' the polis."

"But why should the police be in the dark?" asked the young
gentleman, as he finally concluded putting his traps together.
"Here, help me out with these, please. I'm getting off here, or I'd
be delighted to fix the hour for going on."

Mat Connor, the guard, beckoned to Pat Sheehan.

"Here's a man 'ull run 'em anywhere you like in his ass-cart for
you, sir, an' welcome. As I was sayin', sir, the polis has nothin'
to do but pick up news, and there's an objection to doin' away wid
their ockypation--that's all. They're dacent men, the polis."

"I expected a carriage or something to meet me."

Mat Connor looked up and down the platform, where the little woman
stood alone, enjoying the excitement of the train's arrival. Then he
went to the door and looked out. As he came back he again carefully
scanned the platform, as though he might have overlooked such a
thing as a carriage.

"Not a sight of one I see at all, at all, sir. Where might you be
for, if I may make so bould as to ask?"

"I'm going to Mr. Graydon's, of Carrickmoyle. I daresay he'll be
here presently, as he knows the hour the train is due."

"Och, Mr. Graydon'll be here, never fear. He'll be rowlin' round
in his little car in less thin no time. The gentleman's for Mr.
Graydon's, Pat. Just get his things on the ass-cart an' run them
around before another train's due."

"It is not far, then?"

"If you turned to the right when you wint out, an' kep' your eyes
shut, only feelin' your way by the wall, you'd be turnin' in at the
gate of Carrickmoyle in, maybe, half an hour. But sure, here's Mr.
Graydon himself comin' to look for you. I suspected he wouldn't be
long."

The young gentleman turned round and saw coming towards him along
the platform a lively, fresh-coloured man, of fifty or thereabouts.
In spite of his old Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers of grey
homespun, yellowed and browned with hard wear, there was no
mistaking Mr. Graydon for anything but a gentleman. His face beamed
cordiality on the new arrival, and his blue eyes shone with pleasure.

"You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony, very heartily welcome to
Carrickmoyle! Have you been waiting? I'm so sorry. I made certain to
be in time. Indeed, I had an errand to do a little further, but, of
course, I turned in as soon as I saw the train had arrived."

[Illustration: "You are welcome, my dear Sir Anthony."]

"The train was over-punctual, sir, and I have been very well
entertained while I waited."

"I daresay, I daresay. There are worse comrades than Mat. Many a
pleasant day's shooting I had with Mat for companion. Eh, Mat,
you don't forget the night in the Moyle river when our legs froze
waiting for wild duck, and we thought we'd have to stay there till
the hot weather set us free."

Mat grinned delightedly for response.

"The worst of Mat is he's a born poacher. Doesn't respect
Inverbarry's preserves or anybody else's, and isn't to be
frightened, though I tell him Inverbarry'll lock him up one of these
days."

"Not wid your honour on the bench. But 'tisn't me that poaches. 'Tis
the bit of a dog. You couldn't insinse respect for the law into that
little baste's head wance he's put up a hare or a partridge."

"Well, good-bye, Mat, good-bye. Tell the old mother I was asking for
her. How are you, Mrs. Kelly? What's the last news from Nora? The
best, that's a good hearing. Come along, Sir Anthony. Don't drop any
of the gentleman's things on your way, Pat."

Mr. Graydon bustled his new pupil out of the little station, and
into the very disreputable pony car, with a blissful oblivion of its
shortcomings.

"You won't mind coming to the village with me till I deliver my
message? I was very near forgetting it. Then I'll have you home in
less than no time. You'll be glad of a wash-up and a cup of tea."

Sir Anthony assented, but he was preoccupied, tucking his long legs
away under the seat of the little car. When he had time to look at
his host, he found him gravely regarding him.

"You are like your father, just such another as he was at your age."

"I am glad you think so, sir. I am proud to be like him."

"Ah, he was a fine fellow, my lad."

"He never forgot you, sir, and your old friendship, though, as he
said, you had chosen to bury yourself far away from your friends. He
used to say that no man had more friends, or deserved them better."

"Did he say that?" and for a second Mr. Graydon's eyes were misty.
"Ah, well! he showed he remembered me when he wished his boy to be
in my hands."

"You are good to have me, sir."

"Not at all, my lad. I shall be very glad of your companionship, and
shall feel sometimes as if it were Gerald Trevithick beside me as of
old instead of his boy. And your mother? I hope you left Lady Jane
well."

"Quite well, thank you, sir."

"And what did she think of her only son burying himself in the wilds
of Ireland?"

"She respected my father's wishes," said the young fellow, and Mr.
Graydon detected a note of coldness in the voice which had been so
tender when he spoke of his dead father.

"Ah, here we are," said Mr. Graydon, as they turned into a tiny
street of mud cabins and drew up in front of a general shop. "Just
take the reins for a minute while I give Mrs. Lennan my daughter's
orders. Oh, is it yourself, Mrs. Lennan? You shouldn't have troubled
to come out. You're looking bonny in spite of the hot weather."

"The same to you, Mr. Graydon," said the little rosy-cheeked woman,
curtseying. "What can I do for your honour to-day?"

"I've a list here as long as a woman's tongue, Mrs. Lennan, though
the tongue isn't yours or we'd wish it to be always wagging. Let me
see--here it is: soap, candles, matches--there, you'd better take it
inside and get Mike to read it for you. He's a fine scholar, I hear."

"Indeed, then, he is, sir, though his mother oughtn't to be talkin'
about it. Thank you, sir. I'll put the things together in less time
than you'd say them over."

While they waited in the village street, Mr. Graydon beguiled the
time by genial gossip with every man, woman, and child who came the
way.

"How well you get on with the people, sir," Sir Anthony could not
help saying.

"Do you think so?" said Mr. Graydon, with a little surprise. "You
see, we've known each other so long. Things and people change little
in these out-of-the-way places."

"I couldn't do it, if it was to save my life. Besides, the people
where I come from wouldn't understand it."

"Ah, I suppose not. We Irish are more of a large family--which is,
perhaps, the reason why we wrangle sometimes."

"I don't know how you recollect all their ailments, and the names
and conditions of their families, and all the rest of it."

"I am about through them so much. Your mother would understand. I
daresay she plays the Lady Bountiful a good deal."

The young man's lips parted over a range of beautifully white and
strong teeth.

"No," he said, a little grimly. "The mater isn't at all the
district-visiting sort, I assure you, sir."

With a feeling of having blundered, Mr. Graydon changed the subject.

"I was glad to see your gun-case," he said. "There's any amount
of game about here. The mountain yonder has no end of rabbits;
and there's plenty of teal, woodcock, grouse, and partridge. Good
fishing, too, in the Moyle--the sweetest salmon-trout that ever
grilled over a clear fire; and a mile or two away there are big
salmon for the taking."

"Unpreserved?" cried the youth, with sparkling eyes.

"Well, not very strictly preserved. That mountain yonder,
Carrickduff, is part of my singularly unprofitable property, and the
Moyle runs inside my walls."

"If you don't keep me too close to work, sir, I foresee that I shall
find Carrickmoyle a paradise."

"There are worse places than Carrickmoyle," said Mr. Graydon, with
a sparkle of pleasure in his eye. "Oh, I shan't overwork you. I
believe in out-of-doors for young fellows. When I am busy--I daresay
I shall be a little busy at times with a book which I have had in
hand some years--the children will look after you."

"You have children, then?"

"Yes, three little girls. The eldest is, I'm afraid, becoming
grown-up; but the others are quite children, and as wild as little
hares."

By this time they had passed the rickety gate and were approaching
the house, the double doors of which stood hospitably open.

Mr. Graydon drew up on the gravel-sweep opposite the door.

"I must take Frisky round," he said, "and, meanwhile, will you go
into the drawing-room? It is the first door on the left. I'll be
back with you in a minute, as soon as I've found little Tim to take
Frisky from me--likely as not he's playing marbles in the paddock."

Sir Anthony did as he was directed. The big hall, when he had
entered it, was full of sunlight, but otherwise bare as poverty. A
big fireplace, where the brasses tarnished and the steel rusted; a
great handsome box, intended for billets of wood, but now coldly
empty; some dusty antlers and shields on the high wall--these were
not cheerful.

What was, was the sound of young laughter proceeding from the door
to the left--exuberant laughter, full of enjoyment, accompanied with
an odd little sound of rushing hither and thither.

The young fellow's face lit up as he went forward.

"The children playing 'Puss in the Corner,'" he said to himself, and
went almost on tip-toe.

But as he reached the door he was met by a sudden silvery shriek.
Something feathery and very hard struck him between the eyes; then
the thing dodged him, but before he could discover what it was
another missile followed; at the same moment the silvery voice
cried, in accents of despair:--

"Very well, you wretch! go, if you will; but you have disgraced
Carrickmoyle, and left the baronet without any dinner."

But let Sir Anthony himself explain these extraordinary happenings,
and how he met his fate, and the strange shape in which love came to
him.

END OF CHAPTER THREE.

[Illustration: Our Roll of Heroic Deeds]

This series of pictures of heroic deeds is fittingly inaugurated
by the portrayal of the splendid heroism of the nursemaid Fanny
Best, of Tiverton, who, by her courage and presence of mind, was
instrumental in saving the lives of her charges when attacked by
an infuriated cow. As will be seen, she kept a firm hold of the
perambulator, and at the risk of her own life boldly resisted the
repeated thrusts of the animal until help arrived. The Editor
is always pleased to hear of such instances of self-sacrificing
bravery--either in men or women--with a view to the award of the
Medal of The Quiver Heroes Fund, such as was sent to Miss Best at
the time.




[Illustration: THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN]

THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

By the Lord Bishop of Derry.

"Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."--St. Matthew
iii., 2.


This proclamation, made by the Baptist, is the best possible
beginning for a gospel, since men will never repent unless they feel
that better things are open to them.

Therefore, as the next chapter informs us, these same words were
the first utterance, the modest germ, of the profounder teaching of
our Lord Himself, and He started from the precise point to which
the forerunner had led his followers. The next step was to fill up
somewhat these slender outlines by saying, "The time is fulfilled,
and the kingdom of heaven is at hand: repent ye, and believe in the
gospel" (St. Matthew iv. 17; St. Mark i. 15).

This announcement is necessary still. How often have we excused our
misdeeds by the abject plea that we could not help ourselves! It is
abject, it is a confession of slavery; but, if true, it is a perfect
defence. None may blame us for doing what is inevitable, or failing
to do what is impossible. If a giant were to force a torch into my
hand and with it to explode a powder magazine, I should not be the
murderer of those who perished by my hand. I should feel outraged
and indignant, but not remorseful.

And whoever is really certain that he "cannot help" his
intemperance, or sloth, or anger, need not feel remorseful any more,
but he also ought to feel outraged and indignant. But against whom?
God? or Satan? or himself, the self of other days? For, after all,
an act which is quite uncontrollable now may have sprung from the
wilful acts of long ago, from compliances that forged habits which
have now become bands of steel.

At all events, the gospel does not deny man's debasement and
thraldom; it asserts, not that you are naturally free, but that
you are graciously emancipated; it is preoccupied, not with your
strength, but with the approach of reinforcements. "The kingdom of
heaven is at hand."

Now think how urgently a kingdom of heaven is required. We know
to our cost that there is an awful kingdom of hell--an organised
and systematic power of evil. Christ Himself said it. He declared
that Satan could not cast out Satan because evil in this world
is regulated, coherent, and organic--it is a house, a kingdom,
working consistently, and it would fall if it were divided against
itself. And we are beset by its forces, entangled, and made captive.
Whatever be our frailty, they seize upon it. Am I selfish? The
carelessness of others makes me dishonest. Am I uncharitable? Their
failings provoke my scorn. Am I light and trifling? Their example
beguiles me into excess. Am I irascible? Their injustice lashes
me into fury. Am I sensitive? Their neglect discourages, their
harshness ulcerates me. Am I affectionate? Their kindness disarms my
judgment and drugs my conscience to sleep.

And the evil which these nurse in me becomes in turn a snare to
other men.

And all these influences are wielded and swayed by malignant and
terrible intelligences, our foes, our tyrants.

Therefore we have need of a kingdom as real, a power of goodness as
systematic, to overcome in us this organised pressure from beneath.

And hence it was not mere goodness, but a kingdom of organised and
potent goodness, which Jesus from the first proclaimed.

What is the meaning of the phrase, "the kingdom of God"--"of
heaven"? Many excellent people believe it to be something still
future, the outcome in another dispensation of forces latent still,
the millennium, the personal reign of Christ. And we must not
deny that there are passages which indicate that such will be the
fulness and triumphant issue of His kingdom. But Christ did not say,
"Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at least nineteen centuries
away from you." And again, when tauntingly questioned as to when
this kingdom should come, He answered that it was come already, "not
with observation," yet among them.

And, indeed, He, being Himself the Anointed One, was always speaking
of the kingdom; so that, while the rest of the New Testament
mentions it thirty-three times, it is mentioned in the gospels one
hundred and twenty-five times.

For He spoke to men who understood the phrase, being steeped in Old
Testament promises of the Messianic time; and they, when their turn
came, had to preach where the mention of a new kingdom would be as
alarming as it was to Herod.

If, then, our Lord had even once employed a safer expression, this
would so much better suit His followers as inevitably to displace
among the Gentiles His own favourite phrase, "the kingdom." And
so it comes that the word "church," which He is only known to
have uttered on two occasions, is found elsewhere one hundred and
thirteen times.

This is, indeed, an evidence of the accuracy of the reports, for if
the discourses of our Lord were not genuine, how could they have
been marked by this distinctive peculiarity when the Church had
become used to employ a different word?

And surely it _is_ the Church, this kingdom which our Lord spoke of
as a field where tares were growing, as a little seed which became a
tree, as a net which embraced alike good fish and bad?

It is the organised coherent power of the world to come, confronting
evil with an influence and mastery superior to its own.

Repent, said Christ, because the empire of wickedness is
tottering--because the iron sceptre of the tyrant is about to
break--because the prince of this world is soon to be cast out.

What do we know of the constitution, and what of the spirit, of this
divine kingdom upon earth?

Jesus declared its constitution when He said that, while the kings
of this world put forth an imperious sway, and men obsequiously
reckon them benefactors who exercise lordship over them, with us
the conditions are reversed, and he is greatest who stoops, helps,
serves, and forgets the ambitions that usurp and trample.

What encouragement for the penitent! In the realm which he
now enters--where he fears to be reproached for his past
rebellion--every true leader has it for an ambition to help and
serve him; and he is made sharer in a vast and sublime citizenship,
where all, from the Prince of Life to the lowliest true servant, are
united in desiring his victory and joy.

Oh, if this is true, if the Conqueror of Death and Hell has received
gifts for us, and ever liveth to make intercession for us, and if,
in one grand and organised strain and stress of effort for the
right, angels and principalities and powers, and things present and
to come, and Paul and Cephas, all are ours, then, in the approach of
such a kingdom, in the voice that bids us rally to such a standard
of emancipation, what hope, what animation, what an opening of
prison doors!

Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.

With mutual help for its constitution, now what is its aim and
temper?

"The kingdom of God," said St. Paul, "is not self-indulgence, not
eating and drinking, but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the
Holy Ghost."

It is not any _one_ of these isolated from the rest.

Righteousness, for instance, means conformity to rule; a sceptre of
righteousness is the same thing as a straight sceptre.

But can you not imagine a life of conformity to rule, a life
perfectly righteous, being hideous?

Think, for instance, of a slave in a plantation, rising early,
toiling until absolute exhaustion arrested his incessant labours,
perfectly temperate, sober, and obedient. But all this was because
the sound of the lash was in his ears, and the scars of it on his
flesh; and all the while his soul was either stupefied or frenzied.

Well, it is not practically possible, but it is conceivable in
theory--and Christ conceived it--that, even thus, in the fear which
has torment, one should thoroughly obey God, remembering the pangs
of remorse, and foreboding those of hell. And I repeat it: such a
righteousness, pressed on the reluctant soul by external forces,
would be hideous. It is the righteousness of the prodigal's brother:
"I never transgressed.... Thou never gavest me a kid."

But the kingdom of God is righteousness combined with peace; it is
obedience to an inner law--to a law written in the heart and mind.

"Righteousness, and peace, and joy." How little of real penetrating
joy comes into an average human life! "Happy," says Thackeray, who
knew men so well, "happy! who is happy?" And even the calm and
tranquil Wordsworth, most blameless of the children of his time,
complained that--

    "We are pressed by heavy laws,
      And often, glad no more,
     We wear a face of mirth, because
      We have been glad before."

Nor, to be frank, is the life of a Christian altogether and
perfectly joyful. "Even we ourselves do groan within ourselves,"
wrote Paul to the same church for which he prayed that the "God of
hope would fill them with all peace and joy."

But the reason he groans is because he has only the first fruits of
what is coming. He groans waiting for the redemption of the body,
and the old nature still has power to hinder and to thwart him.
What is new in him tends to happiness, the higher and holier part
of him is all for joy; that is true of him in some degree which
is observed of his Master (despite one apparent exception by the
grave of Lazarus), that He is often said to have His soul troubled,
but only once that He rejoiced in spirit. "The kingdom of God is
righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost."

This kingdom, Jesus said, was at hand. And when His disciples were
rejected, and shook off the dust of the city from their shoes, He
bade them say, "Nevertheless, of this be ye sure, that the kingdom
of God is come nigh unto you."

And it is nigh unto us to-day. It is felt in the inmost soul even of
those who would be ashamed to confess its presence.

Even when you are most miserably defeated in striving to be good,
most ashamed of failure, even when (to return to our starting-point)
you declare that you cannot do the thing that you would, even then
you do not entirely believe yourself; the conviction of lofty
possibilities will not quite begone; righteousness, and peace, and
joy, still haunt your imaginings and disturb your guilty pleasures;
you feel, you know, that these things are your heritage, and without
them you can never be content.

What does this strange, illogical, incessant experience mean?

There is a beautiful old legend of a Christian girl, betrayed to
martyrdom by her pagan lover in the bitterness of his rejection,
who promised as she went to die to send him, if it were allowed to
her, some proof of her religion. On that same wintry night, as he
sat and mourned, the legend says that a fair boy left at his door a
basket filled with flowers of such bloom and fragrance as never grew
in earthly gardens. Whereupon he arose and confessed Christ, and
passed through the same dusky gates of martyrdom to rejoin her in
the paradise of God.

Like those flowers of unearthly growth, proclaiming the reality of
the unseen, so do our unworldly longings, our immortal spiritual
aspirings, our feeling after a Divine Deliverer, if haply we may
find Him, prove that the kingdom of God is at hand.

Every thought of God comes from God, and is already the operation of
His Spirit.

Every desire for Christ is Christ's forerunner in the soul, and bids
us welcome Christ.

"Repent ye, and believe the gospel."

HOMES OF NOBLE POVERTY

=By the Author of "England's Youth at Worship."=

To be miserably poor throughout life is a burden sufficiently hard;
to sink from riches to poverty is a tragedy. Yet it is a tragedy
that we see constantly occurring around us. To struggle with
despairing pride to preserve that outward show which is falsely
termed respectability; to see fair-weather friends slink one by
one away; to surrender the little luxuries, innocent enough in
themselves, that have grown to become a part of life itself--that
is what it means to slip down the hill of fortune. "Give me neither
poverty nor riches," says the Book of Proverbs, the embodiment of
wisdom for all time.

[Illustration: (_Photo: J. G. Williams, East Molesey_.)

NOBLE POVERTY AT HAMPTON COURT.]

In poverty, as in all things else, there are degrees. What may be
wealth to one may be destitution to another. It depends upon what
the previous habits of life have been. Take, for instance, the
gentlemen and ladies, many of them bearing the noblest English
names, to whom the Queen grants apartments in the old Palace of
Hampton Court. They are not without small incomes themselves, and
the rates and taxes they have to pay amount to no inconsiderable
sum. Yet to live rent free is a boon that enables them to live
comfortably.

Shortly after the commencement of his reign George III. closed the
Palace as a royal residence, and from that time private families
commenced to occupy its innumerable rooms. These "royal squatters,"
as they have been called, at first behaved in doubtful fashion.
Many had been granted leave to stay for a few weeks, and quietly
proceeded to make it a permanent residence. Worse still, they seized
additional rooms when they thought they could do so in safety, and
sometimes let them out at a substantial rent to their friends. News
of these strange doings was carried to the king, who became very
angry, as an existing letter that he wrote shows to us. It was
proclaimed that no one would in future be allowed to occupy a suite
of apartments save under the Lord Chamberlain's warrant. Gradually
the thousand rooms of the great building were divided up into,
firstly, the State apartments, and, secondly, fifty-three private
suites, varying in size from ten to forty chambers. At the present
time these suites are granted, as a general rule, to the widows
of men who have distinguished themselves in the service of their
country. To no more worthy use could the Palace have been placed;
indeed, the tact and discrimination which have been exhibited by our
Queen and her advisers in the distribution of these benefits cannot
be too highly praised.

About the royal pensioners of Hampton Court many interesting and
amusing stories are told. When debt brought imprisonment as its
punishment, a certain gentleman retired to the rooms of a relation
in the Palace, and claimed the immunity of a royal residence. The
bailiffs knew that they could not arrest him there, and hung about
at the gates, while he took his daily exercise upon the roof. One
day he incautiously ventured out and was arrested; but he escaped
from his enemies, swam the river, and got back into safety again.
Red-tape rules supreme in the management of the royal buildings, as
the pensioners know to their cost. Certain windows, for instance,
are never properly cleaned, owing to the fact that the Woods and
Forests Department washes the outside of the panes and the Lord
Steward's Department the inside. As the two departments rarely
manage to do their cleaning on the same day, the windows are usually
in a state of semi-obscurity. To obtain the use of an old staircase
that led from her rooms to the gardens, a lady had to successively
petition the Lord Chamberlain of Her Majesty's Household, the Lord
Steward and Board of Green Cloth, the First Commissioner of Her
Majesty's Works, and, finally, the Woods and Forests!

[Illustration: _Photo Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)

HOUSES OF THE MILITARY KNIGHTS, WINDSOR CASTLE.]

While chronicling the movements of the Queen, reference is now and
again made in the daily press to the Military Knights of Windsor.
Nevertheless, but few who read about their doings know of what that
order consists. They are officers who have distinguished themselves
in some of our innumerable little wars, and yet in their old age
find themselves solely dependent on a very diminutive pension.
From the Queen they served so faithfully and well they receive an
annuity and a lodging in that vast palace, Windsor Castle. The order
is, indeed, a pendant to that better-known home for the veterans
of the rank and file, Chelsea Hospital. Its history is peculiarly
interesting. When that gallant warrior, King Edward III., founded
the Order of the Garter, he ordained that each of the twenty-six
companions should be allowed to present an "alms-knight" to the
provision made for them by the king. According to the original
grant, these veterans were to be "such as through adverse fortune
were brought to that extremity that they had not of their own
wherewith to sustain them nor to live so genteely as became a
military condition." That they might live "genteely" they were given
a lump sum of forty shillings a year, and twelve pence each day they
attended the royal chapel--a small pension, it seems to us, but it
must be remembered that money has vastly decreased in purchasing
power since those early days.

[Illustration: A MILITARY KNIGHT OF WINDSOR.]

But evil fortune awaited the alms-knights. They had been placed
under the supervision of the canons of St. George's Chapel, and
these priests seem to have bullied them unmercifully. Under Edward
IV. the quarrel had grown to such a pitch that the king interfered.
Monks carried long tales to the monarch of the insubordination shown
by the stout old warriors to the rules that had been made for their
government. The alms-knights replied, but in cunning they were no
match for their adversaries; "deeds not words" might have been their
motto. In the end they were shut off from the royal bounty, and, as
an old chronicler of the times remarks, "how they next subsisted
doth not fully appear." Bluff King Hal, however, took pity on the
poor old gentlemen that yet remained in the land of the living, and
set apart certain lands for their maintenance. Queen Bess added
to their lodgings, but issued a series of strict regulations as
to their behaviour, which well became the maiden Queen, however
distasteful they were to the alms-knights themselves. Their old
enemies, the canons of St. George's Chapel, were informed that they
were to consider themselves responsible for their behaviour, and
severe penalties awaited a "haunter of taverns" or a "keeper of
late hours." When the Queen visited Windsor they were to be ready
to salute her; lastly, it was ordained that no married man could be
admitted to the order, bachelors and widowers being alone eligible.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)

A BROTHER OF ST. CROSS.

