← catalogue

The Quiver 3/1900

by Anonymous · English · Gutenberg #43658 · 311,100 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Quiver 3/1900
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Quiver 3/1900

Author: Anonymous


        
Release date: September 6, 2013 [eBook #43658]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43658

Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Julia Neufeld and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUIVER 3/1900 ***

The Quiver 3/1900

[Illustration: (_Drawn by Percy Tarrant._)

EASTER BLOSSOMS.]




THE CENTENARY OF THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY.

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


At "The Castle and Falcon," in Aldersgate Street, on April 12th,
1799, there met, in all the solemnity of a public gathering, sixteen
clergymen and nine laymen.

They founded there and then the Church Missionary Society for
Africa and the East. That Society keeps its Centenary this month;
no longer an inconspicuous organisation expressing the hopes of a
godly few, but a great Society which has girdled the earth with
its missions. When, in November, 1898, its Estimates Committee
surveyed its position, they found that its roll included the names
of 802 European missionaries, of whom 295 were ladies, whilst, of
the 802, no fewer than eighty-four were serving altogether or in
part at their own expense. Some of them represented the missionary
enthusiasm of Australia and Canada; a fair proportion were duly
qualified medical workers, men and women.

[Illustration: MRS. J. A. BAILEY.

(_The first lady missionary of the Society._)]

With the exception of South America, there is no considerable
quarter of the globe in which they are not represented. They may be
found ministering to Esquimaux within the Arctic Circle, and to the
Indians of the vast expanses of Canada; they are shepherding the
Maoris of New Zealand; in India their stations may be discovered
alike amongst the wild tribes of the northern frontier, the strange
aboriginals found here and there in the continent, and the milder
races of the south; in Africa the Society begins in Egypt, but
goes no farther south than Uganda, though it is both on the east
coast and the west; it is strongly represented along the coasts of
China, as well as in the inland province of Sze-Chuen; it works both
amidst the Japanese themselves and that strange people the hairy
Ainu; it is domiciled in Ceylon and Mauritius; it has not forgotten
Persia. From Madagascar it has retired, and it has shown a wise
indisposition to enter upon new fields whilst the old are still
insufficiently manned. It has ever been known for the strictness
with which it observes the comity of missions; and it may fairly be
said that the zeal with which its friends have worked in behalf of
foreign missions has reacted on all the missionary agencies which
have their origins in Great Britain, as well as upon some which
express the zeal of America and the Colonies.

    From Greenland's icy mountains,
      From India's coral strand
    Where Afric's sunny fountains
      Roll down their golden sand,

    From many an ancient river
      From many a palmy plain
    They call us to deliver
      Their land from error's chain

    What though the spicy breezes
      Blow soft o'er Ceylon's Isle
    Though every prospect pleases
      And only man is vile?

    In vain, with lavish kindness,
      The gifts of God are strown
    The heathen in his blindness
      Bows down to woods and stone!

[Illustration: BISHOP HEBER'S MISSIONARY HYMN.

(_Facsimile of part of the Original MS._)]

The Church Missionary Society was really one of the fruits of the
Evangelical Revival, though when the Society was born that movement
was no longer young. Its first leaders had passed to their rest;
it was their successors amongst whom the Church Missionary Society
took its origin. They were, as history judges them, no mean persons,
though in their own day they fell, for their religious zeal, under
the condemnation of polite society, whether ecclesiastical or social.

[Illustration: THE BOARD ROOM AT THE MISSION HOUSE.]

That meeting in Aldersgate Street did not include some of those to
whom the foundation of the Church Missionary Society must directly
be referred; but, if we look at the circle they represented, we
shall find that it was one of rare distinction in the religious
history of the country. It included William Wilberforce, Zachary
Macaulay, Charles Grant, James Stephen, and Henry Thornton on the
lay side; Charles Simeon, John Newton, Thomas Scott, Richard Cecil,
and William Goode amongst the clergy. The impulse which moved
them was moving others, for the Baptist Missionary Society had
been founded by Carey in 1793, and the London Missionary Society
in 1795. The Religious Tract Society also began its existence in
this year 1799, and the Bible Society was founded in 1804. It was
a fruitful epoch. Yet it has to be remembered that it began under
ecclesiastical discouragement, and amidst such popular contempt of
missions to the heathen as was reflected in Sydney Smith's essay.

I do not propose to trace in detail the history of the Church
Missionary Society: within the space of a magazine article such an
attempt could do little more than produce a list of names and dates.
It may be more useful, as well as more interesting, to look at some
of the Society's great workers at home, at some of its heroes in
the mission-field, and at some of the romances which diversify its
history.

[Illustration: THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY'S MISSION HOUSE,
SALISBURY SQUARE.]

Of the men who helped to found the Church Missionary Society the
first place must be given to Charles Simeon. He was not at "The
Castle and Falcon" meeting, but it was he who, at the gathering of
the Eclectic Society in March of the same year, when missionary
plans were again under discussion, urged immediate action. "There
is not a moment to be lost," he said; "we have been dreaming these
four years, while all Europe is awake." The precise old bachelor,
fellow of his college at Cambridge, and incumbent of Holy Trinity
Church in that town, was not a person easily daunted by obstacles.
As an Evangelical he had had to face the most strenuous opposition
in his own parish. But he had been deeply stirred by plans and hopes
for missionary work in India; he was the friend and mentor of Henry
Martyn. He was able in time to wield at Cambridge an influence
which the late Bishop Christopher Wordsworth compared to that of
Newman at Oxford. Later generations somehow came to think of him
as something other than a Churchman; but they were quite wrong. A
careful scrutiny of Simeon's works, letters, and diaries will show
that he was consistently loyal to his Church and her formularies.
Of his influence upon foreign missions it is difficult to speak in
exaggeration; but one or two illustrations may serve to show its
extent. Henry Martyn was the first Englishman who offered to go
out under the Church Missionary Society. But Simeon was especially
anxious about India, and so Martyn went there as "Chaplain." His
brief work in Persia, the example of his singularly beautiful
character, and the swift end of so promising a career, still
influence the minds of young and old. And the influence of Martyn,
is, in a sense, the influence of Simeon. Less popularly known than
Henry Martyn, but in some respects of wider power, were the others
of the famous "Five Chaplains" who went out to India, the fruits of
Simeon's zeal for that land. These men left an indelible mark upon
the English in India during their time, and did much to prepare
the way of the missionary. Thus Claudius Buchanan helped more than
any other man to create the public opinion which opened India to
missionaries, and led to the consecration of the first bishop for
all India, the Bishop of Calcutta. Thomas Thomason was the father
of James Thomason, who, as Lieutenant-Governor of the North-West
Provinces, ruled (and taught others to rule) in the fear of God, and
with the warmest sympathy for missionary enterprise. Through him,
when the Punjab was annexed in 1849, it felt the influence which had
flowed from the rooms of Charles Simeon at Cambridge.

[Illustration: SECRETARIES of the CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY

  REV THOMAS SCOTT 1799-1802
  (L. COSSÉ pinxt)

  REV. JOSIAH PRATT 1802-1824
  (H. WYATT pinxt)

  REV. E. BICKERSTETH 1824-1830
  (ALEX. MOSSES pinxt)

  REV. WILLIAM JOWETT 1832-1840

  REV HENRY VENN 1841-1872
  (G RICHMOND R. A. pinxt)

  REV HENRY WRIGHT
  1872-1880

  REV F E WIGRAM 1880-1895
  (PHOTO ELLIOTT & FRY)

  REV H E FOX appointed 1895
  (PHOTO ELLIOTT & FRY)

  Robert A Shield 99
]

The name of Edward Bickersteth seems a natural succession to that of
Simeon. The influence of both is still unexhausted. When the Church
Missionary Society kept its second Jubilee in November, 1898, the
sermon was preached by Bishop E. H. Bickersteth, the son of Edward
Bickersteth. And the influence had been wider than the limits of
any one Society, for Bishop Edward Bickersteth, of Japan, who died
in 1897, represented another generation in this line of truly
apostolic succession.

Edward Bickersteth had been a solicitor in prosperous circumstances
when zeal for missions led him to take holy orders, and join the
Church Missionary Society as Assistant Secretary in 1816. Almost
at once he was sent to examine the Society's work at Sierra Leone.
There he admitted the Society's first African converts to the Holy
Communion. In 1824 he succeeded Josiah Pratt in the Secretaryship
of the Society. He was never an autocrat in the sense that Henry
Venn was; but his work for the Society in the country was enormous.
It has ceased to be the kind of work which is mainly done by the
Honorary Secretary of the Society, but at that period it was work
which was of inestimable value. It was the more important because
public opinion at home still presented a front of mingled contempt
and indifference to missions, whilst abroad the outlook was far from
hopeful.

[Illustration:

        ZENANA WORK.    BIBLE SELLING IN EASTERN BAZAARS.

                      TEACHING THE YOUNG.

  LECTURING TO CHINESE HELPERS.  ITINERATING THROUGH THE VILLAGES.

                    SOME METHODS OF WORK.
]

A greater figure than that of Edward Bickersteth in the annals of
the Church Missionary Society is that of Henry Venn. Here, too,
the name appears in more than one generation. The first Henry
Venn belongs, with Wesley, Whitfield, Romaine and others, to the
beginnings of the Evangelical Revival. Then comes John Venn,
who took the chair at "The Castle and Falcon" meeting. Then, in
1834, Henry Venn the younger, the son of John Venn and grandson
of the first Henry Venn, began regularly to attend the Society's
Committee. He was Hon. Secretary in 1841, and held office for
thirty-one years. He is the standard by which, doubtless, for
generations to come, Hon. Secretaries of the Church Missionary
Society will be compared. He was a strong man in every sense; a
statesman and an autocrat. But, like some other autocrats, he clung
to his work too long. He resigned only a few months before his
death, and left the Society in a condition of discouragement, from
the failure both of candidates for the mission field and of means
for carrying on the work. Under his successor, Henry Wright (who
was drowned in Coniston Lake in 1880), the Society began almost at
once to enter upon new life and activity. Here again the hereditary
influence, so manifest in the work of the Church Missionary Society,
is evident, for four of his children went to the mission field.
His successor, Frederic Wigram, was one of the most munificent
benefactors the Society ever had. He died, after resigning office,
worn out by its responsibility and toil. He, too, has sent children
to the mission-field. In his successor, the Rev. H. E. Fox, the
hereditary impulse is manifest again. Mr. Fox's father was one of
the founders of the Society's Telugu mission, and one of the most
devoted of its workers in the foreign field.

And now let us glance for a moment at some of the Society's agents
abroad. The task of selection is difficult. There are names on
the list that all men who care for missions have heard of. Samuel
Marsden, Samuel Crowther, Valpy French, Pfander, John Horden, James
Hannington, Alexander Mackay--these, to name but a few, and many
others, are familiar far outside the limits of the Society's own
friends. But there are more, less widely known, whose work deserves
not a whit less to be had in remembrance.

[Illustration: (_From Photo: supplied by the Church Missionary
Society._)

CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY'S TRAINING COLLEGE AT AGRA.

(_With students in foreground._)]

Amongst these was William Johnson, one of the first missionaries to
Sierra Leone. He went out in 1816, and began an extraordinary work
amongst the slaves released by British cruisers and landed at Sierra
Leone. He died on the voyage home to England at the early age of
thirty-four. Those were the days in which to face work in Sierra
Leone meant facing a peril so imminent that each volunteer needed
the courage of those who go upon a forlorn hope.

There was William Williams, first a surgeon and then, after
graduating at Oxford, ordained for work in the Colonies. He went
to New Zealand in 1825, when its people were a race of cannibals,
not one of whom professed Christianity. He lived to see the whole
country more or less fully evangelised. His wife died as recently as
1896, and his son, baptised in 1829 with the children of one of the
most savage of the Maori chiefs, became Bishop of Waiapu in the land
the father did so much to open up. William Williams had a brother,
Henry Williams, who preceded him in the field. So great was the
influence he won that, on the news of his death reaching two Maori
camps, in which rival tribes were preparing to meet in battle, they
at once proclaimed a truce, attended his funeral, and settled their
differences in peace.

[Illustration: (_Photo: G. P. Abraham, Keswick._)

MR. EUGENE STOCK.

(_Editorial Secretary of the Society._)]

[Illustration: (_From Photo: supplied by the Church Missionary
Society._)

THE LIBRARY AT THE MISSION HOUSE.]

There was Ludwig Krapf, whose name, with that of John Rebmaun,
should ever be joined with the origins of our growing empire
in Eastern Equatorial Africa. He began his missionary work in
Abyssinia, had to leave as the result of French intrigues, sailed
down the East African coast in an Arab boat, and in 1844 settled
at Mombasa. From the knowledge of the interior gained by Krapf and
his companion, came the chain of African discovery which issued,
as long afterwards as 1875, in the publication, through Mr. H. M.
Stanley, of Mtesa's appeal for missionaries for Uganda. How little
could Krapf ever have dreamed of the vast results, political as well
as spiritual, that would flow from that early disappointment, his
expulsion from Abyssinia!

There was David Hinderer, who, upon the other side of Africa, did
so striking a work in the Yoruba country. The prosperity of his
evangelistic labours, the virtual imprisonment in which he and his
wife--half-starved and in deadly peril--were for five years in the
town of Ibadan, and the ultimate discovery that their work stood the
severe tests of isolation and persecution, go to make up one of the
most interesting chapters in the history of African missions.

There was George Maxwell Gordon, the pilgrim-missionary of the
Indian frontier, a pioneer who saw little direct fruit of his
labours, yet left missions where none had been. Acting as chaplain
to the British forces shut up in Kandahar, he was killed, when
seeking to succour the wounded, in August, 1880.

But this is a list that might be almost indefinitely extended, and
still would seem invidious. Let us come to some striking pages in
the Society's history; again, of necessity, passing by many of the
most impressive as well as some of the most familiar.

The city of Peshawur, upon the Afghan frontier, has long been a
centre of missionary work. The fanaticism of the people when it
was first occupied by British troops seemed to make missionary
enterprise impossible. One Commissioner--he afterwards fell by
the hand of an assassin--refused permission for missionaries to
come, on the ground that they would excite the fanaticism of the
people to a dangerous pitch. The arrival of Herbert Edwardes
changed the situation. A meeting of English people, military and
civil, was called in Peshawur itself; a sum of £3,000 was raised, a
memorial sent to the Church Missionary Society, and, in response,
missionaries provided. Here is an example of what is so often
forgotten by critics of Indian missions, that they in a large
measure owe their origin and support to men actually or formerly
engaged in the administration of India. The Church Missionary
Society has been peculiarly happy in the number of men of high
distinction in the Army and the Civil Service who have served on
its Committee. Now from the Punjab men are pushing still farther
afield; Quetta has long been occupied, and the medical missionary
has found a welcome from the Afridis themselves.

Let us take another mission founded in answer to an appeal from
without, and that an appeal from a layman. People who recall the
missionary meetings of a generation ago will remember that no
more thrilling story was told at them than the history of William
Duncan's early work amongst the Tsimshean Indians of the North
Pacific coast. It was a marvellous example of courage, tact, and
patience, rewarded by the conversion of savages of a singularly
unapproachable type. It was a naval officer, Captain Prevost, who
suggested that mission to the Society, carried Mr. Duncan thither,
and landed him at Fort Simpson in 1857. In ten years' time he had
baptised nearly three hundred adult converts. In 1862 the Christian
community was moved to Metlakahtla, where the spectacle of a
cannibal and violent people living in peace and industry was long
deemed one of the marvels of missionary enterprise.

I pass by such striking histories as those of Uganda, of the attempt
of J. A. Robinson and Graham Wilmot Brooke to reach the Soudan from
the Niger, and of the massacre of English women at Hwa-Sang in
Fuh-kien, to recall romances of another kind. What could be more
moving than the careers of some of the Society's converts? Is there
any more striking history of its kind than that of the Rev. Dr.
Imad-ud-din, a learned Mohammedan, who had sought the peace of God
by every available means, and at last found it in Christ? Or what
would they who distrust converts say to the career of that once
notorious Border bandit, Dilawar Khan, baptised in 1858, who served
as an officer in the Guides, and died in Chitral whilst in the
service of the British Government?

But it is time to leave these things and to speak of some aspects of
the Society's work which concern all missionary enterprise.

[Illustration: "IN THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE EARTH."

(_The peoples amongst whom the C.M.S. Missionaries are now
working._)]

Twice in its career the Church Missionary Society has definitely
committed itself to a policy of faith as it has committed itself to
sending out all who offer and are found qualified. It is a policy
which, judged by the most secular standard, must be accounted
a success. The growth of its staff in recent years, under this
system, has been most striking. The Society has had its periods
of stagnation and disappointment; at times its directors have
felt driven to retrenchment. Thus in 1859 the number of European
missionaries on its roll was 226; ten years later it was only 228.
But, whereas in 1889 the number was 360, in 1898 it had risen to
802. During the first ten years the Society sent out five agents;
in the ten years ending with its Jubilee the number was 119; in
the nine years ending 1898 it reached 719. The income of 1848 was
£92,823; the income of 1898 was £331,598. Its latest statistics show
that there are about 240,000 natives associated with its missions,
and of late it would seem that its clergy baptise on an average
about twenty adult converts every day.

[Illustration: (_Photo: A. G. Carlile, Exmouth._)

SIR JOHN H. KENNAWAY, M.P.

(_President of the Church Missionary Society._)]

In this month of April all round the world--from North-West Canada
to New Zealand, from Palestine to Japan, from Central Africa to the
Indian frontier--men will be keeping the centenary of that meeting
at "The Castle and Falcon," in Aldersgate Street. For a hundred
years of work, considered in relation to the power and the wealth
and the responsibilities of our nation, there may be little to show;
but, for such as there is, men of many races, and once of many
creeds, will, with one accord, give thanks to God.

[Illustration: THE CHURCH MISSIONARY SOCIETY'S MAP OF THE WORLD.

(_The shaded portions indicate the present-day fields of work._)]




[Illustration: THE MASTERFUL YOUNG MAN]

_A COMPLETE STORY._

By Margaret Westrup, Author of "They Furriners," Etc.


He stopped in the shade of the high old wall and listened.

A smile shone in his blue eyes as the sweet, childish voice sounded
clear and high in the still, scented air.

"What now, Jeannette, shall the mistress of Ancelles fall in love
like an ordinary mortal, then?"

There was mischief in the pretty voice, but there was pride, too.

"But yes, mamzelle! Love comes to all--high and low--and spares no
one its pangs."

"Pangs? Ah, bah! it shall have no pangs for me!"

"Ah, mamzelle! do not be rash."

"How will it take me, Jeannette? Tell me, that I may be prepared.
Will it come like a fiery dart to my bosom, bringing a light to my
eyes, and a colour of roses to my cheeks? Or will it take me sadly,
rendering my cheek pale and my spirits low? Tell me, Jeannette."

"Not the last way, mamzelle"--the voice was slow now--"for you are
too proud."

"You are right, Jeannette, I am too proud! 'Tis not I who must be
pale and afraid. 'Tis the other. Love must come to me humble and
suing--to be glad or sorry at my will. Is it not so, Jeannette?"

"How should I know, mamzelle?"--sadly--"I dread its coming at all."

"Bah! what matters it? And why should it come? I, for one, do not
want---- Ah! do not scream so, Jeannette--it is a man--he is hurt."

The man scrambled to his feet, and tried to bow, but his face was
ghastly.

"I beg your--pardon----"

"You are hurt, monsieur. Do not try to apologise. Jeannette, help
him to the house. Follow me."

The man leant on Jeannette's stout shoulder, and followed the
stately little figure through the sunny, twisting paths, sweet and
rich with their wealth of roses, up to the old château with its
narrow windows gleaming in the sunshine.

"Here, Jeannette," said the little mistress of the roses and the
château. "Monsieur, you will rest on the sofa."

He obeyed the wave of the small white hand and lay down.

"Jeannette, send for Dr. Raunay."

Jeannette departed.

The man opened his blue eyes.

"I am so sorry----"

"You must not speak," eyeing him with grave, dark eyes. "You will
keep quiet till the doctor comes."

He submitted.

Jeannette returned immediately.

"Are you thirsty?" asked his little hostess gently.

"No--thank you."

"You want for nothing?"

"No, thank you."

She sat down and waited.

Then later--"Jeannette, lower the blinds. Make no noise."

"Thank you," said the man.

"Do not speak!"--frowning.

He smiled a little.

"Mamzelle, suppose he dies?"

"Jeannette, how _dare_ you?"

"But his face is white; and"--her suspicions bursting out--"how came
he to fall into mamzelle's garden?"

"Jeannette, leave the room!"

"That I will not! No, I will not! Jeannette knows what is owing to
her mistress, and to leave----"

"Well, well"--quickly--"but do not dare to utter another word."

Jeannette mumbled rebelliously, but retired to a corner vanquished.

The man opened his eyes as a soft wave of air was wafted across his
face.

A pair of soft, dark eyes looked down pityingly into his.

He shut his own with a murmured word of thanks, and let her fan him.
Jeannette came ponderously across the room.