(_Of the Order of Noble Poverty_.)]

Until the reign of William IV. their uniform was more ornamental
than comfortable. Indeed, during hot weather it must have been
well-nigh intolerable, consisting as it did of a flowing red mantle,
decked with a "scutcheon of St. George" upon the shoulder. Since the
reform instituted by that king, however, it has consisted of a red
swallow-tail coat, dark blue trousers, cocked-hat with red and white
plume, crimson silk sash and a leather belt for a sword. Of course,
it is only on full-dress occasions that the veterans thus gaily
bedeck themselves. Remarkably well they then look, with their kind
old faces beaming above the rows of medals that proclaim their past
achievements. They still mourn the discontinuance of their famous
banquet on St. George's Day; but presents of game from the royal
preserves doubtless reconcile them to the loss of their annual feast.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)

THE HOSPICE OF ST CROSS, WINCHESTER.]

From the old fortress of Windsor Castle, fit residence for veteran
soldiers, to the quiet Hampshire country in which the Hospice of St.
Cross lies is a change indeed. So cool and quiet does St. Cross seem
that it might be likened to some pleasant bower left by the side of
the great highway of life, along which we jostle in the heat and
dust of a summer's day. It lies little more than a mile from sleepy
Winchester, and the River Itchen wanders through its meadows. It
was in 1136 that Henry de Blois, the famous bishop and statesman,
founded St. Cross as a hospital for thirteen old men. So good a deed
stood out in strong relief against the cruelty and savagery of the
times. From north to south, from east to west, England was desolated
by all the horrors of civil war. As the Saxon Chronicle tells us in
its dying wail, "Men openly said that Christ and His saints slept."
Yet Bishop Henry, in the midst of his fighting and scheming, found
time to ensure comparative happiness to thirteen poor traders whom
the raiding barons had reduced from prosperity to poverty. Faults
the great churchman may have had in plenty; but that he had a kind
and generous heart he has left sufficient proof behind him. No finer
monument than St. Cross could man erect to keep his memory green.

On the death of its founder, St. Cross fell into evil times. It
passed under the protection of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem,
a military order then more powerful than scrupulous. The Jerusalem
Cross which is prominent in the church of the Hospice comes from
that source. After a long struggle the Bishops of Winchester
triumphed over the knights, but abuses still prevailed, and the
money that should have found its way into the pockets of the poor
brethren was quietly appropriated by fat ecclesiastics. At last,
under Henry VI., Cardinal Beaufort set to work to remedy these
evils. So noble were his efforts that he almost deserves to be
coupled with Bishop Henry as joint-founder of "The Hospital of Noble
Poverty," as he renamed the institution. From his time St. Cross has
never been in danger of destruction.

An avenue of shady trees leads to a fine gate-house, for which
St. Cross is indebted to Cardinal Beaufort. Above the arch kneels
the effigy of the great churchman himself. Once within the doors
we almost feel as if we had shaken off the nineteenth century
and dropped back into the days of the Tudors. "Wayfarers' dole,"
a little horn mug of beer and a slip of bread, is presented as
refreshment for the weary traveller. This may seem strange enough to
us, but there was a time when the custom was by no means uncommon
in hospitable England. Those were the days when wayfarers were
few, roads half-mud or half-dust, and inns far between. Passing
on, we next find ourselves in a spacious quadrangle, having for
centre a smooth lawn of that exquisite turf for which our country
is deservedly famous. Round it lie the chapel, hall, cloisters,
and brethren's houses. The chapel is a fine building in the Norman
style. Perhaps the most interesting features of its interior are the
designs that adorn the walls. During the "whitewash" period of past
generations they were covered up, but now they have been restored to
something like their original form and colour. In this more than one
of the brethren, where they were able to do so, lent a helping hand.
The little burial ground is to the south of the chapel. It would be
difficult to imagine a more peaceful spot for the last resting-place
of the veterans who have fought and lost in the great battle of life.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)

A VIEW OF THE CHARTERHOUSE.]

"Have you many visitors from London itself?" I once inquired of
the gate porter of the Charterhouse. "No, sir," said he. "We get a
lot from the country, along with the Americans and foreigners; but
precious few Londoners ever come here." It is strange how absolutely
ignorant the average Londoner is concerning all that is quaint and
interesting in the old buildings of the great city in which he
lives. The case of the Charterhouse offers an excellent example.
About it the broad streams of traffic pour unceasingly day after
day; yet, though the little backwater wherein the grey old houses
lie is but a few dozen yards away, few of the busy crowds can either
spare the time or take the trouble to visit it.

The history of the Charterhouse is a strange one. In 1348 all London
was trembling in the grasp of the Black Death. The grave-diggers did
not know what to do with the bodies, and finally buried them in any
pit or ditch that seemed convenient. Famous Sir Walter Manny, the
favourite of all the fighting heroes of Froissart, was horrified
at this grave scandal. He, together with the Bishop of London,
procured certain lands, which were consecrated and handed over to
the city that the dead might at least receive decent burial. It is
said that fifty thousand bodies were there interred in a few years.
Some time later, the plague abating, the same two philanthropists
commenced to build a Carthusian monastery on part of the ground. For
three centuries the Charterhouse, under the rigour of that stern
order, pursued its quiet path. But with Henry VIII. came evil times
for the monks. There were searching examinations, and finality
executions. The monastery was dissolved and the building tossed from
hand to hand. Twice it was held by Dukes of Norfolk, and for a time
was known as Norfolk House. Two of its ducal owners passed from
it to the block on Tower Hill. Queen Elizabeth took refuge there
in the reign of Mary. There were revels there while James I. was
king, eighty gentlemen being knighted at one time after a banquet
which had been to the royal satisfaction. Finally it was bought
by a certain Thomas Sutton, and shortly afterwards we find him
petitioning Parliament for licence to endow it as a home for aged
men and a school for poor children.

Let us take a day in the life of one of the "old gentlemen," as the
attendants always call them. About eight o'clock a "nurse" comes
bustling into his sitting-room, lights his fire, and sees that his
breakfast is laid ready. At nine o'clock a bell goes for chapel.
Each of the brethren must attend one chapel a day on pain of a
shilling fine stopped out of his allowance; but he may choose the
morning or evening service as he likes. The morning service is the
more popular, and to chapel we will now bend our steps. It is a
venerable old building, and now that the schoolboys have left their
old home and retired to Godalming there is plenty of room. On the
right of the altar is a heavy carved pulpit; on the left the tomb
of the founder, good Thomas Sutton, with its elaborate carving and
gold-tipped railings.

[Illustration: ST. KATHARINE'S HOSPITAL, REGENT'S PARK.]

After chapel the old gentlemen are at liberty to do what they like
until dinner is served at three, an hour in itself the survival of
a custom long passed away. The hall, with its carved woodwork, is
a most interesting spot. Wearing their gowns, the brothers file in
and take their seats at the mahogany tables. Above the fireplace the
Sutton arms are blazoned, and from his frame on the wall the picture
of the good merchant himself smiles down upon the recipients of his
bounty.

After dinner, in the summer weather, the brothers usually chat or
doze in the pleasant shade of the buildings in the largest court.
There are few of them that have not something out of the common
about their faces, and none of them but have a hard story to tell,
if they chose. They are of all ranks, but mainly drawn from the
classes described in the old regulations as "poor gentlemen, old
soldiers, merchants decayed by piracy or shipwreck, and household
servants of the sovereign." "We get a lot of literary men here now,"
said an attendant, looking knowingly at me; but I did not pursue the
conversation.

Evening service is at six, and at eleven the gates are shut for the
night.

With the institution known as St. Katharine's Hospital the queens of
England have always been closely connected. It was founded as long
ago as 1148 by Matilda, wife of King Stephen; but to Queen Eleanor
the hospital owed its first charter. By it the English queens were
always to be considered perpetual patronesses, and the institution
was to be part of their dower. Eleanor added further revenues "for
the health of the soul of her late husband and of the souls of the
preceding and succeeding kings and queens."

[Illustration: WILLIAM THE FOURTH'S NAVAL ASYLUM, PENGE.

(_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)]

Henry VIII. seems to have intended at one time to quietly
appropriate the revenues, but Anne Boleyn, the reigning favourite,
prevented this iniquitous deed. From the Stuarts to 1824 there is
little of importance to recount; the handful of royal pensioners
lived in comfort, and a school for poor children was also
maintained. Quiet garments were the rule, though the strict order
passed by the queen of Edward III. against "striped clothes" as
"tending to dissoluteness" had long been abolished. In 1824,
however, came the proposal to dig out a huge dock on the ground
whereon the hospital stood. After great debate Parliament granted
the necessary powers. St. Katharine's Docks were begun, and at the
same time the walls of a new St. Katharine's Hospital commenced to
rise in Regent's Park. The present buildings can scarcely be called
beautiful, the chapel being a poor imitation of the one at King's
College, Cambridge. The offices of master and brethren are now
practically sinecures of considerable value presented by the Crown;
a large number of non-resident "bedesmen and bedeswomen" are also
supported out of the funds. The Queen Victoria Jubilee Nurses' Fund
has of late years been connected with the Hospital.

In the year 1847 Adelaide, Queen Dowager of England, determined to
found and endow an asylum for widows and orphan daughters of the
officers of the Royal Navy. Penge was the spot selected, and there
twelve pretty little houses were built and called "King William the
Fourth's Naval Asylum." It was a graceful act of the queen, for far
too little had been previously done for the destitute relatives
of those to whom the country owed nine-tenths of its power and
security. From its foundation the governors and trustees have all
been in some way connected with the Navy, and can be relied upon
to appreciate the position and look after the interests of the
pensioners.

[Illustration: MORDEN'S COLLEGE, BLACKHEATH.]

Connected also with the sea is that old and famous institution,
Morden's College, Blackheath. In the middle of the seventeenth
century Sir John Morden was a member of the great Turkey Company,
trading in the Mediterranean. He had a "fair estate," numerous
ships, and all things that in his day made up the prosperous trader.
In the City of London his name stood high. But the tenure of riches
and prosperity was more precarious in those days than in our own.
The whole of his fleet perished on one voyage, either by pirates
or storm. But honest Sir John did not relax his energy because he
found fortune his foe. Steadily plodding on, he again commenced to
rise in the world, until at last, like the patriarch Job, he was
even greater and wealthier than before. Misfortune had taught him a
lesson in charity which he never forgot. When at the lowest depths
of his calamity he had vowed that if ever the Almighty again crowned
his efforts with success he would provide a shelter for merchants
who, like himself, had fallen upon hard times and lost their estates
"by accidents, dangers, and perils of the seas."

The College is a spacious red-brick building, with two wings that
form a central quadrangle, which is surrounded by piazzas. It was
built according to the designs of Sir Christopher Wren. At the
present day it houses within its hospitable walls forty pensioners,
while one hundred out-pensioners receive sums varying in amount up
to £80 per annum. The inmates, with £120 each, are very comfortably
off. In 1844 a fine dining-hall was added, in which hang the
portraits of the baronet and his lady, painted by Sir Peter Lely.
The new library was bequeathed by the will of a son of a former
inmate of the College. With the increasing value of property, the
income of Morden's College is now little short of £18,000 a year.
The generous action of the founder well merited the praise of an
old member of the institution, who wrote in his gratitude a poetic
effusion thus concluding:

    "What need is there of monument or bust,
     With gift so noble and a cause so just?
     It seeks no aid from meretricious art,
     It lives enshrined in every member's heart!"

[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd_.)

HUGGENS' COLLEGE, NORTHFLEET.]

John Huggens, who founded the College at Northfleet which bears
his name, was a fine type of the business man of the early part
of this century, a time when the commerce of England commenced to
advance by leaps and bounds. A letter which the Rev. M. M. Ffinch,
Chaplain of the College, has kindly lent me describes him as a tall,
well-made man in "nankeen breeches, blue dress coat, with large gilt
buttons, and a white beaver hat with the nap fully an inch long."
Like many other founders of charitable institutions, he had seen
that the hardest poverty of all is the poverty that will not beg
and cannot, through age, infirmity, or misfortune, make enough to
keep body and soul together. A hard worker all his life, he would
have been the last man in the world to encourage the sloth that
comes by indiscriminate charity. In 1847 he opened a small building
of sufficient size to house eight pensioners who had sunk from
comparative comfort into evil times through no fault of their own.
"Having run our little bark into the smooth and tranquil waters of
the summer evening of life," said the founder in his opening speech,
"may we sail on happily to the end of our voyage here below!"
Before and after his death fresh houses were added, and since the
foundation of the home two hundred and twenty-nine residents have
been received within its walls.

B. FLETCHER ROBINSON.




GREAT ANNIVERSARIES

_IN NOVEMBER._

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


The British calendar never lacks interest. There is not a day which
does not recall for us some great name in our country's history,
some victory of peace or in war. Let us put ourselves in mind of
a few of these--not necessarily of the most familiar or the most
striking, but of some which more especially speak of movements and
workers in the religious and philanthropic life of the nation.

[Illustration: RICHARD BAXTER.

(_After a Contemporary Engraving by Robert White._)]

November is the month in which the Long Parliament met, and William
of Orange landed in England; it is the month of Clive's defence of
Arcot, of Hawke's battle in Quiberon Bay, and of the soldiers' fight
at Inkerman; it is the month that saw the birth of William III., of
Laurence Sterne and Jonathan Swift, of Sir Matthew Hale, of Richard
Baxter, of William Cowper, William Hogarth, Henry Havelock, John
Bright, and Frederick Temple; it is the month in which Adam Smith
published his "Wealth of Nations," and Charles Darwin his "Origin
of Species"; it is the month in which Cardinal Wolsey, John Milton,
and Admiral Benbow died; it is the month which saw the State pageant
many this year have called to mind, the funeral of the Duke of
Wellington.

[Illustration: THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

(_After a Drawing by Count D'Orsay._)]

Sir Matthew Hale (born November 1st, 1609) is but one of the many
judges who have joined to eminence in the law the example of a
devout mind and a life of religious zeal. He administered justice
in the times both of the Commonwealth and of the Restoration.
Stillingfleet and Baxter were amongst his friends, and his life of
austerity witnessed to his consistent sympathy with Puritan ideals.
Before him there came John Bunyan, for the then heinous crime of
frequenting conventicles. He wrote with equal facility upon law,
morals, and theology, and his MSS. are still amongst the treasures
of Lincoln's Inn.

[Illustration: DEAN SWIFT.]

Richard Baxter (born November 12th, 1615) had a career of singular
variety. Sometimes thought of only as a pioneer of Nonconformity
and the author of the "Saint's Everlasting Rest," he shared in
the startling changes of his period. He had tried in early years
a courtier's life; he received holy orders from the Bishop of
Worcester; he was for a time a chaplain to the Parliamentary forces;
he was on Cromwell's Committee to "settle the fundamentals of
religion"; he was, a few years after, a chaplain-in-ordinary to King
Charles II.; he might have been Bishop of Hereford; and he lived to
be tried for sedition before Judge Jeffreys. He is known to many,
who are not familiar with his other works, by the hymn "Lord, it
belongs not to my care." Curiously enough, this hymn is said to have
been repeated, during his last illness, by the late distinguished
physicist, Professor James Clerk Maxwell, who also is a November
worthy, born on the 13th of this month.

[Illustration: WILLIAM COWPER.

(_From the Painting by G. Romney._)]

Dean Swift (born November 30th, 1667) had little of the divine about
him, though he obtained an Irish deanery and aspired to an English
bishopric. Politician and satirist, some of his books are still
eagerly read by those who have forgotten the circumstances which
produced them, as well as the defects which stained his character.
William Cowper (born November 15th, 1731) is a pleasanter memory.
The Christian Church is not likely soon to forget the "Olney Hymns"
and their authors, although Cowper's descriptive poetry and his
letters are less familiar than they might be. And "John Gilpin"--can
he ever be forgotten? With these authors we may reasonably join a
moralist who taught by another art. William Hogarth (born November
10th, 1697) reproached the vices of a licentious age with a power of
pictorial satire which has never been excelled. He was one of the
group of distinguished artists who associated themselves with the
early history of the Foundling Hospital.

[Illustration: THE LATE SIR H. HAVELOCK, K.C.B.

(_After the Portrait by F. Goodall, A.R.A._)]

Of Christian soldiers, who has appealed to us more strongly than
Henry Havelock (died November 24th, 1857)? "So long," it has been
truly said, "as the memory of great deeds, and high courage, and
spotless self-devotion is cherished among his countrymen, so long
will Havelock's lonely grave beneath the scorching Eastern sky, hard
by the vast city, the scene alike of his toil, his triumph, and his
death, be regarded as one of the most holy of the countless spots
where Britain's patriot soldiers lie." As with many another man,
his religious character owed much to the influence of his wife, a
daughter of that Marshman whose name will always be remembered in
the history of Indian missions. To Outram the dying man could say,
"I have for forty years so ruled my life that when death came I
might face it without fear." "Principles alone," wrote Havelock,
"are worth living for or striving for." The words might stand as
a motto for the life of John Bright (born November 16th, 1811),
Christian statesman and orator, one of the many members of the
Society of Friends who have left their names writ large in their
country's history. The men who remember the struggle for Free Trade
are passing away, but the part played by John Bright is not likely
soon to be forgotten.

November has not been a month fruitful in the foundation of
philanthropic and religious organisations. But to those who have
watched the progress of the temperance movement in England, who
remember the difficulties of its pioneers, and the obloquy which
often fell upon them, November has a claim as the birth-month of one
of the earliest and hardest of the temperance workers--Frederick
Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury. Born in the Ionian Isles on
November 30th, 1821, he has, all through his manhood been a vigorous
exponent of the total abstinence cause. From the first he recognised
no bounds of denomination in its support, and although he has been
a great power to the Church of England Temperance Society, he has
always lent his voice and influence to other agencies working in the
same great cause. He has an invaluable helper in his wife, in both
temperance and diocesan work.

[Illustration: ARCHBISHOP TEMPLE.

(_Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W._)]




[Illustration: HOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED.]

HOW BARNFORD CHURCH WAS SAVED.

A COMPLETE STORY.

=By Scott Graham, Author of "Pemberton's Piece," "All Through
Prejudice," Etc.=


When Llewellyn Percival, the new Rector, first beheld the
dilapidated pile called by courtesy Barnford Church, his heart
sank. The late Rector, who had just died, aged ninety, had held the
living fifty years, and during his sway scarcely any repairs had
been done. The parish, a remote village in the East of England,
was an exceedingly poor one; and the very ancient and interesting
church had literally settled down--for one side was much out of the
perpendicular--to decay.

It smelt incredibly fusty, it was disfigured by hideous high pews,
daubed with yellow paint, locally termed "horse-boxes"; the fine
west window was blocked by a huge gallery containing the organ--an
instrument so much out of order that half the notes were mute, and
the pipes emitted the weirdest groans, absolutely terrifying to a
stranger. The old sexton assured Llewellyn that the roof was so
leaky that in wet weather the rain poured down on the congregation,
and though there was a stove, it was so ill-constructed that in
winter the cold was terrible. There was a fine old peal of bells,
but the tower at the west end had a huge crack running from top to
bottom, and seemed so unsafe that they did not dare to ring more
than one.

All this was sadly disheartening; especially as the church
was really a fine building, with a splendid Norman doorway, a
dilapidated but still beautiful carved screen, and many interesting
features.

"Is there really no rich family in the place who could help to
restore it?" Llewellyn asked the sexton. "What about the people at
the fine grey-stone Manor House, there among the trees?"

"Oh, them's the Lancasters--they're rich enough, but you'll not get
nothing out o' them, sir. Old Squire Lancaster and the old Rector
quarrelled years ago about the family pew, and ever since they've
gone to Thornton Church, in the next village. Miss never gives
nothing to this church now."

"Is she an elderly lady?"

"Bless you, no sir, she's quite young--twenty-four, maybe--and
handsome too. She's the only child, and since th' old Squire died
she's had it all her own way, for her ma's a great invaleed, and
never troubles about anything."

Llewellyn sighed. It did seem unfortunate that the only rich people
in the place should have quarrelled with the late incumbent. He
asked an old friend, an architect, to come and stay with him in the
comfortable Rectory, which was such a contrast to the tumbledown
church, and give his opinion about the restoration.

After due examination, Mr. Lane announced that, unless the
foundations were strengthened, the tower at least partially
rebuilt, the roof renewed, and the walls mended in weak places, the
church could not last much longer. This would cost at least two
thousand pounds, and if a new organ, new pews, and some much-needed
internal improvements were also effected, a thousand more would be
necessary. Poor Llewellyn--he was only thirty, and this was his
first church--groaned aloud, as well he might. He had only a hundred
a year of his own, besides his sorely depreciated living: and the
small farmers and labourers who populated the parish were powerless
to help. He might appeal to the Bishop, but the diocese was a very
large and poor one, and Barnford was only one among many churches
urgently needing repairs.

[Illustration: "Is there no rich family in the place who could help
to restore it?"--_p. 37._]

"If you can find the money, I'll undertake the work without fees,
for absolutely out-of-pocket expenses," said Lane generously. "I'd
do it economically too, and save you as much as possible."

Llewellyn thanked him most heartily, but, nevertheless, the thought
of that two thousand pounds weighed upon him like a nightmare. He
soon made the acquaintance of the formidable Miss Lancaster at a
neighbouring Vicarage. The family were descended from a wealthy
banker who had bought Barnford Manor for a country house, and as
sole heiress Laura had nearly five thousand a year and was a great
catch. She was a tall, dark, handsome girl, with a commanding air
due to the fact that from her childhood she had been flattered and
petted by everybody. But she was civil to Llewellyn and invited him
to call at the Manor; apologising for her mother as an invalid who
never went anywhere.

Mrs. Lancaster did not appear when Llewellyn went, but Laura, who
had been her own chaperon all her life, entertained him in the
handsome drawing-room with great composure. He had never seen a girl
with such an assured manner before.

Over his cup of tea he ventured, humbly and meekly, to hint at the
restoration of the church.

"It's such a picturesque old place that it would be a shame to pull
it to pieces and spoil it by injudicious restoration," returned
Laura decidedly.

"It isn't a question of my own particular fads, Miss Lancaster, but
the fabric is absolutely unsafe, owing to an extensive settlement.
The roof isn't watertight, and the windows are almost tumbling out
of the walls."

"And how much would be needed?"

"A friend of mine, an architect, has most kindly offered to give his
services without fees; but to make the place even decent would cost,
he says, two thousand pounds."

[Illustration: "You clergymen are all alike!" she cried.]

"You will never raise such a sum here!" was her brusque answer.

"I don't like to commence our acquaintance by begging, Miss
Lancaster; but if you could see your way to do anything for what is,
after all, your parish church----"

"Yes, but we always go to Thornton. Old Mr. Short was awfully rude
to father years ago, and we left the church. I play the organ at
Thornton and train the choir; and the Vicar and his wife are great
friends of ours. I couldn't leave them in the lurch by coming back
to this church now--especially as Thornton is a very poor parish
too."

"Even if you don't attend the services, I should be most thankful
for any offer of help towards the restoration," he patiently
answered, determined not to show annoyance at her abruptness.
"Something must be done, and very soon."

The heiress tapped her foot petulantly on the carpet.

"You clergymen are all alike!" she cried. "You undertake tasks too
great for you, and then come to the laity for help! A poor parish
like this could never raise two thousand pounds, unless we ourselves
gave the whole sum, which we certainly can't afford to do. There is
nobody else here to subscribe."

"Believe me, I never thought of asking you for such a large sum
as two thousand pounds, or even a quarter of it, Miss Lancaster.
But the smallest sum would be welcome, as the nucleus of a fund. I
intend to use my uttermost efforts to raise the money, if it takes
me the rest of my life!"

His fair, good-humoured, and thoroughly English face had assumed a
very dogged look as he uttered the last words: and Laura, who knew a
real man when she saw him, noted it approvingly. In her secret heart
she relished a little wholesome opposition; it was an agreeable
novelty when most people were so subservient.

"But how can you raise it?" she asked doubtingly.

"This is now October, and these country villages are so dull in the
winter evenings that any entertainment is welcome. If the Bishop
will consent, I propose to get a very good magic-lantern, with
several sets of slides, and exhibit it in the villages and small
towns round, with the consent of their clergy, and paying a certain
proportion of the proceeds to their own charities if they lend me a
hall. I shall charge very little for seats, from a shilling down to
twopence or threepence; and as I shall explain the views and work
the apparatus myself, the expenses will be nothing."

"Fancy the Rector of Barnford turning showman! What a come-down!"
said disdainful Laura. "I can't think you will make much! However,
if you succeed, and come to me in the spring with a statement of the
profits, I promise I will give you as much as they amount to."

It was more than he expected; and he thanked her warmly, despite her
evident conviction that the profits would be small.

"I'll give you a written promise, if you like, to that effect,"
added Miss Lancaster, who was a most businesslike young woman.

"No, thank you; a lady's word is quite enough," he answered
earnestly; and a genial smile stole over her handsome face as he
spoke, for she was secretly pleased by his chivalrous trust.

On the whole, he quitted the Manor fairly well satisfied; for
though Laura could not be described, by any stretch of courtesy, as
an amiable girl, he discerned fine traits of character behind her
somewhat repellent manner. "A girl who wants knowing," he decided.
"She has been flattered because of her riches, and pestered by
mercenary suitors, until she imagines all men are deceivers!"


II.

The Bishop, who was a liberal-minded man, and much interested in
the restoration of the church, entirely approved of the projected
lantern entertainment. In addition, a drawing-room meeting was held
at the Palace, which produced twenty-five pounds, and the Bishop
added another twenty. As Llewellyn had decided to set apart his own
hundred pounds annually until the restoration was completed, he felt
justified in immediately commencing the most necessary repairs at
once, trusting that the printed appeals which the Bishop caused to
be sent out would bring in a steady flow of subscriptions.

He inaugurated his magic-lantern entertainment at Barnford itself
with great success, for the Bishop came over with several friends,
and Mrs. Lancaster sent a sovereign for five tickets. But neither
she nor her daughter put in an appearance, their places being
filled by their servants. The principal farmer lent his biggest
barn gratis, so that Llewellyn cleared over five pounds that night.
And after that, though he encountered some good-natured ridicule,
the Rector and his lantern were in great request. His enterprise
was even commended in the London papers; and the villagers simply
crowded to the entertainment everywhere, glad of some amusement
in the long winter evenings. The richer farmers and tradespeople
gladly paid a shilling or eighteenpence for a seat, and the smaller
sums mounted up amazingly, so that, after all deductions, Llewellyn
seldom received less than between two and three pounds for one
evening. Although he never gave more than four exhibitions a week,
being resolute not to neglect his own parish, he made over forty
pounds a month.

Little could be done to the church before spring, as it proved
a very severe winter, and outdoor work was impeded by frost.
Tarpaulins were temporarily stretched over the cracked roof, but
at best it was a very shivery and dreary spot, so that Llewellyn
always returned with renewed eagerness to his magic-lantern journeys
after a Sunday spent in the desolate building, where the howls of
the ruined organ made the singing a mockery. In his private life
he exercised the strictest self-denial, for the scanty income
from his living left no margin for luxuries. He scarcely went
into any society, as his engagements left him no time; for, as
Miss Lancaster informed everybody, he was a perfect maniac on the
subject of restoring the church. He met her now and then in going
about the roads; and sometimes she passed him with a brief nod,
though occasionally she would stop to ask, with some mockery in her
tones, how the magic-lantern was getting on. She never appeared at
his church, though it was so much nearer than Thornton, and the
duty-calls he paid at the Manor were few and brief.

In February the long frost broke up, whereupon Mr. Lane arrived one
Saturday night at the Rectory with a view to commencing work in
earnest. After the Sunday morning service Llewellyn felt impelled to
rebuke the old sexton, who was supposed to clean the church. "When
did you dust the pews last, Reed? The very air seems choked with
it; the reading-desk and my books and the communion rails are in a
disgraceful state!"

The old man began the rigmarole he always employed when criticised.
"I served Mr. Short, man and boy, for fifty years, and never was
told the church was dirty afore! I cleaned it out reg'lar, on
Saturday, I did, and dusted everything, sir!"

The Rector shrugged his shoulders as he looked round at the dust
which he could see lying thick on every moulding and ledge, but
said no more to Reed. On reaching home, however, he mentioned the
matter to his friend Lane, who had not been at church, having caught
a bad cold on the journey. To his intense amazement, no sooner had
he mentioned the amount of dust in the church than Lane started
up, and, disregarding all remonstrances, flung on his overcoat and
hat, and started off through the churchyard at a tremendous pace to
examine the tower from outside. Although carefully shored up in the
autumn, the crack in it had widened perceptibly even to Llewellyn's
sight, and was extending across the wall of the south aisle.

[Illustration: She hastened to the churchyard.--_p. 42._]

"It's the frost," said the architect ruefully, after a thorough
examination both inside and out. "It has assisted in disintegrating
the masonry, and caused a further settlement that may bring the
old tower down with a run any minute. Being Sunday, we can't do
anything to prevent it, even if that were possible now. The dust
in the church is no fault of old Reed, but is simply caused by the
stones of the tower grinding together, because every moment they are
becoming more displaced. To-morrow, if it stands till then, I'll try
and get men to take it down."

Poor Llewellyn looked very dejected. "Oh, Lane, this is bad news! If
the tower falls, it will wreck half the church!"

"It's a pity, certainly, but it's nobody's fault. You mustn't have
service in it again, for it really isn't safe."

Fortunately, during the dark winter months Llewellyn, at the urgent
request of the inhabitants at the other end of his very large and
straggling parish, was accustomed to hold service on alternate
Sunday evenings in a large room at the outskirts of the village,
and was due there that night. He decided not to say anything about
the tower, for fear of alarming his parishioners; but he carefully
locked the churchyard gate so that no one could enter it, and,
returning home, he took the key of the church from the nail where
it usually hung, telling his old servant Dorcas that nobody must
go into the church on any pretext whatsoever, as he feared it was
unsafe.

That afternoon he called to soothe old Reed's wounded feelings by
saying in confidence what had caused the dust. He strictly enjoined
the sexton in case any strangers came to inspect the church, as
they did sometimes, not to admit them on any account. Reed promised
faithfully; but that Sunday was a sadly anxious time for Llewellyn,
who expected every moment to hear a mighty crash and see the tower
fall.

Early next day Lane set off to engage men and appliances; for
the old tower, to his great surprise, was still standing, though
perceptibly more out of the perpendicular. Llewellyn departed to the
school, and had not been gone long, when an imperative knock sounded
at the Rectory door. Dorcas opened it to behold Miss Lancaster and
another girl, Daisy Staples, an old schoolfellow, who was staying at
the Manor.

"I've come to borrow the key of the church, please. I want my friend
to see it, and I'll bring back the key when we've done with it."
Laura, it is needless to say, had heard no whisper of the precarious
state of the tower.

Dorcas, who, like all the villagers, stood considerably in awe
of Miss Lancaster, was much taken aback. "I'm very sorry, miss,"
stammered she, "but you mustn't go into the church--master says it's
not safe; and I wasn't to give the key to anybody."

"Not safe!" cried Laura incredulously. She had seen the old place
shored up with timber so long that the spectacle had lost all its
significance. "What nonsense! I'm sure it's just as safe as it ever
was, and I particularly want my friend to see it. So give me the
key, please, and we'll go."

"I haven't got it, miss, indeed. Master took it away, and left word
nobody was to go inside."

The spoilt heiress, unaccustomed to opposition, turned upon her
heel in high dudgeon. "Then I can only say your master is a most
arbitrary and disagreeable man!" she cried angrily. "Mr. Percival
is just like all the rest of the clergy, Daisy!" she grumbled to
her friend as they went away. "They love to show their power by
tyrannising over the laity! I don't believe the church is really
unsafe at all! Probably the Rector thinks that because I won't go
to his services on Sundays I don't deserve to enter the church on
weekdays, and so I am to be refused the key!"

Angry people are very seldom dignified; and Laura, knowing that
Daisy was keenly interested in architecture, was determined to try
and accomplish her project somehow. "After all, I'm a parishioner,
and I've a _right_ to enter the church!" she exclaimed. "The old
sexton has a key, and we'll go and get his, since that cross woman
refused the Rector's."

But the sexton was out. As no answer was returned to her knocks,
Laura, who was well acquainted with his habits, tried the door,
which was unfastened, and, looking in, saw the large church key
hanging on its accustomed nail in his little kitchen. She snatched
at it in triumph, and hastened to the churchyard; only to find her
progress once more barred.

"Mr. Percival has actually gone and locked the gate!" she exclaimed,
descending to slipshod English in her excitement. "Now, I should say
that must be distinctly illegal! At any rate, here goes!"

They vaulted over, with the agility of modern girls practised in
gymnastics, and very soon were inside the church. The dust was
thicker than ever, but in the excitement of displaying the various
points of interest Laura hardly noticed it; and they poked about
everywhere, little dreaming of the appalling risk they ran.

Llewellyn, on quitting the school, came round to speak to Reed; and
found the old man, who had just returned, standing staring stupidly
at the bare nail on the wall. "Did you come and fetch the church
key away, sir?" he began.

"I? I've never touched it--never seen it! And yet it's gone from the
nail! Surely it can't be that somebody has taken it to go inside the
church! Lane says the tower can't possibly last out the day."

For an instant they gazed at each other with scared faces; and then
Llewellyn rushed away, mad with fear, clearing first the churchyard
fence, and then the tombstones with incredible bounds. As he went a
curious, dull rumble was audible, and to his horror he distinctly
saw the massive tower first sway slightly, and then commence to
slip, slip with a horrible motion unlike anything he had ever seen
before. The church door was ajar--there must be somebody inside!
Pray Heaven he might be in time!

[Illustration: "I couldn't rest till I saw you," she faltered.--_p.
44._]

Meanwhile the girls, poring over an old floor-brass, were startled
by the rumbling; whilst the dust grew so much thicker that Laura
exclaimed, "Pah! What a stuffy old place! That rumble must be
thunder--there it is again!"

Still not suspecting their danger, they leisurely retraced their
steps to the south door, at the bottom of the church, very near
the fatal tower. Laura could distinctly remember turning past the
last pew; but after that nothing was clear. She only knew that some
man, unrecognisable in the cloud of dust and mortar which suddenly
obscured everything, threw himself, as a still louder rumble
occurred, with what then seemed absolutely brutal violence upon her
and Daisy. Seizing her with a force which for days left bruises
on her arms, he positively hurled her and her friend before him
through the open door. Then before he had himself quite crossed the
threshold the entire fabric of the tower fell with a terrific crash,
wrecking the whole of that end of the church.


III.

When Llewellyn Percival, after some time, recovered from the effects
of a serious wound on his head from a falling stone, and a broken
arm, it was to find himself a popular hero. To his own mind, he had
only done a most ordinary thing, such as any man would naturally
do; and he could not understand why all the papers should publish
glowing accounts of his bravery. The poor old sexton, who had
faithfully followed him on his errand of mercy, and had only been
deterred by his age and feebleness from arriving in time, deserved
quite as many thanks as he did, Llewellyn maintained. But the fickle
public did not think so, and subscriptions for Barnford Church
literally poured in.

It is a fine thing to be a popular idol, even for a day; and
Llewellyn received so much kindness during his illness that he had
never been happier in his life. An old aunt came to nurse him; and
on the first day he was allowed to come downstairs a humble message
was brought that Miss Lancaster would like to see him for a moment,
if it would not tire him too much. She and her mother had been
incessant in their inquiries, besides sending fruit, flowers, and
invalid delicacies daily.

"Show her in," said Llewellyn, unheeding his aunt's remonstrance;
and in a minute she was bending over the chair from which he feebly
strove to rise, her dark eyes full of tears. "I couldn't rest till
I saw you," she faltered. "But oh! if you had been killed, I should
have felt like a murderess! It was all my fault, for being so
obstinate and wicked! When Dorcas told me I couldn't have the key
of the church, I thought"--and she hung her head--"I said, indeed,
that it was a piece of spiteful tyranny on your part, just to assert
your arbitrary authority. Oh, how could I ever think it of you? Say
you forgive me--only say so!"

With the tears of genuine repentance and humility streaming down her
face, it was not possible for mortal man to refuse her anything.
"My dear Miss Lancaster, pray don't distress yourself! We are all
liable to errors of judgment, and, believe me, I forgive you from my
heart--if, indeed, I have anything to forgive."

"Besides that, I've always been horrid to you," she sighed
remorsefully. "I wouldn't help about the restoration, nor do
anything in the parish, and I sneered at your magic-lantern. Oh,
yes, I did--you can't deny it. But I hope now you won't worry any
more about raising funds. Daisy and I, as a thank-offering for the
great mercy vouchsafed to us, are going to finish the restoration,
if you'll only tell us what you'd like. No, not a word of thanks--at
least, not to _me_--I feel I really don't deserve it."

And the dignified, self-complacent Miss Lancaster fairly bolted
from the room; conscious that her face was quite unfit to be seen,
and that it was absolutely necessary to have her cry out somewhere.
Llewellyn leaned back in his chair, almost overwhelmed by the
knowledge that he was about to attain his heart's desire at last.

       *       *       *       *       *

The restored Barnford Church was such a dream of beauty that
sometimes Llewellyn would ask himself whether it were a real
building or only a fairy vision. The light fell through beautiful
painted windows; an excellent organ replaced the old one; and oak
pews, exquisitely carved, filled the nave. A huge gilt cock strutted
proudly above the restored tower, and a brass tablet near the pulpit
declared the restoration to be the thank-offering of two grateful
hearts. People came from far and near to the services, eager to see
the beautiful church, but the largest crowd that ever assembled in
the building came on the occasion of the marriage of the Rector to
Laura Lancaster.




[Illustration: AS CHAPLAIN TO MR SPEAKER]

EX-SPEAKER PEEL. MR. SPEAKER GULLY.

(_Photo: Russell and Sons._) (_Photo: Bassano, Ltd._)


AS CHAPLAIN TO MR SPEAKER

Some Reminiscences of Parliament.


By F. W. Farrar, D.D., Dean of Canterbury.


I knew something about the Houses of Legislature, and had been
present at not a few debates, long before I had the high honour
of being a Chaplain to the Speaker. Many years ago, when I was a
master at Harrow, I had the privilege of knowing the late Lord
Charles Russell, whose son, Mr. G. W. E. Russell, was once in my
form, and who always treated me with conspicuous kindness. Lord
Charles was for a long time the highly popular Serjeant-at-Arms
of the House of Commons. There are only two persons who enjoy the
privilege of having "private galleries" at their disposal at the
end of the House--the Speaker and the Serjeant-at-Arms. Whenever
there was likely to be a very important debate, which excited keen
public interest, Lord Charles used to offer us two seats in his
gallery. I availed myself of this exceptional privilege as often
as I could, and in that way I have been present at some of those
deeply interesting political and oratorical displays which may
almost be said to have become things of the past. The speaking of
the most distinguished leaders in the House of Commons is still
manly, forcible, and lucid: but I do not think that I am only
speaking as a _laudator temporis acti, Me puero_, when I say that
never--or, at any rate, only on the rarest occasions--do we now
hear those flashing interchanges of wit, or those utterances of
sustained, impassioned, and lofty eloquence which were by no means
unfrequent thirty years ago. It may be that the pressure of affairs
is greater, owing to the immense and ever-extending interests of
the British Empire; or that there is not, at the present moment,
the intense political excitement which once prevailed; or that the
prevalent taste in such matters is different:--but, whatever be
the reason, it would, I think, be generally admitted that, in nine
cases out of ten, debates in these days are more unexciting and more
severely practical than once they were, so that speeches full of
"thoughts that breathe and words that burn" are now rarely delivered
before our assembled senators. For that reason the debates are far
less interesting and memorable than they were in former times.

There are still many speakers in the House to whom all must listen
with pleasure and admiration. Sir W. Harcourt, Sir Henry Fowler, Mr.
Morley, Mr. Goschen, Mr. Balfour, always set forth their arguments
with force and dignity; and it would, I think, be generally conceded
that few speakers could surpass Mr. Chamberlain in the skill and
fearless forthrightness with which he enunciates his views. There
are still a few debaters who might bear comparison with Sir Robert
Peel in the dignified enunciation of views full of sober wisdom;
or with Mr. Cobden in his "unadorned eloquence"; or with Lord
Palmerston in his unstudied and lively geniality:--but since first
Mr. Bright, and then Mr. Gladstone, stepped out of the political
arena, anyone who could be called "a great orator" has become very
uncommon in Parliamentary debates. No orator in the House has
acquired, or perhaps even aims at, the fame for eloquence obtained
in the political arena by men like O'Connell, Sheil, Lord Macaulay,
Sir Edward Bulwer, Mr. Disraeli, John Bright, Lord Sherbrooke when
he was at his best, or William Ewart Gladstone. We do not now have
speeches which, like that of Lord Brougham in the House of Lords on
the Reform Bill, occupied six hours in the delivery; or, like the
famous "_Civis Romanus sum_" speech of Lord Palmerston in the Don
Pacifico debate, are prolonged "from the dusk of a summer evening to
the dawn of a summer day."

[Illustration: (_Photo: Mendelssohn, Pembridge Cres._)

MR. H. D. ERSKINE.

(_The Present Serjeant-at-Arms._)]

[Illustration: (_From an Engraving by Joseph Brown._)

LORD CHARLES RUSSELL.

(_Late Serjeant-at-Arms._)]

[Illustration: PRAYERS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

(_Conducted by Canon Wilberforce, the Present Chaplain._)]

This may partly be due to the fact that we have not, for many years,
passed through political crises in which the hearts of men have
been so powerfully stirred as they were in the times of the first
Reform Bill; or in the early struggles of the Irish party; or in the
debates on the abolition of the corn laws; or during the thrilling
incidents of the Crimean War. In these days speeches are shorter,
less formal, less ornate, less impassioned. But if the passions of
men should again be stirred as they were by those anxious issues,
doubtless the same stormy eloquence might once more be evoked. In
those days the hearts of millions beat like the heart of one man.
One or two historic incidents may serve to illustrate the intensity
of national feeling.

While the great issues at stake in the first Reform Bill were
filling the thoughts of all, only one Bishop, Dr. Philpotts of
Exeter, voted (I believe) in favour of the Bill. The consequence
was that the whole bench of Bishops was for a time overwhelmed with
national hatred. The late genial and kind-hearted Duke of Buccleuch
told me that he had been severely hurt in an attempt to protect the
Bishops from popular insult as they came out of the House of Lords.
The Bishops had to sign a common protest that they were no longer
able to carry out their legislative duties because they could not
attend the House of Lords with safety. Even in Canterbury, when the
kindly Archbishop Howley visited his metro-political city, he was
assaulted by the mob in the streets, pelted with mud and dead cats,
prevented from dining at the Guildhall, and was only saved by two or
three courageous gentlemen from being dragged out of his carriage
and brutally ill-treated. Lord Macaulay's celebrated description of
the scene which took place in the House of Commons when the Bill was
passed by a very small majority proves how much less inflammable is
the present state of the political atmosphere.

[Illustration: ARCHBISHOP HOWLEY ASSAULTED BY THE MOB.]

He tells us that not only did the members who attached supreme
importance to the passing of the Bill clasp each other by the hand
with tears, but that, with unprecedented disregard of the decorous
traditions of Parliament, they leapt upon the benches, and stood
there waving their hats, and cheering themselves hoarse.

Take again the scene which the House witnessed during a memorably
eloquent speech of Mr. Bright. He was addressing a House which in
those days all but unanimously rejected his opinions, though time
has since then shown how well deserving they were of consideration;
and yet he moved many to tears who were little accustomed to give
open signs of their emotion. He always spoke in a style of nervous
Saxon English, and his words on that occasion were a singular
mixture of unconventional homeliness and profound pathos.

[Illustration: JOHN BRIGHT SPEAKING IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.]

He mentioned that he had met Colonel Boyle, a well-known member
of the House--"at Mr. Westerton's, the bookseller's I think it
was, at the corner of Hyde Park"--and had asked him whether he was
going out to the Crimea. He answered that he was afraid he was.
"It was not fear for himself; he knew not that. 'But,' he said,
'to go out to the war is a serious thing for a man who has a wife
and five children.' The stormy Euxine is his grave; his wife is a
widow; his children are fatherless." And then, after alluding to
other well-known members who had perished in the Crimean War, he
added, "The Angel of Death has been among us; we may almost hear the
beating of his wings."

[Illustration: BRIGHT RECITING HIS SPEECH TO HIS FRIENDS.]

As he spoke many of the assembled gentlemen of England were seen
indignantly dashing away, or furtively wiping from their eyes,
the tears of which no one need have been for one moment ashamed.
When Lord Palmerston arose to answer the oration, and to repeat to
the House its own predominant convictions, the bursts of cheering
with which his entirely unoratorical speech was welcomed were heard
even in the House of Lords. But what the members cheered was not
Lord Palmerston's eloquence, for to eloquence he had scarcely the
smallest pretence, but the British pluck which would not succumb to
the intense feeling which the great orator had aroused by appeals
that had held his audience "hushed as an infant at the mother's
breast."

[Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC ATTITUDE OF THE LATE MR. GLADSTONE.]

On the evening before this speech Mr. Bright and Mr. Cobden had been
the guests of a former kind friend of mine, Mr. W. S. Lindsay, M.P.,
in his beautiful house on the banks of the Thames. Mr. Lindsay had
been the warm ally of both these great leaders in the Free Trade
agitation, and he told me this curious anecdote. Mr. Bright, as is
well known, carefully studied his speeches and committed them to
memory word for word, delivering them in such measured, yet often
thrilling, tones as gave to each word its utmost force. Mr. Lindsay
said that the evening before--knowing the extreme importance of the
speech, and the fact that he would be trying to persuade a multitude
of hearers against their will--Mr. Bright had recited to these two
friends in the drawing-room the arguments which he intended to
enunciate. But he had not then brought in the allusion to the Angel
of Death. The three members were sitting side by side during the
debate; and it was perhaps as a relief to his own over-burdened
feelings that Mr. Cobden, when the tumult of applause which followed
the speech had subsided, said to Mr. Bright, "Where did you get
hold of that passage about the angel, John? You did not say it to
us last night." "No," answered the orator; "I only thought of it
while I was dressing this morning." "Now, if you had said 'the
_flapping_ of his wings,' instead of 'the _beating_ of his wings,'"
said Cobden, "everyone would have laughed." I have no doubt that in
this apparently trivial criticism Cobden was only seeking to lighten
the oppression of his own misgivings about the national policy of
that time; but, curiously enough, I several times heard Dean Stanley
allude to the great speech, both in conversation and in sermons, and
he _always_ quoted the passage, "We may almost hear the _flapping_
of his wings."

[Illustration: (_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W_.)

RICHARD COBDEN.]

Several of Mr. Bright's best points seem to have occurred to
him suddenly. In the days when there was the secession from the
Liberal party to which he gave the popular nickname of "the Cave
of Adullam," speaking of the fact that the members of the party
seemed to be all on an equality, and to have no acknowledged leader,
he convulsed the House with laughter by comparing them to one of
those shaggy lapdogs of which it was difficult to distinguish which
was the head and which was the tail. One leading member of this
party was the late Mr. Horsman--a very forcible debater, who used
sometimes to be spoken of as "the wild Horsman." I once heard a
little passage of arms between him and the late Lord Houghton. "Ah!"
said Mr. Horsman, "you can't boast of a Cave of Adullam in the House
of Lords!" "No," replied Lord Houghton, with the readiness of a
rapier thrust, "in the House of Lords we have nothing so _hollow_!"

It is extraordinary how much our judgment of oratory is affected
by our opinion as to the point at issue. I once heard Mr. Bright
deliver a speech of great force and beauty on the second Reform
Bill; and his speeches were always eloquent and admirable so that
he never seemed to sink below himself. Indeed, one secret of
his splendid success was the care and study which he devoted to
master every detail of what he intended to say; so that--to the
astonishment of Mr. Gladstone, who had the happy art of falling
to sleep as soon as he laid his head on the pillow--Mr. Bright's
speeches often caused him sleepless nights. The oration to which I
refer was delivered, if I remember rightly, in 1857. I was listening
with admiration in the Speaker's gallery, when suddenly an ardent
Conservative, who was sitting next to me, showed himself so entirely
impervious to the charm and power of the orator that he flung
himself back in his seat with the contemptuous remark, "I thought
the fellow could speak!"