"Mamzelle, it is not fitting----"

"Did I not forbid you to speak?" said the haughty young voice.

"Yes, but Jeannette knows what is due to mamzelle, and----"

"Mademoiselle also knows."

Something in the tone stopped the old servant's words, and once more
she retired vanquished.

The man smiled to himself.

Dr. Raunay came and pronounced a bad sprain of the left arm to be
the only injury the man had received.

The doctor's sharp, black eyes were full of questions, but
Mademoiselle Stéphanie met his gaze calmly, indifferently, and he
dared not put one question into words.

"Monsieur, of course, will be our guest," she said when the doctor
had taken his departure.

The man reddened slowly under his tan.

"I--really----" He raised himself on his right elbow.

Jeannette eyed him with sharp suspicion.

"Of course, you will stay," said mademoiselle, with her little
imperious air.

"But I am quite well enough to go to an inn----"

"There is not one within five miles, and that--well----" A little
expressive wave of the small hands and a whimsical smile finished
her sentence.

"I do not like to trespass----"

"It is not trespassing," with pretty warmth; "indeed, monsieur, you
must accept of our hospitality."

"Then thank you very much."

"And--your luggage? Is it with friends? They will be anxious--we
will send----"

She was too courteous to ask with whom he was staying. Yet she
wondered much, for, beyond poor cottages, there were no dwellings
within many miles of Ancelles.

"I am alone," he answered; "I have walked from B---- to-day."

Jeannette snorted. She plainly did not believe him. B---- was thirty
and more miles distant. The suspicion in her stare grew deeper.

"Oh," said Stéphanie.

"My luggage----" He hesitated; yet what could he do without it?
"It is only a small bag--it is--er--outside your garden wall," he
finished desperately.

"Jeannette, please see that it is fetched at once."

No faintest spark of surprise appeared in his hostess's small face.
She seemed quite used to having strangers tumble over her wall into
her garden, quite used to luggage being left outside the wall.

The man was distinctly amused, but he was touched too.

An old manservant, with a faint, indescribable old-world air, that
fitted in with the château and the garden and the roses somehow,
brought food to the stranger, and, after he had eaten, showed him to
his room.

The stranger looked round him with interest.

It was a large apartment, large and bare and old--but everything at
Ancelles was old.

But the curtains to the bed, faded now, had once been rich and
handsome. The tapestry across the door of a smaller room leading
from the other, was still beautiful though worn with age.

Hugh Michelhurst shivered a little as he stood there, in the dim,
dark, old-world chamber. There was something pathetic in the tale it
told of bygone splendour, something sad and forlorn.

Then his eye fell on a bowl of vivid red roses standing on his
dressing-table, and he smiled.

They at least were not old. Their splendour was undimmed. There was
nothing faded in their fresh, glowing beauty; and who had put them
there?

He went closer; he bent over them and drank in their sweet scent.
And as he did it the old, sunny garden rose before him again. The
little twisting paths, the roses so thick and luxuriant that they
trespassed forward from their beds; the old broken fountain, with
the water nymph bending eternally in graceful readiness to dive, and
amongst them--the roses, the sunshine, the queer paths, and the old
fountain--the little mistress of them all, slim, childish, with soft
dark eyes, with pretty lips made for laughter, with the sun caught
in the waves of her brown hair. His hands wandered gently over the
roses as he stood and thought what a gracious little hostess she
was! How sweetly she had welcomed him, asking no questions!

A wave of colour surged over his white face.

But he smiled as he sank down on to a chair.

His entry into the sweet, old-world garden had been supremely
ridiculous. Moreover, he was terribly ashamed of himself as well as
rueful.

But his sense of humour was strong enough to save either feeling
from overpowering him. His arm began to pain him badly again. He
shut his lips tightly and sat still.

Outside he heard a gay young voice. "It is a pity, Jeannette, that
the sun does not shine into his room now. See how glorious is its
setting to-night."

A pause.

Hugh Michelhurst guessed how the pause was filled by his little
hostess's mocking answer:

"Why, Jeannette, how cross you are! And, anyway, in the morning the
sun will wake him."

"It may rain, mamzelle."

"Rain?" with a little burst of prettiest laughter. "Why, where are
your eyes, Jeannette? Rain? With that sky--that sunset? All, no!
Even _ma tante_ would not say that, and she always predicts rain,
you know."

"It is her rheumatism, mamzelle; she feels it in her bones."

"Yes," carelessly. "Jeannette, he will need assistance--how careless
I am! It is that I am so unused to entertaining a guest, and yet
once Ancelles was noted for its hospitality----"

The pretty voice died away into the distance, and a few minutes
later there was a discreet tap at the stranger's door, and the faded
old manservant appeared, and, with an air, offered monsieur his
humble services.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two mornings had Stéphanie's prophecy been fulfilled. Two mornings
the sun had wakened her guest, and now he was wondering if he dared
stay and let it wake him a third.

"Madame ma tante" had put in an appearance once. She had welcomed
the stranger with a stiff yet courteous stateliness that was as
old-worldly as the garden and the château and everything pertaining
thereto.

She was a confirmed invalid, and, till she sallied forth to welcome
her niece's guest (Ancelles belonged to Stéphanie), had not left her
room for nearly two years.

Hugh Michelhurst was duly presented, and made a favourable
impression on "Madame ma tante." In half an hour the impression had
faded. In an hour it was gone. "Madame ma tante" had forgotten his
existence.

He was sitting now on the old, worn steps leading to the second
terrace. His right arm rested on the step above, close by his
hostess's dainty little feet.

The air was sunny and warm, and sweet with the scent of roses.

He wondered dreamily what had become of the world----

[Illustration: She smiled softly at his words.

G. G. Manton]

A little breeze came and scattered the rose leaves in her lap--the
soft, fragrant heap that she had gathered for _pot-pourri_--and
roused the man.

He stooped to gather them up, but she stayed him.

"There are plenty more," she said.

"Yes," he said; "what a lovely old garden it is!"

He watched the pink deepen in her cheek, and the little dimples come
and go as she smiled softly at his words.

Then he sighed.

"My arm is better," he said. "I"--doubtfully--"must go to-day."

"Must you? Will you not stay a little longer? It"--wistfully--"is
nice to have a guest."

He looked up at her with his blue eyes full of love.

"It is good of you to say so," he said earnestly.

"Ancelles cannot offer much," she said, with a little stately air,
"but it offers you a true welcome, monsieur, and one that will never
fail you so long as you will stay with us."

"I have never," he said slowly, "had such a true welcome before."

His eyes made her restless.

She crushed the rose leaves in her hand, and scattered them abroad.

He picked them up and kept them.

"Do you never wonder," he said, "how I came to fall into your
garden?"

"We are only glad that monsieur so fell, except for the sprained
arm," answered the little mistress of Ancelles.

"I heard your voice," he said, looking up into her face. "I stood
and listened, and then--I wanted to see the owner of the voice, and
I climbed to the top of the wall and then--I fell."

"I thought only schoolboys behaved so," she said, but her pretty
lips parted and her eyes smiled, in spite of herself.

"If I had been a schoolboy I should not have fallen."

"Why?"

"Because a schoolboy does not lose his head as I did, mademoiselle."

"And your footing, monsieur."

"The one was an outcome of the other."

She looked away across the sweet, smiling sunshine.

"Monsieur"--suddenly bending her gaze upon his face--"how came you
to lose your head?"

He glanced at her in swift surprise. He was no chicken-heart, yet
something in the proud little face made him hesitate.

But he was proud, too.

"Because directly my eyes fell upon you I loved you," he said
steadily.

Stéphanie started to her feet.

"Monsieur, you outrage my hospitality," she said haughtily.

He got up and faced her.

"Never!" he cried. "I did not mean to say it--yet, but----"

"You insult me, monsieur!"

"Pardon me, mademoiselle"--his tone was cool as hers now--"but the
offer of a man's heart and home can never be an insult!"

"An honour, perhaps?" mockingly.

"It is at least his best, mademoiselle."

"And seemly within a two-days' acquaintanceship, monsieur?"

Her pride, the haughty little smile curling her pretty lip, maddened
him.

He bent towards her.

"Seemly or unseemly," he said in low, tense tones, "you shall love
me!"

Her dark eyes flashed.

"I shall not, monsieur!" she cried, and shut her small teeth closely.

With a haughty inclination of her pretty head, she left him--left
him amongst the roses, in the sunshine, but cold at heart at what he
had done.

       *       *       *       *       *

He wooed her persistently. He was persistent by nature, and all his
life he had never wanted anything as he wanted her. He bore the
discomforts of the little inn without a murmur, and every day the
roses on the little twisting paths found him among them.

Mademoiselle was proud and cold; mademoiselle was proud and
mocking, proud and wilful, proud and laughing, proud and
non-comprehending--every mood in the world, one after another, was
mademoiselle, but proud always--proud with them all. And at last he
lost heart.

So there came a day when the scent of the roses sickened him, when
the twisting paths maddened him, and he stood before the little
mistress of them all, white, stern, beaten.

"I have come to say good-bye," he said, and the tone of his voice
had changed.

"Good-bye?" she repeated, and she gave him her hand without another
word.

"I would like to thank you for your kindness to me," he said dully;
"but--well, perhaps some day you will understand what I feel now. I
know you are too good for me. I don't see why you should ever have
cared for me; but oh! my little Stéphanie, you are just all the
world to me----"

His voice broke, and he turned away down one of the little sunny
paths. But there amongst the roses love came to him at last; for
Stéphanie, with a sudden radiance in her face which sent all the
pride away, ran after him, and he, seeing the radiance, straightway
took her into his arms, and the scent of the roses grew sweet to him
again.

And all the explanation mademoiselle ever saw fit to give of her
many unkind moods was--"You were so masterful, monsieur. You
hammered out love, love, love, and 'you must,' and 'you shall'--till
that day--then you wooed me as I would that I should be wooed."

And he, remembering the words he had overheard when he stood beneath
the garden wall, smiled and thought he understood.

Not all peace was his wooing even now.

His little mistress still had her moods, and was tantalisingly chary
of her soft words and caresses. Moreover, she possessed a will
that had never been thwarted, and she did not understand the words
"shall" and "must," never having had them said to her.

So that, sweet as he found his wooing, at times his brow grew dark;
for he too had a strong will, and it irked him to have to make it
give way to hers.

And at last there came a matter in which he would not yield, and so
they parted.

For mademoiselle declared that always must Ancelles be her home.

"When you are my wife," he said, "you must come with me to my house
in town--in London, you know. What a change it will be for you,
_petite_!"

And then mademoiselle, her eyes kindling, declared that never would
she live elsewhere than at Ancelles.

He was aghast. For to a man, strong of limb and strong of brain, the
life that was a dream amongst the roses could not suffice.

In vain he urged his views upon her. She rebelled against his tone
of authority. At last she stood before him with head erect, and
eyes that flashed on him from under their long lashes.

"Choose," she said peremptorily: "London or me."

"But, child, hear me----"

"I will not hear you. Pray choose at once."

"I would have both----"

With a little scornful laugh she bade him begone.

"Stéphanie----"

She waved her white hand towards the gates of Ancelles.

"You have chosen. Adieu!"

She turned away with a scornful smile on her lips.

He sprang forward.

"Stéphanie, you must--you _shall_ give way to me in this----"

Her small hand clenched.

"Monsieur, allow me to pass!"

He stood aside.

"You will repent," he said.

For an instant she turned her great eyes dark with pride on him.

"_Never!_" she said, and walked away.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Ancelles the roses still blossomed, the sun still shone, though
not so hotly, on the little twisting paths, the water nymph still
bent gracefully for her dive, and amongst them all flitted their
little mistress. In and out, gayer, more restless, swifter of foot
than even of yore, she wended her way--a laugh ever on her lips,
merry words tripping from her tongue, and hovering near--Jeannette.

"Life is good, Jeannette," cried mademoiselle, and gaily she made
herself a crown of roses.

"Life with love--yes, mamzelle," murmured Jeannette, for she was
getting desperate over the problem as to how long a young girl could
live eating nothing, or next to nothing.

"Love? Bah! Jeannette, what an old sentimentalist you are!"

Yet Jeannette had heard the sharp, indrawn breath that preceded the
mocking words.

And why did mamzelle have to rest half-way up to her room now?

Jeannette had seen her again and again, yet never with
mademoiselle's knowledge.

For if Jeannette were with her, then, setting her little white teeth
closely, mademoiselle did the flights of stairs without a pause;
but Jeannette saw how the small hand, once so disdainful of the
balusters, now clung to the support. She saw how the pretty throat
throbbed, how her bosom heaved, and how the colour left her face;
and, seeing, Jeannette's own face grew grey and lined with care.

"It is a merry world," cried mademoiselle, setting the crown of
roses on her pretty head, "and love is superfluous."

"So is pride, mamzelle."

Up went the small crowned head.

"Pride superfluous, Jeannette?" haughtily. "Nay, it is but proper
and right for those of Ancelles."

Jeannette moistened her dry lips.

"It can be bought too dearly, mamzelle."

"I--do not understand, Jeannette. Surely you are forgetting
yourself?"

The eyes were dangerous, the lips haughty, but Jeannette's love for
her charge overcame the long reserve and terror of those last months.

"Mamzelle, mamzelle, listen to me! He is a good man, and he loves
you well. Without him you will pine a----"

"Pine, Jeannette? _Pine?_" Suddenly she caught the old servant's
wrists between her small, hot hands. "Jeannette," she whispered
passionately, "never speak so again! Do you hear? _I_ pine--_I!_ Am
I sad, Jeannette? Answer me! Are my spirits low?"

"N--no, mamzelle."

"Do I not work and read and play as always?"

"Y--yes, mamzelle."

"Do I ever droop?"

"No----"

"Or sigh?"

"No----"

"Or weep?"

"No----"

"Then what made you speak so, Jeannette?"

"I--I do not know, mamzelle."

Stéphanie dropped her wrist. Her eyes were burning, her cheeks
flushed.

"Then never dare to speak so again," she said, and turned haughtily
away.

And almost directly she burst into a gay little song; and Jeannette,
standing listening, felt the slow tears of age dropping one by one
down her cheeks.

       *       *       *       *       *

In London Hugh Michelhurst shouldered his way amongst the busy
throng in Piccadilly, and in the fog his thoughts turned to the old
sunny garden at Ancelles. He sighed, then frowned as if such sighing
displeased him. His mouth took a bitter curve as his thoughts
wandered back to the last time he had stood on the little sunny
paths amongst the roses, with Stéphanie at his side.

[Illustration: G. G. Manton

She turned away with a scornful smile.]

Perhaps it was because his thoughts so often wandered in that
direction that his face seemed to have grown harder, his mouth
sterner.

"Four months!" he murmured, "twelve months in a year--say, forty
years--long years! Forty years like these last four months!"

"Forty years, forty years!" rang mockingly in his ears.

Suddenly he paused.

"Forty or a hundred, I will never give in!" he said, and his mouth
looked almost cruel in its set sternness.

       *       *       *       *       *

Spring had come. A soft, warm, early spring that brought all the
tender flowers peeping out before their time.

And in the warm, trying spring Hugh Michelhurst fell ill of a low
fever.

At the end of May he rose from his sick bed, and refused to be an
invalid any longer.

But his strength was gone from him.

One day he walked out into the country, and his love was strong
on him, so that he bowed his head, and felt weak as a child. And
suddenly a scent was wafted to him on the breeze. He stood and
lifted his head to meet it, and his face worked. On a little cottage
red roses glowed before their time. He had seen none since he was in
the old garden at Ancelles. He stretched out his arms. "I give in,"
he said, and he turned and retraced his steps the way he had come.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a little sunny path amongst the roses he found her.

"My darling--my darling--I will live here always--only live with
me----"

His voice broke; he could say no more.

With a little fond cry she nestled close to him.

"No, no," she whispered, "I will come away to your London as you
wish."

They sat on the steps leading to the second terrace, and the water
nymph seemed to smile down on them as she bent to take her dive.
They sat side by side, and mademoiselle's pretty head rested against
his shoulder.

[Illustration: G. G. Manton

With a little cry she nestled close to him.]

"But, _petite_, you love your home so----"

"My home is wherever you are, monsieur."

"You did not think so once, _chérie_."

"Ah! but then you were 'shall' and 'must'"--pouting--"and now--now
you are different."

He smiled tenderly. He thought he understood now.

"We will live part of the year here and part in London. There, my
little one--will that do?"

"Ah, yes, perfectly!"

"Come now for a little walk," he said, for he had something in his
mind.

He stopped in one of the twisting paths down which they had so often
wandered, and looked at the old château.

"That ivy is too thick to be healthy," he said, "but" (sighing),
"you like it--it must stop."

Now that same ivy had been the cause of their biggest quarrel before
that last biggest one of all.

"It shall be cut," cried mademoiselle, smiling up at him, "and at
once!"

He looked down into her eyes adoringly.

The scent of the roses wrapped them round with softest sweetness.

He smiled at her tenderly.

Yes, he understood now. He had found the way to rule her.




GREAT ANNIVERSARIES.

_IN APRIL._


April claims an anniversary which all Englishmen are presumed to
honour. April 23rd is St. George's Day, and St. George is the patron
saint of England. Yet he was not, so far as we know, an Englishman.
He is said to have been a centurion in the army of Diocletian, and
to have been roasted alive for pulling down a copy of the decree
ordering the infamous persecution associated with Diocletian's name.
That distinction is disputed in the interests of another person; but
the fact remains that St. George was held in conspicuous honour by
the early Church. His particular place as the patron of the English
dates from the Crusades. The story of George and the Dragon has no
relation to the incident which couples him to the English. Some
authorities have identified this St. George with a certain George
of Cappadocia, Arian Bishop of Alexandria; but Mr. Baring-Gould
rejects with indignation the proposal to confound the patron saint
of England with a heretic. We are on the ground, not of legend, but
of history, in recalling St. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, who
was born about 1033. His day is April 21st.

[Illustration: (_Photo: A. F. Colbourne, Canterbury._)

ST. ANSELM'S CHAPEL, CANTERBURY.]

[Illustration: WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

(_The Stratford-on-Avon Portrait._)]

[Illustration: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

(_From the Tablet in Grasmere Church._)]

St. George's Day has memories of other people than the legendary
slayer of the dragon. On April 23rd, 1564, William Shakespeare was
born; on April 23rd, 1616, he died. These, then, are anniversaries
which cannot be overlooked by any person who values literature. Our
pride is qualified by the thought that all the world of intelligence
has taken hold of Shakespeare; he is the possession of educated
mankind. Cervantes does not come of our stock, but in passing it may
be permitted to remember that he died on the same day of the same
year as Shakespeare. It was on St. George's Day, 1850, too, that
William Wordsworth, poet laureate, died. The body of John Keble, the
poet of the Oxford Movement, was laid to rest in Hursley churchyard
on April 6th, 1866. He was deeply influenced by Wordsworth, but
his name still more definitely suggests another English poet--the
saintly George Herbert. He, too, belongs to this month, for he was
born on April 3rd, 1593.

[Illustration: GEORGE HERBERT.]

[Illustration: ROBERT RAIKES.]

George Herbert was related to Lord Herbert of Cherbury, whose
friends included Thomas Hobbes, of Malmesbury, one of the most
distinguished of English philosophers. Hobbes was born on April 5th,
1588. The philosophy afterwards associated with the names of Locke,
Hume, and Priestley owed much to Hobbes. Hume himself--philosopher,
historian, and servant of the State--was born at Edinburgh on April
26th, 1711. Charles Darwin, philosopher and naturalist, died this
month (April 19th, 1882). Few Englishmen have attained to wider
fame; few have ever more profoundly influenced human thought.

[Illustration: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.]

Robert Raikes, in virtue of his work in prisons and his share in the
foundation of Sunday schools, deserves long to be held in memory.
Born at Gloucester, he died there suddenly on April 5th, 1811. Could
Raikes have looked into the future, with what astonishment and joy
he would have marked the development in the extent and spirit of
this work, which is indicated by the existence of THE QUIVER Medal
Fund and its rewards to veteran Sunday-school workers! A more modern
and a greater philanthropist also belongs to April. Anthony Ashley
Cooper, seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, was born in Grosvenor Square
on April 28th, 1801. In and out of Parliament, with a zeal which
no opposition and no disappointment could repress, "the good Earl"
worked for the cause of the oppressed, the poor, the sick, the
sinful. He did much directly; perhaps more by the stimulus of his
example.

[Illustration: THE LATE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.

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

Of institutions associated with the month of April, the Royal
Academy is one of the most conspicuous. The Society of Incorporated
Artists held their first exhibition at the Society of Arts, Adelphi,
on April 21st, 1760. From this there sprang the Royal Academy. The
first exhibition of the Academicians was held in Pall Mall on April
26th, 1769. The British Museum has its association with this month,
for it was on April 5th, 1753, that Parliament granted the sum of
£20,000 to the daughters of Sir Hans Sloane, in return for the
collections which were the basis of the museum's vast treasures.
The National Gallery also has its link with April, for it was on
April 9th, 1838, that the present building in Trafalgar Square was
completed and opened.