This reminds me of one or two incidents in the great debate on
the Disestablishment of the Irish Church in the House of Lords.
The Earl of Tankerville, whose son was a boy in my house at
Harrow, had very kindly given me a seat in the gallery, and I
heard a great part of that very famous discussion. The learned and
lovable Archbishop Trench had to plead the cause of his Church;
but he was old and deeply depressed, and his speech was naturally
ineffective. At the very beginning he made an unfortunate slip,
which, trivial as it was--and it is by no means unfrequently the
case that a "trifle light as air" makes an impression, favourable
or unfavourable, far beyond what might seem to be its proper
importance--at once marred the effect of what he was about to urge.
For, at the beginning of his speech, he unluckily addressed the
assembled peers as "My brethren!"--or, as he pronounced it, "My
_brathren_"--instead of "My Lords"; and, hastily as he corrected
himself, the scarcely suppressed titter which ran through the House
was alike disconcerting to the speaker and injurious to the effect
of his words. A stranger was seated next to me, who was burning with
enthusiasm for the Irish Church, and expected a powerful defence
of its position from its eminent Archbishop. But the prelate's
somewhat lachrymose appeal seemed to him quite below the importance
of the occasion; and, with a sigh of deep disappointment, he leaned
back with the murmur, "Oh dear! he's as heavy as lead and as dull as
ditch-water!"

[Illustration: (_Photo: S. A. Walker, 230, Regent Street, W_.) LORD
DERBY (14th EARL). (_The "Rupert of Debate_.")]

The greatest speech on that occasion was that of the late Archbishop
Magee, who had then been recently appointed Bishop of Peterborough.
I had, shortly before, heard his powerful sermon in St. Patrick's
Cathedral, Dublin, at the Church Congress, while the fate of the
Irish Church was still trembling in the balance. He had chosen the
text, "And they beckoned to their partners, who were in the other
ship, to come over and help them." The text was so singularly
appropriate that Archdeacon Denison is said to have started up from
his seat and almost to have clapped his hands aloud! Great things
were expected of the speech, and the recently appointed Bishop
fully rose to the occasion. As we went out of the House, one of the
peers told me that the late Lord Ellenborough (the famous Viceroy
of India) had pronounced Dr. Magee's speech to be the most eloquent
he had ever heard, except one (I think) of Lord Erskine's. Yet I
could not help fancying at the time that political circumstances
had tended to the undue extolment of this speech--eloquent and
powerful as it undoubtedly was above its intrinsic merits. I
perfectly remember the scene and all the circumstances, and even
the manner and accent with which it was delivered; but neither then
nor afterwards was I at all impressed by the arguments, nor can
I now recall them. This is far from being the case with another
speech delivered in the same debate by Dr. Connop Thirlwall, the
very able and learned Bishop of St. Davids. He was dealing with the
charge of "sacrilege," which was freely brought against the Bill,
and he endeavoured to show that there were acts which some might
characterise by such a stigma which might, on the contrary, be deeds
actuated by the highest justice and mercy.

[Illustration: "MY BRATHREN."

(_Archbishop Trench addressing the House of Lords_.)]


I witnessed a humorous little incident in the House of Lords during
the debate on the Public Schools Bill. The late Earl of Clarendon
was in charge of it, and the Earl of Derby, "the Rupert of debate,"
was opposed to it. A number of head-masters, whose methods and
interests would be affected by the Bill, had been permitted to stand
by the throne in the part of the House where members of the House
of Commons are allowed to take their place when they want to hear a
debate. Lord Clarendon in his speech was gently complaining that
Lord Derby, in characterising the Bill, had said of it (as Lord
Clarendon misquoted it)--"Sunt bona; sunt quædam mediocria; _sunt
pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la_." This quotation, as the amused head-masters
instantly noticed with a smile, involved two very glaring false
quantities on the part of the statesman who was introducing the
Bill for the improvement of the education of the country. Instantly
Lord Derby started up with the words, "Will the noble Lord repeat
what he has just attributed to me?" Innocent of the little trap
which had been thus laid for him, Lord Clarendon repeated his
"_Sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la_." "I never said anything of the kind!"
said Lord Derby with humorous indignation. "I am sure," said Lord
Clarendon, "that I shall be in the recollection of all when I
repeat that the noble Lord, though he must have forgotten the fact,
quoted the line which I have just repeated to the House." "Nothing
of the kind!" said Lord Derby, with great emphasis; "what _I_ said
was very different. It was" (and the quotation was emphasised by
pointed finger and slow enunciation), "'Sunt bona; sunt quædam
mediocria; _sunt m[)a]l[)a] pl[=u]ra_.'" Lord Clarendon laughed
good-humouredly, and apologised for the slip; but he was evidently a
little discomfited.

[Illustration: (_From the Bust by C. Moore._)

RICHARD LALOR SHEIL.]

To return for a few moments to the House of Commons, a friend of
mine once asked Mr. Gladstone who was the most eloquent speaker whom
he had ever heard in the House of Commons. He answered, as he has
replied to others, "that he thought he had never heard anyone more
eloquent than Richard Lalor Sheil." Anyone who will read Mr. Sheil's
published volume of speeches will not be surprised at this remark.
The one celebrated outburst which is best remembered, thrilled all
who heard it, and sounded like the sudden sweep of a tornado. Lord
Lyndhurst, in a recent speech, had unwisely and unfairly spoken of
the Irish as "_aliens_." Alluding to this, Mr. Sheil burst out with
the fine passage from which I will only quote a part: "_Aliens!_" he
exclaimed. "Was Arthur Duke of Wellington in the House of Lords, and
did he not start up and exclaim, 'Hold! I have seen the aliens do
their duty!'... On the field of Waterloo the blood of Englishmen and
Scotchmen and Irishmen flowed in the same stream, and drenched the
same field. When the chill morning dawned their dead lay cold and
stark together; in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited;
the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled
dust; the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave.
Partakers in every peril, in the glory shall they not be permitted
to participate? And shall we be told as a requital that we are
'_aliens_' from the noble country for whose salvation our lifeblood
was poured out?"

The effect of such a passage delivered as Richard Lalor Sheil
delivered it, can better be imagined than described. He was a man
of short figure and somewhat insignificant appearance; and his
voice was high and shrill, and never well-modulated like the voices
of such orators as Lord Chatham or Mr. Bright. But he spoke with
genuine feeling and enthusiasm. The impression produced by such
earnestness can never be resisted. The tones of passion are very
penetrating, and they vibrate in the memory. "But did not Mr. Sheil
_scream_ a good deal in his speeches, Mr. Gladstone?" asked his
friend. "Sir," was the answer, "he was _all scream_!" And yet few
Parliamentary debaters have ever produced a deeper impression!




THE INTERVENTION OF TODDLELUMS.

A Complete Story. By Helen Boddington.


Bang! bang! went the fist of Toddlelums on the window-pane, as the
little hand tried to capture a cunning fly which always managed
to escape his grasp. Toddlelums was curled up on the window-seat,
with such big, big thoughts coursing through his little brain. Not
unspoken thoughts. Oh, no! Toddlelums at six always did his thinking
out loud. "Ah! you silly, silly, little fly," he said in his cooing
voice; "I wonder what you are made of, and where you go to when you
die. Ah!" with another bang and a little chuckle. "I nearly caught
you that time."

"Toddlelums, what are you doing?" said his mother, from the other
end of the room.

Toddlelums rolled off the window-seat, picked himself up, put his
hands in the pockets of his knickers, and finally placed himself
with his back to the fire. "I was only trying to catch one little
fly, mammie."

"Ah! but, my pet, it is rather cruel to kill the poor flies."

"Oh! I wasn't going to kill it, only catch it and make a tiny
cage between my two hands"--putting the palms of his hands
together--"then I would let it fly away again, right away."

The mother sat there watching her boy and thinking how like his
father he was growing. Presently he edged up to her and leant
against her knee, and then she put her arm round him, and bent her
head so that her cheek touched his brown curls. "Mother's baby," she
said softly; "mother's little Toddlelums," and there was a quaver in
her voice.

Toddlelums did not notice it, though, for he turned to her with a
merry twinkle in his great brown eyes and twined his arms lovingly
round her neck. "Let's play, mammie; let's play bears," he cried,
trying to drag her out of her chair with fearless hands which were
certain of no repulse.

She stood up, laughing. How tall and graceful she was, and how
young! Soft golden hair, brown eyes like Toddlelums', only with a
sad, sad look in them even when she smiled. Toddlelums thought his
mother was beautiful, and Toddlelums was right. A romp was in full
swing when a man's step sounded in the hall. In a flash the boy with
his rosy face and rumpled hair made a bolt for the door, as a deep
voice called, "Toddlelums!"

"It's dad, it's dad!" he shouted, battling with the knob of the
door. Then two little feet scampered down the hall, and Toddlelums
was raised up high into the air and smothered with kisses. The
mother was cognisant of all this, yet she did not attempt to follow.
She merely gave little touches to the disordered hair, took up
her work, and seated herself once again. Where was the smile now?
Where had the tender look gone? Vanished at the sound of a man's
voice--and that man her husband!

"Mammie and me were just playing bears," said the son, as he came in
perched on his father's shoulder. "Wasn't it fun, mammie?" looking
at his mother with a joyous smile.

"Yes, dear," she answered, without looking up; and her husband,
glancing at her, noticed that she bit her under lip and a flush
suddenly dyed her cheeks.

They had been married seven years, and during that time never
one word of love had passed the lips of either. It had been a
_mariage de convenance_, his and her fathers' estates joined,
and, as she told him afterwards, she had seen nobody she liked
better. It had seemed easy enough at first even without love, but
gradually--neither knew exactly how--a coldness sprang up, they
drifted apart. There was no actual quarrel, only a few hard, bitter
words on both sides, but the barrier grew and grew until there
seemed little hope of its being broken down.

At the end of the first year Toddlelums came, and then, if anything,
matters became worse, for all the mother's thoughts were centred
in her baby, all her love was lavished on him--the father was left
to his own devices. As the child grew older, instinct told him to
divide his love between father and mother, and then cruel pangs of
jealousy visited the mother's breast.

So the years passed, Toddlelums with his sweet baby voice making
sunshine in the home where lurked so many shadows. Toddlelums never
saw the shadows, though, for mother and father vied with each other
in keeping them out of his path.

[Illustration: "Vanished at the sound of a man's voice."--_p. 53_]

During the last few months, almost unknown to herself, something
had been stirring in Grace Millroe's heart; some strange feeling
hitherto quite foreign to it. Perhaps it was the constant vision of
a man's grave, patient face with the sad look on it which seemed of
late to have grown sadder. That may or may not be; but, in any case,
before she was aware, love, which had lain dormant so long, was
awakened. Then at last, when it came upon her with its mighty full
force it brought her only sorrow, for, as she cried within herself,
"There is so little use in loving when there is no return." And so
this day, when her husband came in after her game with Toddlelums,
the flush on her cheeks, which he attributed to annoyance at his
approach, was in reality caused by the quickened beatings of her
heart.

Later, when Toddlelums was fast asleep in his tiny crib and the
house was silent, she sat alone in the drawing-room and he in his
study, as was invariably the case when there was no visitor before
whom to keep up appearances.

She wanted the second volume of the book she was reading, and
so presently she rose from her comfortable chair near the fire,
slowly crossed the large, old-fashioned hall, and softly opened the
study door. How cosy the room looked, with its crimson curtains
drawn closely before the great windows, the fire and shaded lamp
combined filling it with ruddy light! She stood with the knob of
the door in her hand and with her eyes riveted on the figure at the
writing-table.

His arms were folded on the table, his head was buried in them, and,
surely, that was a low, despairing moan which came to her across the
stillness!

"Ah!" she thought, "if he only loved me, I could make him happy."
Then she noticed for the first time that the black hair was streaked
with grey. Her lips quivered, she made a step forward; then she drew
back, passed out of the room, and softly closed the door after her.
In the impulse of the moment she had intended saying some comforting
word, and then she thought of his usual cold, passionless look, and
refrained.

How could she know that if she had made an advance the man would
have gladly, most gladly, responded? A few minutes after he lifted
his head, and, had she been there, she would have seen that the face
was full of passion, and on it were deeply drawn lines of pain.

In the meanwhile she bent over her little one's cot, and, kissing
the tiny face, which was flushed with sleep, she whispered, "Ah, my
little Toddlelums! if daddy only loved me as he loves his boy, I
would be content to die this minute, even if I had to leave you, my
baby, behind."

[Illustration: She stood with her eyes riveted on the figure at the
table.]

And yet, after all the passionate feeling of the night, when
morning came they met--outwardly, at least--with the usual cool
indifference in their bearing towards each other. At breakfast
Toddlelums was with them in his white pinafore, seated on a high
chair which was drawn up very close to the table.

"Mammie," he said, "may nurse take me down to the river to play with
Frankie Darrel this afternoon? We want to swim our boats."

"Yes, dear, but you must swim them in the shallow part."

"And don't get too near the edge, old chap. Remember, if you roll
in, daddy won't be there to fetch you out, and you'll be gobbled up
by the little fishes."

Toddlelums was looking at his father with great, round eyes.
"Gobbled up by the little fishes?" he echoed; but his father did not
hear, for he was saying in an undertone to his wife, "Tell nurse to
be careful; the river is swollen after the rain."

Afternoon came, and off went Toddlelums, carrying in his arms a boat
with big, white sails, while the young mother threw kisses to him as
she drove away in the carriage.

Ah, little Toddlelums, go your way, sail your small craft!
Unconsciously, you will guide it through the deep waters, but the
land will be reached at last!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was evening, and Grace Millroe, entering the hall on her return
from her drive, found her husband standing at the foot of the stairs
apparently waiting for her, with a look on his face which she had
never seen there before. He made no movement, one hand clutched the
balustrade with a tight grip, and twice his drawn lips opened to
say words which refused to come. She rushed to his side--she clung
to his arm, while the fair face, working with some wild, fearful
emotion, looked imploringly into his. "Edgar, what is it? What is
the matter?"

[Illustration: "Daddy, you do love mammie, don't you?"]

"It is----"

"It is Toddlelums. Oh, Edgar! for mercy's sake, don't say it is
Toddlelums!" and her hold tightened on his arm.

He turned his head away, for he could not bear to see the agony on
her face.

"Yes, Grace, it is Toddlelums. He fell into the water, but--ah!
don't look like that--he may live yet, the doctors are doing their
best for him."

Together, mother and father ascended the stairs, she faltering on
every step, while hard, dry sobs shook her frame. Ah! what a wan,
white Toddlelums lay on his little bed, and, but for the faint
breathing, the mother must have known herself childless. The doctors
were doing their work, while the agonised parents stood watching
and waiting. She would have clasped him in her arms--she would have
pressed his little cold body to her breast--but first the doctors
had their part to do; the mother must wait.

"Edgar," and she turned to him with great, dry eyes, "will my baby
die? No, no, it cannot be!" she moaned plaintively. "It would kill
me to lose my little Toddlelums."

"Dear," he said, and somehow she felt comfort in knowing that his
arms were round her; "if I could, I would give my life for his."

"No, no," she said, and then she sprang to the bedside; for the
doctors had moved away, and Toddlelums was calling "Mammie."

"Mother's darling, mother's precious baby!" she cried, twining her
arms round him.

"And daddy's too," said the weak little voice, for Toddlelums was a
very shadowy Toddlelums still.

"Yes, and daddy's too," she said, as the man bent over his son and
held one tiny hand.

"Daddy, you do love mammie, don't you? He said, that horrid Frankie
said, that you hated each other"--looking at the two faces. "He said
he knew it was true because he heard his mother and father say so.
And I told him it was a big, big story, and I fighted him hard--very
hard--and then he gave me a push, and I went down, down into the
cold water. It isn't true, daddy, is it?" looking at his father with
great, earnest eyes; "you do love my mammie?" and he stroked her
face tenderly.

The man hesitated, looked across at the woman; then he said, "Yes,
darling, I love her more than my life."

A few seconds of silence, a sigh of content from Toddlelums. Then
the mother's voice saying, "And I love my little child, but I love
his father more."

Eyes meet eyes, hands clasp hands, and the two hearts severed so
long are united at last.

Blessed little Toddlelums, with your sweet baby face and your manly
little heart!--gallantly you fought your first battle, and the
victory is yours. The deep waters encompassed you, and the Valley
of the Shadow was very near; but the Captain of the Host has yet a
greater battle for you to fight, and that is the Battle of Life.




LOVE'S DEBT.

     "From every portion, from every department, of Nature comes the
        same voice. Everywhere we hear Thy name, O God; everywhere we
        see Thy love. Creation in all its length and breadth, in all
        its depth and height, is the manifestation of Thy Spirit; and
        without Thee the world were dark and dead."


    Through all the flowers, I love Thee,
      Through all the joys around, above me--
      Through tree and brook, and sea before me,
    Through bird-songs--I adore Thee.

    For these a debt I owe Thee:
      Poor words are all I have to show Thee
    How much Thy glorious work doth move me,
      And how my soul doth love Thee.

    LOUIS H. VICTORY.




THE COLOURED JEWS.

_Strange Survivals of the Scattered Tribes._


    "Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,
     A general language and a public cause;
     With a religion none can now obey,
     With a reproach that none can take away:
     A people still whose common ties are gone;
     Who, mixed with every race, are lost in none."

    --CRABBE.

Where are they? Rather, where are they not? Dispersed
to the four corners of the earth, this nation of exiles, ever
loyal to the Government under which they live, still look for a
better country and fix their eyes on Palestine, their ancient home.
One of their learned men, Dr. Hertzl, has lately appealed to his
fellow-Jews to rise and re-people the land. But nothing can be done,
he tells them, without the enthusiasm of the whole nation: "The idea
must make its way into the most distant and miserable holes where
the people dwell."

[Illustration: A CHINESE ISRAELITE.]

It was just at a time when the Philistines said, "Behold the Hebrews
come forth out of their holes where they had hid themselves," that
Israel's captivity was turned to freedom. It may be that history
will repeat itself.

[Illustration: THE HEBREW LAW OF THE CHINESE JEWS.

(Facsimile of a page from Deuteronomy.)]

In many unexpected corners of India, China, Africa, and Persia
representatives of an indestructible people have been discovered.
They wear the dress of the natives and submit to their laws, but
century after century they have remained, proof against absorption.
Neither poverty, contempt, nor persecution shakes their belief--the
faith that is the heritage of their fathers--that they are the
remnant of a chosen people.

Jerusalem will see an amazing sight if it calls upon all the
remotest holes and corners to deliver up its children. Jews white,
black, and brown from India, dusky from Abyssinia, arrayed in the
costume and sporting the pigtail of China, as well as Jews rich
and poor, high and humble, from Europe and America--all will bring
with them the divers ways, tongues, and customs of their adopted
countries, and assemble as one nation.

[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Society for Promoting
Christianity amongst the Jews._)

JEWISH SCHOOL CHILDREN IN PERSIA.

(With Mr. Norollah and Native Teachers.)]

Amongst the most remote colonies are the Jews of China, who have
aroused interesting inquiry and been the theme of many French
writers. Early in the seventeenth century, and shortly after the
Italian missionaries had come to Pekin, one of them, Matthew Ricci,
received a morning call. His visitor wore the gorgeous Chinese
dress, including the queue; but the figure and face were not
Mongolian, and the smiling countenance was not in keeping with the
dignified solemnity of a Chinaman. This gentleman's name was Ngai,
and he had heard of the arrival of some foreigners who worshipped
one Lord of heaven and earth, and who yet were not Mohammedans; he
belonged to the same religion, he explained, and had called to make
their acquaintance.

[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Zenana Bible and Medical
Mission._)

A MISSION-SCHOOL GROUP OF INDIAN JEWS.]

Now Master Ngai made it clear that he was an Israelite, a native of
Kae-fung-foo, the capital of Honan. He had come to Pekin to pass an
examination for a mandarin degree, and had been led by curiosity and
brotherly feeling to call at the mission house. In his native city,
he said, there were ten or twelve families of Israelites, and a
synagogue which they had recently restored at the expense of 10,000
crowns, and they had a roll of the law four or five hundred years
old. The missionary's letters described this synagogue. It occupied
a space of between three and four hundred feet in length by about a
hundred and fifty in breadth, and was divided into four courts. It
had borrowed some decorative splendour from China. The inscription
in Hebrew, "Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God is one Lord, blessed be
the name of the glory of His Kingdom for ever and ever," and the Ten
Commandments were emblazoned in gold. Silken curtains inclosed the
"Bethel" which enshrined the sacred books, and which only the Rabbi
might enter during the time of prayer.

Every detail of this place, with its incense, its furniture, and
all its types of good things yet to come, is interesting. There in
the last century the children of Israel at Kae-fung-foo worshipped
the God of their fathers with the rites that pointed to the Messiah
of whose advent, as far as it can be ascertained, they never heard
until the arrival of the Italian missionaries. Learned men have
entered into discussions as to whether these people were Jews or
Israelites, whether they came to China from the Assyrian captivity
or the Roman dispersion. They themselves say that their forefathers
came from the West; and it is probable that the settlers arrived
by way of Khorassan and Samerkand. They must have been numerous in
the ninth century, for two Mohammedan travellers of that period
describe a rebel, named Bae-choo, taking Canton by storm in A.D.
877 and slaughtering 120,000 Jews, Mohammedans, Christians, and
Parsees. More than one Jew of Kae-fung-foo is known to have gained
the right to wear the little round button on the top of his cap so
dear to the ambition of a Chinaman. The Tai-ping Rebellion dispersed
the settlement, and the remnant who remain faithful to the memory
of old traditions are chiefly poor and distressed. The Chinamen
distinguish them by the name of "T'iao chiao" (the sect which pulls
out the sinew), for these "children of Israel eat not of the sinew
which shrank, which is upon the hollow of the thigh, unto this
day." They are said to often repeat the words of the dying Jacob,
"I have waited for Thy salvation, O Lord." This is to them like the
cry of an infant in the night. They have waited so long that it is
little wonder if the words have lost their triumphant ring and their
ancient accompaniment of faith in future blessings.

[Illustration: READING THE LAW ON THE SABBATH DAY.

(_From an Original Drawing by a Persian Jew._)]

The Persian Jews, from whom the colony in China sprang, are
interspersed over the Shah's country. The missionaries of the London
Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews make long tours
to seek them out and shepherd them. A convert from amongst them, the
Rev. M. Norollah, found in 1890 that of his own people in Isfahan,
numbering 5,000, not more than ten could read or write the language
of the country. He started a school for the children in the very
heart of this Mohammedan city. This school and others besides have
flourished, and been the means of making friends with the parents.

Of all the colonies in Asia, none seems to have preserved their
traditions more carefully and lived up to them more worthily than
the Jews in India. According to the last census, they number, 17,180.

Privileged travellers in the south-west have been shown a charter
much older than the great English pledge of liberty. The first
glance is not imposing. It is a copper plate, scratched with letters
of such out-of-date character that they bear little resemblance to
any that are now in use. But this is a priceless treasure to the
Jews of Malabar. Some authorities believe it was granted about the
year A.D. 500; others say that the renowned Ceram Perumal was the
donor, and this prince appears to have been in the zenith of his
power in A.D. 750. All agree that the charter is at least a thousand
years old.

According to the native annals of Malabar and the Jews' own
traditions, 10,000 emigrants arrived on the coast about A.D. 70,
shortly after the destruction of the Second Temple and the final
desolation of Jerusalem. It is supposed that of these 7,000 at
once settled on a spot then called Mahodranpatna, but now known as
Cranganore.

Unhappily, this flourishing community fell out amongst themselves.
After Jewish emigrants from Spain and other countries joined them
a dispute arose, and they called an Indian king to settle it. The
fable of the quarrel for an oyster was illustrated. The mediator
took possession of the place; the fat oyster became his, and death
and captivity represented the shells which he divided amongst
the disputants. Some fugitives obtained an asylum from the Rajah
of Cochin, and built a little town on a piece of ground which he
granted to them, close to his palace.

In this lovely native state live their descendants--two classes of
Jews, one known as the Jerusalem or White Jews, the other as the
Black Jews. The White trace their descent from the first settlers;
throughout the centuries they have preserved the fair skin, fine
features, and broad, high foreheads that usually belong to Europe,
whilst amongst the men blonde or reddish curly beards prevail.
The Black Jews are too intensely black to be akin to the Hindoos;
they are said to have sprung from Jewish proselytes from amongst
the aboriginal races of the district. The Black and White Jews
inhabit the same quarter of the town of Cochin; they follow the same
customs, join in the same forms of prayer, but never intermarry.

The Jews of Cochin seem to excel all others scattered over India
in strict religious observances, but they are apparently quite
distinct from the Jews or the Beni Israel of the north and west.
Some ladies of the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society were
welcomed into the houses of Jewesses in Calcutta. They recognised
the noticeably Jewish features, in spite of the clear brunette
complexion which belonged to neither the White nor Black Jews of
the south. This community availed themselves of day schools and
Sunday schools started for the children, which have now become part
of the organisation of the Old Church Hebrew Mission, and responded
to friendly overtures. One Jewish lady spoke to her visitors of the
return of her people to Jerusalem, and she said, "We will go in your
arms." "You will probably go in our railway trains," answered the
Englishwoman, and this idea satisfied both.

The Beni Israel, or Sons of Israel, of the north and west say that
their first ancestors in India were persecuted refugees from Persia,
seven men and seven women who escaped from a shipwreck near Chaul,
about thirty miles south-east of Bombay, and managed to save a
Hebrew copy of the Pentateuch. Some assert that this happened eight
hundred, others one thousand six hundred years ago. Their number
is now reckoned as upwards of 5,000. They are said to resemble the
Arabian Jews in features. They keep strictly the Mosaic fasts and
feasts, yet in many houses visited by the ladies of the Zenana Bible
and Medical Mission, the New as well as the Old Testament is studied.

For nearly half a century a principal man of the community has been
in the service of the Free Church of Scotland at Alibag, about
twenty-four miles to the south of the city of Bombay. For in this
place, at one time famous as the centre of a small pirate kingdom,
handsome, intelligent children, with marked Semitic features, and
names familiar in the Book of Genesis, delight in attending school.

In Karachi the Beni Israel are also numerous. One of the
missionaries of the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society, who
work amongst them, was invited to a wedding in the synagogue. She
noticed that, as a part of the ceremony, the bride received a cup,
and after raising it to her lips threw it down and broke it. This,
some of the guests explained, was a sign that even in the midst of
their mirth they remembered Jerusalem with sorrow.

To many, such words and symbols are very real. During the present
year a rich Jew of Karachi has left his adopted home to build a
synagogue in Jerusalem, where the Sultan has shown the Jews great
toleration.

[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Zenana Bible Mission._)

INDIAN JEWISH CONVERTS AT BOMBAY.]

But though the Turkish Empire has been a refuge for them, none
can exceed the Mohammedans in cruelty and intolerance when they
are roused to fanatical zeal for their Prophet. This has been
specially manifest in Africa. Abyssinia, perhaps, has the oldest
colony of Jews. They go by the name of Falashas, which means exiles
or emigrants, and claim an ambitious origin. King Solomon, they
believe, added the Queen of Sheba to his many wives, and their son
Menelek was educated in Jerusalem. On his growing to manhood, the
Jewish nobles foresaw political disturbances, and begged the king
to send him to his mother. King Solomon consented on condition that
each Jew should send his first-born son with Menelek to Abyssinia.
There he became king of Abyssinia, and his Israelite companions
married native women, so a new nation sprang into existence.

Traditions of noble descent are of less value than nobility of
character in the descendants. The church amongst the Falashas has
been sown in the blood of martyrs. When the followers of the Mahdi
became masters of Western Abyssinia, they massacred or made captives
all the inhabitants who had not secured safety by flight. Jews and
Christians, whether men or women, had to choose between Mohammed
and death. A Falasha family, converts of the London Society for
Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews, were overtaken by the
Mahdists. They were told to say the Mohammedan creed, "_Allah ilahu
ill Allah wa Mohammed e rasah Allah_." These few words would save
their lives, but these words would deny their Master.

"Never will we deny Him Who died for us on the cross," they
answered. "We are born Falashas, but have been converted to Christ.
He is our Saviour, and not Mohammed."

[Illustration: ARABIAN JEWS.]

The parents were strong to endure, but could they bear to see their
five children put to a cruel death? They not only lived through
this ordeal, but the father encouraged the younger martyrs. "It is
only a short suffering," he cried, "and you will gain the crown of
everlasting life." Then came the mother's turn. Only let her deny
Christ and she might live. Her heart and her voice were broken, but
she managed to answer clearly, "I love Him, I do not fear death."
Her husband saw her butchered. His courage rose higher when his
tormentors offered him not only life but riches--anything that he
chose to ask--if he would become a Mohammedan. "You may torture me,
you may cut me in pieces, I will not deny Him Who died for me." He
too joined the white-robed army of martyrs--a spectacle to other
captives, one of whom afterwards escaped and described the scene.

Six years ago the Falashas themselves became persecutors. They
brought a prisoner in chains before the Governor of the province.
They could find no charge against this ex-Falasha priest except that
he had become a Christian; and therefore they declared that it would
be a God-pleasing work to kill him. The Governor warned the Falashas
that they would be punished if they attempted to take his life. Then
he asked his prisoner if he would again become a Falasha, or if he
chose to risk being robbed or beheaded. "I go to my Lord and to my
Father," answered the dignified old man. "I would rather die than
continue in life as an apostate."

[Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN JEW.]

The situation was suddenly reversed. Instead of passing sentence,
the Governor said, "Honoured father, give me your blessing." Faith
and meekness had gained the victory over violence.

[Illustration: THE CAPTIVE MAID.

By M. L. Gow, R.I.]

In North Africa the Jews have adopted many Mohammedan customs. Child
marriage, for instance, has become a curse amongst them. Sometimes
men of forty wed little wives of eight or ten. At the same time,
in Morocco, an independent Moslem empire, the purity of their lives
is in noticeable contrast to their neighbours. Algeria, where the
Jews number 50,000, as well as Tunisia, is under French protection.
It is little wonder if the anti-Jewish feeling of the French in
Algiers should rouse an anti-Christian feeling in the Jews, and that
here their opposition should be added to the many difficulties that
meet Christian missions in Moslem lands. But many Jews rise superior
to prejudices, and missionaries of the North Africa Mission find
refreshment in studying the Scriptures with Hebrew scholars and
Hebrew seekers after more light. In 1897, on the fast of Gedaliah, a
missionary attended the synagogue. His friend, the Rabbi, mentioned
his presence, and the worshippers, all of them pure Arabs and
dressed accordingly, pronounced a benediction on him and commended
him to God's grace.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Bonfils_)

JEWISH VILLAGE GIRLS OF PALESTINE.]

[Illustration: AN ALGERIAN JEWISH GIRL.

(_Photo supplied by the Society for Promoting Christianity amongst
the Jews._)]

Tyranny and dispersion have failed to exterminate the Jews. In the
name of patriotism, the king of Egypt made their life a burden.
In the name of religion and reverence for the Holy Sepulchre, the
Crusaders brought horrible calamities upon them. In the name of
uniformity, but with special reference to the Jews, the machinery
of the Inquisition was set at work in Spain. Yet the 3,000,000
slaves who came out of Egypt have increased, as far as it can be
calculated, to four times the number. Their affliction has been
a refining furnace. From the day when Moses, himself a Hebrew
fugitive, turned aside to see why an insignificant mimosa bush was
not consumed by a devouring fire, the history of the chosen people
has been a witness of the unchangeableness of God's Word: "I am the
Lord, I change not; therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed."

  D. L. WOOLMER.




[Illustration: Henry]

THE MINOR CANON'S DAUGHTER

_THE STORY OF A CATHEDRAL TOWN._

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



CHAPTER I.

A LETTER OF APOLOGY.


The afternoon's summer sun shone in on the chestnut head of a
girl, bent sedulously over a book. She was Marjorie Bethune, only
daughter of one of the minor canons of Norham. She was hard at work
constructing a sonnet, to the accompaniment of the great organ in
the cathedral, where her father was taking the service. The words of
the psalms and anthem were almost audible, as well as their music,
through the open windows, stimulating the girl's reluctant fancy.
There were other helps, too, to her imagination--the twitter of
birds in the flowering trees near the further window, the hum of the
bees in the lime-trees, the scents of syringa and lilies.

The room in which she sat had a much-lived-in air and a pleasant
old-fashioned shabbiness of aspect. There was a large round table
covered with papers and books, calf-bound and large for the greater
part--the books and litter of a scholar. Books also were heaped on
the quaint spindle-legged side-table with deep drawers, ornamented
with carving and brass Tudor roses; and wherever in the room was
any wall-space low bookshelves of a peculiar pattern filled it. The
wall-colouring above was a rich tan and red, the whole making a
harmonious background to the girl's burnished head and brilliantly
fair complexion.

A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She lifted her eyes to the
further end of the room, where on a sofa near the pretty window lay
a fragile-looking woman. The extreme youthfulness of her appearance
was not contradicted by the brilliancy of the beautiful dark eyes
she turned now on Marjorie.

"Mother, I wish you would tell me exactly what father said when he
proposed to you. I suppose he did propose?" questioningly, gazing in
doubtful sympathy at the colour flooding her mother's face at her
question.

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

"I? But I want to know now. Just the facts. You can't make up things
on nothing," disconsolately. "Our literary guild next month wants
a poem--a sonnet by preference--on Love. Such a subject! I could
imagine a lot. But I don't know."

Mrs. Bethune's eyes were full of laughter, but her face was grave as
she looked at her discontented young daughter.

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

"Do they? But yours would do, mother--just to get a fact for a
foundation. Love seems such a shimmery, slippery thing."

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

"Behind the door! Father!" exclaimed Marjorie, breaking in on the
reminiscence. "Oh, mother!"

Mrs. Bethune laughed. "You'll understand some day, Marjorie. That
was the beginning; after that, I kept out of his way----" She
paused.

"Yes?" said Marjorie interestedly. "I don't wonder. Behind the door!
I couldn't put that in a sonnet."

"It was difficult to meet alone," went on the mother. "We lived
four miles apart, And I was afraid. I didn't want him to speak, and
yet----"

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

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

"Masterful," mused Marjorie, much exercised at this new presentation
of her scholarly father. "Then love alters characters, if it made
father masterful and you shy. Well, those are at least some facts.
Thank you. What else, mother? Tell me exactly, please."

"One day after lunch, when he had come over, I remembered that I
had dropped my thimble under the table, and I went back to the
dining-room to look for it."

"And he followed?"

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

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

"Sure of it, Margie."

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

Impatient steps sounded in the hall. Hats and books were flung
down outside, and two boys of seven and nine respectively came
into the room. Marjorie's glance fell upon her young brothers
dispassionately, staying her reflections on love.

"You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked, as a
certain air of agitation conveyed itself to her perception.

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

"You know that new man at 'The Ridges,' mother," burst in the older
boy. "He's had the cheek to say we're not to go that way any more."

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

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

"As if keys mattered anyhow!" put in Sandy. "Anyone can climb over
that wanted to. It's the nearest way."

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

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

Then he went on, with a pretty little lisp between the two lost
teeth left on a field of battle: "But we've had some fun all these
weeks, mother, dodging the work-people. They couldn't find out how
we got in and out," delightedly, "even when we forgot the keys;
there's always holes, somewhere. We didn't let 'em know; we just
'peared, and walked past the house, riling them. And if they ran us,
didn't we just dodge 'em down the hill!"

"And now he says," put in David, "that he's written to father, and
that he'll have no trespassing. Trespassing, indeed!"

"An' Dave called back that he was the trespasser, 'trudin' where he
wasn't wanted," said Sandy gleefully, "an' that he'd better go back
to Blackton, an' not fink he could come here and be a gentleman, cos
no one would look at him!"

"Oh, David," said his mother reproachfully, "how could you? He will
think we don't grow gentlemen here."

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

"No, David," put in Marjorie. "Charity said anyone from Blackton
would feel like an intrusion, and all Mrs. Lytchett said was, that
if he didn't like it he could always go back."

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

"If he finks we're goin' all that way round twice a day, he's jolly
w'ong," remarked Sandy injuredly. "We'd have to start hours an'
hours earlier--not us!"

Again the door opened, and a tall man came in, whose first look of
anxious inquiry was directed towards the table where his papers
were lying. Sandy's impatient elbow was dug into the middle of
them, as he fidgeted about on one leg. Mr. Bethune sat down in the
three-cornered chair before the table, and rescued his papers, at
the same time keeping Sandy by his side.

"So you two have been in mischief again?" he said gently, looking
gravely at his sons.

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

David, with a put-on air of unconcern, looked out of the window,
where two more sturdy boys, younger, but made after the same pattern
as the two inside, were now visible on the garden path. They were
dilatorily obeying a call from Marjorie, and making for the window.

"I have had a letter," went on Mr. Bethune. "It's a nice letter, and
what Mr. Pelham says is reasonable."

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

The father lifted his eyes from the letter.

"You will have to apologise. Mr. Pelham is quite right. You have
no business there. I will write a letter, and you will take it.
Marjorie, will you see if tea is ready?" in a fatigued tone. "Mother
looks tired out."

"Come, boys," said Marjorie. And the clamour that immediately ensued
round the tea-table in the next room showed that rebellion and
anarchy were in the air.

When they had gone their father laughed quietly.

"It is a nice letter. I expect they will find he will give them
leave, if they behave themselves. But they have been playing tricks
on the workmen--and on his servants, as I gather."

"They are always in mischief," said their mother, and her tone was
not the tone of one who lamented. "But they are not generally rude.
I am afraid they have heard the things that are being said against
this man. Perhaps Marjorie had better go with them? He will not be
rude to her?"

"No. 'This man,' as you call him, is one of the Pelhams of Lente.
Yes, she can take them. Mrs. Lytchett was suggesting to me just now
that she was growing up, and that she ought to have some lessons----"

"I wish Mrs. Lytchett would mind her own business!" flashed out the
mother. "Marjorie is as well educated as she is, though I should be
sorry to see her so meddlesome."

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

"Marjorie was writing a sonnet on Love whilst you were at church.
She seemed quite equal to the composition, but lacked facts."

"Marjorie's lack of facts doesn't often curb her imagination," her
father said. "I do not think it was her education that Mrs. Lytchett
thought wanted improving--though it does--but her deportment,
whatever that is, and--and manners."

"She carries herself like a queen," asserted her mother, "even
though she is thin and awkward yet. And her manners--should you wish
them altered, father?"

"She is ours, my dear," he said tenderly; "and I think her
simplicity natural and charming. But perhaps she has said
something--she does sometimes--to Mrs. Lytchett."

"She does often. Mrs. Lytchett was here yesterday. I know she is
good, but she is irritating, John. She condoled with me about your
litter, and wondered if I couldn't arrange a room for you up in the
attics. And she said she was sure all the boys were behaving badly
in church on Sunday afternoon--and why didn't Marjorie sit between
them, instead of at the end of the pew, where the corner was a
temptation to her to lounge? And then she made a set at the stocking
basket, and criticised the darning, and pitied us dreadfully for so
many boys, all with knees, as well as red heads. And then Marjorie
broke out. She thought the heads were beautiful, also the knees,
and that the boys behaved in church like saints; and that you'd be
miserable in the attics without me--though she could understand that
with a nagging woman always about a man must have somewhere to hide
himself."

"I hope Marjorie won't turn into a virago," her father said
anxiously, after a pause. "That was rude, even if it were true. She
is cramped here--it is a cramping place; and we are to blame--we put
too much upon her."

He sighed, and rose to take his wife's cup, and then stretched
himself before the fireless grate. "She has a dangerous gift of
imagination. Will she ever be satisfied with Warde? I have told him
he may speak now. But she is a child still, she has no idea----" he
paused.

An inroad of boys, come to be inspected by their mother before
starting on their errand, brought their father back to the table and
the letter they were to take. Sandy, balancing on the arm of his
chair, superintended its composition.

"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'" he announced
aloud to the others. They were standing round the table; the
smallest of them, aged three, could just rest his chin upon it, and
was listening in solemn admiration of Sandy's sentiments.

"Are you going to take all this horde with you, Marjorie?" her
mother asked, her observant eyes glancing from collar to collar and
from boot to boot.

"Yes, mother; I thought it would economise matters. They're all
mischievous, and will need apologising for some time; it is such a
convenient way to school."

"'My little sons will, I hope, make their 'pologies in person for
their rudeness. I am extwemely sorry----'" sang out Sandy, raising
himself on his elbows, dug into the table, the better to see what
his father was writing.

"Don't put 'little,' father," he pleaded; "he'll think it's Ross or
Orme, 'stead of us."

"I suppose you know what an apology is, Sandy?" Mr. Bethune
bethought himself to inquire as he finished writing, and looked down
at the curly head bobbing across his arm.

"Ought to," grunted Sandy, panting in his efforts to plant his toes
between the spokes of his father's chair. "Never do so no more--till
next time."

"If it is that, I shall be sorry, Sandy, in this case, because this
gentleman's a stranger."

"Oh," said Sandy, dropping to the floor and glancing up into the
grave blue eyes, of which his own were an exact reproduction,
without the gravity.

[Illustration: "You look as if you had been in mischief," she
remarked.--_p. 67._]

"'Pologies is funny things," he said, pensively. "Mrs. Lytchett said
we ought to be whipped when we made the peacocks scream, an' we
'pologises; and Charity boxed Dave's ears for treadin' on her fine
new frock, an' he 'pologised--an' the Dean 'pologised back for
her crossness. An' now, seems as if 'pologies did 'stead of leavin'
off doin' what you want. Them peacocks screamed again to-day at
dinner-time, an' to-morrer we----"

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

"Your morality, your deductions, and your grammar are equally
matched, Sandy," said his father. "Who is going to carry this
letter?"

"Me, me!" implored the baby, advancing a chubby hand, plucked from
his mouth for the purpose. He looked like one of Sir Joshua's
cherubs--nothing visible of him over the edge of the table but a
round moon face of exquisite fairness, with a large background of
soft white hat instead of cloud.

"You'll see that the boys behave and apologise properly, Marjorie,"
her father said, sinking back into his chair with such an expression
of peace on his face as quite compensated his young daughter for
the annoyance of the errand on which she was conducting her young
brothers.




CHAPTER II.

ANTONY PELHAM.


The surroundings of Norham Cathedral were the great attraction
of the little town to Antony Pelham. Large, airy houses, set in
gardens to match, with here and there a field running down to the
street, formed one side of the main thoroughfare of the town. It
was wide and shady, bounded on its other side by the Canons' Walk,
a gravelled terrace, extending the whole length of the cathedral
graveyard, over-arched by "immemorial elms," where the rooks, year
after year, cawed their noisy affairs into the ears of those below.
At the eastern end of the cathedral the Canons' Court terminated the
Walk, and provided residences for the minor canons almost under the
cathedral walls. The Deanery stood at one end of the Court, and the
gardens of all the houses extended southwards to enclosed fields
called the Parks, on which also the grounds of the old palace, on
the southern side of the cathedral, abutted.

Beyond the boundaries of the Cathedral Precincts the town developed
into a small, compact area of shops, and then sprawled on into
suburbs. These, called respectively Easton and Weston, had little to
do with each other, and less with the exclusive Precincts. They had
a church and parish apiece, served by two of the minor canons.

The spacious houses round the cathedral had been built originally to
serve as town houses for the county families. They were now often
used as dower houses, or pleasant homes to retire to from the active
work of life. Their owners formed a sufficiently large circle to
make society pleasant, but they admitted no one into their midst who
was not "one of them."

When old General Orme died, he left no one to occupy the fine old
house on the hill called "The Ridges," beyond which the "Green,"
with its complement of houses--also old, but filling the more useful
_rôles_ of Grammar School, Sessions House, and such like--descended
into the valley. Here, as far off as possible, the necessary lock-up
and railway station hid their commonness out of sight.

It was with amazement, and incredulity at his audacity, that the
news gradually was received of the purchase of "The Ridges," by
Antony Pelham, a lawyer from the big town of Blackton, eight miles
away. This manufacturing town had superseded Norham as the county
town--since which it was scarcely ever mentioned, much less visited,
by the Norhamites. Not only had he bought "The Ridges" but, with
an extraordinary fatuity, he meant to go on with his business and
travel backwards and forwards.

After hearing this, nobody troubled to make any further inquiries
about him--he was beneath notice. It was stated by the neighbours
whose grounds adjoined his that an army of workmen had been sent
from somewhere, and were, of course, making a wreck of the beautiful
old house. But no interest was taken in their proceedings, except by
David and Sandy Bethune, who rapturously availed themselves of the
kindly circumstances attending his advent. The short cut to school
on the Green, up a gravelled path on the edge of the field, which
the old General had put at the service of his friends who wished
to visit the Green, had become lately to the Bethune boys a way to
bliss. Marjorie and her brothers now slowly ascended the hill to
"The Ridges" by this path.

As they walked along, more like owners than suppliants for
forgiveness, David pointed out to his sister the hiding-places
they had found convenient. Marjorie's own conscience was asleep on
the matter, and she did not put herself out to rebuke him. The man
was angry. Her father had written that his boys would apologise.
She supposed they would. They were generally able to do so when
necessary, without in the least considering themselves bound thereby
as to future action.

Marjorie looked with interest at the places pointed out to her on
the way up. She even enlarged a hole in the undergrowth to admit
Sandy's plump body. But a vague irresolution and faint sense of
discomfort came into her mind as the old red-brick house came in
sight, and a blaze of colour from the flower-beds before the windows
struck upon her vision.

"Boys," she said, softly, "David, you will be nice, even if this
man is a cad. Do you hear, Sandy?" she said more sternly, as Sandy
panted to her side, returning from some exploration.

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

They had emerged from the shrubbery path and had reached the
edge of the lawn, which was divided from the long field by some
white palings. Steadying herself by these, and an occasional grip
at her father's trousers, as he walked beside her, was a little
two-year-old girl. Her nurse was visible at some distance, sitting
at needlework under the trees.

[Illustration: "Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'"
he announced.--_p. 68._]

Undecided whether to advance on to the lawn, or to go further and
ring at the front-door bell, Marjorie paused. The man's back was
towards her. It did not present the appearance she had somehow
expected. Why her imagination should have invested the new-comer
with the attributes of a vulgar old man she could not afterwards
recollect. But she had expected this. Instead, the back was young,
and slim, and well-coated; and the finely poised head above it was
adorned with a crop of short dark curls. Seeing him thus, Marjorie
was conscious of a little embarrassment. A filtering doubt, creeping
through her mind, made her give a hasty glance round at her young
brothers.

David's eyes were glaring at the figure of his enemy, his face
wearing an expression of deep disgust. Sandy had put on the air of
jaunty unconcern with which he always met a difficulty. Ross, aged
four, was looking distrustfully at the baby, whilst only on little
Orme's cherubic face was there any appreciation of the situation. He
gave an exclamation of delight, unloosed his hand from the relaxing
grasp of Marjorie, and hurried over the grass, head foremost, as was
his wont when in a hurry. This youngest Bethune, like his brothers
before him, had a sociable disposition; and was apt at making
friends of every person, especially every infant person, he came
near. From the private study of the Bishop--whereto his way was by
a friendly window--to the cottage hearths he occasionally visited
through convenient open doors when on his rambles--Orme Bethune was
a welcome guest. To him girl-babies were a special fascination. He
made advances to this one immediately.

Sitting down on the grass, to accommodate his three years to her
two, he essayed to draw her nearer. She responded femininely. First
she hid her face behind her father's legs. Then she unloosed his
trousers and steadied her approach by the big brim of Orme's hat.
With the other hand she rained blows upon his face. Bashing her
dolls' heads was, with this baby, a preliminary to loving them.
Finding this one to be flesh and blood, she crowed with glee, and
sat down suddenly beside him.

Mr. Pelham had advanced a step or two on beholding Marjorie, her
face an unexpected marvel of youth and fairness, against the dark
background of the trees. Then his eyes fell on David's scowling
countenance; he stopped, and his face flushed.

"Father has sent you a letter," Marjorie began. "Which of you has
got it?" turning to the boys.

"Not me," said David sullenly, his manner conveying that no power on
earth could have induced him to touch it.

"Nor me," said Sandy cheerfully.

"Surely you brought it?" Marjorie asked, a certain severity in her
tone. "You, Ross?" hopefully.

Ross's face had just lighted up with the intention of making a trio
of the charming duet on the lawn. He was slower than his more agile
brothers--but sure, and none the less mischievous, for that his
mischief was better matured beforehand. He opened his hands to show
his innocence, and, murmuring "Me go find it!" he joined Orme.

Marjorie's eyes were lifted in an appealing fashion, the prettiness
of which she would have been the last to believe, to the dark eyes
somewhat haughtily questioning hers.

"My father wrote," she was beginning, when a skirmish and a squeal
made her stop. Ross was rifling his little brother's pockets with an
air of business. Orme was wriggling and fighting, and the baby was
kicking and screaming in his defence, a vivid little vixen.