April has many memories for citizens of the United States. On April
17th, 1790, died Benjamin Franklin, politician, economist, and
natural philosopher; in April, 1861, began the long struggle between
the Northern and Southern States; and on April 14th, 1865, Abraham
Lincoln, perhaps the most striking personality hitherto produced by
the great democracy, was shot by John Wilkes Booth.

[Illustration: A VIEW OF THE NATIONAL GALLERY.]




[Illustration: BROUGHT AGAIN FROM THE DEPTHS.]

_AN EASTERTIDE ADDRESS._

By the Very Rev. W. Lefroy, D.D., Dean of Norwich.

     "Thou, which hast showed me great and sore troubles, shalt
  quicken me again, and shalt bring me up again from the depths of
     the earth."--PSALM lxxi. 20.


Human history had seen but its infancy when the
announcement was made that man was "born unto trouble, as the
sparks fly upward." And ever since the home of the Arab chief was
devastated; ever since the day that Job's heart was broken by the
intelligence of the Sabean slaughter of his sons and daughters,
followed by a conflagration which stripped him of property, and
made a pauper of a prince; ever since, the dreary wail of woe rends
the air, and the requiem of life sobs and sighs like Eliphaz the
Temanite, "Man is born unto trouble."

Nor can we allow ourselves to question the dictum. The infant's wail
precedes the infant's weal. The cry of helplessness is heard in the
cradle. The child's deep sigh anticipates the child's sweet smile.
And although sunny childhood sometimes passes as if the pitiless law
of hereditary trouble were suspended, yet no serious thinker can
hesitate to accept the proposition, that trouble is in the ratio in
which life's meaning and purpose are experienced, or divine love
accepted and enjoyed. If a man has no trouble, it is because he has
not yet practically realised the significance of existence. He is
still free from those social, domestic, and personal influences, the
derangement of any of which brings agony by day and sleeplessness
by night. Or, again, it may be because he has learnt the loftiest
and yet the lowliest lesson from his Lord, by accepting the Gospel
of Gethsemane, "Thy will be done." But excepting the persons so
classified by social isolation or spiritual resignation, there is
not on earth an exception to the law of the human race being "born
unto trouble." Yea, more. Constituted as we are, we live in the
presence of the grim enigma, that the object which gave us the
highest joy can give us the most excruciating sorrow. Nor can that
existence be anything else than mournful whose happiness or misery
depends upon any earthly object.

This statement may be illustrated by every condition in
life--domestic, physical, intellectual. The genius across whose
mental firmament the lights and shadows of history travelled, and
by whom they were arrested, analysed, and grouped in their course;
the great brain of the great worker whose intrepid excursions into
the realms of the past and the present, with a view to tabulating
the rise of civilisation--the patient and profound Mr. Buckle, is
absorbed by mental enjoyment. He lives, and moves, and has his being
in men and manners, among maps and manuscripts. He makes a grand
discovery. He keeps the secret for twenty years. He repairs to
Damascus to recruit for literary service. He is stricken with fever,
and dies with the words of his intellectuality on his parched lips,
"My book, my book! I shall never finish my book!" Here his highest
joy was his keenest sorrow. So in physical life. There have been
men who seemed at one time as if they were created without nerves.
Their arms were brawny, muscular, and mighty. Their limbs were firm
and fine. They seemed God's highest type of organic life. They
rejoiced in their strength and in their youth. But disease assailed,
or dissipation punished, and retribution appeared in feebleness,
exhaustion, and debility. Youthful feats were forbidden. The sports
of the past recalled a youth of virtue and purity; and then came
the sigh which told that, even physically, the source of our joy
becomes the spring of our sorrow. And need I elaborate details to
establish the place of this doctrine in domestic life? Do we not
know this from the gloomy history of the orphan child, the widowed
mother, the bereaved sister, brother, friend? You know that to love
dearly means to have a skeleton in your house. The object of your
love causes a thousand smiles to play in your eye, and to break
on your countenance; but the shade of that object is mocking your
mirth, and is only waiting a few rounds of the clock to compensate
mirth with misery.

Nor is this all. There are sorrows far more terrible than those of
sickness or the cemetery. A living sorrow defies rivalry. It has a
fearful pre-eminence in woe. A wayward, wild, debauched youth; an
estranged husband; an embittered, irascible, worldly wife; a stormy,
or, what is far worse, a sullen home; these are amongst the darkest
illustrations of the doctrine, that our sighs are in the track of
our smiles; our delights become our dangers; yea, it sometimes seems
as if affection became idiotic, and then, like the raving maniac, we
laugh and cry together. So we are "born to trouble." This being so,
it is important to listen to testimony concerning the remedy which
troubled souls have found efficacious. If we have one such man, able
and willing to give his fellow-sufferers a cure for care, it is
surely prudent to hear what he has to say. Accordingly, let me ask
you to follow me while I try to establish a cure for all afflicted
souls from the experience, conviction, and anticipation of a royal
mourner. I invite you to come with me to the side of a man like one
of us. Listen to him struggling up the great altar-stairs of faith
sustained by love, and, as he peers into the Unseen, he speaks as if
to one warm with life, charged with ardent sympathy, and he says,
"Oh, what troubles and adversities hast Thou shown me; and yet didst
Thou turn and refresh me!"

The first step in this study is to be clear as to the nature of
the troubles God showed David. There was, then, the personal and
the spiritual trouble of backsliding, consequent upon his murder
of Uriah for his base purpose. And here we must discriminate. The
trouble of David about Bathsheba was not sent by God; God permitted
it; but in the heartless and cold-blooded plot in the tyrannical
insolence and diabolical dastardliness of its execution--in the
coarse, callous, and criminal height of its succeeding guilty
rapture--it was of Satan, of sin, of David. For three-quarters of
a year David played fast and loose with God and conscience; and it
was when Nathan scared him that God showed him the trouble. Then
came anguish, remorse, penitence. Then came the sorrowful sighing of
the soul--all the greater in the awakening because it had slept so
soundly and so long. Then came that lamentation over lost virtue,
the penitential Fifty-first Psalm. It is the expression of a man
lacerated by conscience. He seems to bleed at every pore. The
agitation and alarm and agony are piteous beyond description. He
appears in this psalm to look in every direction, and the ghost of
his crime haunts him. Within, without, above, below, behind, beyond,
he can see the furies of justice as the embassied troublers of his
life. Original depravity, actual outrage, a heart black with the
Egyptian darkness of fostered treachery, the warrior slaughtered
by his mandate, the blood-guiltiness staining his soul, and then
the wail ringing in the ears of God, "Cast me not away from Thy
presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me"--all these may be
compared to a spiritual chamber of horrors, in which David found
himself after the startling visit of Nathan.

These were some of the troubles God showed him. And their cause
introduced more of a domestic, not to say of a political, kind. The
sin brought scandal and reproach on the Church of God. The enemies
blasphemed. Then Jehovah, vindicating His character for justice
before the world, avenging the atrocious murder of Uriah, sent a
series of domestic afflictions upon David unparalleled in human
experience. One scene--a nameless scene--has its miserable match
in the brutal bestiality of the Empire, when the sceptre of Rome
was in the hands of a corpse. But the other experiences are easily
related. They are as the outcome of a curse which hung heavily on
the royal house. Amnon, the eldest son, was slain by young Absalom,
who waited two years for an opportunity. This severed Absalom from
home for three years. He then, by a singular artifice, returned,
and won the hearts of the people by his consummate and accomplished
address, his handsome presence, and adroit demeanour. His aged
and royal father's statesmen proved false to the king, and one in
particular advised the murder of David and a revolution. At length
the conspiracy grew in defiance and dimension. David was obliged
to flee from the capital. His flight was far more humiliating than
that of the French emperor from Paris. Napoleon had not to mourn
over the treason of his son as the cause of his exile. This was
David's anguish. He ascended the Mount of Olives and looked back
upon the city of palaces he had founded and ornamented--the seat
for a generation of his power, his glory, his happiness. He was
leaving it a miserable fugitive, driven forth by the nation he had
established and the child he had reared. He could not, he did not,
disguise his sorrow. With bared head and uncovered feet the exile
began his pilgrimage, and every step the old king took recalled the
crime and sin of earlier years, while it remained for one Shimei
to load him with the bitterest and most contemptuous execrations.
Then came the crisis. Such of the army as remained loyal engaged in
battle with the revolutionary forces attracted to Absalom. David
begged that his unhappy son might be spared in the conflict. The war
began and issued in the success of the royalists. The first question
of the venerable monarch was, "Is the young man Absalom safe?"
He then learnt that order was re-established, but at the cost of
Absalom's life. He was accidentally hanged, and while hanging he was
speared by David's commander-in-chief.

These are amongst the troubles--political, domestic, and
spiritual--which God permitted to fall upon David; and yet this
very David has courage amid the havoc of holiness, the misery of
exile, the torture of outraged parental affection, and political
insurrection. That courageous confidence is in a person: he
realises God. This conviction is unshaken amid his chequered life
and history; indeed, all through the din of revolution, the grief
of a homeless and worse than childless existence, there is one
ever-recurring belief: "God my help," "God my refuge," "God my
shield." In this belief he brings back to God every trouble God
sent to him. Hence we have these psalms, written by David, as agony
after agony swept in upon his soul. Nor did it seem to signify how
different one sorrow might be from another. The old cry, the same
cry, is raised to a personal God. When Saul sought his life through
jealousy; when Jonathan was slain in battle; when he himself had
fallen into sin, and then was aroused--now by the whisperings of
reclaiming grace, now by the booming billows of divine justice; when
he bowed his head in shame, and the fierce light that beat about
his court gleamed on his dark soul; when he tottered up the heights
of Olivet, an impotent outcast, betrayed by his courtiers, deserted
by his troops, and exiled by the unnatural rebellion and heartless
perfidy of his son--in these experiences, so fearful, overwhelming,
and varied, he saw God showing him the trouble. As the hand that
sent it was ever the same, so from the heart that received it there
arose ever and anon the same plea--"Have mercy upon me, O Lord";
"Make haste to help me"; "O Lord, make no long tarrying"; "I am
poor and needy"; "O be not Thou far from me, for trouble is near
at hand." And then, as if realising the apostasy, desertion, and
faithlessness of his friends and forces, he adds, "There is none to
help."

We know how these earnest and anxious entreaties were heard: "Thou
didst turn and refresh me"; "Through Thee have I been holden up
ever since I was born"; "My mouth shall speak of Thy salvation
all the day long; for I know no end thereof." But further.
This acknowledgment of God as a "very present help in trouble"
is followed by a prophecy, and that of nothing less than the
resurrection--"Thou shalt bring me up again from the depths of the
earth"; so that David's sorrow, when brought humbly and heartily
to God, was followed by divine refreshment then, and hope of
resurrection hereafter. And a well-founded hope it was, because the
trouble sent by God produced a grand moral result when laid before
Him Who sent it. It had a purifying influence which made his mind
speed on to the resurrection day. In its anticipation he was but
yielding to the influence of a life higher than that he lived before
his sorrow, and which sought enjoyment and exercise loftier and
still loftier. This he, by faith, foresaw, in the anticipation of
that rest to which his trouble sent him, and for the appreciation of
which his trouble purified him.

So we have here in the spiritual world an instructive and
encouraging illustration of what frequently occurs in the physical.
We have purification by pain; refreshment out of ruin. So have I
seen this grand law asserting the governance of its God in those
Alpine crags on which the stars seem to pause. There on those
storm-scalped peaks the climber feasts on the panorama spread by
God's own hand, in winding river, sapphire lake, everlasting hill,
sentinelled by a forest of pines, dressed in the matchless sombre
of Alpine green or shrouded by the spotless snows of heaven. I have
witnessed the troubles of the atmosphere. The bursting rain-cloud
hangs low, the light recedes, the darkness deepens, the wind moans;
and then the full-toned thunder roars, and the long lines of fire,
angular and electric, leap from fissures in the firmament. The
artillery of the elements is deafening, and its echoes rumble
in the distance like the mutterings of imprisoned spirits. The
storm is over. The calm succeeds. The clouds become brighter and
brighter still. The sun peeps out here and there in a rift of the
heavens. The air is fresh and keen and pure. The vegetation is
bright and green. The rivulets and mountain torrents ripple and rush
rejoicing. As we see this, we are reminded of the analogies of God's
government; yea, if we could put a preacher on every peak, a tongue
in every valley, Nature would minister to grace, and from each would
come the response of the royal poet to the call of God. The world
physical would raise the ecstatic antiphon to the world spiritual:
"O what great troubles and adversities hast Thou showed me, and yet
didst Thou turn and refresh me!"

But these words have a still richer meaning in their bearing upon
the religious fortunes of the Hebrew race, the Messianic glory of
the Redeemer, and the present and future position of His believing
people. I believe that Israel's troubles are to issue in Israel's
refreshment, and even in national resurrection. Her captivities
and dispersions, her degradation and exile, are but the preludes
to her rise, return, and splendour. God has sworn it; His word is
bound to it. His promise is as certain as though it were performed.
But we may merely mention this as a conviction, in order to pass
on and recognise in these words the history of Jesus Christ. From
that cradle and cottage home; from that carpenter's bench where
He toiled; from that country, with its hills and dales, and lanes
and lakes, where He preached; from the Temple which He glorified
and abrogated; from the cross where He died; from the tomb which
He vacated; from the throne of mediation, where He sympathises,
intercedes and governs; from earth below, and heaven above, the
voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea, filling angelic souls with
adoration, and human hearts with hope, announcing, "O what great
troubles and adversities hast Thou showed Me!" He was betrayed,
despised, and rejected. He looked for some to have pity on Him,
but there was no man; neither found He any to comfort Him. He was
maligned and misunderstood. The malice of His enemies omitted but
one sin in their resolve to blacken His character, and it remained
for the patronising blasphemy of Renan to insinuate that one as
possible. He was accused of deceit, though infallible; He was
slandered as a drunkard, though immaculate; yea, the detraction
of His foes did not spare Him the agony of being charged with the
commission of a sin as disgusting as it is brutal--that of gluttony.
He was arraigned as a felon, and died as an impostor. But beyond
all was the sin of which these were but the symptoms. This was the
trouble, "great and sore," which God showed Him. This was the agony
of agonies to the sinless, spotless Lamb of God. Its fell pressure
is the meaning of the tradition that Jesus was often seen to weep,
but never once to smile. To this trouble we trace the overpowering
experiences of the fainting, prostrate Christ in the garden; of
the wailing and woe-bearing Christ on the cross. Yet there was the
refreshment; there was behind it all the unchangeable love of God
the Father--"Therefore doth My Father love Me, because I lay down
My Life that I might take it again." There was the satisfaction of
His soul, in saving the race He died to redeem by representation;
there was, above all, the guarantee of that redemption in being
brought "from the depths of the earth again."

And if we were to follow the history of His Church, that history
would be a living commentary on the experience of David and of
David's Lord: divinely sent trouble, divinely sought and divinely
sent refreshment, issuing in spiritual resurrection. Is not this
the account many have to give of sorrow, succour, and salvation?
You were weak: you are now strong. You were "choked with cares,"
and sought relief in a flood of tears: you are now able to leave
the burden of your cares with Him Who "careth for you"; while your
eyes, once red with agony, are now bright with praise, gratitude,
and hope. Remembering what you were, and now recognising what you
are, you may adopt the language of David, "I am become a wonder
unto many, but my sure trust is in Thee"; or, taking a fuller view
and a finer tone, you will ring out the litany of deliverance, and
chant the song of praise and blessing, "O what great troubles and
adversities has Thou showed me; and yet didst Thou turn and refresh
me."

This present refreshment is a prophecy of future resurrection. It
leads all the afflicted children of God on to the grand climax in
sin, sorrow, and all the trouble to which we are born. Then the cup
of universal affliction shall be full. The waters of our pilgrimage
shall be sweetened, and changed into the bright, clear, rosy wine of
immortality. Then farewell, sorrow; farewell, weakness; agony, ache,
desolation, and sin, we bid you a final and a glad farewell. Then
shall rise upon this scene of change and uncertainty, where pain
and pleasure are so intermingled and combined, the sun that knows
no setting, the everlasting day that knows no night. Then shall the
children of God, the "children of the resurrection," gathered from
every known and unknown region, race, and age, rise to the rapture
of the saints, and, defying the immeasurable weight of all the
ocean's pressure--for the sea shall give up its dead--shattering
the manacles with which corruption had long bound the germ of
incorruption, they shall "in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,"
greet the Saviour Who loved them, with a greeting worthy the Lamb
that was slain; worthy the grandest event in the annals of earth
and heaven; while high above the din of the last crash of worlds,
yea, louder than the storm which marches on the ruins of creation,
shall rise the anthem of royal and even wretched and relieved
experience--"Thou hast brought me from the depths of the earth
again."




[Illustration: FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILD]

By Scott Graham, Author of "The Link between Them," Etc.




CHAPTER VII.

_The Pity of It._


On Saturday night, in that same week, Harold sallied
forth at dusk, with a bulky brown-paper parcel under his arm,
containing a pair of boots which he was taking by stealth to a
humble cobbler in a back alley to mend.

Just because he fervently desired not to meet anybody he knew, as he
turned a corner he almost ran into the arms of May Burnside; who,
on seeing him, appeared confused. He stopped and tried to conceal
his parcel as well as he could, whilst talking volubly; and May
stammered and fidgeted, like one detected in a guilty enterprise.
Her aunt had that day presented her with half-a-crown; and, wishing
to make a frock for Doris, she was on her way to buy some wonderful
material she had seen marked fourpence three-farthings in a cheap,
common shop she would not have cared to enter by daylight. Miss
Waller would have fainted at the idea of her niece being seen going
into Whittaker's, where everything was ticketed "Alarming Sacrifice!"

So, the boots weighing on his uneasy conscience, and the fourpence
three-farthings on hers, they continued to blush and stammer until
Harold summoned up courage to say that it was rather late, and, if
Mrs. Burnside was going home, he would escort her, if she wished.

She hesitated, loth to lose the chance of bargain, and then said--

"My aunt is dining out, so I need not hurry back; and I wanted to
go to a shop--Whittaker's, do you know it? I buy rubbish there
occasionally."

He did know the shop, which was close to the alley wherein dwelt his
old cobbler. "If you don't mind," he said eagerly, "I'll leave you a
moment, whilst I do an errand hard by, and meet you when you've done
your shopping."

So he went off, delighted at solving the problem of the boots; for
no man appears to advantage when hugging a clumsy parcel. Having
duly effected her purchase, May rejoined him, and, as they strolled
towards Victoria Square, informed him that they were starting for
London on Monday. "I know I shall hate it!" she added, with a sigh.

He sighed too; but what could he say or do, bound as he was, hand
and foot? "July _is_ rather hot for London," he answered discreetly.
"Lulu wrote yesterday, and may I suggest, if you have leisure, she
would be delighted if you called to see her? I will give you her
address. The flat is very tiny, of course, but----"

"But infinitely preferable, I am sure, to Victoria Square!" retorted
May bitterly. The burden of life seemed intolerable that evening.

"Are you, then, so unhappy there?" he asked, startled. "How I
wish----"

He checked himself hastily, and May stifled a sob which rose in her
throat. "Very few people are quite happy, it seems to me," she said,
trying to speak calmly. "There is always something."

"Yes, but you--_you_ ought to be happy, if there were any justice
in the world!" he burst out impetuously. "You deserve a sunny,
sheltered life, free from worry and care. Will you believe it is
the hardest of my trials to be able to offer you nothing but barren
sympathy?"

"It is very good of you to sympathise with me," May murmured
gratefully. "So few people do. They look at my clothes, and decide
that anybody dressed as I am, and living in Victoria Square, _must_
be happy. 'Lucky Mrs. Burnside!' they call me."

He remembered how enviable, in the early days of their acquaintance,
May had seemed to him, and thought how mistaken are the judgments of
this world. A great pity swelled his heart as she said "Good-bye";
and he tramped back to his dreary rooms doubly depressed, both on
her account and his own. How he longed to be able to free her from
her shackles, and offer her a happy home, independent of Miss Waller!

       *       *       *       *       *

"I must say, May, nobody would think you were going to London to
enjoy yourself. Do, for goodness' sake, try to look a little more
cheerful!" said Miss Waller sharply, as they took their seats in
a reserved first-class carriage on the Monday. Mr. Lang, to May's
great relief, had returned to town three days before, so they were
spared his company. "You are the most ungrateful girl I ever knew."

[Illustration: "Do try to look a little more cheerful!"]

"I'm sorry you think so, aunt, but----"

"It would serve you right if I washed my hands of you entirely,"
continued the irate spinster. "But I am too kind-hearted; my sense
of duty restrains me. I should be better off now, if I'd been more
selfish and less considerate for others. But I'm well aware it's
useless to expect gratitude in _this_ world."