"Here," said Ross proudly, as having overturned Orme and left him
prostrate, he held up Mr. Bethune's letter.

Marjorie's colour rose at the aspect of the dishevelled note. Its
appearance, indeed, was not that of a missive calculated to appease
the anger of an offended man. She watched a little amusedly the
expression of the long fingers which daintily received and opened
the crumpled paper. Then it struck her that in the character of
suppliants they were not behaving properly.

She looked at David. His face now wore an expression of absolute
vacuity. She wondered if by any possibility it would be taken for
penitence. She hoped it might, as it certainly expressed nothing
else. Laying her hand on his shoulder--after all, he was only nine,
and could not have done much mischief, even if he had behaved
badly--Marjorie gave him a gentle push forward.

"My little brother is sorry," she began, as the dark eyes, smiling
now, were uplifted from the note.

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

"Oh, David!" said Marjorie, helplessly. "Then, if you aren't, why
did we--you come?" a sudden passion in her tone.

"Margie! Margie!" called the cheerful voice of Sandy. And Marjorie
turned her eyes hopefully to the speaker. He, at least, would not
fail her in this emergency--he was always ready to say something
nice.

Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby. His cap had
fallen off, and she was alternately thumping his tight curls and
laying her face down upon them in gurgling delight. This living
head, with its silky adornments, was quite a new sort of toy in her
hitherto child-solitary life.

Mr. Pelham made an alarmed step forward. He expected nothing less
than the sudden destruction of his baby. But Sandy, grasping her
tightly with both sturdy arms, eluded his outstretched hand and went
on to Marjorie.

"Ain't she a nice baby, Margie? She's a girl. Don't you wish
we'd got a girl 'stead of on'y boys? Can I take this'n home?" he
demanded, suddenly fixing brilliant blue eyes on the baby's owner.

"Oh, Sandy, Sandy! are you as artless as you seem?" thought
Marjorie, watching with sympathy the magnetic change on the father's
face as he looked down at his child.

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

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

"Me, too," cried Orme, standing by with straddled legs and wide-open
eyes fixed on Mr. Pelham.

"Me yike her ever so," chimed in Ross, ambling up and joining the
group, murmuring, as no one attended to him, that he would carry her
in his two arms.

[Illustration: Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the
baby.]

In her dark, flashing beauty this baby, with her vivid face, her
quick movements, her vitality, her curious coquetry of advance and
withdrawal, was a revelation to the little boys. Only David--silent
and superior--still held aloof, till the baby suddenly saw him and
claimed him for another slave.

"Up!--up!" she called, in the imperious monosyllables by which she
declared her will, holding out her arms to David and beating an
impatient tattoo on Sandy with her toes. No boy could have resisted
the flattery--least of all David, whom his mother often set to
"mind" the babes because he was so good to them. And David--a sudden
flush and smile illumining his face--took her from Sandy's unwilling
clasp.

       *       *       *       *       *

No apologies were made that day. In David's arms the baby
accompanied her new friends--all clamouring, all seeking to
amuse--down the hill to the gate.

Marjorie and Mr. Pelham followed slowly. If the man found the young
girl interesting, he was to her equally so. She had come across no
one like him before. He had come out of a world of which she knew
nothing--of which, until to-day, she had never thought. Not many
working people had hitherto come under her notice.

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

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

"But you have altered the old house?" There was a world of reproach
in her tone.

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

"Ah, yes--restored!" said Marjorie slightingly. The word was an
abomination, savouring of destruction, in Norham.

Mr. Pelham smiled. "Come and see some day," he said. "I should like
Mr. Bethune's opinion. My friend, the architect, wondered that I had
not claimed his counsel."

"Why didn't you? People do."

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

Marjorie turned to look at him.

"My father----" she began; "you are laughing at us. I know what you
mean. We are old-fashioned, behind the times, prejudiced, narrow--I
wonder you came."

He laughed. "It was just for that I came. I wanted my little one to
have, a beautiful home, and all beside that you have said."

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

They had reached in their descent of the hill an opening in the
trees whence across the field stood out blackly against the luminous
western sky the stately cathedral. Fore-shortened against the sky,
the great length of the building was not perceptible. But the twin
spires, the great central tower, the dome of the chapter-house, and
the length of the northern transept, suggested a building raised for
all time, if not for eternity.

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

"You share your father's love for it?" he said, turning to look at
the face beside him, its fairness accentuated by the evening glow.

"How do you know? You know my father?" And a man less acute than
this one would have seen the way straight before him into the girl's
heart.

"Don't you think you can know a man in his books?" he asked. "Even
if I had not heard him read the paper, I think I should have
understood by that little book how he loved the cathedral."

"I did not know you were that sort," she said slowly, as into her
eyes there crept a friendliness, which the man, recognising, found
very pleasant to meet.

"But I am afraid I am not that sort," he said. "I am ignorant and
he is learned. But I can feel the fascination of it. And I want my
baby to grow up amongst it all--amongst you all," he corrected.
"You remember what Ruskin says about homes? That passage after
he has described what houses, homes, should not be, 'tottering,
foundationless shells of splintered wood and mutilated stone,
comfortless, unhonoured dwellings which men build in the hope of
leaving.' Instead, I would have our homes like temples, built to
last, and to be lovely, something God has lent to us for our life,
and that our children will love." He paused. "That is the sort of
home I want to make for my little one."

They had reached the iron gate leading into the road. Sandy, with
an air of possession, drew forth his key and threw it open, and the
action brought recollection back to Marjorie.

"Oh!" with a sudden start, "we came to apologise, and I forgot.
Sandy, give Mr. Pelham his key, and remember----"

Sandy came forward, holding out the key with a twinkle in his merry
eyes. "I 'pologise," he said.

Mr. Pelham laughed. "Keep the key, and come in and see my baby as
you go backwards and forwards; she has no playfellows."

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

The baby from her father's arms flashed her smiles and kissed her
hands, as the two stood watching through the gate the receding
figures of the Bethunes.




CHAPTER III.

THE BEGINNINGS OF LOVE.


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

"What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the
polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age,
the Dean's only child.

"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father
ask him in the train. Oh--don't think I did it out of charity," she
said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead--you know we've been
there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up
the three-year-old and kissed him.

"He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been
making mud-pies in their hovel."

"Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging
at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.

Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by
all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of
nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her
thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in
her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.

"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but
it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd--I gathered that from
mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran
back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast
as their fat legs would allow.

"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and
wearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd
got back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie."

"You look very silvery and cloudy," Marjorie said. "It suits you,
but it wouldn't stand much work."

"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie--hateful word! Don't distil Mrs.
Lytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely--a sort of
baritony tenor, that floats, and melts--I can't describe it. What
stupids we've all been about him!"

"How?"

"Thinking him so deep down in Blackton smoke. He knew all the people
at Oldstead. Blackton seems the fashion there, like an East-End. It
was too silly having to be introduced, when he lives on the other
side of the road. He seemed to know you, Marjorie."

"Yes--I went there."

"You went there? To call?"

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

"Why, he said what jolly boys they were, and that his baby was quite
happy with them; and he was so glad she should have some companions.
I thought he little knew.'

"Yes--he forgave them."

Her visitor laughed. "Now, Marjorie, don't be so hoity-toity. Why
did you go if you didn't want to be forgiven?"

"Why? To save father bother." Unconsciously, the young voice took
a pathetic tone. "Do you think we would have demeaned ourselves
otherwise?"

There was the sound of the clatter of voices. Marjorie sprang up to
try and stop an excursion into the drawing-room. Her friend leant
back in her chair, and looked after her.

"If Marjorie were well-dressed," she thought, "she'd be a beauty.
That girl they were fussing after isn't in with her--only she's got
clothes; clothes mean so much. Why, Sandy, what have you got there?"

Sandy panted to her side, both his arms laden with a baby. She did
not appear to mind her uncomfortable position; but when deposited
upon Charity's lap, bent her brows in a scowl, as she studied Miss
Francklin's dainty finery.

"It's the baby from 'The Ridges'--she's got a name a mile long; we
call her Barbe. We found her, so we brought her. We wanted a girl
down here."

"You don't mean," said Marjorie, overhearing, and turning to David,
"that you've brought her without leave? Oh, David!"

"She was sittin' in her carriage, all silks and satins, and we saw
the nurse's petticoats whisk in; so we just ran the pram down the
hill, and left it inside the gate. That nurse finks a deal too much
of herself," explained Sandy.

"You'll have to go this very minute and say where she is," said
Marjorie. "Go, David, both of you--run!" she urged, remembrance
coming of the father's face as he looked at his child.

"I'll go with you," Charity exclaimed good-naturedly, springing up.
"Come, boys--hadn't we better take her back with us, Marjorie?"

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

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

The four disappeared, chattering and laughing, and Marjorie once
more applied herself to her poem. Her eyes rested vaguely on the
flowers before her. Her thoughts would not come. Instead, came
others--on dress, and the inequalities of life. Charity looked
very fluffy and soft--very different her dress was from Marjorie's
green linen. Marjorie looked down on her skirts disparagingly, not
exactly envying the soft summer dress of her friend, but seeing the
contrast. Charity could have everything she wanted. Money was never
lacking, and she had an indulgent father. Marjorie's father--here
the girl's face took on a tender look--had no money to spare. The
two boys at Winchester cost so much, and there were the others to
follow. But not for a moment would Marjorie have parted with one of
them--pervasive, noisy, unsettling, costly, too, though they were.
Her thoughts ran on, finishing at last with: "You've got to face
facts. Charity is Charity, by herself. And I am I, one of seven. I
had better brush my frock."

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

The Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated
his choice of companions for his little daughter.

"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage," said Mrs.
Lytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. "They've
had no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their
mother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just
left off mischief herself--if she has. There's nothing they're not
capable of--nothing!"

"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys," the Bishop said
in his kind tones, later. "They brought her to see me this morning.
Oh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary," in reply to an
anxious question, "if they aren't led away by their adventurous
spirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar
manner. And their sister--ah! there she is!"

The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise
he was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them,
gathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well,
distinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful,
soft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness.
Charity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress
and ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been
dining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her
arm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that
sort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang,
knowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of
the world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew
him to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. "Just like
that"--the unspoken wish arose in his heart--"may my little one grow
up!" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.

He was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.

"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants
some music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead
of only Mr. Warde. That is he," she said softly, directing his
glance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.

"Who is he?" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering
handshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.

"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see,
good-looking, and fancies himself a little." Charity laughed
lightly. "Also," lowering her voice, "he is said to fancy Marjorie.
I believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but
she was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you
wouldn't think it, would you?"

Mr. Pelham, as he turned with Charity to the piano, felt a sudden
wrath at the man--a man much older than himself--who had the
insolence to pretend to claim that slim girl.

A little later he made his way to the sofa, where Marjorie was
sitting with Mrs. Lytchett. That lady, full of kindliness to
Marjorie, fully intending to chaperon her during the winter to all
the festivities, yet liked to remind her pretty frequently of her,
as yet, unintroduced and unimportant condition. The skirmishes
between them were hot; and Marjorie had just flashed out, "After
all, mother has her wits, even if she has to lie on her sofa," when
Mr. Pelham said:

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

"Yes, Marjorie, go and play one of your little pieces," Mrs.
Lytchett said, dismissing Marjorie and her flash of temper as she
would have sent off a child.

Marjorie got up immediately.

"No, thank you," she said, sitting down before the piano, and
smiling up at Mr. Pelham standing beside her. "My little pieces are
here," lifting slightly the slender hands resting on her knee.

Wondering what this girl could have to say in such a language,
unwilling to hear anything crude or jarring that should spoil the
perfection of simplicity he was beginning to see in her, Mr. Pelham
moved aside, his eyes resting disappointedly on her bent head. She
raised her hands, and struck the opening notes.

The Bishop sank down into a large chair near, with a soft sigh. The
buzz of conversation slowly died away. A delicate melody, in some
unaccustomed minor mode, stole through the vaulted room, and Mr.
Pelham drew a breath of relief. He need not have feared. There was
nothing crude or jarring here.

After a few minutes her hands fell, with the lingering soft
repetition of an unfinished phrase, and Marjorie lifted her eyes,
liquid and dreamy with the thoughts that filled her mind. They
met a look from dark unfamiliar eyes, never again through all her
life to seem to her as the eyes of a stranger. They held her own,
fascinated, arrested, almost like a voice speaking through the
silence.

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

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

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

"Yes, that is all."

Antony Pelham's heart, as he walked up the hill in the moonlight,
was full. He was only twenty-eight, and desperately lonely, after
the year of brightness and delight he had shared with his young
wife. Marjorie reminded him of her in some strangely familiar
way--in her simplicity, her immaturity, her withdrawals. He
turned to look at the cathedral, shining white in the moonlight,
remembering that she had stood there with him, and that their talk
had been about a home.

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

END OF CHAPTER THREE.




[Illustration: A NEW CREATION]

A NEW CREATION

By

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

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


I fancy that we have all felt the need of a change of air, of life,
of our physical surroundings, our mental and moral environment; and
we have experienced the good that such a change has done us. We have
toiled on through the bad weather, the hard work, the much worry
of a long winter; or we have been kept at our post and laboured
listlessly through a hot and oppressive summer. The wheels of life
have dragged slowly. We have felt below par. Everything has been
more or less a trouble to us. The routine of daily duty has become
dismally monotonous. The zest has departed. Our very sleep is not
refreshing. We lie down with our weariness and trouble about us and
in us, and when we awaken we are still surrounded and dominated by
it. The burden seems no lighter for our repose. No new strength
seems to have been gained to face the calls of the new day--a day
which it is a trouble even to think about.

Well, we are ordered a change, or, driven by our instincts, we seek
one, or the blessed holiday season comes round at last. We go away,
and in fresh air, in a change of occupation, amid new interests and
associations, we begin to feel quite different. The old lassitude
and weariness have passed away. We have not been long in our changed
place of abode, when we begin to say to ourselves and to write home
that we feel quite new persons--a different man, a different woman.
And when we return our very appearance, our talk, the whole attitude
in which we regard life, the eagerness with which we take up the
old task, tell to all who are interested in us how much improved we
are, how much healthier and better we look. More to the purpose, we
ourselves feel better in every way. The change has done us ever so
much good. In it we have found our old self and yet a new self, and
we rejoice and are glad.

A somewhat similar experience often comes to us after reading some
book which has influenced us strongly. It has opened to us a longer
vista and a higher reach of life. It has given to us new views, new
ideas, new aspirations, and made us live with a higher ideal before
us. "It has made a new man of me," we say. Old things have passed
away. Or we have come under the influence of some pure love, some
self-sacrificing devotion, such as made the late Professor Tyndall
say in writing of his wife to a friend that she had given him quite
a new idea as to the possibilities of human nature. Or in daily
association with some active brain, some large-hearted companion, we
have formed at once new motives and new interests. All things have
become new.

Or, again, we have found a new vocation. The consciousness of the
possession of higher powers, of perhaps our real powers, has come to
us. We have discovered that we have been endowed with the possession
of some gift of which we were not aware. Some power has been lying
dormant. It has now been awakened, and upon the very threshold of
what we feel must now be a better and a higher life, we realise that
we are new creatures.

I was lately reading the life of a famous singer, Jenny Lind, "the
Swedish Nightingale," as she was called. She had been singing in
public for some time, but she had only been feeling her wings, as
the saying goes. But on a certain day there came the moment of
moments. "I got up that morning one creature," she herself often
said; "I went to bed another creature. I had found my power." And
all through her life she kept that day with a religious solemnity.
She would ask to have herself remembered on it with prayers. She
treated it as a second birthday. And rightly, for on that day she
awoke to herself. She became artistically alive. She felt the
inspiration and won the sway she now knew she was given to hold.
And this consciousness was not merely the recognition that she was
singing better than ever. It was more of the nature of a new fact
in her life, a disclosure, a revelation. "It was a step," says
her biographer, "into a new world of dominion. She knew at last
where it was that she stood and what she was to do upon the earth.
She learned something of her mission. For to her religious mind
the discovery of a gift was the discovery of a mission. She saw
the responsibility with which she was charged, through the mere
possession of such a power over men." The singer with the gift of
God--that was what she became on that evening. She became a new
creature.

Well, all these are only illustrations of the greatest truth in
the world--that in Christ we may all become new creatures or a new
creation.

We are prone by nature to do what is wrong rather than what is
right; we are born with passions wild and strong, and early give the
reins to evil desires. By the strength of our animal propensities
we are often carried to ruin unless we are arrested in our headlong
and miserable career. Sometimes--nay, thank God, often--we are thus
arrested. For a time, the voice of conscience may have been hushed.
Our heart is cold and dead, and there is no spring of life in it at
all. But something happens. We are led to think. We come to see the
evil of our ways, the ruin that we are bringing on others as well
as ourselves--on the wife whom we swore to love and cherish, the
children whom we are neglecting, perhaps starving.

And then, all at once, it is borne in upon us that we must change
our life's course. A bolt from heaven descends on us in the shape
of some punishment or affliction. Our darkness and distress are
revealed to us.

We seek the only refuge for the sinner. We flee to Christ, as the
belated and weary traveller would flee to a hiding-place from the
wind, a refuge from the storm, a covert from the tempest, the shadow
of a great rock in a weary land. We become converted. In Christ we
become a new creation. Oh, happy is it when we do so! Appalling and
terrible it is when we do not. How sad and awful is the fate of one
given over to the slavery, the bondage, the tyranny of some wicked
habit! Unless such an one is visited by the grace of God, unless the
heinousness of his guilt is brought home to him, unless divine light
strikes in upon his darkened life, he will sink deeper and deeper
into degradation, until, perhaps, he is driven to self-destruction
like one of whom I lately read, and who left these terribly touching
words behind him. "I am now about to finish a revolting, cruel, and
wretched existence by an act of my own. I have broken every law of
God and man, and can only hope that my memory will rot in the minds
of all who knew me. Drink has brought me to this fearful end. I am
dying hopeless, friendless, penniless and an outcast." And it might
have been so different! Oh, that all who are giving way to any sin
would listen to these terrible words of warning, that they would
close at once with Christ's offer to make their lives different, to
make them new creatures--once more fresh and fair creatures of God,
that the old man with his corrupt affections and desires, be put
off, and the new man in Christ Jesus be put on, that they would be
in Christ!

To be in Christ--you know what is meant by that. You are in Christ
if you are living in and by His Spirit; if you are breathing it
into your life; giving it forth again, if your life is engrafted on
His life as a branch is engrafted upon a tree. He is the Vine; we
ought to be as the branches which thus derive their vitality, their
beauty, their power of bearing leaf and fruit from the tree. The
same soil nourishes it; the same dews feed it; the same breezes fan
it. So we ought to have our life fed through Christ from God. If
we are in Christ, we shall have the same hatred of sin as He had.
We shall be removing ourselves further from evil; we shall ever
be getting more like Christ, ever increasing in personal holiness
and helpfulness to others, ever also willing to accept whatever
He sends us, subordinating our weak, wayward wills to His holy
and perfect will. If we let these words of charm, "In Christ," be
written over our lives, we shall feel the old fetters fall off, the
old unhappiness disappear, the old insubordination cease to assert
itself.

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

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

We shall hardly know ourselves, the joy of the new life is so great.
It is a joy, too, which we cannot keep to ourselves; we wish others
to share our happy experience. We are constrained to wish this by
the new and imperial impulse by which we are dominated. Because we
carry heaven in our hearts we wish that others should do so, too.
We look upon the sinner as upon some streamlet of water which is
dwindling away day by day and will soon be dried up and the rocky
channel left bare. Why? Because it is cut off from the fountain
head, from the source away up in the hills near God's sky. And what
we wish to do is to open the connection between the two, so that
the stream may be fed and do what it is intended to do--flow along
in full volume, making melody as it goes and fertilising the region
through which it passes. In Christ, we are like the stream connected
with its source: like it, we live melodious days and carry music
to others. Or look at that branch separated from its parent stem;
it is withering, it is dying. Again, a planet cut off from the
central force and power--the sun--rushes through the dark night and
is lost. So--if we be not in Christ, if we be separated from the
true fountain, the living root, the centrifugal force--we shrivel
up, we wither, we go to ruin here and hereafter, we die to all that
makes existence tolerable and of value; and it might have been so
different!

Shall we for the future, if need be, try to make life different to
ourselves and others?

Then, if any of us become new creatures, the fact is at once
recognised. People ask--What has come to So-and-so? His very
appearance is changed; his gait, everything about him is altered
for the better. He is regularly at his work and in his place in
church. He has a pleasant smile and a kind word for everybody. His
wife, who used often to look dull and unhappy, is now bright and
cheerful. His children are better dressed than they were; they are
more frank and free with him; they take his hand; they go to meet
him when he comes home; they consult him about their little joys
and sorrows. He is altogether quite different. What has come over
him? Oh, the explanation is a very simple one: he has ceased to do
evil, he has learned to do well. He has left some course of sin;
he is following after a life of holiness. He has left the service
of a bad master--the worst of all masters; he is now serving a new
master--the best of masters. He has made the friendship of the best
of friends; Christ is his master, his friend, his example. He is
in Christ. That is the reason of the change, of the new creation.
That is the reason of the sunshine he carries about with him, and
which he scatters on others. He is like Christ Himself, for all
true Christians carry Christ with them, wherever they go; just as
every leaf we take off some plants, put into soil, will become a
plant exactly like the parent stem from which it is taken, so the
Christ-life in a man, if it be genuine, will reproduce its source
and origin. The least tiny speck of musk, carry it where you may,
diffuses the same kind of fragrance as the plant from which it came.
So lives thus hid in Christ with God will be redolent of Him in all
places and at all times.

Let us, then, if we would be happy in our present lives--happy in
the memories we leave behind us--happy in the great Hereafter--see
that we are now in Christ, that we now know the glory and joy of
feeling a new creature. It is a great joy to think that old things
have passed away, that all things have become new. Then the very
earth upon which we live will have a new beauty for us. We shall
look upon it as the creation of our Heavenly Father, as the place
in which we are to work for Him, making our little corner of it
better, happier, more blessed than we found it. Then, too, we shall
regard our fellow-men and women quite differently. We find that they
are related to us in new ways and with holier, more sacred ties;
they are our veritable brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus. We can
do them no harm, injure them in no way; rather shall we find it
to be our highest duty and privilege to be helpful to them. Then,
too, will pain and sorrow assume a different and new aspect. They
cease to be altogether evils; they are seen to be blessings in
disguise--crosses, indeed, but only sent to bring us nearer to God
and to Christ; bitter medicine, indeed, but needed for our spiritual
health.

Lastly, death itself, the old foe of the human race, as he is
supposed by many to be, takes a new form. The awful and awesome
shroud in which he seems to be enveloped falls off, and what we
recognise is not the spectral skeleton with the hollow eyes coming
to consign us to darkness and to death, but a radiant angel, a
sweet, blessed messenger from the Father, bidding us come with him
to our happy and eternal Home to meet our loved and lost, to be in
Christ and with Christ for ever, with no chance any more of breaking
off from Him or losing Him. And, recognising this, we shall go with
him with the eagerness of a child to begin a new life, to enter upon
a higher existence, to do nobler work with a more untiring zeal and
energy, to love with a greater love; and as we stand for a moment
to look back upon our earthly life, in the freshness of the Eternal
Morning, in the beauty of our new Home, we shall realise that in
Christ's Heaven, which through His great mercy and sacrifice we have
reached, we are to be new creatures for evermore.

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

[Illustration: decorative]




_Told in Sunshine Room._]

[Illustration: Donkey Boy to the Queen]

Donkey Boy to the Queen.

A True Incident. By Alfred T. Story.


One dull though calm afternoon, when the century was younger by
nearly half its years than it is to-day, two bright-faced, handsome
boys, dressed in Highland costume, were quietly fishing in a
mountain stream, when they were disturbed in their contemplative
pastime by the piteous cries of a dog. Barely had they time to look
round before a poor, miserable little cur ran past them, followed
by an irate youth brandishing a stout cudgel. As the dog turned and
cowered behind their creel, and seemed to crave their protection,
the elder of the brothers--for such they were--stepped between the
poor brute and its tormentor, asking the latter what the dog had
done that it should be so ill-treated.

Said the lad gruffly, resenting the boys' interference:

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

"You shan't hit her with that stick," replied the sturdy youth, who,
though tall for his age, was not so thick-set as his opponent, and
was evidently a couple of years his junior.