And, with a heartfelt sigh for the wickedness of this generation,
Miss Waller arranged the air-cushion more comfortably at her back,
and, placing her daintily shod feet on the opposite seat, commenced
to study a newspaper. May sat watching the deep-green summer
landscape flit by, with pretty much the same feelings as a convict
might experience while going down to Portland guarded by warders.
The knowledge that Mr. Lang awaited them at the end of the journey
took all the colour out of the blue sky; and the sleek cattle
standing knee-deep in water beneath the willows, seemed to mock her
by their animal freedom from care. For herself, she cared little;
but there was Doris to consider, and the thought of her helpless
child harassed her throughout that miserable journey.




CHAPTER VIII.

_The Recluse._


Enforced idleness is, to an active mind, the greatest misery
conceivable. Harold Inglis had in him a vast capacity for work, and
therefore found it doubly bitter to have to spend his days lounging
about, waiting for the patients who never came. He was afraid to go
out lest he should miss a summons, and unable to sit down to read
or write, so continually did he find himself listening for a ring
at the bell and Ann's voice announcing a patient. He could not even
tranquillise himself with tobacco, for he had given up smoking on
account of the expense.

He returned from an errand one afternoon to find an elderly
manservant waiting with the intimation that Sir Edward Vane, of The
Towers, was ill, and would like to see him. He knew Sir Edward by
name as a wealthy and eccentric recluse, who lived alone in a big
house just outside the town, and was liberal in doctors' fees. Not
a little flattered, he promised to come immediately, and was about
to turn in at the lodge gate at The Towers, when he encountered Dr.
Selwyn, another local medical man, with whom he was acquainted.

"Been sent for by Sir Edward, eh?" asked Selwyn, with a broad grin.

"Yes."

"Wish you joy. You may not know it, but he's already tried every
doctor in Beachbourne, and quarrelled with them all in succession. I
wouldn't attend him again for any money. Good-bye, and good luck to
you!"

In some trepidation, Harold knocked, and was admitted through a
handsome hall into a spacious sitting-room, littered with almost
every conceivable object. On a sofa reclined a grey-haired man
about sixty, whose tanned face, speaking of long residence in the
tropics, was disfigured by a look of fretful ill-health. A retired
Anglo-Indian, distinguished in the Civil Service, Sir Edward had
seen more of the world than most men.

"You're not in partnership with anybody here, are you?" he asked,
when Harold had examined him carefully.

"No."

"All the better. A more wretched lot of impostors than the
Beachbourne doctors I never came across. For years they've been
tinkering at me, and, after all, I'm worse, instead of better. What
are doctors for, if they can't cure one?"

Harold was discreetly silent. Sir Edward had a complication of
maladies, beyond any medical skill to remedy.

"My father lived to be ninety," continued the invalid. "And why
can't I?"

"I don't think, for my part, I should wish to be so old as that,"
diffidently returned Harold. "It must be so sad to outlive all one's
friends."

"I have no friends," was the grim reply. "Only some greedy
relations, eager for my money. I've a good deal to leave," he added,
looking keenly at Harold. "And when I take a fancy to people,
I'm liberal----They say here that I'm always quarrelling with my
doctors; but it's the doctors who quarrel with me, and will air
their own particular fads, instead of trying to cure me. Are you
married?" he asked abruptly.

"No."

"A good thing, too; you've more time to attend to your patients.
Hewett used to bore me talking by the hour about that ugly wife of
his. Do you understand fossils, and such things? My room's in an
awful mess, as you see, and I should like to have the specimens
arranged a bit; but I can't trust the servants."

The place was indeed crammed with all sorts of curios, many
exceedingly valuable. By continually asking for one possession after
another, Sir Edward had ended by accumulating all his treasures
in this one room, which he never left, save for his bedchamber
adjoining. A most untidy place it was; the curiosities being heaped
on chairs, shelves, and the floor, without any method.

"I am very fond of fossils; and if you wish them arranged, it would
give me great pleasure to help."

"Hewett wanted me to make a clean sweep of them; interfered with the
flow of his precious fresh air. Like his ignorance! Did he think I
wanted to sit and stare at an ugly wall-paper all day when I was
tired of reading?"

"Do you read much?"

"Yes; chiefly Sanskrit. In _my_ day, Indian officials had to be not
only gentlemen but scholars. Well," as Harold rose to go, "I'll have
your prescription made up, and shall expect you again to-morrow."

"I will come, and hope the pain will be easier then." He detailed
the treatment he desired, and was giving a few final directions when
the manservant opened the door. "Miss Geare has called, sir. Will
you see her?"

"Oh dear!" pettishly exclaimed Sir Edward. "She'll stay an hour,
prosing about her dogs. For mercy's sake, don't go!" detaining
Harold. "Help me to entertain her, and get her away soon! She was to
have been my sister-in-law, having been engaged to my brother Adrian
years ago; and since in an evil hour I settled at Beachbourne, I've
been fairly persecuted by her."

In another minute the little lady tripped smilingly in.

"Well, Edward dear, how are you now? I heard you were not well, so I
just came to inquire."

"I'm better now, thank you," returned Sir Edward gruffly. "I've
given Hewett the sack, and this is my new doctor--Dr. Inglis. Do you
know him?"

"Oh, yes, he has been attending me. I'm sure he has done me good,
and I hope you'll benefit also, Edward. You can't _think_ how kind
Dr. Inglis was to my darling Bijou when he broke his leg!"

"Having attended Bijou, it, of course, follows that Dr. Inglis will
cure me," sneered Sir Edward. "How is the amiable Miss Pepper?"

"She's waiting outside with the dogs, as you said you wouldn't have
her here. She's a faithful creature; I wish you liked her a little
better, Edward dear."

"I never was fond of vinegar, Catherine."

"Oh, don't be so sarcastic, Edward! I never was clever; but you make
me feel like a little girl again, when my governess scolded me."

There were tears in the watery blue eyes; but they did not seem to
touch Sir Edward. "The remedy, my dear Catherine, is exceedingly
simple," he blandly rejoined. "I know I'm a curmudgeon, unfit to
associate with such an angel as you. Why then should you inflict
upon yourself the unpleasantness of coming here? Why not stay away,
to enjoy the more congenial society of Miss Pepper and the dogs?"

"So you don't want me, Edward? I think you're very unkind," returned
Miss Geare, evidently wounded, but with a patient dignity Harold had
not expected. He noticed that ever since she entered her gaze had
wandered, at intervals, to an oil-painting of a fine-looking young
man in uniform which hung over the mantelpiece. "But I know better
than to take you at your word. You are all I have left--my dear
Adrian's brother--and----" She broke down, and wiped the slow tears
of age from her eyes.

Sir Edward gave an impatient sigh, and Harold interposed. "Allow me
to remind you, Miss Geare, that my patient has had a very severe
attack, and the quieter he is the better. Everything depends on
that. I must go home now; and may I request the pleasure of your
company to the gate, if you are ready?"

"Yes, do go home to Bijou!" fretfully murmured the invalid. And Miss
Geare, after bestowing an affectionate farewell on the unresponsive
Sir Edward, allowed Harold to politely conduct her to the lodge gate.

"Poor Edward!" she began, as they went down the drive, "he allows
illness to sour his temper, and it's such a pity! But I take no
notice--he's my dear Adrian's only brother, and I can't bear
to stay away from the house. Did you see the portrait over the
mantelpiece?--that was my Adrian. I was young, and pretty too, in
those days, though you mayn't believe it----"

"I quite believe it," said Harold kindly, touched by the spectacle
of this forlorn old age.

"Adrian was so proud of Edward. He was so much thought of in India,
and is very, very clever--but not equal to my Adrian--oh, no; nobody
ever could be as handsome and noble as he was! When I heard he was
killed in the Mutiny, I thought I should die too; I think it must
have killed something inside me, for I've never been the same since.
I get confused, and I can't remember things----Yes, I'm coming.
Very sorry to have kept you waiting."

The humble apology was to Miss Pepper, who, with a most unamiable
countenance, was standing just outside the gate. Miss Geare hastily
said farewell, and Harold could hear her companion scolding her
vigorously as they went down the road. But, as he thought of the
faded, antique love story which had ended so tragically, he could
not but feel sorry for poor little eccentric Miss Geare--it was so
evident that the best part of her had been buried in her lover's
grave. Her eyes must have been rather like May's, he thought, before
sorrow had given them that vacant expression; and then he wondered,
for the hundredth time, what Mrs. Burnside was doing in London, and
whether she thought of him as often as he did of her.




CHAPTER IX.

_Vanitas Vanitatum._


Arrived in London, all May's worst anticipations were realised; for
Mr. Lang accompanied them everywhere, and she had not a minute to
call her own. He assumed an air of proprietorship which made her
blood boil. "You ought to do this, Mrs. Burnside--you should see
that," he repeated from morning till night; and, as Miss Waller
invariably pronounced all his suggestions charming, it was useless
for May to rebel.

So London proved the same weary old story over again--a life of
outward glitter and show, of softly rolling carriages, of sumptuous
dinners, and reserved seats; and within, dust and ashes, and Dead
Sea fruit! May talked and smiled, but it was mechanically; her heart
was far away.

She asserted herself sufficiently, however, to declare her intention
of calling upon the Inglis girls in their flat in West Kensington.
She had written to Lulu, who sent her a pressing invitation to come
on Saturday afternoon, when they were at leisure.

Miss Waller instantly denounced the scheme as a wild-goose chase,
asserting that May was certain to lose her way. They were still
discussing it when Mr. Lang came in from Palace Gardens, as he
usually did first thing in the morning, ostensibly to ask what they
wished to do, but really to order them about at his sovereign will
and pleasure. "Well, ladies, what's the programme for to-day?" he
began.

May turned round from the window of the handsome drawing-room for
which her aunt was paying a small fortune, thinking, as the morning
sunlight fell upon his podgy figure, that Mr. Lang grew uglier and
more common-looking every day. "I have promised to go and see my
friends the Inglises this afternoon," she announced firmly.

[Illustration: "This is my new doctor--Dr. Inglis."--_p. 509._]

"And who may the Inglises be?"

"Some girls who live at West Kensington," returned May, colouring at
his lordly tone.

"Their brother is a doctor--a very unsuccessful one at Beachbourne,"
put in Miss Waller irritably. "They are very poor, and live in a
poky flat. What May can see in them I can't imagine; and I'm sure
she'll get lost if she goes alone."

"I can take a cab, aunt." By a perfect miracle she had a few
shillings in her pocket.

"I'll tell you what," pompously proclaimed Mr. Lang. "You shall go
in a cab, Mrs. Burnside, if you really must, and I'll call and bring
you back in my carriage. Eh, Miss Waller?"

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" gushed the spinster, brightening; and,
though May protested earnestly against troubling Mr. Lang, he
was resolute. Then he carried them off to inspect a picture in a
Bond Street shop which took his fancy--a seapiece, with violently
ultramarine waves tumbling about the canvas. May considered it
a most irritating production, and boldly said so; for, despite
her aunt's frowns, she refused to flatter Mr. Lang. He took her
criticism very good-naturedly, however, and insisted on their coming
to luncheon with him at a fashionable Regent Street restaurant,
where only African millionaires and suchlike could afford to go.

But at length May's ordeal was over, and she drew a great breath of
relief as the lift deposited her at No. 18, Windermere Mansions.
Lulu herself admitted her, evidently delighted to see her, and
announced that just then she was alone.

"Esther isn't back yet, but I expect her every minute," she
explained. "Mabel, our chum, has gone to see some friends. We don't
keep a servant, but a charwoman comes morning and evening. Our flat
is a mere cupboard, as you see; but, such as it is, you are very
welcome."

She conducted May over it, and tiny it certainly was; only one
sitting-room, a speck of a kitchen, three small bedrooms, and a
bathroom. But it was very comfortable and homelike; and, though many
of the articles were merely of wicker and bamboo, it was furnished
with a taste which betrayed the instincts of gentlewomen.

"How I envy you!" exclaimed May, as she sank into a chair in the
cosy little sitting-room. And then, to Lulu's consternation and to
her own intense disgust, she burst into tears.

Lulu looked quite alarmed; for the modern girl reserves all such
exhibitions for the privacy of her own apartment, and tears and
hysterics are as much out of fashion nowadays as poke bonnets and
sandalled shoes. It is not that the new girl can't feel, but that
she considers it undignified to cry.

[Illustration: To Lulu's consternation ... she burst into tears.]

"Forgive me," apologised May, blushing furiously. "I'm
overtired--I've been doing too much in this heat. I feel quite
ashamed to be so foolish."

"We'll have tea directly Esther comes; that will revive you,"
replied Lulu cheerfully and she proceeded to light a dainty
spirit-kettle which formed part of a most inviting tea equipage. May
watched her enviously, thinking how sweet and homelike it all was.
She had never known a real home since leaving her father's house.
Her married life was a horrible nightmare, and Victoria Square
was little better; and if she yielded to pressure and married Mr.
Lang----But no! that would not bear thinking of!

"There's Esther!" cried Lulu eagerly, as a latch-key clicked in the
hall door.

May had expected to find Miss Inglis handsome; but she was not
prepared for such a young goddess as now swept into the room,
with a stride of long, well-knit limbs which made the place seem
ludicrously small. Esther Inglis would have attracted notice
anywhere, with her splendid, keen-cut, dark face and stately poise
of head; and her family might well be proud of her.

She was better dressed than Lulu, in a plain but well-fitting gown
which was very becoming.

"Tired, dear?" asked Lulu affectionately, as her sister, after
greeting May, reclined her tall figure in a basket-chair.

"Rather; that is, I've a Saturday afternoon kind of feeling.
The office was very hot, and the new man can't quite manage the
telephone. Where's Mabel?"

"Gone to see her friends at Richmond. Give me your hat, dear."

She removed her sister's outdoor garb with a deft motherliness which
charmed May. Miss Inglis was clearly accustomed to being waited
upon; but it seemed quite natural, with her splendid face and figure.




CHAPTER X.

_Mr. Lang meets his Match._


"And how is Harold, Mrs. Burnside?" Esther asked as they sipped
their tea.

May gave as favourable an account of his progress as she could,
to which Miss Inglis listened thoughtfully. "I'm afraid he has an
uphill struggle before him, poor old fellow! Without capital, it
seems to me, you can do nothing nowadays? Are there many doctors at
Beachbourne?"

"A good many; and, of course, it takes time to make a practice."

"It's always the same old story--want of money!" sighed Esther
pessimistically. "Nowadays the competition is something dreadful;
and what will it be for the next generation?"

"Why, Esther, you seem in rather a croaking mood!" remonstrated Lulu.

"Well, my dear, going about daily in trains and omnibuses, and
having to run the gauntlet of every man who thinks that because a
girl works for her living she can't possibly be a lady, doesn't tend
to sweeten one's view of life."

"I suppose there are annoyances in every lot," diffidently put in
May. "But there are--there really are--worse things than being
obliged to earn one's living. You must be so happy here, able to do
just as you like, with nobody to worry you."

Esther's brow cleared. "Yes, it's something to be independent,
nowadays. And it's too bad to bore you with my grumbles, Mrs.
Burnside. I don't often indulge in complaints, do I, Lulu? We three
really have a jolly time here; and my salary is to be raised twenty
pounds a year, beginning from next month."

"Oh, Esther, how splendid!"

"Yes, we must go on the river, or have some dissipation to celebrate
it. Oh! who can that be?" as a loud knock resounded at the outer
door.

"My aunt thought I might get lost, and a friend of ours--Mr.
Lang--offered to call for me," said May, flushing. "He is earlier
than I expected--I hope you don't mind his coming?"

"Oh, dear, no!" nonchalantly responded Esther, as Lulu bustled
out to admit Mr. Lang, who entered with his usual bumptious
self-confidence. But when his eyes fell upon the superb figure of
Esther, he was palpably surprised.

May introduced him; but, while Lulu gave him a friendly greeting,
Esther barely condescended to acknowledge his existence. Miss
Inglis, late of Mallowfield Hall, was not to be put down by a vulgar
plutocrat.

"I must apologise for coming rather early, Mrs. Burnside," he began,
"but I didn't quite know how long it would take to get here; I never
was in this neighbourhood before. Don't you find it rather out of
the way?" he continued, addressing Esther.

"It _is_ rather inconvenient, especially as we don't keep a
carriage," she coolly returned. A keen observer of human nature, she
had taken Mr. Lang's measure in one haughty glance.

"Nice little place, though," he added patronisingly, intending to be
very polite. "That drapery over the mantelpiece is a good idea. Did
Liberty do it?"

"I did it myself, with a few yards of cheap cretonne and an ounce of
tin-tacks."

"Really! How clever!" he exclaimed, not perceiving that Esther was
covertly laughing at him. "Old miniatures, too! Are you a collector?
I am; I've got some lovely Cosways."

"Oh, dear, no! these are only some of our ancestors. My father has
the best ones, down in Cornwall."

"I've rather a good collection at my house in Palace Gardens. You've
seen them, haven't you, Mrs. Burnside? It would give me great
pleasure to show them to your young friends, if they care to call
some day."

"Thank you; my sister and I are working all day, and have very
little time. I am not specially interested in miniatures, except
those belonging to our family," replied Esther coldly. May inwardly
rejoiced at seeing Mr. Lang meet his match for once.

"I believe you have a brother out in South Africa?" presently asked
Mr. Lang, turning to Lulu.

"Yes, at Johannesburg. He's on the staff of the Victorina Mine."

"I believe I've met him somewhere. Rather good-looking, with dark
hair, isn't he? He must know me; I'm so well known out there
in connection with the Springkloof Mine. Have you heard of the
Springkloof, Miss Inglis?"

"Yes," answered that superb young lady, fixing her eyes steadily on
him. "I have heard a good deal about it from Jack. He was over in
England last summer."

"I'm often going backwards and forwards to Johannesburg," continued
Mr. Lang; "I should be glad at any time to take charge of any
parcels or letters for your brother, if you will let me know. This
is my London address," and he laid his card on the table.

"Thank you, we couldn't think of troubling you."

"No trouble, I assure you. I should be very glad to oblige any--any
of Mrs. Burnside's friends."

May crimsoned beneath his significant glance and the scarcely veiled
scorn on Esther's fine face. How these girls must despise her for
associating with this horrible man! Unable to bear it any longer,
she rose to take leave.

"I hope we shall meet again before you go," Lulu said wistfully;
but May dared not press them to come and see her aunt, knowing they
would only meet a chilly reception from Miss Waller. "I will write
and let you know," she answered hurriedly.

"Perhaps you young ladies might like a drive in the Park
occasionally?" suggested Mr. Lang. "I'd be very happy to send my
carriage."

"Thank you," responded Esther, who appeared to be spokeswoman on all
occasions. "My sister and I work for our living, and have no time
for such dissipations. I am employed in a City office."

"Then it's a shame you should have to work--that's all I can say,"
warmly rejoined Mr. Lang. "A woman's place is at home, in a handsome
drawing-room, with every comfort about her--not jostling about in
the crowd with men."

"Handsome drawing-rooms and an idle life are not within the reach of
every woman, nowadays, Mr. Lang," coldly responded Esther, as they
shook hands; and the next minute the door closed behind them.

"Horrid man!" cried Esther wrathfully, when the visitors had gone.
"Didn't his insufferable patronage make your blood boil? He might
well ask if we knew him by name; of course, we do--too well, for,
according to Jack, the Springkloof Mine was a byword on the Randt,
from the way in which the original owners were cheated out of the
property by Mr. Lang and his syndicate. I remember he mentioned this
Lang as a man who was well known at Johannesburg to have mixed in
many shady transactions."

"What a pity that nice Mrs. Burnside should be obliged to associate
with him! He evidently admires her; but, to tell you a secret,
Esther, there's somebody who admires her even more--and that's
Harold."

"Poor Harold! How can he ever afford to marry? Mrs. Burnside is
dependent on her aunt for everything, isn't she?"

"Yes, and her aunt intends her to marry Mr. Lang. Poor thing! I can
see she is simply miserable at the idea of it."

Esther took up Mr. Lang's card, to read the address. "He might well
say West Kensington was out of the way! If he ever comes again--I
don't mean to be at home." And she tore it into the smallest
fragments.




CHAPTER XI.

_On the Island._


"This is what I call perfectly delightful," pronounced Miss Waller
solemnly. She looked meaningly at May, who stood near, looking her
best in pale blue, with a big white hat, but her niece pretended not
to hear.

A week had elapsed since Mrs. Burnside's visit to the Inglis
girls; and it was again Saturday afternoon. It had been a week of
absolutely tropical heat, exhausting to a degree; and Mr. Lang,
noticing May's pale cheeks, had proposed a trip up the river in his
steam-launch. So, with their mutual friends the Wingates, and some
other people, they were now bound for an island some distance above
Kingston, where they intended to land and have tea.

After the scorching and crowded streets, the river, with its green,
tree-shaded banks, was indeed a pleasant change; and, had she been
free from care, May would have greatly enjoyed watching the numerous
gay boats and launches filled with happy holiday-makers. But the
presence of Mr. Lang--vulgar, fussy, and pretentious--spoiled
everything, and she avoided him as much as possible, greatly to her
aunt's disgust.

The island at which they presently arrived was very small; and
so crowded with people that at another time the scene would have
amused May. They landed with some difficulty, amid the crowd of
skiffs, punts, and canoes, which were moored to the banks; and had
to walk warily, not to tread upon their late occupants, who were
now grouped round every variety of tea equipage, arrayed in every
kind of costume. One or two people, ostentatious like themselves,
were attended by liveried servants to turn the whole thing into
a burlesque; but the great mass had spread their tea with their
own hands, and it was comical to see how their ideas of a picnic
varied. Here would be a homely meal with thick enamelled tea-things,
huge chunks of bread-and-butter, and shrimps or watercress for a
relish. Next door would be an aristocratic party with a silver
teapot, fairy-like china, expensive cakes, and fruit on artistic
dessert plates. Here a stout materfamilias, purple with the heat,
struggled to satisfy her hungry brood of eight with hastily buttered
rolls; there a pair of lovers, oblivious of all else, sat partaking
of nectar and ambrosia, in imagination a thousand miles away.
Everywhere was good humour, laughter, and happiness.

At last, after his usual bustle, Mr. Lang contrived to secure a
vacant spot for his party; though not without an angry argument
with some plainly dressed people who, with scant respect for
African millionaires, declined to move their common delft
tea-service to make way for his costly Dresden. Whilst the footman
spread the cloth May sat abstractedly gazing over the sunlit river,
when suddenly she caught a glimpse in an approaching boat of a
figure which made her heart leap. Surely that stalwart young man in
flannels, rowing two girls towards the island, was Harold Inglis!
With consummate skill he steered his cockleshell craft to the bank,
then helped his sisters out, and, carrying a basket, came to find a
place to sit down.

"What a handsome girl!" murmured more than one of Mr. Lang's party
as Esther advanced with her queenly gait. May, delighted, rose to
greet her. "How wonderful to meet you here!" exclaimed Miss Inglis.
"Harold had to come up to town on business, and we persuaded him to
bring us up the river."

"So glad to see you again, Mrs. Burnside," said the young doctor as
they shook hands; his honest English face flushing as his glance
met hers. That glance and that handclasp seemed to throw a flood
of light upon the secret places of May's soul; for suddenly she
realised that she loved him better than her life. He was, and always
must be, the one man in the world to her.

Miss Waller was not pleased at this addition to their party; but
she could not interfere when Mr. Lang pressed the Inglises to join
the circle assembled at tea. Nor could they well refuse: though
independent Esther insisted on making use of the provisions they
had brought with them. Harold stationed himself beside May, as a
matter of course, and contrived, under cover of the lively chatter
of the rest, to tell her about the new patients he had secured at
Beachbourne, and hear what she had been doing in London. It was a
very harmless, matter-of-fact conversation, but it drew down many
jealous glances from Mr. Lang, which May perceived, but did not
heed. Why should she not enjoy this brief moment of happiness?

"Shall I see you again before I leave? I'm going back on Monday,"
Harold observed wistfully, when the tea-things had been packed up
for the return journey.

[Illustration: "If he ever comes again!"]

But she shook her head, knowing it was useless to invite him to call
upon her aunt; nor could she promise to visit Windermere Mansions.
"We shall be returning the end of next week, I hope," she answered
hurriedly, sorry to seem so inhospitable. "I shall be so glad to
leave London!"

"Now, Mrs. Burnside," interrupted Mr. Lang, bustling up, "your
aunt's invited me to dine with you at eight; and if I'm to be back
in time to dress, we must look sharp. Sorry to have to say good-bye
to you, Miss Inglis," he added, turning to stately Esther with his
most patronising air. "I wish I could ask you to come back in the
launch with us; but there's so little room."

"Thank you, I prefer a rowing-boat. I thoroughly disapprove of
steam launches on a crowded river like the Thames," calmly responded
she; whilst Miss Waller gasped, open-mouthed, at such effrontery.
Imagine a beggarly girl in an office daring to address such
criticism to the great Mr. Lang!

The lovers had perforce to separate, for the rowing-boat would, of
course, be soon left behind by the launch. May took her seat with
a sinking heart at the prospect of Mr. Lang's company for the rest
of the day; and Harold was so silent all the way home that Esther
commented on it as they disembarked.

"So this is the end of my little treat in honour of my rise of
salary!" she ruefully remarked. "I thought it would be pleasant on
the river; but I feel almost sorry we came. Certainly, Mrs. Poyser
was right in her opinion of 'pleasuring-days.'"




CHAPTER XII.

_Reprieved._


"Now, May," began Miss Waller in her most portentous tone, on Monday
morning, "I must have an explanation with you. I'm going home this
week, for it's ruinously expensive being here; and to-day Mr. Lang
is coming for his answer. Without any beating about the bush, I
expect you to marry him."

"Oh, aunt, don't--_don't_!" entreated May, wringing her hands. "I
cannot marry Mr. Lang."

"What childish nonsense! Fancy refusing a house in Palace Gardens,
and all that money!"

"I can't and won't marry him."

"Very well, then, you and Doris must find another home. I have
pinched myself to keep you in luxury; but if you will be so wickedly
blind to your plain duty, I wash my hands of you."

"I don't care one bit for myself, aunt; I could earn a living,
I'm sure, and I'd gladly do it. Let me try," pleaded May, "I will
promise never to cost you another penny, if you will only be so kind
as to give Doris a home until I am able to keep her myself."

"Which will not be till Doomsday. Talk of earning your living--what
rubbish! Why, you haven't even one decent accomplishment. No, if
you leave my house, Doris goes, too; I won't have the little spoilt
monkey left on my hands."

"But, aunt----"

"Besides, think what advantages you could give Doris if you
married Mr. Lang--the best possible education, horses, carriages,
Continental trips, everything! If you really cared at all for your
child, you couldn't hesitate for a minute."

It was a clever argument, and it made May waver as nothing else
could; and Miss Waller did not know whether to be glad or sorry that
just then Mr. Lang himself was announced.

"Don't go, Miss Waller," he began, as the spinster, after a few
casual observations, was about to leave the room. "I've nothing to
say to Mrs. Burnside you may not hear as well. Your niece knows by
this time that I am anxious to have her for my wife. I want to marry
and settle down now, and I can promise you," he added, turning to
face May for the first time, "a most luxurious home--you've seen
it--both for yourself and your little girl. Your aunt wishes it, I
know; and I hope, Mrs. Burnside--May--you'll make me very happy by
saying you'll be my wife before Christmas."

He came closer, and would have taken her hand; but she started
back. Her aunt's basilisk eyes were fixed on her, to add to her
discomfiture; but she said as firmly as she could, "I am very
grateful for your kindness, Mr. Lang; nevertheless, I must refuse
your offer, for I do not love you, and I could not marry any man
unless I did."

"Now, really, Miss Waller," remonstrated the plutocrat, turning with
an injured air to the wrathful spinster, "I call this too bad! It
was understood between us that you would prepare Mrs. Burnside, so
that it might all be plain sailing. I'm not accustomed to ask and be
refused, I can tell you."

"May must have lost her senses to reject such an offer, Mr. Lang,"
returned Miss Waller, with an annihilating glance at her niece. "She
is an ungrateful, undutiful girl; and if she refuses you, I will
have nothing more to do with her."

"Well," rejoined Mr. Lang, with a gulp, as if swallowing something
very nauseous to the taste, "I must confess I didn't expect to be
sent to the right-about like this. However, young ladies often
change their minds; and perhaps, when Mrs. Burnside thinks my offer
quietly over, she may alter her opinion. I've great faith in your
persuasions, Miss Waller. I've just had a telegram, saying a fall of
rock has damaged the machinery at the Springkloof, and I'm wanted
out there, so I must sail for the Cape at once. I expect to be away
some months; by November I shall probably be back in England. I give
Mrs. Burnside until then to consider my offer; I won't look upon
this as a final rejection. I'm sure, when she thinks of all I'm in a
position to offer, she can't be so foolish as to refuse."

"How kind--how generous!" exclaimed Miss Waller, as May stood in
stony silence. "I promise in my niece's name that when you come back
she will accept you. I hope we shall see you again before you leave?"

"Well, no, for I've a lot to do before I go. But I'll write to you;
and as soon as I possibly can I shall return for Mrs. Burnside's
answer."

[Illustration: "How wonderful to meet you here!"--_p. 513._]

As if in a sick dream, with this threat ringing in her ears, May
mechanically tendered him her limp hand in farewell. When they were
once more alone her aunt said in crisp, dry tones:

"I shall return to Beachbourne on Wednesday, and make arrangements
for spending August and September in visiting amongst our friends in
the country. We have plenty of invitations. I have said all I need
say on the subject of Mr. Lang. Meanwhile, you can choose between
Palace Gardens and every luxury, and a life of starvation and
beggary for you and Doris."

Despite the apparent calm with which Mr. Lang had taken May's
rejection of his flattering offer, he was nevertheless in a very bad
temper when he left the house and jumped into his victoria. He was
not accustomed to rebuffs--which made the fact that he had just been
rejected by a penniless widow, only saved from actual want by her
aunt's charity, doubly galling.

"I'm mad to care so much about a pale-faced girl with nothing to say
for herself; and I really ought to do better. I could easily marry a
lady of title, or anybody I choose; and it would serve her right if
I went straight off and proposed to somebody else, just to show her
that rich husbands don't grow on every bush!"

Revenge is always the first thought of a mean mind which is smarting
from a sense of injury. Mr. Lang chuckled over this idea for some
time, and the result was, that when Esther Inglis entered their
one sitting-room about half-past five that day, she found Mr. Lang
seated in the most comfortable chair, awaiting her.

She instantly assumed her thorny manner; but it had no more effect
than it would have had upon a rhinoceros. "I've come to say good-bye
for the present, Miss Inglis," he airily remarked, as if his visit
were a matter of course. "I leave to-morrow for Johannesburg on
business; and as I shall probably see your brother, it would give me
great pleasure to take charge of anything you may wish to send him."

Esther's handsome face relaxed. Really it was very kind and
thoughtful of Mr. Lang, who, with his influence, might prove a
valuable friend to Jack.

"It is very good of you, and in his last letter Jack asked us to
send him some collars and ties; they are such a fearful price at
Johannesburg, and not good. But they are not bought yet, and you say
you leave to-morrow?"

"Yes, but the shops will not be closed for some time, and my
victoria is at the door, if you will honour me by using it to go
where you wish."

Esther hesitated a moment; but the opportunity of saving expensive
and troublesome postage, besides serving Jack, was too good to lose.
Mr. Lang rose, and indicated a box lying on the table.

[Illustration: "Oh, don't thank me."]

"I've brought you a little fruit, Miss Inglis, just sent to me from
my country place near Dorking. My head-gardener prides himself on
his peaches and nectarines; but I must leave you to judge."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Esther, with sparkling eyes; for she had not
tasted a nectarine since leaving Mallowfleld. In a moment she had
undone the satin ribbon which tied down the lid, and was feasting
her eyes on such peaches as she had seldom seen.

"As you seem fond of fruit, I'll give orders to my gardener to send
you a box periodically," observed Mr. Lang. "Oh, don't thank me;
I shall be away, and somebody may as well enjoy it. And if you'll
have the parcel and letters ready, my footman shall call for them
to-morrow morning."

He accompanied Esther down to the street, where his beautifully
appointed carriage was waiting; and it must be confessed she enjoyed
finding herself seated behind a spruce coachman and footman once
more. "You will take this lady's orders," pompously commanded Mr.
Lang. "Keep the carriage as long as you like, Miss Inglis, and I'll
not forget about the parcel."

So manifest was his desire to propitiate, that Esther could do no
less than bid him a civil farewell, with the hope that he might have
a pleasant journey. Then she rolled away, looking so much at home in
the smart carriage that Mr. Lang gazed after her admiringly.

"By Jove, how well she sets the whole thing off! Looks like a lady
used to carriages all her life. May Burnside really isn't a patch
upon Esther Inglis; there is no mistake about that!"

Had Miss Waller only been there to hear him, she might well have
trembled for the success of her darling scheme of marrying May to a
rich man.


[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]




[Illustration: EASTER EGG ROLLING IN WASHINGTON]


"Going to Mr. President's!"

That is what the hundreds of little boys and girls will tell you any
Easter Monday morning, should you chance to stop them and ask their
destination as they go toddling along the streets of Washington with
baskets of eggs hanging on their arms and a glad delight shining in
their eyes.

They make up a very "mixed" crowd, these children! There is the
dainty little miss in richly embroidered frock and wide silk sash,
with one tiny hand held tightly in the grasp of a big negro nurse
and the other hand clasping lovingly a basket of pretty coloured
eggs; there is another little girl in a very clean but much-faded
gingham or print apron, trotting along at her mother's side--the
mother dressed, perchance, in shabby black, belonging to the class
known in the Southern part of the States as the "poor whites"; there
is also the trio of little "darkey" girls, dancing merrily along the
sidewalk, swinging their egg-baskets as though with intention of
spilling the eggs over passers-by, yet never quite dropping them,
and singing the while as they keep step--

    "Tra la la la, tra la la la,
    Easter Monday morning!"

There are nice, smart-looking little boys, strutting along proudly
in their first pair of knickerbockers, with pockets bulging out with
Easter eggs, their black nurses walking just a few steps behind
them; there are the poor white boys whose clothes are patched and
boots worn with toes protruding. On other days they sell newspapers,
black boots, and do "odd jobbs" to earn a few cents, but on Easter
Monday morning they somehow get together a collection of coloured
eggs and go to see the President. Then there are the little black
boys, some smartly dressed (for many of the coloured people of
Washington are well-to-do), and others as shabby as shabby can be.
But no matter. Are they not provided with Easter Monday eggs and
going up to the White House to see "Mr. President," who every Easter
Monday gives over his beautiful lawn to as many little boys and
girls as like to go and see him, and roll their eggs over the grassy
slopes that look out over the Potomac River?

[Illustration: Lester Ralph.

THE INVASION OF THE PRESIDENT'S LAWN.]

On no other day during the year does Washington present so
interesting and picturesque an appearance as on Easter Monday,
and it is the happiest day of all the year with the children of
the Capitol City. In England, of course, Easter Monday is always
a Bank Holiday, but not so in the United States. In New York and
other large American cities banks and shops and schools are open
as usual; but in the district of Columbia, where Washington is
situated, it is a legal holiday. That in itself makes it a happy
time for the children. Then, add to the joy of having no lessons to
learn the fact that they are allowed to take dozens of coloured
eggs to the White House lawn and play the games of "egg-picking" and
"egg-rolling" as the specially invited guests of the President of
the United States, and it will be easily understood how festive an
occasion is Easter Monday to the children of Washington.

Not even the oldest inhabitants of Washington can remember the time
when the boys and girls of the city did not celebrate Easter Monday
by "egg-rolling," although the children of fifty years ago rolled
their eggs down Capitol Hill, under the shadow of the magnificent
Capitol building, instead of on the White House lawn. Year after
year the children of former generations trudged up the great hill
with their egg-baskets over their arms and had the happiest times
imaginable with their Easter games.

One Easter Monday, however, about twenty years ago, hundreds of
boys and girls went to Capitol Hill with their eggs just as they
had done in previous years, when they were astonished to be hustled
off the grounds by special messengers and policemen from the Senate
and House of Representatives, who declared that the distinguished
Senators and Congressmen in convention assembled had made up their
minds that their "door-yard" was no longer to be disfigured for days
after Easter Monday with broken eggs and vari-coloured shells! They
were weary of having their highly polished boots smeared with yolks
of eggs, and Easter Monday "egg-rolling" in Washington was to be
ended!

Then there went up all about the precincts of the nation's Capitol a
loud wail of anguish and wrath from hundreds of childish throats, in
which the numerous nurses and attendants joined. Many boys and girls
gathered on the steps of the building, sobbing in disappointment,
some of the larger boys throwing out direful hints of vengeance
to be wreaked on the heads of the nation's law-makers; but the
stately Senators remained stony-hearted, in spite of it all. In the
midst of the tearful hubbub the President's carriage drove past,
and President Hayes (the then head of the nation) drew up near the
portico to inquire why the children wept instead of rolling their
eggs on Easter Monday.

A chorus of voices informed him that the "nasty Senators wouldn't
let them play any more because they messed up the grounds"; and then
again from the throng of little ones confronting the President there
arose fresh outbursts of grief and indignation.

[Illustration: Lester Ralph.

"GOING TO MR. PRESIDENT'S."]

"Never you mind, children," said President Hayes soothingly. "You
may come right up to my house and play in my back yard."

Then the mourning was turned to rejoicing. Every child knew that in
all the city of Washington there was not so wonderful a "back yard"
as that which belonged to the White House. Its beautifully kept
slopes were ideal places for "egg-rolling," and then there was the
great fountain in the middle of the lawn! So when the President's
carriage started to return to the White House, it was followed by
several hundred boys and girls swinging their egg-baskets, and
singing and shouting out their gratitude to the President of the
United States, who was going to let them play in his garden. I doubt
if ever an American President had an escort of which he had such
cause to feel proud as that which accompanied President Hayes to the
White House gates on that memorable Easter Monday.

[Illustration: Lester Ralph.

ON THE WAY TO THE WHITE HOUSE.]

Outside the gates they were kept waiting for about an hour, while
the President gave his hurried instructions to the gardeners to put
the place in readiness. At eleven o'clock the gates swung open, and
from that time till six o'clock the children rolled their eggs.

Ever since then Washington children have gone regularly every Easter
Monday to play in the President's "back yard," each of President
Hayes's successors having kept up the custom of inserting in the
Washington papers each year an invitation to all the children
residents of the town to spend the day rolling eggs on the lawn.

In President Hayes's time his own children joined in the sport, and
during the last term of President Cleveland the President's little
girls, who were considered too young to roll eggs with the elder
children, were kept on the back portico with their mother or their
nurse, where they could watch the progress of the games.

Two years ago, on Easter Monday, I spent the day on the White House
lawn, watching the big "Presidential children's party," as it is
called. The gates were opened at a little after ten o'clock, and
during the day there were several thousand children playing in the
grounds. Many of the children, besides carrying their baskets of
eggs, carried also their luncheon-baskets, and when tired of games
they sat about on the grass, picnic-fashion, eating bread-and-butter
and cakes and hard-boiled eggs. I should here mention that, although
the President does not consider it necessary to make any rules for
the preservation of order among his young guests--it being taken
for granted that all children invited to the President's garden
will behave in their very best style--he always requests that those
who accept his invitation to roll their eggs on his lawn will
be particular to bring with them only eggs that are thoroughly
hard boiled, for in the game of "egg-picking" the use of raw or
soft-boiled eggs would be, to say the least, most inconvenient!

The game of "egg-picking" is a very simple one, although it is
entered into most enthusiastically by the boys and girls. The
children separate themselves into groups of eight or ten, then seat
themselves on the grass at the top of the slopes and roll their eggs
down to the bottom. The eggs that make the descent without getting
cracked or "picked" may be brought back and re-rolled, until they
do get cracked or until the game is over, while those that get
"picked" are placed back in the baskets. The boy who can hit his
neighbour's egg and "pick" it without "picking" his own is looked
upon as something of a hero. Of course, toward the end of the game
many of the players drop out, all of their eggs having got "picked."
Very often the players are reduced to two who show themselves
particularly expert, and then there is great excitement watching for
the winner.

Besides the game of "egg-picking" there are egg-ball games, egg
croquet games; but plain "egg-rolling," which consists of rolling
eggs down the slopes, going after them, and rolling them again and
again, seems to be the favourite amusement. Then, too, the children
engage in "jumping the rope" and other similar amusements.

Although many of the children spend the entire day on the lawn,
numbers of them remain for a couple of hours only. By this means
the grounds are not kept so crowded as they would otherwise be. The
hours between three and five o'clock, however, are considered the
most enjoyable, as during that time the President always arranges to
have the Marine Baud to entertain the children with music, and it
is at that time also that the President makes his appearance out on
the back portico to greet the children. It is, of course, thoroughly
understood that so busy a man as the President cannot spend his
whole day with his young visitors. He entertains them by turning
over his grounds to them, and they enjoy themselves in their own way
without molestation.

On the afternoon of the Easter Monday which I spent in Washington
President McKinley came out on the portico at about half-past three.
He took off his hat and waved it to the children, who all gathered
as near as possible about the portico and shouted out--

"Howdy do, Mr. President? Howdy do, howdy do?"--the boys taking off
their caps and the little girls waving their handkerchiefs.

"How do you do, children? Glad to see you, and hope you are having a
good time!" shouted back the President.

[Illustration: Lester Ralph.

PRESIDENT McKINLEY GREETING HIS YOUNG VISITORS.]

"Splendid time, Mr. President, and thank you for your invitation,"
called back the delighted little guests.

"That's right!" returned the President, laughing. "I hope you'll all
come again next Easter Monday."

"Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye, good-bye!" shouted the
children. Then President McKinley went back to his duties of State
and the children returned to their egg-rolling. Mrs. McKinley
sat on the portico most of the afternoon watching the merriment.
Occasionally a little boy or girl would edge up to the portico, and
push a blue or red egg through the railings, saying:

"Please, Mrs. President, I've brought you one of my eggs to keep!"