"Mebbe I will, mebbe I willna," returned the lad, who, though not
ill-looking, was poorly clad, and, for the time being, ugly with
passion. "But I'll hae th' dug," and with the word he tried to push
past the obstructer. A scuffle ensued, in which the younger boy
wrested the cudgel from the dog's tormentor, but, as his share,
received a blow on the nose which brought blood.

"Gie me ta stick," said the owner of the dog, surprised that he had
so far underrated his antagonist.

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

This still more astonished the peasant lad, who seemed as though
he would again fall upon his antagonist. But there was something
about the youth's straight, well-knit figure, his handsome face,
and flashing eye that caused him to reflect; whereupon he lowered
his fists, which had risen to the bravado of attack, and, in a less
defiant tone, said:

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

"Promise me not to beat her then."

The young callant gave the required undertaking, and the next minute
he had the shrinking little animal in his arms and was walking away
with it the way he had come. But, turning round when he had gone a
few rods, he saw the youth who had withstood him bending over the
stream, laving his face in the cool water.

Now, for the first time, Tam, as he was called, noticed something
about the boys which in his anger he had failed to mark. It was
not their dress--though that betokened rank above the common; it
was something more intimate than that; something in the air, in the
manner, of them which made him uneasy in his mind, and caused him to
steal home with lagging gait and eyes that sought the ground.

His home was a little bracken-thatched one-storey cottage, or hut,
with stone walls, planted in a green oasis of a few yards square,
amid a wilderness of rock and shingle, overgrown with moss and
heather and other rough vegetation, from which a few stray sheep
and stunted cattle gathered a scanty subsistence. These were Tam's
charge. For not far from the little two-roomed cot which he called
his home were other huts like it, inhabited by poor, hard-working
people like his grandparents, each having a few sheep, or a cow or
two, and one or another a donkey or wild-looking Highland pony; and
he, having to look after his grandfather's little stock, was paid a
trifle by the others to tend theirs too.

Tam Jamison had done this since he was five, at which age he was
left an orphan by the death of his mother, who died broken-hearted
at the loss of her husband, fighting in a distant land against
Britain's foes.

He was now twelve; and though he loved the braes and the mountain
streams, he was beginning to chafe at his narrow life, wanting to
be off now with the drovers, now with the sportsmen and gillies,
or the coachmen who drove their teams daily in the season past his
grandfather's croft. It was a hard task for the old folks, Donal
and Yetta Jamison, to retain him at home, impossible to make him
content. They did their best to keep him under control; but it was
chiefly done by coaxing, a good deal by petting. This in the end
did not lighten their task. Every day Tam became more wayward and
difficult; every other day there were complaints of his negligence
on the one hand, of his mischief on the other; and then, to cap all,
it came to the old people's ears that their Tam--it could be no
other--had dared to raise his fist against one of the princes of the
blood, no less than the Prince of Wales.

That very evening the news was all over the country-side. The next
morning there was such a hubbub as never was heard. Everybody said
Tam would certainly be sent to jail, if no worse thing befell him.
Tam, braving the thing out, said he "didna mind"; but the old
folks, greatly caring, put on their Sunday best, and set out to
walk to Braemar to see and intercede with the Queen on the boy's
behalf. They found her not at home, and so had their long trudge for
nothing. However, one of the domestics drew from them what their
business was; and the next day a little lady, very plainly dressed,
riding on a wee, shaggy pony, stopped at the door, and, being helped
to dismount by a man who was with her, entered the hut and asked for
Tam's grandparents.

[Illustration: A little lady on a shaggy pony stopped at the door.]

They were not afraid of the little lady, because she looked so
good and kind, and spoke so gently, but when they discovered that
she was from Braemar, and that it was to learn all about Tam that
she had come, they were almost tremblingly anxious. Thinking that
the Queen had sent her, they apologised very humbly for the boy's
misbehaviour, saying it did not arise from any badness in him so
much as from wilfulness and daring. They hoped the Queen wouldna be
severe on the laddie; he was little more than a child, and though
masterful and not to be said, he had not a bad heart. It was partly
their fault, no doubt, as Tam, having no parents, had been left to
them very young, and they, perhaps, had spoiled him just a little.

So the old folks went on, the tears often in their eyes.

In a few minutes the good lady from Braemar had made herself
acquainted with all the circumstances of Tam's birth and rearing,
had heard the catalogue of his faults and shortcomings, and been
posted as to his restlessness and discontent. It was a long and
interesting human inventory, wound up with the declaration,
tearfully attested by both Donal and Yetta, that "he wasna sae bad
as wilfu'"; albeit they confessed to being greatly afraid, if he
went away from them, as he wished, lest his masterfulness should
lead him into evil ways.

"And where is this masterful one, this Tam?" asked the Lady of
Braemar. "One would like to see him."

Tam, however, could nowhere be found. The old man looked up and down
for him, neighbours joined in the search; but it was only too plain
that Tam had hidden himself away somewhere.

"Well," said the Lady, at length, "I cannot tarry any longer.
But the boy cannot be far away; so when he is found bring him to
Braemar, and we will see what can be done."

Donal and Yetta promised that such should be their care, and, as
a last word, ere the Lady rode away, they begged that she would
intercede on Tarn's behalf "wi' the gude and gracious Queen."

The Lady promised to do her utmost, and so departed.

The next day, the "sodger's laddie," as Tam was called, having in
the meanwhile been found, the grey-headed old crofter and his wife,
both of them bent with toil and drooping with care, once more made
their way over the hills to Braemar; Tam, downhearted, demure, and
in his Sabbath claes, padding the turf by their side.

Arrived at their destination, Tam hung a low head; for in front
of the house was congregated a little party, chiefly of children,
preparing to set out for a ride; among the number being the two
young gentlemen whom he knew.

The elder of them, the Prince of Wales, at once recognising his
antagonist of three days ago, stepped up to him and said, with a
frank and kindly smile:

"Good-morning, Tam! You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

Tam uttered a barely audible "Nae."

"And you hold no grudge against me for throwing your stick in the
river, do you?"

Another demure "Nae" found its way between Tam's half-closed teeth;
but this time he allowed his blue eyes to meet the young Prince's in
a surprised gaze.

"Then let us shake hands and be friends," said the Prince.

Tam extended his brown paw, and they clasped in token of mutual
goodwill.

The little scene transacted itself almost as quickly as it can
be read--so quickly, indeed, that Tam's grandparents witnessed
it in mute astonishment; and before they had recovered their
self-possession, the Lady who had called at the hut on Tam's account
issued from the house, looking much as she had done the previous
day, with the exception that a broad-brimmed straw hat covered her
head in place of a sun-bonnet.

"So you found the little runagate, did you?" said she, addressing
the old folks.

"Yes, madam," replied Donal. "Mister Fargus found him at night in a
cave in the birch-wood above the burn."

"What made you run away, Tam?" said the Lady, turning to the youth.

Tam was silent.

"Tell me. You need not be afraid."

"I thought mebbe I had hurt him"--with a nod in the direction of the
Prince.

"Oh, you didn't hurt me! You only brought a little of the red juice
out of my nose, and that can hurt nobody," said the Heir-Apparent.

Prince Alfred, who was standing by, smiled at his brother's sally,
as did also the Lady in the straw hat.

Tam laughed outright. He had never heard or known of a bleeding nose
being treated so lightly, and at the same time so funnily. His poor
grandparents, however, were shocked at his levity, and Yetta gave
him a vigorous nudge to recall him to a due sense of his position.

"If you like," said the Prince, "I'll give you one of my sticks in
place of the one I threw away," adding, with nice diplomacy, "but I
can tell you it's too proud a stick to hit a dog."

Tam smiled, and said he would not use it in that way.

"And I think we must ask you to promise not to think of ever
running away from your grandparents," said the Lady.

That seemed to strike Tam as a large order.

"I wouldna like to bide on the croft when I get bigger."

"Why, what do you wish to be when you grow bigger?"

"I want to be a soldier, like my father."

Yetta drew a pained breath; Donal's lips twitched.

"You would not like him to go for a soldier?" queried the Lady.

"Baith my sons focht and deed for their kintra," said Donal.

"And you would like to keep your grandson to comfort you in your old
age?"

The old folks bowed; their trembling lips could hardly frame an
audible "Yes."

"It is quite natural. You hear that, Tam? You would not like to go
away to the wars, as your father and your uncle did, and be killed,
and so grieve your poor grandparents."

"I dinna want to grieve 'em," replied Tam. "But I'd like to be a
soldier and fight for the Queen."

At this answer there was more than one moistened eyelid in the
little group, whereof Tam, for the time being, constituted the
central figure.

After a brief pause, his interlocutor continued:

"But, my boy, there are other ways of serving the Queen than by
becoming a soldier--many other ways."

That was a new aspect of things to the boy, and his eyes, when he
lifted them up to meet the Lady's, contained each a large note of
interrogation.

"For instance," she continued, "the Queen wants a donkey-boy now,
to attend her or the children when they drive about in their little
phaeton." The boy's eyes brightened, then fell.

"You think the care of a donkey beneath you?"

[Illustration: "Then let us shake hands," said the Prince.]

"Nae, but I doubt that the Queen wouldna hae me to be her
donkey-boy."

"Why not?"

"'Cos I hae nae bin a donkey-boy, an' I might do things wrang."

"But you could learn--everybody has to learn. And if you did your
best there could not be much fault-finding."

"I'd do my best."

"Nobody could say better than that," replied the Lady.

"Ah, if your leddyship," faltered Yetta, "could get her Majesty to
mek' him her donkey-boy, or to 'point him to any sic position, he
would still be near to us, an' a comfort in our old age."

"Ay, an' he would think nae mair o' running away," added Donal.

"You may be sure the matter will be taken into her earnest
consideration," said the Lady. "And now, after you have had some
refreshment, which I will ask them to give you, you had better
go home, and in the course of a few days you will doubtless hear
further."

TO BE CONCLUDED.




The Jeshurun[1] of Christ.

  [1] "All the tribes are here summed up in one name, derived from
  _jasher_, righteous. All the blessings of the Israel of God are
  concentrated here in Him, through Whom alone we are justified before
  God, Christ Who is the Lord our Righteousness."--_Bishop Wordsworth
  on Deut. xxviii. 26._

     "There is none like unto the God of Jeshurun."--DEUT. xxxiii.
     26. "Peace--upon the Israel of God."--GAL. vi. 16.


_AN ORIGINAL HYMN_

_By the_ REV. S. J. STONE, _Author of_ "_Lays of Iona_," "_The
Church's One Foundation_," _&c._

  _Music specially composed by_ SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.
                    (_Organist of St. Paul's Cathedral._)

_mf moderato_

    1. On, o'er the waste, Jeshurun! Thy Help rides on the sky;
         On, when thy hope seems farthest, Sure that thy LORD is  nigh.
       Sure of  the sacred fountain, The mystic corn and vine;
         On through thy "days," Jeshurun, There is  no GOD like thine.

    2. All things the sun makes precious! All fulness 'neath the moon;
         The buds and blooms of morning, The fair fruits of the noon;
       All chief things of the mountains, All wealth of shade or shine;
         These are for thee, Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.

    3. He is the shrine about thee,
         His arms beneath thee spread;
       His Excellence and Glory
         The shield above thine head;
       What tempests rave around thee,
         What foes and fears combine--
       Still thou art safe, Jeshurun,
         There is no GOD like thine.

    4. Bethink thee how from Sinai
         His Law was seen as flame;
       How, as He shone from Paran,
         His saints in thousands came:
       How these are thine ensample,[2]
         Of fear and love the sign--
       On then, in love, Jeshurun,
         There is no GOD like thine.

    5. Thine is sweet Hope made perfect;
         On thee her ends have come;
       Of all her silvern shinings
         Thine is the golden sum;
       The Church the vesture human
         Wears now the robe Divine!
       On through the years, Jeshurun,
         There is no GOD like thine.

    6. O Israel of JESUS,
         O happy in thy King!
       His Righteousness thy surety,
         His Peace thy covering,
       His Grace thy Fount of cleansing,
         Thy food, His Bread and Wine--
       On to the end, Jeshurun,
         There is no GOD but thine. Amen.

   [2] Cf. I Cor. x. 1-12. From this passage it is clear that a
   warning, as well as an encouragement, is part of the admonition to
   the Israel of God.




TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.

By a Leading Temperance Advocate.


No apology is needed for opening a temperance department in THE
QUIVER, for in the story of the temperance reformation the name
of John Cassell will assuredly always hold an honoured place. At
the time when he was enlisted in the ranks--1835--as a youth of
seventeen, the movement had few friends and many opponents. Having
once signed the "teetotal pledge," Cassell never deserted, but, on
the contrary, became one of the most persuasive advocates the cause
has ever had. He itinerated through the length and breadth of the
land, and, under the name of "The Manchester Carpenter," gained
a large number of adherents, some of whom subsequently achieved
great reputations as temperance leaders. Even before Cassell had
settled down in London as a publisher, he had learnt to value the
printing press as an aid to temperance work, and not a few of the
pamphlets, tracts, and broadsheets which played such an important
part in the early days of the propaganda, owed their origin to
his enterprising initiative. By-and-by he was in a position to
command his own printing machines, and as early as March, 1846, he
launched the _Teetotal Times and Monthly Temperance Messenger_,
which was followed in July, 1848, by the _Standard of Freedom_, of
which a temperance column was a leading feature. Anyone who takes
the trouble to look over these early publications cannot fail to
be struck by the comprehensive and statesmanlike grip of the drink
difficulty which they present. It was to John Cassell that Richard
Cobden wrote in 1849:--"I don't know how it is that I have never
made the plunge and joined the teetotallers. Nobody has more faith
than I in the truth of your doctrine, both from a physical and moral
point of view, for the more work I have had to do the more I have
resorted to the pump and the teapot. As for the moral bearings of
the question, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that all other
reforms together would fail to confer as great blessings upon the
masses as that of weaning them from intoxicating drinks." Cassell
passed away at the early age of forty-eight, on April 2nd, 1865, on
the same day as Cobden himself, whose friendship he had enjoyed for
nearly twenty years.

[Illustration: JOHN CASSELL.

(_Temperance Leader and Founder of "The Quiver."_)]


COMING EVENTS.

Among the important events fixed for this month may be named two
meetings convened by the National Temperance League for November
2nd, in Oxford, to be addressed by His Grace the Archbishop of
Canterbury and Professor Victor Horsley, F.R.S., the distinguished
surgeon. One meeting is specially intended for undergraduates,
while the other will be open to the townsfolk. On November 4th by
permission of the Lord Mayor of London, the Mansion House will
extend its hospitality to the Police Court Mission of the C.E.T.S.,
and Bishops, Members of Parliament, and Police Court Magistrates
will plead the cause of this deserving charity. On November 27th the
Nonconformist Churches will observe their annual Temperance Sunday,
and on November 30th a function anticipated with keen interest, the
first Lees-Raper Memorial Lecture will take place in the Church
House, Westminster.

[Illustration: MR. A. F. HILLS.

(_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)]


SUNDAY CLOSING.

Thanks to the munificent generosity of Mr. Arnold F. Hills, who has
promised a donation of £5,000, conditional upon temperance friends
making up another £5,000, a determined effort is to be made to press
forward the Sunday Closing question in view of the reassembling
of Parliament early in the new year. The whole-hearted ardour and
enthusiasm which have marked Mr. Hills' temperance labours during
the past ten years have made his name a household word. He started
out with the settled conviction that the greatest need of the
time was the union of the temperance forces; and in the face of
difficulties and obstacles which would have disheartened ninety-nine
men out of a hundred, he has ceaselessly concentrated his energies
to this end. The United Temperance Council, with its network
of county councils and district councils throughout the United
Kingdom, is the creation of his active brain; while the Temperance
Parliament, which has given an opportunity to all the friends of
temperance legislation to discuss their various projects, is another
child of Mr. Hills' parentage.


AN IRISH EXAMPLE.

Visitors to Belfast cannot pass along the streets of this
thriving, go-ahead city without being brought face to face with
the practical efforts of the Irish Temperance League to counteract
the public-houses. The League has set up nearly twenty attractive
coffee stands in various parts of the town, and these do a very
large business and are extremely popular. The movement was commenced
in 1874, the first stand being opened on a site granted by the
Harbour Commissioners, for a nominal rent, near to the berths
of the cross-Channel steamers. As many as 10,000 persons have
patronised the stands in one day. The hours of opening and closing
are regulated according to the locality. No intoxicating liquors
are allowed to be consumed on the premises; the best of food is
provided; the most scrupulous cleanliness is observed; and no
bills of any kind are exhibited, or anything likely to jar on the
religious or political feelings of the customers.

[Illustration: STREET COFFEE STAND, BELFAST.]


THE LEES-RAPER MEMORIAL.

It will be a long time before temperance folk will forget the shock
which was occasioned in May, 1897, by the sudden deaths within ten
days of each other, of Dr. Lees and Mr. J. H. Raper. These two
devoted workers were known in both hemispheres, and it would be
impossible in such limited space to give an adequate appreciation
of their marvellous gifts. Dr. F. R. Lees was ever a fighter. From
his boyhood up to his honoured old age he was always eager for the
fray. As a keen controversialist he was literally without a rival.
The winning personality of James Hayes Raper carried all before
it. He was unquestionably a platform king. Nothing could be more
charming than the extraordinary facility with which he rapidly
placed himself in touch with an audience; and he possessed in a rare
degree the gift of being able to make an acceptable "last speech" in
a programme. The Committee charged with the promotion of a memorial
to these temperance worthies is to be congratulated upon having
raised nearly £1,700. Of this amount, £1,500 has been invested in
a terminable annuity for a period of twenty years. A Lees-Raper
lectureship has been founded, and, as already stated, the inaugural
lecture will be given by Dean Farrar, of Canterbury, at the Church
House, Westminster, on November 30th. The Archbishop of Canterbury
will preside, and the Dean has chosen as his theme "Temperance
Reform as Required by Righteousness and Patriotism."

[Illustration: J. H. Raper.

(_Photo: Lambert, Weston and Son, Folkestone._)]

[Illustration: DR. F. R. LEES.

(_Photo: William Coles, Watford._)]




[Illustration: The House Beautiful]

The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "We Wives," Etc.


"In the fields of taste it is always much easier to point out paths
which should be avoided than to indicate the road which leads to
excellence."

Such are the words of a well-known artist of the present day. I
feel them to be true as I begin this paper on the House Beautiful.
Taste differs so widely that it would be futile to try to set up a
positive standard of beauty. Furniture has its fashions, too, though
they change but slowly. So we can only lay down broad general rules
with regard to the plenishment of our homes. We cannot insist on
detail.

There is no single point on which a gentlewoman is more jealous of
disparagement than the question of taste. Yet it is a lamentable
fact that this very quality is often--I may say generally--deficient
even amongst the most cultured classes. The bubble of fashion is
blown in our drawing-rooms just as surely and even more foolishly
than elsewhere. Individuality is seldom seen.

In order to have lovely homes inside four commonplace walls we
must remember that _simplicity_ is one true element of beauty. The
best and most picturesque furniture of all ages has been simple in
general form. Next, good design is always compatible with sturdy
service, and can accommodate itself to the most fastidious notions
of convenience. Thirdly, every article of manufacture to be really
beautiful should indicate by its general design the purpose to which
it will be applied. In other words, shams and make-believes must be
utterly tabooed.

Taking these three principles as the basis of our plans for our
own particular House Beautiful, let us consider how best we may
secure such. Our halls and kitchens are perhaps the best instances
of simplicity of design. In them we seldom have more utensils or
articles than we need. Parquetry, or inlaying with various-coloured
wood, is an ideal floor covering, even for our modern narrow hall.
Next to it ranks tiling, and a plain linoleum is admissible. All
these secure cleanliness. Warmth must next be suggested. To obtain
this, we lay down rugs of various colours and hang heavy curtains.
An oak chair, solid to look at (N.B.--Curves in furniture should
suggest repose, which is out of place in a passage), a chest to hold
rugs and cloaks, a small, narrow mirror to lighten up the gloom, and
you have all that is necessary. A few brass dishes on the wall, a
tall palm by one curtain, elks' antlers, etc., are permissible where
space is obtainable. Do not, however, ever be tempted to hang muslin
in the alcove or to drape with flimsy materials. Leave plenty of
room for visitors to pass in and out, without finding entrance or
exit blocked with exasperating detail. Colour is what really redeems
a hall from monotony. This the wall-paper and curtains and rugs
should give without help from trivial ornamentation.

Our kitchens are perhaps the most really beautiful spots in our
homes, if we take true beauty to consist of absolute fitness for the
work to be done therein. The severe wooden dresser, with its wide
undershelf and commodious cupboards, is as picturesque an object as
can be found. From time immemorial its shape has been unaltered, and
its beauty consists in its suggestions of utility. Traditional work
is mostly beautiful, as evidenced by the fact that the lines of a
plough have always been the admiration of artists. Plainness is not
ugliness, and the dresser, glorified, is now one of the necessary
beauty spots even in our drawing-rooms. Then those Windsor chairs,
with their slightly sloping backs and hollowed seats, are restful
to both eye and body. The bright steel or copper range fitted with
necessary knobs and useful doors is another example of the beauty
of fitness. In fact, both stove and dresser are forms of truth and
realism.

The two great faults to be avoided in the dining-room of our
House Beautiful are dreariness and overcrowding. The French
_salle-à-manger_ is really an ideal to work towards. Unfortunately,
few of us can consecrate the parlour to meals alone; this
living-room has to serve many purposes. We should have it as
spacious, thou, and airy as possible. Round tables have gone out
of fashion, unfortunately; yet the claw-leg pedestal table is the
most convenient, and consequently the most decorative, of its kind.
It economises space, and is easily beautified. I have in memory a
dining-room I should like to see reproduced in many a home. Just
an ordinary square chamber, with two straight windows looking out
on a lawn; a round table, its centre encircled with flowers; a
plain sideboard, guiltless of plate-glass, but enlivened by old
silver wine coolers, napkin rings, and goblets; a wide brass-bound
fireplace with hobs; a high mantelpiece, surrounded with a brazen
grating; a screen, and a few fine chairs. The beauty of it--and it
was very beautiful--consisted in fitness for the end for which it
was designed. The walls were covered with a light-tinted background
for pictures (not with ornamental garden stuff in perspective). Its
heavy, rich curtains hung by visible rings from a real pole; its
coal-scoop was of copper, not papier-maché tinware; its cupboards
full of glass that might be wanted, and silver often called for;
its napery and napkins fine and fair; its thick carpet guiltless of
grating greens and crude crimsons; its windows made to open, and
its iron-flanged door made to shut. There was no meaningless or
characterless ornamental work about this old room; no inappropriate
decoration spoiled its well-designed and well-constructed _tout
ensemble_.

As I have sketched an ideal parlour, so would I limn a bedroom I
have seen. It was a queer-shaped room, with rather high windows set
over some panelling in a little, crooked, dome-shaped alcove, a tiny
dressing-room opened off it. The paper was yellow; the paint all
white. A bed with plain brass spindles and rails stood away from
draught and light, headed with creamy chintz sprinkled with Scotch
rosebuds and lined with gold. The curtains of shiny chintz hung
from half-inch brass rods only to the window-sill. A wide box couch
under them formed a restful seat. Crossways stood a dressing-table,
its toilet glass flanked with brass candle-holders, and its jewel
drawers fitted with old beaten drop handles; it, as well as the
wardrobe, was enamelled white. A frame screen of the same purity,
its yellow silk curtains dependent by tiny rings from tiny rods,
stood before the dressing-room door, and effectually shut away all
washing apparatus. The floor of this room was polished all over
(kept in order by weekly applications of beeswax and turpentine). On
it lay white Kurd and Scinde rugs. The mantelpiece was wooden, and
the chimney corner decorated with shelves painted like wainscotting
and doors. These little shelves supplied vantage-grounds for lots
of blue-and-white china, and though the colour-scheme may sound
monotonous, infinite variety was introduced by the etceteras of the
toilette. Of course, blue or terra-cotta, carried out as faithfully,
would give an equally satisfactory symphony of tint. However we may
decorate our bedrooms, we must not forget that space and head-room
are the two requisites for health therein. Simplicity, careful
keeping, and radiant cleanliness should be the keynotes of every
bedroom in the House Beautiful.