Mrs. McKinley accepted the little presents with the sweetest of
smiles and a "Thank you."

At about two o'clock in the afternoon the White House lawn looked
like a large picnic ground. Some of the children had brought napkins
to lay upon the grass when they should be ready to eat their
luncheon, and on the napkins they spread their boiled eggs and
bread-and-butter. One little girl, when I complimented her on her
daintiness, explained:

"I does it so I won't get eggshells on Mr. President's grass! My
mamma told me I must be careful, cos it wouldn't be very nice if the
President of the 'Nited States had to go round to-morrow picking up
eggshells after me!"

During the afternoon there were several slight accidents at the
fountain. Some of the children delighted in digging all the meat
from their eggs through the smallest possible aperture and then
floating the empty shells in the lower basin of the fountain where
the water was undisturbed. In trying to keep their improvised ships
from sailing away, two little girls fell into the water, but they
were quickly rescued by their nurses and taken home to be dried.

At five o'clock the crowd began to disperse, and at a little past
six the small guests of the President had all left the lawn and
were on their way to their various homes. Such a variety of homes,
indeed, they went to! Some to magnificent mansions on Connecticut
Avenue. Their fathers were high Government officials, Senators,
members of the Cabinet, and their mothers well-known society
women. Other little boys and girls went to very humble homes and
minded their little baby brothers and sisters while their mothers
got supper; and then there were the homes in the localities given
over almost entirely to the negro population. Before the War their
parents and grandparents had been slaves, little dreaming that their
descendants would ever be invited along with the children of the
aristocratic whites to play in the President's "back yard"!

By the way, what a sight that "back yard" did present on the morning
following Easter Monday! There were four gardeners busily at work
with rakes and brooms and baskets. They were gathering up the litter
of eggshells, breadcrumbs, bits of paper, lost playthings, and tiny
bits of muslin and calico that had somehow got torn off the dresses
of some of the children. At the fountain one of the gardeners was
fishing out pieces of string and floating shells. It was four
o'clock when the garden was finally "picked up" and shorn of its
festive appearance. It was then absolutely "spick and span," and
no one could ever have guessed that the day before it had been a
playground for several thousand children!

  ELIZABETH L. BANKS.




[Illustration: decorative]

FORGIVENESS.


    Within a spacious hall, before a fire
      Whose flick'ring light danced weirdly on his brow,
      Stood Peter mutely brooding o'er his vow
    To die with Christ, though thousands should conspire
    To wreak their vengeance, profitless and dire,
      On Christ and all who faith in Him avow.
      With sin the soul of Peter struggled now,
    When, "Known, or not, to Jesus?" men inquire.

    "I know Him not"--thus, falsely, thrice he swore;
      And think you that because this weak man fell
    The God-Man would deny him evermore?
      Christ looked upon him, and that look did spell:
    "For thee My soul shall on the Cross be riven,
      And, therefore, Peter, is thy sin forgiven!"

    LOUIS H. VICTORY.

[Illustration: OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDS

The above picture records a brave attempted rescue on the part of
Private Frederick Lakeman Banks, of the London Rifle Brigade. When
on the way to the Rainham Rifle Range some time ago, Banks and
several of his companions were attracted to this spot by the cries
of some bystanders, who stated that a child had fallen into the
thick muddy water of the tidal creek and had disappeared. Banks
immediately threw off his coat, plunged into the filthy water,
and after a three minutes' search succeeded in finding the boy.
Unhappily, the child was past help; but, all the same, the gallantry
displayed by the rescuer was rewarded by the bestowal of the Bronze
Medal of THE QUIVER Heroes' Fund.]




[Illustration: MISS LUCRETIA'S NEW IDEA.

H V Brock]

_A COMPLETE STORY._

By M. H. Cornwall Legh, Author of "The Steep Ascent," Etc.


I.

"So poor Annie is dead!" Miss Lucretia repeated as she
laid down the black-edged letter which she had just read through for
the third time and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief already damp
and flabby. "Poor Annie! So soon after poor Edward's death too! And
now I wonder what will become of poor little Amy?"

She repeated the adjective which seemed most appropriate as often as
she liked, for she was only speaking to herself.

Miss Lucretia lived alone in a very small house, which was one of
a row, all just alike, with a bow-window apiece for their glory,
and a little bit of garden and a fence and a gate. They were called
Primrose Cottages, despite the fact that there were no primroses
about them.

Thirlambury was a very dull, behind-the-age little town, and people
thought Miss Lucretia a very dull, behind-the-age little lady. She
thought so herself; for she had always taken life meekly.

Lucretia was the only one of the three sisters--of whose happy
girlhood together the old maid was thinking as she wiped away
her tears--who had been at all meek. Constantia and Ann had both
been strong-charactered, masterful girls, in accordance with the
traditions of their family. With Constantia this decided turn had
met with the happiest development. It had enabled her to manage to
perfection a husband and family, and it was with pardonable pride
that she now looked at her six successful sons and daughters,
all brought up just as they should have been, physically,
intellectually, and morally; of whom the last had just left the
nursery for the school-room.

With Ann the family characteristics had gone in the wrong direction.
Her strong will had led her to marry a very unsatisfactory little
man, whom his family finally exported to New Zealand, with her and
their four children, rejoicing over the happy riddance. Out there
Constantia did not like to say, providentially, though that was the
adverb which suggested itself--the four children took diphtheria,
and every one of them died.

When the grass had grown green on those four graves, another
child was born--little Amy--and Aunt Lucretia was asked to be its
godmother. And now, there was this child of five years old left
without either parent. They had not been first-class parents,
but Miss Lucretia did not think of that; her heart being of too
old-fashioned make for such philosophy.

"An orphan, poor little dear!" she said to herself, and her
handkerchief became damp again at the thought.

"Constantia has arranged already about her being brought to
England," Miss Lucretia soliloquised. (Being alone, she had got into
the way of soliloquising.) "How prompt Constantia always is! And now
what will become of the child?"

It was not an idle speculation. Miss Lucretia was revolving
something in her mind--an idea so new, so absorbing, that over it
her eyes dried, and she put back the letter into its envelope with
untrembling fingers.

"I am sure I could do it!" she said at last, speaking aloud this
time, and with a great deal of determination. "A child of five
cannot cost much to keep, and there are many little ways in which
I could reduce my expenditure." Then she relapsed into silent
thought again. She was making deep calculations, wondering how an
income which just sufficed for her and her faithful Fanny could
be stretched at the four corners so as to cover the expenses of
one more member of humanity. Such a little member that in a large
household she could be received and fed and clothed for some years
to come without any perceptible difference in the outgoings; but
this was a very small household, and the matter had to be considered.

Miss Lucretia's income was of the kind described as modest; but she
was a careful manager, and, as everybody knew how poor she was,
nothing was expected of her in the way of entertaining beyond a
quiet cup of afternoon tea, and the promoters of charity lists went
away from her door contented if she only gave half-a-crown.

She always did give the half-crown, and a penny to the organ-grinder
who came round weekly, and sixpence each to the butcher's boy, the
baker's boy, and the grocer's boy at Christmas; the same every year,
not allowing herself any wild excursions of charity till the regular
subscriptions had been provided for.

But it was not in her philanthropies that Miss Lucretia proposed
making her substantial reductions. There were a great many little
luxuries which could be curtailed.

Regarding food, people would have said that no one was more
economical than Miss Lucretia, but Miss Lucretia herself knew
better. It was true that there never was any waste in this little
establishment. A pound of meat was never ordered when three-quarters
of a pound would do; and every scrap of food was eaten. But the
meat and the milk and the butter ordered for 4, Primrose Cottages
were always of the very best. The eggs must be newlaid, and not
selected. The pot of jam--"preserves," Miss Lucretia called it,
with old-fashioned elegance--in which she and Fanny indulged once
a fortnight, must be of whole fruit in syrup; not the marvels of
cheapness in two-pound jars.

"Why," thought Miss Lucretia now to herself, "should I buy butter
at eighteenpence a pound, when they say the Normandy butter, or
the Brittany, is really excellent? And it does seem a sinful waste
to give two shillings for tea when one can get it quite good,
the Vicar's wife tells me, at sixteen-pence. Indeed, I have seen
phenomenal tea at a shilling." And so on.

The little lady proceeded with her reductions till she was quite
convinced that Amy's coming need make no real difference in Fanny's
comfort--the question which had pressed most upon her mind.

Then there were Amy's clothes to be thought of. Well, they would not
cost much. There was a gown hanging up now in the cupboard which
might be cut up for her.

Then there was a crimson merino dress which Miss Lucretia had
bought last summer for the Vicarage garden-party--not without some
misgivings as to the choice of so unwearing a colour, but with the
solace to her conscience of knowing it could be dyed.

That would make a sweet little frock and cloak for Amy; for the
dress had only been worn twice, and its wearer had held it up very
carefully out of the dust.

Miss Lucretia went up to the little box-room opening out of her
bedroom, and turned out a number of old treasures--things she had
kept ever since her girlhood, carefully folded, wrong side out,
and covered with tissue-paper. Here was her bridesmaid's dress for
Constantia's wedding--that would cut up into a lovely Sunday frock;
and here was a piece of china silk which had never been made up till
Miss Lucretia grew too old for white dresses; and other things that
would all come in. Yes, she would have no difficulty in dressing
little Amy, and making her look just as smart as the children at
Beaconsfield Mansion when occasion arose for it. She hoped the
occasions would arise, that her child would be asked to parties,
like other children, and with a new interest the old woman thought
of the different families of her acquaintance.

And now about a room for Amy. The little box-room must be cleared
out, and that would make a charming nest for her. The old chintz
with the rosebuds on it Miss Lucretia had just taken from its paper
would be the very thing for curtains. A little bed would just
fit here behind the door, and a washstand there, and so on. Miss
Lucretia planned it all out with absorbing interest. The question
was, where was the money to come from for buying the furniture?
There were certain things in the box-room which could be sold. Miss
Lucretia's harp; she never played on it now, and harping was out of
fashion, so it would not be wanted for Amy. And that portfolio of
engravings--and---- She had soon marked out enough of her treasures
to make the furnishing of the little room an easy matter.

Then she went downstairs and divulged her great project to Fanny.
Her co-operation was very necessary, and her mistress approached her
a little timidly.

"Fanny, I am thinking of having a child to live with me."

"Bless us! ma'am, a child?"

"Yes, my poor sister's little orphan."

Fanny's heart was warm. She listened to Miss Lucretia's plans and
wishes without any crushing comment, but at the end she remarked,
"Well, I should have thought as Mrs. Dalrymple would have taken her;
she is so rich and with that big place and all; but if she don't
feel disposed that way, and you do, ma'am, well, I suppose the poor
little soul had best come to us." That was quite enough, and now
Miss Lucretia hurried out of the house, and into the High Street, to
inquire about the price of children's beds. It was early in the day,
of course, to enter into such details, but then, the whole affair
was so interesting that they could not be put off till to-morrow.

As Miss Lucretia walked down the High Street, she was attracted by
a toyshop, and found herself straying into it to inquire the price
of a doll in the window. It would be very silly to buy one so soon,
and before any of the necessaries of life were provided for. But the
temptation proved too strong for her. She went in and bought it--the
first present she would give to _her child_.

Miss Lucretia spent an hour in the furniture shop. She had to
arrange first with the proprietor about the sale of her own
belongings, and then to choose the furniture for the room. She
found she wanted only the prettiest, nicest things for Amy, though
the cheapest for their solid value would have been her main object
if for herself. Then there was a lovely paper, with nursery rhyme
pictures all over it, which so fascinated her that she ordered
half-a-dozen pieces of it to come on approval.

Altogether, it was a most exciting afternoon, and Miss Lucretia
came home with a springing step, and radiant eyes, and a general
bearing of youthfulness, such as she had not known for the last
twenty years. A bright golden glow had suddenly overspread the grey
landscape of her life, such as the sun sometimes throws at sunset,
when it looks out from under a cloud at the end of a long grey day.

Before the post went out, she wrote a letter to Constantia,
announcing her intention of taking Amy for her own, which gave a
delightful seal of finality to her decision.


II.

"I could not have believed that Lucretia would be so foolish. Just
fancy! she wants to adopt Amy!" was Mrs. Dalrymple's comment, as
she read her sister's letter; and everyone at the breakfast table
exclaimed.

"It is a very generous idea," remarked Mr. Dalrymple mildly. He had
always been a mild sort of man, and marriage with Constantia had not
made him less so.

"Generous! yes. Lucretia is always generous. You know the difficulty
I had in stopping her giving expensive presents to the children; but
it is so very foolish. I shall write her a letter, of course, and
tell her that we intend to have Amy ourselves. Poor Lucretia! Fancy
her with the charge of a child!"

So Constantia wrote her letter. It contained about a quarter of
the words that Lucretia had used, and was very sensible, kind and
decided. There was no answer required to it.

Great was Mrs. Dalrymple's surprise, therefore, when by return of
post came a reply, not of acquiescence, but setting forth the other
aunt's superior claim as godmother, an idea which, as Constantia
remarked, was simply absurd.

"I shall have to go to Thirlambury myself," she said: "though it
is not very convenient." It was often not very convenient to go to
Thirlambury.

[Illustration: Then she divulged her great project to Fanny.

H V Brock]

In the meantime, Miss Lucretia had been indulging in her new
day-dream, till every bit of her life had been remodelled in
anticipation, and brought into harmony with her coming work and
responsibility as an adopted mother. Already she attached to herself
that beautiful title, the missing of which had been the sole sorrow
of her life. As a young girl, Lucretia's day-dreams had not been of
lovers, but of marriage; the joys of children clinging round her
neck, the merry voices about the house, the little feet pattering up
and down.

And now she counted the days to the one coming so near, when
she should feel the real warm arms of little Amy clasped round
"godmamma's" neck, and fold the child in her own with the new
wonderful joy of possession. She felt that she could hold up her
head again among women, and that the life which a week ago had
seemed to hold nothing more except advancing infirmities was full of
new possibilities and ever-increasing interest. Miss Lucretia lived
again.

Miss Lucretia actually bought the bed, which the shopman had urged
her to purchase at once, or it might be gone, as he had no other
bedstead for a child.

As Miss Lucretia relinquished one after another of her own comforts
and conveniences, the blessedness of giving grew more and more
apparent to her. Nothing in life had ever given her a joy like the
joy of this sacrifice.

Four days had passed so, and Miss Lucretia was just planning which
plot of the small garden space allowed to a Primrose cottage might
be spared from beans and cauliflowers to make a flowerbed for Amy,
when a ring was heard at the door-bell. Miss Lucretia answered it
herself, as Fanny was out, and there stood Constantia!

[Illustration: There stood Constantia!]

Miss Lucretia was always delighted to see her sister, and made the
most of her rather infrequent visits. But to-day a kind of misgiving
came over her at the unexpected sight of Constantia's smiling face;
and a sensation of defeat as Constantia uttered, in her brisk,
cheerful voice, the words, "And how are you, Lucretia? You didn't
expect to see me?"

Lucretia welcomed her, as usual, and took her into the little
parlour, which was drawing-room or dining-room according to the time
of day. It was drawing-room now, and the dining-table stood folded,
with a cloth and some ornaments on it, in a corner; everything was
as neat and carefully arranged as it always was; each chair in that
particular spot which experience had proved to be the best for it.

"How nice and tidy you always look, Lucretia," was Mrs. Dalrymple's
first remark, as she sat down with a genial laugh in the visitor's
arm-chair. "You must be struck with the difference when you come to
The Towers. With six children, it is impossible to keep everything
in its place!"

Miss Lucretia asked after the six children, categorically, staving
off the subject which she knew very well had brought her sister to
Thirlambury.

"The girls are as well as possible," answered their mother, massing
them, for brevity; "and they are all looking forward so much to
having Amy." Mrs. Dalrymple was a person who took bulls by their
horns. She always knew exactly what she intended to do with the
bull--the great secret of success in life--and was quite sure about
its being the best thing that could be done.

"But I intended to have Amy," answered Miss Lucretia, in almost as
firm a voice, but putting herself at a disadvantage at once by her
slip of the past tense.

"Yes, I know you did. You wrote me all about it. It was exceedingly
kind and good of you to think of such a thing, but, of course, it
was quite out of the question. As I told you when I wrote, we intend
to take her."

"Didn't you get my second letter?"

"Yes, and I saw by that you did not quite understand mine to you. I
wrote in a hurry, and I suppose I did not make myself clear."

Constantia Dalrymple was under the impression that she was the most
truthful of women.

"You made yourself perfectly clear," answered Lucretia, with a
quiet dignity which was not usual with her. "But before you spoke
of taking the child, I had made up my mind to do so. I have spoken
to Fanny about it, and she is perfectly willing to accept the extra
economies we shall have to practise, and any trouble Amy will give
her. Of course, I shall take charge of her myself."

"How good of Fanny! I have always thought she must have enough to do
with the whole work of your house, and she works a good deal in the
garden, too, does she not?"

Miss Lucretia looked a trifle uncomfortable.

"I think Fanny will enjoy having a young life about the house," she
replied, rather hurriedly; "just as I shall myself."

Constantia smiled. It was not exactly a nice smile, but perhaps she
did not know that.

"I do not think either you or Fanny have had much to do with
children," she said. "It is all very well to have them with you for
a few hours at a time, when they are in their best frocks and on
their best behaviour, and you have nothing to do with them except
amuse them. But when you have the whole responsibility of a child,
and are obliged to look after her from morning till night, it is a
very different thing."

"Of course it is," said Miss Lucretia.

It was that very fact, comprising as it did the constant demand
on time and thought and labour, with all the rich reward of
corresponding affection from the child in its dependence, that
made the sweetness of this dream of motherhood. But Lucretia could
not put this into words. She was never very fluent with her deeper
ideas, which were, perhaps, instincts rather than formulated
notions, and she was least fluent of all with Constantia.

"And how could you ever afford it?" went on Mrs. Dalrymple.

Lucretia explained her scheme of retrenchment, and all her little
plans.

"But you won't be able to go on dressing Amy with your old things
for ever," said Constantia. "And, then, there will be hats and boots
and shoes.

"She may be ill, too; children have to go through measles and
whooping-cough, and that sort of thing: how will you afford to pay
the doctor?"

Lucretia was silent for a moment; Constantia had such a very
convincing way of saying things, and making all that was unpractical
and visionary appear so; but she was not really vanquished.

"I think one must trust for that----" she began, at which Constantia
smiled again.

"How about schooling, too? A girl's education is a very expensive
thing nowadays. I am sure Edie and Gwendoline have cost us as much
as the boys."

"Amy is only five now, and for some years to come I think of
teaching her myself." The present tense this time, for she was on
her mettle. "You know we were very thoroughly grounded by Miss Cox."

"That is a long time ago, Lucretia!"

"Yes, it is a long time, but I suppose the principles of grammar and
arithmetic are the same, and I have not forgotten how to read!"

It surprised Mrs. Dalrymple to see her sister pluck up so much
spirit, but this defiant attitude did not affect her. There was in
her such a certainty of being in the right, and of causing the right
to prevail, that she was able to take all Lucretia's opposition very
quietly. It was obstinate of her sister to hold out like this--weak
people always were obstinate--and it was extremely foolish, but her
surrender was only a matter of time.

Lucretia went on talking, urging her suit in a way that would have
struck some people as pathetic, but Constantia was not much given
to seeing the pathos in life; her view of things in general was
optimistic, and unless a sorrow was thrust before her she did not
look at it.

Constantia let Lucretia talk on until she naturally ceased, after
repeating herself a good many times, in the way that peculiarly
weakens a cause. Then she brought up her reserve force.

"But do you think it would be good for the child to be by herself,
just with you and old Fanny?"

Fanny was ten years younger than her mistress, and Lucretia realised
how very old fifty-nine must be.

Constantia paused a moment. Then she went on to point out all the
drawbacks of a bringing-up such as Amy must have with two old
maids--not using the term, but dwelling on the characteristics
implied in it.

"What would you do with the child if she were naughty?" Mrs.
Dalrymple asked by way of a test question. "She is sure to have a
strong will of her own; you know what poor Ann was."

Miss Lucretia could not answer the question, naughtiness seeming to
her as multi-form a thing as illness, and the treatment for either
depending upon its form and cause. She replied that her idea was to
bring the child up on a system of love; a vague answer which did not
satisfy her sister.

"Bringing up children is not such an easy and simple matter as
people might think who have had no experience." Here Constantia
herself stood on a firm foundation. "And it is much more difficult
to bring up one child by itself than when there are others for it to
consort with."

Then Mrs. Dalrymple proceeded to dilate on the smallness of Primrose
Cottage, which was certainly a very poor little place compared with
The Towers. There Amy would have the grounds to play about in; she
would share the girls' governess, ride on Gwendoline's pony, and
Nurse, who had been so splendid with Bertram and Edie, would only be
too pleased to have a child again.

"It always makes her and me quite unhappy to look at the empty
nursery," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "though the children have only flown
into the schoolroom."

There was a weight of truth in every sentence Constantia uttered,
which made it strike like a battering-ram against the walls of Miss
Lucretia's airy castle. At last she gave a little cry--a cry in
words:

"Oh, don't tell me that I mustn't have Amy!"

"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As
you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I
leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would
really be best for Amy."

Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the
cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a
corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may
who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been
doing its duty.

At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple
greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the
anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which
was always so much better than they could get their cook at The
Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and
giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while
Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that
seemed as if it would never smile again.

She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her
life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be
lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the
sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in
will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial
into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship.

But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was
only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing.
No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it,
so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings,
Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the
altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by,
the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The
result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not
have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not
sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was
as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of
unselfishness had not made any other course impossible.

It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to
Constantia she must go.

"I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace
as befitted her unheroic sacrifice.

"I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about
it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system,
the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children,
never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will
feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life
and your pretty cottage upside down."

There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she
could have understood, it would have made no difference.

Miss Lucretia said nothing. It was time now for Mrs. Dalrymple to
go, and, finishing her second cup of tea, she wished her sister an
affectionate good-bye, with the promise of a hamper of game from The
Towers, where they were just going to have one of their "big shoots."

[Illustration: She had come to the great sacrifice of her life.

H V Brock]

"Perhaps I might have done it more kindly," Constantia thought, as
she drove in her cab to the station. "But it was such a foolish
idea. I am glad Lucretia saw it for herself in the end."

Miss Lucretia went upstairs with slow, old footsteps, after her
sister had gone. The last red glow had faded from her landscape, and
everything was grey again, a shade deeper grey now, as it must go on
growing deeper, till the night. She went into the little room, and,
as she looked at the little bed which was never to hold her child, a
tear came up into each of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

The doll lay on the bed, wrapped up in the white muslin that was to
have made its underclothes, looking like a tiny corpse. It seemed to
Lucretia like her dream of motherhood as it was now, the dead body
of something that had never really lived.

She went to the window and looked out on the grey, darkening
landscape, and over it there twinkled one faint star. She stood
watching, and the star grew brighter, then another came out, and
then another. For a long time Lucretia looked up: then she knelt
down, looking up still.

The far-off light from the stars seemed to be shining on her face as
she turned it to Fanny, when that faithful woman came up at last to
bring her mistress down to supper.

"Miss Amy is going to Mrs. Dalrymple," she said, quietly, and with a
little smile. "My sister left it to me to decide whether she should
go to The Towers or come here, and I gave her up to them, Fanny. I
am glad she is going to my sister. She will be happier there."




[Illustration: SOME FAMOUS EASTER HYMNS]


There can be no two opinions as to the most famous Easter hymn.
In almost every church throughout the land, and in most chapels
too, there arises, every Easter morning, the well-known strains of
"Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Alleluia!" There may be an occasional
difference in the wording of a line here and there, as the hymn
appears in various hymnals, but practically it is the one hymn which
binds all Christian congregations together on Easter morning. It
is our Easter greeting one to another, in the joy and hope of that
blessed day, like the greeting of the pious Russian on the same
morn, who salutes every passer-by with the words "Christ is risen!"

[Illustration: (_Photo: W. and D. Downey, Ebury Street, S.W._)

THE REV. S. BARING-GOULD.]

[Illustration: (_Facsimile of part of the original manuscript of Mr.
Baring-Gould's Easter Hymn._)]

    On the Resurrection Morning
      Soul & Body meet again,
    No more sorrow, no more weeping,
                No more pain.
    Here awhile they must be parted
      And the Flesh its Sabbath keep,
    Waiting, in a holy stillness
                Fast asleep.

           *    *    *    *

    O the beauty! O the gladness
      Of that Resurrection Day,
    Which shall never, thro' long ages,
                Pass away.
    On that happy Easter morning
      All the graves their dead restore,
    Father, sister, child & Mother
                Meet once more.

    S. Baring Gould.

It is strange, therefore, that no one has even an indistinct
notion as to who wrote this famous hymn. Its author is, and long
has been, unknown; and, equally strange, there is almost the same
to be said of the composer of its famous tune. For the tune is as
great a favourite as the words, and, in fact, whilst the words do
occasionally alter, as stated, the tune is ever the same one we know
so well. The honour of being its composer has by some been ascribed
to Henry Carey, but there are no certain grounds for the assumption,
fine musician though he was. So completely has this tune associated
itself, however, with the hymn that few people are aware that some
collections of hymns have alternative tunes to the great song of
praise for Easter Day. But even Monk's tune to it in "Hymns Ancient
and Modern," takes quite an inferior place; it is seldom, or never,
used.

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

DR. E. H. TURPIN.]

Possibly the immense popularity of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day"
depends on two things. Firstly, the words are extremely simple--a
little child can understand them; secondly, the tune is one of the
very best "congregational" ones of any collection.

Were I asked to name the next favourite Easter hymn, I should
certainly give the palm to one of the most beautiful hymns of
the Church of Christ--a hymn which has solaced and sustained the
hearts of thousands in their dark hours of grief for the loss of
their loved ones, just as it has rejoiced the hearts of so many
loving servants of the Master at their Easter festivals. I refer to
Baring-Gould's touching hymn "On the Resurrection morning."

The comfort derived from the sweet words of hope and promise in this
hymn by members of the Church militant here on earth will never be
known till that "Resurrection morning."

The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould has kindly given me, for THE QUIVER,
a copy of the manuscript of this hymn, and a few notes about it
which cannot but prove interesting. It was composed on May Day, in
1864, he says; and, certainly, that is appropriate enough, for do
not all poets sing of May Day as a special day for the awakening
and rejoicing of nature? Horbury, that robust Yorkshire village
where Mr. Baring-Gould was then the curate, was the birthplace of
"On the Resurrection morning," as it was of what has proved one of
the six most "popular" hymns of the world, viz. "Onward, Christian
soldiers." So Horbury enjoys no mean fame. No one speaks more
lovingly of Horbury than does its former curate, now so famous; and
Horbury--church, chapel, and "non-connected"--is proud to a degree
of Sabine Baring-Gould and of the fame he has for ever given its
name by these and other noted hymns.

[Illustration: "ON THE RESURRECTION MORNING."

(_Facsimile of Dr. Turpin's Musical Setting._)]

It will be noticed that there is a word or two slightly different
in the author's copy from those of the usually printed text. In one
case his manuscript is not perhaps the better. "Which shall never,
through long ages, pass away," is not, in the writer's opinion,
grander than "Which shall not, through endless ages, pass away."
Dr. E. H. Turpin's fine tune to "On the Resurrection morning" has
the merit of exactly suiting it. All can sing it, and that makes
it so popular. The composer, with great kindness, has also allowed
me to reproduce his manuscript of it here; and it is only fair to
say that did the renown of the celebrated organist, as a composer,
depend only on this one tune, so linked to the hymn, it would not
easily perish whilst joyful hearts on Easter Day, and sad hearts at
the graveside of loved ones, join in singing "On the Resurrection
morning."

[Illustration: _Come, ye faithful, raise the strain._

  _S. John Damascene._        _Arthur Henry Brown._

FACSIMILE OF THE COMPOSER'S ORIGINAL SETTING.]

To the Rev. J. M. Neale, who died about the time when Baring-Gould
wrote the hymn just spoken of, the Christian world is indebted for
three splendid Easter hymns. Of these it is difficult to say which
is the finest, though perhaps, being quite original, we should give
that honour to the well-known "The foe behind, the deep before."
Every section of the Church of Christ sings with deep and solemn
pathos those beautiful lines--

    "No longer must the mourners weep,
      Nor call departed Christians dead;
     For death is hallow'd into sleep,
      And every grave is but a bed"--

following so closely on the joyful strain of "Christ is risen!" in
the preceding verse.

[Illustration: (_Photo: William Gill, Colchester._)

_Arthur H. Brown._]

To this hymn innumerable tunes have been composed by musical people
of various degrees of ability; but it has always seemed to me that
by far the best are the two tunes given to it in the Wesleyan
hymn-book, and, curious to relate, the composers are both ministers,
the Rev. Olinthus R. Barnicott and the Rev. Sidney J. P. Dunman.
And it may safely be said that the singing by an average Wesleyan
congregation of this fine hymn, to either of these fine tunes, will
not be easily forgotten by the person who hears it for the first
time.

The two other famous Easter hymns of Dr. Neale's composition were
really translations from the Greek. Nevertheless, they are grand
translations, if one may say so. "The Day of Resurrection"--best
recognised when sung to the tune composed by Berthold Tours, the
celebrated composer is a regular favourite at Easter-tide; but even
more famous is the other hymn from the Greek--

  "Come, ye faithful, raise the strain
    Of triumphant gladness."

This hymn may safely be placed amongst the most popular of Easter
favourites, and, like so many others, whilst excellent in its
words, it owes not a little of its fame to its fine tune. This
latter was composed by Mr. Arthur Henry Brown, of Brentwood, and
was called "St. John Damascene," under which name it still figures
in the various Church hymn-books. Mr. Brown told me that the tune
was composed in less than a quarter of an hour! But he also told
me that even that was eclipsed by the tune "St. Anatolius"--does
any hymn-lover not know it?--to "The day is past and over," which
was composed in five minutes! Truly that was an "inspired" five
minutes, for which the Christian Church has reason to be thankful!

To the late Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Christopher Wordsworth--who that
knew the saintly old man did not love him?--the world is indebted
for the ever-popular

    "Alleluia! Alleluia!
     Hearts to Heav'n and voices raise,"

which always goes with "a good swing" on Easter morn. Its tone is
"victory" from beginning to end, and there are few more beautiful
Easter verses than the first one of this hymn.

Sir Arthur Sullivan composed its tune--the one best known, "Lux
Eoi"--and the very lilt of the music seems somehow to suggest the
work of the great musician who gave us similar "swinging" tunes for
"Onward, Christian soldiers" ("St. Gertrude") and for "The Jubilee
Hymn." But Sir Arthur tells me that "Lux Eoi" was not composed
especially for this hymn, but for another one less famous. The
rapidity of Sir Arthur's composition is only equalled by that of
Arthur H. Brown, already mentioned. The gifted composer of _The
Golden Legend_ thinks long before he puts pen to paper, and often
defers doing this "till the last minute," as we say; but when he
_does_ get started, he goes at it as few composers can, and will
polish off the introduction to an oratorio in a night!

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

THE LATE BISHOP WORDSWORTH.]

"When I survey the wondrous Cross," that splendid old hymn of that
splendid old divine, Dr. Isaac Watts, is probably one of our very
oldest hymns that is at all well known to-day. Everybody sings it,
for everybody knows both words and tune: Englishman, native African,
Brother Jonathan, converted Chinese, all sing alike from the heart,
after they have felt the real significance and power of that death
and resurrection--

    "Love so amazing, so divine,
     Demands my life, my soul, my all!"

"Rockingham," the tune to which this hymn is eternally wedded,
was composed by Dr. Edward Miller. There is a magnificent roll
and stateliness about it which suits the words perfectly, and the
wonderful magnetic force which comes over one as one listens to six
thousand people--led by, say, Mr. Ira D. Sankey, singing "When I
survey the wondrous Cross"--was well described by the nameless slave
in America, who, hearing it thus sung by a crowd, and being reproved
for humming the tune as the people sang, said, "Massa, it no use; me
_must_ jine in!"

[Illustration: (_Photo: J. C. Schaarwächter, Berlin._)

SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.]

A living hymn-writer of no small fame--the present Archbishop of
York--has given us one of the very finest of the hymns for this
season. Though not popular in the sense that Dr. Watts' celebrated
hymn is, yet there are few more charmingly beautiful lines,
suggestive of Good Friday and Easter thoughts, than are found in Dr.
Maclagan's hymn, "Lord, when Thy Kingdom comes, remember me!"

This hymn is one of the best-known of the Archbishop's, though, of
course, his most famous one is the ever-beautiful "The Saints of
God, their conflict past."

We cannot pass by without notice the Rev. John Ellerton's "Welcome,
happy morning," and the Rev. F. W. Faber's very sweetly sad "O come
and mourn with me awhile," which, of course, is a hymn for Good
Friday. The tune to this was written by the celebrated Durham man
to whom the Church of England (and all denominations) will ever
be in debt for some of the sweetest hymn-tunes the world has ever
known--Dr. J. B. Dykes. And it was fitting that he who composed the
beautiful tune to "Our blest Redeemer," for Whitsuntide, should then
give us another ever-famous tune to Faber's grand words.

[Illustration: (_Photo: T. Heaviside, Durham._)

THE LATE DR. J. B. DYKES.]

Let me close this brief account of some of our finest Easter hymns
by just recalling one or two of our finest Easter anthems. Of
course, the first, _par excellence_, is the immortal "I know that my
Redeemer liveth"; and equally with it, from the same "oratorio of
oratorios," is the "Hallelujah" Chorus. Of these what shall be said?
Shall it be told again how Handel thought he was in heaven when he
wrote them? Or shall we note that the "Hallelujah" Chorus is one of
the three pieces of music in the world on hearing which every Briton
stands up and doffs his hat? These are the National Anthem, the
"Dead March" in _Saul_, and the "Hallelujah" Chorus. In the first he
pays his tribute to his earthly sovereign; in the second he pays his
last tribute to the venerated dead; in the third he acknowledges the
tribute due to his Almighty Lord, the Sovereign of Heaven.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Hills and Saunders, Oxford._)

_John Stainer_]

Apart from these two masterpieces of Handel, the prettiest and most
beautiful Easter anthem is that of Dr. Stainer, composed for the
cantata _The Raising of Jairus' Daughter_. In a wide experience of
cathedral music and anthem-singing by our best choirs, I doubt if
there is any much finer musical treat than to listen to the choir of
St. Paul's, or that of York Minster, as there rolls forth that most
beautiful of anthems, words and music--"Awake, thou that sleepest,
and arise from the dead, and God shall give thee light." This is,
indeed, a noble song for "Easter's bright morning," and well may its
words be taken as our special Easter thought; for to all of us, in
some way or other, they must have a special meaning.




[Illustration: SELF-HEALING.]

By The Rev. Hugh Macmillan, D.D., L.L.D.

"Physician, heal thyself."--ST. LUKE iv. 23.


We are accustomed to think that the healing virtue there
is in herbs and trees was meant only for man; that herbs and trees
were created with these virtues in them for the special purpose of
curing our human diseases and ministering to our human wants, and
for nothing else; that God had man in view in the beginning when He
gave these medicinal qualities to plants, and apart from man's use
of them they serve no other purpose.

Now this, which is a common, widespread idea, is an altogether
erroneous one. For if God meant these vegetable qualities and
products exclusively for man's use, the questions may be pertinently
asked, Why were they so long undiscovered; and why do they occur in
places often remote from human habitation, and waste themselves upon
the desert air?

It is true indeed that God designed them as remedies for man's
ailments, that He prepared beforehand the cures of human ills long
previous to the necessity for these cures arising. But this law of
mercy was a comprehensive one, and had a two-fold object in view.
God in the first place created the plant complete in itself, adapted
to its own circumstances and requirements; and in the second place,
it is through this perfect adaptability to its own wants that it
becomes generally useful in nature, and ministers to the necessities
of other created things. It is because the plant heals itself first
by the remedy which it grows and produces by its own powers that it
becomes a medicine to the animal world, when any members of that
world are placed in similar circumstances and exposed to a similar
disease.

Why, for instance, does the Peruvian bark tree produce the bitter
principle in its bark from which we have prepared the valuable
medicine called quinine? Is it not because that bitter principle
is necessary to preserve the health of the tree itself in the wet,
malarial districts where it grows? The Peruvian bark tree grows its
own quinine, and administers it to itself, as it were, in order to
prevent a disease in itself caused by the marshy places where it
is found, similar to fever in the human subject. The willow grows
beside rivers and streams which are apt to cause exhalations and
breed influences that are noxious to the well-being of the tree. It
has therefore developed in its own bark a febrifuge called salicin,
which protects it from these noxious influences and maintains its
trunk and branches and foliage in vigorous health and beauty. And
it is because the quinine is good for the tree itself in malarial
places that it is good for the fever which human beings take in such
places; and it is because the salicin of the willow guards the tree
from the injurious exhalations of marshes and river banks that it
is a specific for rheumatism in man, which is produced by the same
causes.

The same benefit which the medicinal principle developed by itself
works in its own constitution it confers upon man when subjected
to the same evil. And so it is with all the herbal medicines. They
have a purpose to serve in the economy of the plant that yields them
before they can minister to human sickness and disease. Sugar was
not meant in the first instance to sweeten man's cup, but to store
up food for the plant in order to enable it to flower. Tannin is
created in the bark of the oak tree, in the first instance, not for
the purpose of helping to make leather for man's shoes, but for
the purpose of preventing mildew and fungous growths from settling
on the bark of the tree and so decaying it. Scent is produced
in flowers and shrubs that grow in watery places, not for man's
gratification in the first instance, but in order to deodorise the
air and make it fit for these scented flowers and shrubs to breathe
and to preserve their vitality and vigour. Aromatic fragrance is
yielded by the grey shrubs and herbs of the dry desert, not that the
garments of the human passer-by might smell pleasantly of it, but
that it might regulate the temperature, and keep the plants cool in
the burning heat of the noonday and warm in the freezing cold of the
night air.

Such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. Indeed, it may
be regarded as a rule of nature without exception that, whatever
properties plants possess that are useful to man, these properties,
in the first instance, are not only useful but indispensable to
themselves. And it is because they serve necessary uses in their own
economy that they are found so necessary in the economy of man. Each
plant that grows in circumstances where it is likely to be injured
by the soil or climate develops within itself the antidotes and
remedies against these unfavourable circumstances. It is a physician
that heals itself first of all, that adapts itself as perfectly as
possible to the peculiarities of its own place of growth. Nature
and it are harmonious: they help each other. The qualities that
are beneficial to itself are equally in the same way beneficial to
other creatures; and it helps the world because it has first helped
itself. It imparts health all around because it looks first after
its own health.

All this is obvious. The plant could not exist at all did it not
develop those qualities which would minister to its welfare and
adjust it perfectly to its environment. But in human economy we
fancy somehow that the law is less strict and more irregular, and
can be violated at times with impunity. We think that a man can
perform the part of a physician, and cure others, although he cannot
cure a trouble that afflicts himself; that he can restore others
to health while he himself is unhealthy. We can separate between a
man's skill and his personality; and, indeed, there are many cases
where a physician who is dying slowly of some incurable disease
can yet, by his knowledge and cleverness, so treat his patients
that he may heal their diseases and restore them to health and
strength. But we are usually suspicious of a doctor endeavouring
to cure others when he himself labours under an uncured disease.
We reason naturally that his first concern should be himself; and
if he fails in doing good to himself by his skill and medicine,
when his interests are most of all concerned and the motive for
healing strongest, how can he hope to succeed in the case of others,
strangers and comparatively indifferent to him? We should not accept
with implicit confidence a so-called remedy for baldness forced
upon our notice by a person whose own head was in that condition.
We should expect him to operate upon himself in the first instance
with success, and then we should feel disposed to venture upon a
similar use of it. The proverb says that "He who drives fat cattle
must himself be fat"; and upon the principle involved in that common
saying he who would heal others must himself be a specimen of that
active, vigorous health to which he wishes to restore others. In no
work, indeed, is the personal equation of more consequence than in
the work of the physician. Three-fourths of the elements that enter
into all diseases are spiritual, and three-fourths of the remedies
that must be used for them must also be spiritual. The personal
appearance, character, and manner of the physician himself are most
important factors in the cure of disease. Confidence in the doctor
is more than half the cure; and therefore what the doctor is in
himself is of great consequence.

In the spiritual sphere the physician can only heal others as he
heals himself. He himself must be an exemplification of the saving
health of God's countenance if he is to do good to others. It is
just as true in the affairs of the human soul as it is in the
case of the plant--that the quality which is beneficial to the
soul itself is equally beneficial to the world. It is noticeable,
however, that there are exceptions to the rule in the spiritual
world as there are exceptions in the natural human world. Just as
there are cases of physicians healing bodily diseases in others
while their own disease is unhealed, so there are cases where a man
is the means of saving others while he himself is unsaved.

It is not, indeed, a matter of supposition, but of certainty, that
a man may do good while he is not good. Hundreds of instances could
be given, in which persons have been the means of quickening,
comforting, and building up souls in the Lord, while all the time
they themselves were strangers to the power of truth and ignorant
of the love of Christ in their hearts. Ministers have preached the
Gospel for years, and have been wise in bringing souls to Christ,
and yet have themselves been castaways in the end. Members of
churches have been zealous in every good work, and yet have known
nothing of godliness but the form. The very commonness of this
thing increases its sadness. We think the case of Moses leading
the Israelites to the border of the Promised Land while he himself
was forbidden to enter peculiarly pathetic; but its pathos is in
reality far less touching than the case of the man who brings others
to the fountain of life while he himself is perishing of thirst, who
is like a guide-post pointing the way of salvation to others while
unable himself to take a single step.