In approaching the drawing-room, I feel I am treading on difficult
ground--in fact, an impossible one. Abundantly diverse in everything
are some of the reception-rooms I should call beautiful. Wide-mouth
pickle jars swathed in art muslin are positively wrong. So are
painted rolling-pins or banjos. As to cardboard plaques representing
china, and paper frills cut out to look like lace--away with them!
A plain brown jug full of real daisies is far more beautiful than a
glass bottle covered with varnished pictures and filled with paper
or silk imitations. One bit of quaint crackle or Venetian ware on
our chimney-piece is restful to the eye; highly coloured shams
are distressful. "Although we may tolerate insipid prettiness in
perishable confectionery, we ought not to do so in objects which
become associated with our daily life." Power of design and power of
imitation are the two widely divergent qualities of mind required
to produce a beautiful drawing-room. Ostentation of money should be
avoided here.

In concluding this paper, I should like to remind my readers that
all yearnings after the beautiful are legitimate and right. God has
placed a love for the lovely in every human heart. He Himself--in
all reverence be it spoken--has led the way. When designing
furniture for the Tabernacle built for glory and for beauty in the
far-away desert, He made it in the most artistic, most serviceable,
and most simple of forms. Look at the description of those golden
candlesticks, with their golden almond-shaped knops and elegant
branches. Think of the curtains of scarlet and blue and purple, and
fine twined linen. Think of the snuffers and spoons and ouches, and
bolts and rings and staves, all of pure gold. Truth and grace were
evermore wedded together in these patterns of the heavenly things.
"Go, and do thou likewise."




[Illustration: Scripture Lessons]

SCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME

INTERNATIONAL SERIES

With Illustrative Anecdotes and References.


NOVEMBER 20TH.--Manasseh's Sin and Repentance.

_To read--2 Chron. xxxiii. 9-16. Golden Text--1 St. John i. 9._

Manasseh, son of good King Hezekiah, yet for many years very wicked.
Must have been taught to do right by his father; good seed sown, but
choked by tares of sin and worldliness; a long time before bore good
fruit--not till tares pulled out.

I. =Manasseh's Sin= (9-11). Only a boy of twelve when began reign.
Many would flatter and spoil. Just an age to need good advice and
guidance. But many to lead him wrong, as other kings had been led
before him (xxiv. 17, 18). So he chose wrong.

_Idolatry._ Undid all Hezekiah's work by building up again altars
for Baal (ver. 3); even set up idol in house of God itself (ver. 7),
besides seeking counsel from witches, etc. (ver. 6), instead of God.
Sinned worse than heathen, for he knew right, which they did not.

_Punishment._ God tried remonstrances, probably by prophets, but in
vain. His heart and his people's hardened against God by sin; so God
sent captains of King of Assyria, who took him prisoner, and carried
him bound in chains to Babylon, capital of Assyria.

II. =Manasseh's Repentance= (12-16). _The captive._ The King,
far from home, in strange land; what does he think about? His
_father_--how little he has copied his example; his _home_--how
he has forfeited it; his _life_--how wicked it has been; his
_companions_--how they have led him astray; his _God_--he has sinned
too deeply--can he possibly be forgiven?

_The repentance._ What does he do? He humbles himself--first step in
true repentance, he confesses his sin as David did (Ps. xxxii. 5);
he asks forgiveness; he promises amendment. Was such prayer ever in
vain? (Golden Text).

_The restoration._ Sent back to his throne; became prosperous;
fortified the cities. Best of all, put away idols, repaired Temple,
offered sacrifices; did all in his power to undo effects of his
former sin. Commanded the people to serve God.

=Lesson.= How to repent. Ask for true sorrow. Confess to God all
sin. Seek grace to change life.

     Repentance.

     A man of the world, who had spent the greater part of his
     life in dissipation, was converted to God. He gave up all his
     property, and went to live with a well-known clergyman in
     Cornwall. There he devoted himself entirely to the service of
     Christ. One day he met a miner whom he had long been trying to
     bring to repentance. He persuaded him to enter the church; and
     there, kneeling side by side, they prayed for a long time, not
     ceasing till the miner felt a sense of the greatness of his sin
     and of the pardoning love of God. Many other souls was he the
     means of bringing back to God. There was joy in heaven over that
     repentant sinner as there was over Manasseh.


NOVEMBER 27TH.--A Temperance Lesson.

_To read--Prov. iv. 10-19. Golden Text--Ver. 10._

This book, written by Solomon, contains a selection of his numerous
"proverbs" or wise sayings. The early chapters are especially
intended for the young, and are in praise of "wisdom," the practical
carrying out of knowledge.

I. =The Blessing of Wisdom= (10-13). _Long life_ often promised
as the result of a godly life, _e.g._ to those who honour parents
(fifth commandment); also to those who obey God (Deut. xxx. 20).

_Right paths_, _i.e._ right dealing with men, _e.g._ Abraham paying
for burying-place (Gen. xxiii. 13); David in all his life (2 Sam.
xxii. 21).

_No stumbling._ Life like a narrow path. A man burdened by sin
walks, as it were, with shackles on legs. A Christian is held up by
God's arms (Deut. xxxiii. 27); kept from stumbling to his ruin.

_Eternal life._ Wisdom (i. 20) personified as Christ, the Divine
Word, in Whom is all knowledge (Col. ii. 3). To know Him is
everlasting life (St. John xvii. 3).

II. =The Folly of Wickedness= (14-17). _Sin to be avoided._ Remind
of Eve: of Lot choosing to live in wicked Sodom. The disastrous
results: Eve turned out of Paradise--Lot losing home and wife.

_Sin grows._ Evil takes such hold that some prefer it to good--day
and night plan evil, _e.g._ thieves, drunkards, etc., and take
pleasure in leading others wrong.

III. =Results.= _The just._ A Christian's course like the light,
increasing from early dawn till full light of noon. Perfection, not
all at once. Good seed brings forth fruit "with patience," _i.e._
gradually (St. Luke viii. 15). Christ increased in wisdom as He grew
taller and older (St. Luke ii. 52). So we must "grow in grace and
knowledge." The more a Christian knows of God, the more clearly does
God's light show itself in him.

_The wicked._ Are in darkness, and so stumble. Sin blinds their eyes
(St. John xii. 35); they confuse right and wrong. Example: Saul,
blinded by prejudice against Jesus of Nazareth, thought he did God
service when he persecuted the Christians.

=Lessons.= 1. Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the dead, and
Christ shall give thee light!

2. Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy
law.

     The Toil and Folly of Sin.

     There was a man in a certain town who used, till he was caught,
     to steal all his firewood. He would get up on cold nights and
     prowl around, helping himself from the well-stacked piles. A
     calculation was made, and it was found that he had worked harder
     and spent more time to get fuel in this way than if he had
     earned it honestly by hard work. One day he was caught in the
     act of theft, and was sentenced to three months' imprisonment.
     "The way of transgressors is hard."


DECEMBER 4TH.--The Book of the Law Found.

_To read--2 Kings xxii. 8--20. Golden Text--Ps. cxix. 2._

JOSIAH, grandson of Manasseh, like him, began to reign very young
(eight years), but, unlike him, began well. Now about eighteen years
old. Already been two reformations since his succession (2 Chron.
xxxiv. 3--7). Now Temple being repaired.

I. =The Book Found= (8--14). _The place._ Temple found in great
disorder. Amon, the last King, in two years had done much
evil--idolatry again. Now Temple cleansed under superintendence of
Hilkiah, high priest. Rubbish turned over; large "roll of a book"
discovered. What can it be? The authentic copy of Law of God, _i.e._
books of Moses, kept near the Ark in the Holy of Holies. What a find!

_The scribes._ Two scribes, readers and keepers of the Law, with
Hilkiah when the roll was found. They read it themselves; one of
them, Shaphan, takes it to the King; reports the collection made for
the repairs, how the work is going on, and the discovery. He reads
the book aloud. The King much moved by the words of the Law and
God's wrath against sinners (Deut. xxix. 27). Sends to Huldah the
prophetess to inquire further of the Lord. He sees how little the
words of the book have been obeyed.

=Lesson.= The Word of God is quick and powerful.

II. =God's Message to Josiah= (15--20). As in time of Judges, when
Deborah was prophetess (Judges iv. 4), God speaks by a woman; double
message.

_To the people._ A terrible punishment, as foretold in the Law,
because of their sin. Had forsaken God--turned aside to other gods.
Had not repented, therefore His wrath kindled against them.

_To Josiah._ His heart was humble; attended to God's message; he did
weep for the people's sin. God has heard him--he shall be spared.
The judgment shall not come in his time; his end shall be peace.

=Lessons.= 1. God ever the same. He _must_ punish sin. He _will_
deliver the just.

2. As then, so now, He sends warning by His Book, His ministers, and
teachers.

3. Why will ye die? Return unto the Lord.

     The Bible a Delight.

     One day, when walking through Wales, Mr. Hone, the author,
     stopped at a cottage door and found a little girl reading the
     Bible. He asked for a glass of water, which was quickly brought
     to him. Getting into conversation with the girl, he asked her
     how she liked learning her task out of the Bible. "Oh," she
     said, "it is not a task to read it; I love it." Seeing his
     surprise, she added, "I thought everybody loved the Bible." The
     arrow went home. Hone pondered over her remark and began to read
     the Bible for himself, and from that time read the sacred book
     constantly. Before long, instead of being an opponent of the
     Bible, he became one of its strongest defenders, for he, like
     the child, had learned to love it.


DECEMBER 11TH.--Trying to Destroy God's Word.

_To read--Jer. xxxvi. 20-32. Golden Text--Isaiah xl. 8._

JOSIAH the last godly King. At his death Jerusalem fell back
into corruption. Jeremiah the prophet warns in vain of coming
destruction--is hated by nobles--imprisoned by King; bids Baruch
write God's words in a roll of a book (ver. 6).

I. =The Roll Read= (ver. 20). Hitherto Jeremiah spoke his
prophecies. Why written now? To be read in various places while he
was shut up (ver. 5), and kept for our instruction. Great excitement
this day in Jerusalem. Large assembly of people heard--princes heard
and were afraid (ver. 16); King Jehoiachim is told of it. Courtiers
round the King tell him what they recollect of the warnings; he
is interested--perhaps alarmed. Sends for the roll, hidden in the
council chamber.

II. =The Roll Burned= (21-26). Picture the King sitting in his
study; bright wood fire on the hearth in the winter-house. Jehudi
sent to fetch roll. Nobles and other courtiers stand around; the
roll is read. The King is angry; after hearing three or four columns
he stops the reader, cuts the roll into pieces with penknife, flings
them on the fire. Some of princes approve; three try to stop him.
The parchment crackles, roll is destroyed. Baruch the scribe and
Jeremiah ordered to be imprisoned. Is all over? King could destroy
roll, but not God's Word.

III. =The Roll Re-written= (26-32). King's efforts all in vain. Man
fights in vain against God. King despises the prophecy. Another
roll written; more severe judgments. God laughs him to scorn. This
is his punishment:--The King shall have no heir to succeed him. He
shall have a dishonoured death--no burial. The whole nation shall be
severely punished. King of Babylon shall take the people captive.

=Lessons.= 1. God's Word shall not return void.

2. The folly of trying to resist God.

3. The certainty of coming judgment for sin.

     God's Word True.

     A man and his wife became possessed of a Bible, which they had
     never read before. The man began to read it, and, one night, as
     he sat by the fire with the open book, he said, "Wife, if this
     book is right, we are wrong." He continued reading, and a few
     days afterwards he said, "Wife, if this book is right, we are
     lost!" More eager than ever to see what the Word of the Lord
     was, he continued to study the book, until one night he joyfully
     exclaimed, "Wife, if this book is true, we are saved!" This is
     the glory of God's Word; it tells of sin and punishment, but it
     tells also of salvation. King Jehoiachim, hearing God's Word,
     tried to destroy it and was lost; but King Josiah, hearing it,
     turned to God and was saved.




[Illustration: Short Arrows]

Short Arrows

Notes of Christian Life & Work.


Two County Medallists.

We have pleasure in presenting our readers with the portraits of two
recent Silver Medallists in connection with our Roll of Honour for
Sunday-school Teachers. Miss Susan Hammond is the veteran of the
county of Essex, having completed fifty-four years' service at the
Wesleyan Sunday-school, Bradfield; whilst to Mr. William Fletcher
belongs the honour of being the doyen of the Sunday-school Teachers
of Lincolnshire, he having to his credit the magnificent record of
seventy years' service at the Scamblesby Sunday-school.

[Illustration: (_Photo: W. Gill, Colchester_).

MISS HAMMOND.

(_The Essex County Medallist._)]


The Real Winners.

A hurried and unceremonious burial is often all that can be given to
the dead after a great battle. They are the harvest of war; but the
dead, though in comparison to the living victors they may be said
to be at least unhonoured, have often been the real winners of the
battle. It was over their dead bodies or over the way they made that
the survivors rushed to victory. So it is that when we allow self to
die we accomplish most Christian work and win the fight of faith.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Carlton and Sons, Horncastle._)

MR. WILLIAM FLETCHER.

(_Who holds the Lincolnshire Record for Seventy Years' Sunday-school
Service._)]


For Prizes or Presents.

There are already many indications that the Christmas festival is
slowly but surely drawing near, and not the least significant is
the deluge of new stories suitable for presents and prizes which
has already commenced. To many a boy and girl Christmas would lose
half its charms if it did not bring with it a new story from old
favourites, such as Gordon Stables, Emma Marshall, or G. A. Henty,
and the young people will not be disappointed this year. Messrs.
Nisbet have just issued Dr. Stables's latest story, which he has
entitled "Off to Klondyke." Its very title is suggestive of exciting
experiences at the fascinating goldfields of the Yukon, and many
boys--both young and old--will follow with breathless interest the
numerous wonderful adventures which are related therein. From the
same publishers comes an equally interesting story of an English
boy's adventures in the great French War under the expressive title
"Face to Face with Napoleon." There is plenty of romantic incident
in this story, and as the author, Mr. O. V. Caine, has carefully
verified the historical portions of the work, it will serve the
double purpose of entertaining and instructing. Our old friend,
Mrs. Emma Marshall, is to the fore with an excellent story for
girls, entitled "Under the Laburnum Tree" (Nisbet and Co.), which
will be eagerly welcomed in many a home and school.--The last
volume before us is entitled "Yule Logs," and is edited for Messrs.
Longmans by Mr. G. A. Henty. Unlike the books previously mentioned,
this does not contain a single long story, but is made up of a
series of short stories by such well-known writers as Henry Frith,
Manville Fenn, John Bloundelle-Burton, and, of course, the editor
himself. The stories deal with extraordinary adventures on land and
sea, in both ancient and modern times, and are of such variety as to
satisfy the most exacting reader.


"Mousie."

A poor little lad died a few weeks ago in a narrow and crowded
street of Central London after four years of terrible suffering
from hip disease. His sweet and uncomplaining nature endeared him
in a particular way to the friends who visited him, and one of them
has taken a picture of him, as he sat up in bed, surrounded by his
flowers and small comforts, not long before his death. "Mousie" got
his pet name from the doctors at a big hospital, who were so struck
by his gentleness, and by the quiet courage with which he endured
his painful operations. He had been originally knocked down by a
cab, and his feeble constitution never recovered from the accident.
Once, to his great delight, he was well enough to attend a meeting
of the Ministering Children's League, of which he was a member. He
was supported on a table, and helped to make a cushion for a sick
old woman. But he was soon obliged to keep to his room and his couch
altogether. Even then "Mousie" was often thinking of others. "Can't
I do a toy for some poor child who has none?" he would say, and with
the wool that was given him he would make balls for babies. "It is
not Jesus who sends me this pain," he once explained to the friend
who pens this brief memory of him; "He is far too kind: it was my
own fault for getting in the way of the cab." Poor "Mousie"! he was
only ten years old, but he had his own solution of the mystery of
pain. He loved to hear hymns. Someone sang "There is a Happy Land"
to him the night before he died, and a little later those who were
watching him were surprised to hear him croon the first verse all
through in quite a strong clear, voice. Then he sighed pitifully,
"Lord Jesus, do take me!" and said to his mother, "I shan't have a
bit of pain _there_, you know!" And after a few unconscious hours
"Mousie" knew why God had permitted his pain.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Mr. W. T. Piper._)

"MOUSIE."]


Always Rejoicing.

When, in 1849, the American author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, was
dismissed from being a surveyor, his wife thus writes of the
supposed calamity in a letter to her mother: "It has come in the
way of an inevitable providence to us (whatever knavery some people
may have to answer for who have been the agents in the removal),
and I never receive inevitable providences with resignation merely,
but with _joy_, as certainly, undoubtedly, the best possible events
that can happen for me." Surely this is the right way to regard the
changes and so-called chances of this mortal life, if we believe
that our Heavenly Father orders the lives of each one of us with
individual care.

[Illustration:

  (1) THOMAS BROWN.
  (_Gordon Boys' Home._)

  (2) HARRY CASTLEDINE.
  (_Orphan Working School._)

  (3) CLARA A. LANGDON.
  (_Orphan Working School._)

  (4) FLORENCE ANDERSON.
  (_National Refuges._)

  (5) EDWARD M. NYE.
  (_Reedham Orphanage._)

  (6) CHARLES E. SMITH.
  (_Reedham Orphanage._)

THE QUIVER GOOD CONDUCT PRIZE WINNERS, 1898.]


An Interesting Group.

The Quiver Prize has long since become an annual institution in
several representative orphanages, and as our object is to encourage
honesty, industry, and general good conduct, it is awarded each
year to those inmates who have shown greatest progress in these
respects during the preceding twelve months. We publish a group of
the winners for 1898, who represent respectively the Orphan Working
School, the Reedham Orphanage, The Gordon Boys' Home, and the
National Refuges.


THE QUIVER FUNDS.

The following is a list of contributions received from September 1st
up to and including September 30th, 1898. Subscriptions received
after this date will be acknowledged next month:--

     For _"The Quiver" Waifs' Fund_: J. J. E., Govan (130th
     donation), 5s.; A Glasgow Mother (100th donation), 1s.; M. G.,
     Leeds, 1s.; Oxford, 5s.

     For _Dr. Barnardo's Homes_: An Irish Girl, 12s. 6d.; N. L. E.,
     10s. We are also asked to acknowledge the following donations
     sent direct:--J. E. D., 10s.; Inasmuch, 4s.; H. M. H., 5s.

     For _The British and Foreign Bible Society_: A Thank-Offering,
     1s.


ROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL WORKERS.

The =Special Silver Medal= and =Presentation Bible= offered
for the longest known Sunday-school service in the county of
=Northumberland= (for which applications were invited up to
September 30th) have been gained by

  MR. THOMAS C. HINTON,
  Fame Bank,
  Gosforth, Newcastle,

who has distinguished himself by =fifty= years' service in the John
Knox Church Sunday-school, Newcastle.

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

  =LEICESTER=,

and applications, on the special form, must be received on or before
October 31st, 1898. We may add that =Sussex= is the following
county selected, the date-limit for claims in that case being
November 30th, 1898. This county, in its turn, will be followed
by =Wiltshire=, for which the date will be one month later--viz.
December 31st, 1898.

The names of members recently enrolled will be found in our
advertisement pages.




THE QUIVER SANTA CLAUS.


The children's festival--as the Christmas season is rightly
called--is already within the horizon of preparation. A
few weeks more, and our young people will be enjoying the
delights of Yule-tide, not the least of which is the perennial
Christmas Stocking. Most of us remember the eager--almost
feverish--anticipation with which we tied up our little stocking at
the head of our small bed, in the full faith that the mysterious but
kindly visitant of Christmas Eve would cram into it all sorts of
lovely things; and how when morning dawned, our first thought was
to reach it down to our pillow and explore its wonderful recesses.
But there are thousands of little children to whom these raptures
are unknown. They do not appear to have been put upon Santa Claus's
visiting list; and it seems hard that this venerable gentleman
should pass them over. These poor and friendless little ones, to be
found in every town and in many of our villages, want a kind-hearted
neighbour who will mention their names and addresses to that
genial but omniscient saint, and then, presto! there's joy for a
forlorn little chap or maiden "on Christmas Day in the morning." We
therefore earnestly invite all fathers and mothers, and uncles and
aunts, and all who love to see the children glad on the Saviour's
birthday, to co-operate with us in providing Christmas stockings
for those forlorn youngsters, into whose life scarcely a ray of
brightness ever enters. Not much is needed to give them this boon
by way of the Christmas stocking. A few wholesome goodies and a
simple toy will amply suffice to supply them with a fund of innocent
excitement and enjoyment. A sum of one shilling will furnish a
stocking and pay the postage, when combined in a large contract. We
have the happiness to announce that the proprietors of THE QUIVER
have kindly consented to head our subscription list with a sum
sufficient to provide the contents of

  =FIVE HUNDRED CHRISTMAS STOCKINGS FOR POOR
  AND FRIENDLESS CHILDREN.=

This is a good start, but this number will be quite inadequate
to the innumerable demands which are sure to be made upon us.
We therefore earnestly ask for further contributions from all
child-lovers who would sorely regret to see any tiny mite left
disappointed on Christmas Day.

We shall also be glad to receive recommendations from our readers
(as before in the case of our Christmas Hamper Fund) of suitable
cases for the supply of stockings. The special forms for this
purpose will be supplied in our Extra Christmas Number, and if
filled up in accordance with the directions there given will be
dealt with in the order in which they reach the Editor, as far as
the funds will permit. All contributions to the Christmas Stocking
Fund should be sent to the Editor of THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage,
London, E.C., and all amounts of one shilling and upwards will be
thankfully acknowledged in our pages.


Special Presentation Plate.

A separate large-size reproduction, printed in colours, of Mr. W.
Holman Hunt's great picture, "The Finding of the Saviour in the
Temple," is presented with this part; and, should there be any
difficulty in obtaining it, our readers are requested to communicate
at once with the publishers, giving the name and address of the
bookseller or other agent from whom they purchased the number.




"THE QUIVER" BIBLE CLASS.

(BASED ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCRIPTURE LESSONS.)


QUESTIONS.

1. What action of Manasseh, king of Judah, shows how terribly the
people had sunk into idolatry?

2. In what way did Manasseh seek to protect his country from
invasion?

3. What is remarkable in the latter part of Manasseh's life?

4. Quote a proverb which warns us of the danger of evil companions.

5. In what way does the wise man express the beauty of a holy life?

6. In whose reign do we find the king sending to a woman for advice?

7. What great discovery was made while the Temple was being repaired
in the reign of Josiah?

8. What proof have we that at one time the Jews were
fire-worshippers?

9. In whose reign did God carry out the judgment which He pronounced
against the altar at Bethel which Jeroboam had made?

10. Of what gross act of contempt against God was Jehoiakim, king of
Judah, guilty?

11. What acts of cruelty are recorded against King Jehoiakim?

12. In what way did God punish Jehoiakim for his iniquity?


ANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 1147.

133. A tax of half a shekel of silver for every male of twenty years
old and upward (Exod. xxx. 12-14).

134. Joash, king of Judah, in order to obtain money for the
restoration of the Temple (2 Chron. xxiv. 6-9).

135. 2 Chron. xxiv. 8.

136. Isaiah is generally considered to have been the grandson of
King Joash, and thus has sometimes been called the royal prophet
(Isa. i. 1).

137. The altar seen by Isaiah in his vision was the altar of
burnt offering, on which the fire which came down from heaven was
perpetually burning (Isa. vi. 6; Lev. vi. 13; 2 Chron. vii. 1).

138. The effect of the teaching of the Gospel is to bring peace on
earth (Isa. xi. 6-10).

139. Isa. xi. 9.

140. In the reign of Hezekiah (2 Chron. xxx. 2; Numbers ix. 10, 11).

141. Because the Temple was not cleansed until the sixteenth day of
the first month (2 Chron. xxix. 3, 16-18).

142. It was the first Passover after the separation of Israel and
Judah at which any of the children of Israel were present (2 Chron.
xxx. 1).

143. By Sennacherib, whose army was destroyed by God in one night (2
Kings xviii. 17 and xix. 34, 35).

144. In the reign of Hezekiah (2 Kings xviii. 4).


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

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

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

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

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs.

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

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

Index page iii "NEGRO CAMP-MEETINGS IN THE STATES By
ELIZABETH L. BANKS 867"--The number 867 is unclear.

Page 67: Letters in [)] refer to a breve over the letter. Letters
in [=] refer to macron over the letter. "Sunt pl[)u]r[)a] m[=a]la"
and "sunt m[)a]l[)a] pl[=u]ra".





End of Project Gutenberg's The Quiver, Annual Volume 1899, by Various