But though instances have unquestionably occurred in which signal
beneficial results have followed the preaching of the Gospel by
ungodly men, this is not the normal order of the Divine procedure.
It is personal experience of religion as an inward life, as a living
power in the heart, that imparts unction to active Christian effort,
that adds conviction and power to testimony and commendation. He
is the man to do spiritual good to others who is able to say with
the Apostle, "That which we have heard, which we have seen with our
eyes, and our hands have handled, of the word of life, declare we
unto you, that ye also may have fellowship with us." He is the man
to say to others, "O taste and see that the Lord is good," who has
himself tasted, and from his own enjoyment can say, "Blessed is the
man that trusteth in Him."

It is an unchangeable law and constitution of our nature that we
cannot desire blessings for others which we do not really desire for
ourselves, the blessedness of which we have not known ourselves.
When we feel the value of our own souls, and not till then, we
shall feel the value of the souls of others. When we see the Lord
ourselves, and not till then, we shall desire that every child of
man shall see Him.

It is on this account that our Lord says to Peter, "When thou art
converted, strengthen thy brethren." "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest
thou Me? Feed My sheep; feed My lambs." If we are saved ourselves,
we shall be best fitted to save and benefit others. There is a
virtue in true holiness, there is a secret charm in the wisdom that
cometh from above, which wins our hearts, and inclines us to embrace
a religion which yields such blessed fruits. The man who eminently
possesses and constantly exhibits these qualities becomes quick and
powerful in acting upon the minds of those around him.

The best way, then, to do good is to be good, and to have such a
Christian character as will of itself communicate good. Be yourself
what you wish your family, your friends and neighbours, to be.
"Physician, heal thyself." God needs physicians, many physicians;
for there are many destroyers spreading the influence of their
ungodly life--a deadly infection--around, and adding to the disease
and misery which man's sin first brought upon the world. Let us act
as fellow-workers with the Good Physician in bringing back health
and strength and beauty to a plague-stricken world; and for this
purpose let us qualify ourselves more thoroughly. Let us apply the
Gospel remedies anew to our own case which we recommend to others,
that our own profiting and healing by these may be made manifest to
all. Let us ask God to search us and see if there be anything that
would prevent us from doing all the good that we might, any defect
of manner or disposition of heart that might cause the way of truth
so far as we are concerned to be evil spoken of; and let us ask the
help of the Divine Spirit to get it healed. So that thus being made
every whit whole ourselves, we may diffuse a healthy atmosphere
around us and make others partakers of our saving health.

The Sabbath is the best day for healing. Jesus asked the Jews, "Is
it lawful to heal on the Sabbath day?" The reply might have been,
"Is it lawful to do anything else but heal on the Sabbath day?"
That day is set apart for healing the diseases of the world. It is
the day of recreation--re-creating us and fitting us anew by its
rest and refreshment of worship for the toil and travail of our
weekday life. Let us bring to Jesus on this Sabbath day all the old
infirmities and disabilities which have been a hindrance to the
growth of the work of grace in the midst of us, and He will deliver
us from them, and make us new creatures; and so--set free in newness
of health and strength, with our palsied frame invigorated, our
withered hand restored, our lame feet made swift in the way of God's
commandments, and our world-bound spirit loosed from its infirmity
and covetousness, and enabled to look upward where our true treasure
is--let us seek to free others from their infirmities and diseases,
and to make all around us strong in faith and health in the new life
of God's service.

Let the tonic that has restored our own spiritual constitution be
in all our words and deeds and looks, to restore the spiritual
constitution of others. Let the perfume that neutralises the drought
and cold of the world be exhaled from all our character and conduct,
so that it may be the means of enabling all with whom we come in
contact to resist the aridity and the coldness of the world too.
Let each of us be so full of Christ's healing and saving power, so
saturated with His salvation, as it were, that we ourselves may be
Christ's best medicines. Let the words "Physician, heal thyself" be
in the very forefront of our profession and of our life throughout
all the years; and we ourselves in such a case will be among the
most potent influences for good in the world.




[Illustration: PLEDGED.]

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




CHAPTER XVI.

"GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART."


Beside the Wishing Well stood Anthony Trevithick, pale
and moody. His eyes were on the ground, and an old childish habit of
biting his nails when he was perplexed or in trouble had come back
to him.

"I beg your pardon," said Lord Glengall at his elbow. "I have
returned for some things Miss Graydon left behind her."

"These?" asked the young fellow, pointing with his foot to the
little heap of trinkets on the moss. But even in his anger he
blushed for the unhappiness of the position.

Lord Glengall stooped and picked up the things, and stuffed them
into one of the pockets of his rough coat. He turned as if to go
away. Then he hesitated an instant and came back.

"There is no reason why we should be enemies," he said, advancing a
step nearer.

"No?" replied Anthony Trevithick, lifting his moody eyes. "That
depends."

"On what, sir?"

"On--a great many things," stammered the young man.

"You mean on whether I am prepared to stand aside and to sacrifice
everything that you may have your will. I know the state of affairs,
you see."

"I meant to seek you out and tell you, Lord Glengall. I ought to
say, perhaps, that Miss Graydon is without reproach in this matter."

"Neither of us is likely to wrong her in our thoughts, I hope," said
Lord Glengall. "The question is, whether _you_ are without reproach."

"By what right----" began the younger man.

"Hush!" said the other, with a dignity that was more compelling than
his words. "We are speaking as man to man. Miss Graydon has told
me something of how affairs lay between you and her, but not all.
Why did you leave her in the first instance in the position of a
half-engaged girl?"

"Are you her ambassador?"

"She is dearer to me, I dare swear, than she is to you, though you
will not believe it. There is no use in beating about the bush. If I
think you can make her happier than I can, I am prepared to give her
back her promise."

"Lord Glengall!"

A gesture silenced the words on his lips.

"Don't say anything, please. If I do it, I do it for her. And I
shall only give her up to you if I am sure you are worthy."

"I don't say I am worthy, but I have a fairly clean record. As for
that matter, I will explain. I was unwise, but I was not altogether
to blame. My mother has a greatly loved young cousin. She has been
in the house with us since her mother died some years ago. It was a
scheme of my mother's that we should marry, though it was not openly
expressed. I did not oppose it. I had no idea what love meant till I
saw Pamela; but I had fetched and carried for Lady Kitty. Probably
a great number of people thought we were engaged; and it seemed to
me that I ought to set the matter straight before I was formally
engaged to Pamela."

"It would have been better to have let Pamela alone till you were
quite free."

"Yes, I know, but----"

"There; you are young. You can't be expected to be as deliberate as
an older man. You meant to act straight by her?"

"I meant to come back in a week a free man. When I was called away
to my uncle's sick bed, my mother made me promise not to speak, not
to try to clear up things with Lady Kitty, till I returned. I did
write to Mr. Graydon, but the letter never reached him." He blushed
hotly and paused.

"Yes, I know," interrupted Lord Glengall. "When you came back?"

"When I came back, I found--Pamela engaged to you, and my cousin
engaged to a great friend of mine. As it proved, she had never
thought of me in that way; but her affection for my mother prevented
her from speaking out."

"You should have written again to Mr. Graydon. You made Pamela
unhappy."

"I thought he had not written because I said I would come as soon as
I could. Then I was kept week after week, till the time turned into
months. I am deeply sorry that I caused her unhappiness."

"This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"It is absolutely the truth, and nothing else."

"Very well, Sir Anthony, I believe you. If you had not been
straight, I should have held her to the letter of her bond against
you and the world, even against herself. Now--in her heart she has
chosen you, and you are a fitter mate for her than I--I resign her
to you."

"Lord Glengall!"

"I do not ask your thanks, sir. Make her happy--that is all. For the
rest, I have one word of advice for you."

"Whatever it is, I shall act upon it."

"Go back to-night to England."

"Without a word to Pamela?"

"Let her be. I will say what is necessary. You will have to win her
again, young sir. She is not the girl to change her lovers like her
frocks."

"Perhaps you are right, sir," with hesitation.

"Go," said Lord Glengall, waving him away, "go! If you speak to her
in her present mood, you will be sorry. Let her be free of both of
us for a while."

"You, too, will leave her?"

"I shall leave her till all this is forgotten. It will be nothing
new for me to set out for the ends of the earth at an hour's notice."

"You are, as Pamela says, the best man living."

"Stop!" said Lord Glengall, with a gesture as if he could not endure
the praise. "Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," repeated Sir Anthony, turning away.

Several times as he went homeward Lord Glengall stooped to pat the
shaggy coat of the terrier who still trotted by him.

[Illustration: Pointing with his foot to the little heap of
trinkets.]

"You don't know poetry, old fellow," he said once aloud, "but there
was a poet named Shakespeare who wrote something about people coming
back 'to push us from our stools.' I am not good at remembering
poetry; but that young gentleman we have just left has come back to
push us from our stools--to push us from our stools."

The dog, as if he understood, thrust a sympathetic nose into his
companion's hand.

When Lord Glengall reached Carrickmoyle, he went straight to Mr.
Graydon's room. Mary was sitting by her father, stitching a piece of
fine white stuff in the twilight.

"Ah! Glengall," said the invalid briskly. "Have you come in to smoke
a last pipe with me? Come and tell me what prices were like at the
fair to-day. Run away, Molly child, and rest your eyes, and let
Glengall have your seat."

The two men lit up soberly, and smoked away for a while, discussing
prices and cattle and crops in a desultory fashion.

At last Lord Glengall knocked out the ashes from his stumpy clay
against the top bar of the grate, and stuffed the pipe into his
pocket.

"I wanted to talk to you about Pam, Graydon," he said.

"What about Pam?"

"Only that I did the child an injustice in wanting to marry her. I
am too old."

"Does Pam say this? Are you speaking for her?"

"Poor little Pam! There were some love-passages, Graydon, between
her and your pupil Trevithick."

"I guessed as much, but how far the thing went I have no idea. I
don't believe in probing into those things, Glengall. It is better
to let them die."

"Had you any idea that the young fellow might possibly ask for her?"

"I hoped so once, not because it would be a good marriage for Pam,
or anything of that sort, but because I thought him a good lad, and
I believed in his father's son. I was disappointed that he turned
out so different from my expectations."

"Would you be surprised to hear that he wrote to you about Pam
immediately after he left, and that his mother intercepted the
letter?"

"His mother!"

"Yes; she had other views for him."

"I wonder why she came here, why she troubled our peace, and forced
her hospitality on Pam, who didn't want it?" said Mr. Graydon
musingly.

"To make a parting between the lad and Pam more certain. She told
Pam he was engaged to his cousin; and in other ways made the child's
visit miserable."

"My poor Pam! I remember she hated to go."

"I am sorry the boy has such a mother."

"Yet I remember her a very noble-looking girl. I don't think she
was made for mean things."

"Ah! well, we can let her be. She is sufficiently punished, poor
woman, by her son's scorn. That must be a terrible thing to endure."

"And she is a proud woman."

"However, Graydon, we are not concerned with her. The state of the
case is this: The young people were in love with each other, and
were parted by a fraud. Under a total misapprehension, Pamela has
engaged herself to me. Now that the misapprehension is removed, what
is the clear course for me to take?"

"I should ask Pamela, Glengall."

"Pamela is at this moment in a mood in which it would not be safe to
take her at her word. The only thing for me to do is to step down
and out."

"Glengall!" said Mr. Graydon, laying a hand on his.

"Don't pity me just now, Graydon. Frankly, I'm not equal to it."

"Have you told Pam?"

"I shall tell her. Afterwards I shall go away till the nine days'
wonder is forgotten."

"Glengall, I wish this had not happened."

"There is one way in which you can atone to me for its bitterness--I
don't mind confessing to you that it is bitter."

"And that way?"

"You must borrow from me what will take you abroad. You must; it is
for their sakes."

"Very well; if there is no other way. I shall repay you, I hope."

"You have plenty of time before you to grow rich in. When you come
back next spring, you must finish your _magnum opus_."

Mr. Graydon rubbed his hands in boyish cheerfulness.

"I shall feel equal to tackling it after a change. I'm afraid I've
been vegetating, and the mosses and mildew have grown upon me. You
have lived, Glengall, while I was growing into a worthless old
block."

"It is you who have lived," said Lord Glengall. "You have lived
naturally. When I die, it is the end of my line, and I shall have no
one to close my eyes."

When he found Pam in the drawing-room alone, a little later, he drew
her to him, and kissed her hair where it clustered over the white
forehead.

"I have brought your pretty things, Pam," he said, fumbling in his
pocket.

"And you have forgiven me?"

"I have forgiven you, dear."

He fastened the little chain about her neck and the bracelet on her
wrist.

"You will wear them for me, Pam?" he said. "I should not know what
to do with them."

"And my ring?" said Pam, wondering.

"I have taken back the ring. You are free, Pam; free as air."

[Illustration: "You are free, Pam; free as air."]

"But I don't want to be free."

"You did yesterday, Pam, and you will to-morrow. I have seen Sir
Anthony, Pam. He is guiltless, and will come again."

"I do not want him to come," cried Pam with a great sob.

"I sent him away because I was afraid if he came to you now you
would make him and yourself unhappy. He hated to go, but he went. He
will come again. You will be good to him, Pam, because you love him.
Now, good-bye, my dear. I shall come back when you are married."

Pamela's hands were over her eyes, and she was crying quietly.

"Another thing, Pam," he said. "I have arranged with your father. He
is to winter abroad."

"Sylvia will see to that," she answered. "Miss Spencer has made it
easy for her. At least, we need not take that from you."

"You have given me great happiness," he repeated. "And now,
good-bye, my dear, good-bye."

A day or two later Carrickmoyle was startled by the news that Lord
Glengall had sailed for Australia.




CHAPTER XVII.

"THOUGH 'TWERE TEN THOUSAND MILE."


"I wish something would happen," said Sylvia; "it is the longest
summer I have ever known."

Sylvia was wearing black for Miss Spencer, who had passed away
peacefully a few weeks after that talk with Pamela. When the
legal formalities were completed, Sylvia would be _châtelaine_ of
Dovercourt; but her interest in her inheritance seemed very slight.

"By-and-by," she had said, "I shall be glad to know that I have
money to do things with; but just at present I can only remember
what it is that has made me rich."

[Illustration: "I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget."]

"Why not have Mr. Baker or Mr. St. Quintin to tea quietly?"
suggested Pam. "I am sure they are longing to come, and they would
cheer you up."

But Sylvia would not. She preferred to wander from the house to the
garden with the dogs at her heels, or to stray from one room to
another, having a desultory chat with her father, who was now up and
about, or with Mary, cheerfully sewing her bridal clothes, usually
ending up with a visit to Bridget in the kitchen.

Bridget quite agreed with Sylvia about the dulness of the house, and
suggested the same remedy for it as Pamela had done.

"Have a bit of company, child," she said. "Sure, her that's gone
(the heavens be her bed!) 'ud be the last to grudge the young what's
natural to the young, let alone that I hear young Mr. St. Quintin's
that mopy that they say 'tis to horse-racin' he's took, wid the
design of breakin' his neck by way of divarsion."

"Don't talk such nonsense, Bridget," said Sylvia languidly. "The
horse is not born that could unseat Mr. St. Quintin. He can stick
on like grim death. But I don't feel that company, such company as
I could get, would be any good to me. I don't like young people,
Bridget."

"Well, sorra such a house I ever was in," said Bridget, scandalised.

"Never mind, Bridget dear," said Sylvia, who had temporarily lost
her taste for sharp argument with Bridget. "I suppose I was born
old."

"Listen to her," cried Bridget, "an' she wid the lightest feet, aye,
an' the purtiest face in the barony! Between you and Miss Pamela,
me heart's fairly bruk. There's Miss Pamela, that ought to be goin'
to be married a week from next Tuesday, goin' round as mopy as a
chicken wid the pip. I never seen such goin's on anywhere I was."

"It certainly _is_ time," said Sylvia again, "that something should
happen, and, short of marrying myself, Bridget, I'll do anything to
bring it about."

"Indeed, then Mr. St. Quintin's a pleasant young gentleman," said
Bridget, broadly smiling, "though an imp of mischief. 'Tis meself'll
not forget in a hurry how he whipped the steps from undher Grady
whin he was pickin' the morello cherries, an' never purtended he
heard him bawlin' melia murther, an' the ould rogue, as he was
contrivin' to slip down by the trunk, caught by a twig in his
breeches an' held there! As I said to Mr. St. Quintin, I hoped he
thought then on poor Mary that's gone, that often he made suffer,
the crathur!"

"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget," said Sylvia, with
the same languid interest.

"Och, then, heaven forgive you, Miss Sylvia. Sure them was only my
jokes. Not but what he axed me. 'The mischief bother you, man,' says
I. 'Is it havin' me commit murther you'd be? Why, sure I couldn't
keep me hands off you if I was lookin' at you every day, an' then
I'd be tried an' hung for it, maybe.'"

"Well, I'm glad you're not going to marry him under the
circumstances," said Sylvia. "But, all the same, it is time some of
us made a stir."

And even then one thing that was to disturb the current of their
lives was on its way.

The very morning after Sylvia's conversation with Bridget there was
a large square envelope for Mr. Graydon, which somewhat exercised
his youngest daughter's imagination.

"Come here, dad," she said, when at last he arrived at the
breakfast-table. "I've been longing for something to happen, and I
believe this is really a happening at last."

"It is my uncle's writing," said Mr. Graydon, as he took the letter
and opened it. As he read it his face grew graver and graver.

"Poor old Uncle Charles!" he said, when he had finished. "His boy is
dead."

Lord Downshire's letter was very characteristic:--

"MY DEAR ARCHIE,--I will not say you have scored again, but at
least I have failed with the last card I held against you. My boy
is dead. I don't ask for your sympathy or your pity. You, with your
healthy girls, cannot appreciate what I suffer. I am racked in the
spirit and the body, and I shall be very glad to leave a world that
has lost savour for me. I heard indirectly that you were ill after
you had been here; but, you see, _you_ have recovered, and it is
my boy that is dead. You are my heir now, and I am too sick of it
all to make another attempt to frustrate you. And there is no use
continuing in enmity against you, so I shall make you an allowance
proportionate to the condition of my heir. I shall not ask to see
you, but Messrs. Lees and Saunders, of Lincoln's Inn--you will
remember Saunders; Lees died last year--have my instructions."

Mr. Graydon put the letter into his pocket when he had read it.

"Something has happened, Sylvia," he said sorrowfully. "I am Lord
Downshire's heir once more; and yet I would a thousand times rather
be as I was, and the old man's little son living."

But the happenings of the day were not over.

Sylvia, going her pilgrimage to Miss Spencer's new grave, was
aware of a tall young figure, which had something familiar about
it, swinging along towards her. Presently she recognised Anthony
Trevithick.

"Miss Sylvia," he said, "I am so glad I met with you. I want to see
Pamela."

"Pamela!" with oddly upraised eyebrows.

"Yes--Pamela. I have stayed away as long as I could. I promised Lord
Glengall I would give her time."

"Oh! that is how it is, is it?"

"Yes; didn't you know?"

"I guessed, of course, but Pam is not the old Pam. She has been as
solemn as an owl, and as secretive, ever since.... When was it?... I
really think it began about the time of your going away. She used to
be the best of good company."

"What is this for, Miss Sylvia?" said the young man, touching her
black frock.

"Ah! You do not know. Miss Spencer died a month ago."

"I am sorry," he said, with a sympathy which at once made Sylvia his
friend.

"Does Pam know you are coming?" she asked.

"No. I was afraid to announce myself. Perhaps she will show me the
door."

"Perhaps she won't, Sir Anthony. She's fond of you, you see."

"Oh, Miss Sylvia!" cried Anthony Trevithick, flushing delightedly
through his tan.

"Oh, yes! she's fond of you. I'm not going to talk about her
secrets, but I know how it is. I knew all along. That is why I was
so vexed with her--when---- Never mind. You want to see Pamela,
then? Well, just wait for me a minute outside this gate. I will come
back with you then, and find Pamela for you."

"You are awfully good."

"Perhaps I'm glad to get rid of Pam. She's prettier than I am,
though some people don't think so. Perhaps I'm afraid of her
stealing my admirers."

"I believe it is only your goodness to me."

"And to Pam. She's not the same Pam she was a year ago. If you make
her like her old self, I shall forgive you even that you left us
forlorn and unsquired at that famous festivity for which you should
have returned."

"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I shan't believe that."

She did not try Anthony Trevithick's patience by keeping him waiting
long at the churchyard gate. She was gone only a minute or two
before she returned, her basket empty of its flowers, and her face,
which had gained so much in character and sweetness during the
year, a little overshadowed.

When they reached Carrickmoyle, she brought Anthony Trevithick
through the sunny hall where the door stood, as ever, hospitably
open, and into the big drawing-room. "Stay here till I find Pam,"
she said. She went upstairs two steps at a time in the boyish way he
remembered. He listened with a smile on his face till the sound of
the footsteps died away. Then he began to walk up and down nervously.

Pam sat in the window of her own little room with her chin in her
hands, gazing over the summer-dark landscape, her air listless, and
her eyes apathetic.

"It is lonely, Sylvia," she said, scarcely turning her head as her
sister entered.

"You never used to find it so," said Sylvia. "I remember the time
when Carrickmoyle held all the d

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/43658