doubtful may-be so,' or humble 'I don't know,' while all the time I should be secretly comforting myself with some beautiful theory that I cannot get into words, or if I could, would be trampled upon and rooted about in a manner that might bring to mind that injunction concerning the casting of pearls. Now which of these august authors occupying your study-chairs would you dispossess to accommodate an humble individual like myself, quite weary with travelling though it be on golden roads? Here, looking quite dusty and neglected, is Bunyan, 'honest Bunyan,' as he is called, as though honesty were so uncommon a virtue among Christian people that it should name the fortunate soul possessing it. I will brush the dust off from him the good, simple man, whose charming allegory was the delight and wonder of my childhood, and the image of some of my later experiences-and he, the humblest of them all, shall marshal the hosts that stand in solemn rank and file on your library shelves. May I arrange my flowers at your table? You would not find time to go out and read with me in God's sweet poem (Spring); and so you see I've brought in to you a tender line or two. Pray you push hither that huge quarto for a footstool."

"Irreverent child! As if I would devote the choicest volume in my library to such ignoble use."

"Pardon! I am not the first who has erred in judging worth by station. In sooth, you let your favourites lie low, uncle. But now to the charge of irreverence I plead not guilty. Show me but the faintest trace of Divinity between those dingy covers and my soul will fall prostrate before it. But to-day I cannot bow to shams, to anything profane or hypocritical. I have been reading in a book more sacred, and fuller of wise suggestions, heavenly truths, and sweet intimations of God's loving providence than any ever penned by human hand, dictated by human intelligence. Had you bent your knee upon the sod where grew this odorous flower, its clear eye would have darted a ray of heavenly light into your soul; and even now, plucked, and withering in my hand, does it not speak with an eloquent tongue of the tenderness of God?"

The rector leaned forward and examined the flower critically. "I used to be quite an ardent disciple of Linnæus in my boyhood," said he, taking the fragile blossom in his hand. "A species of the genus Viola, is it not? Leaves heart-shaped, downy underneath, lateral petals with a hairy central line; Viola Oderáta, I think."

"Pr'ythee do not crush my meek, sweet violet with your ponderous Latin names," pleaded the girl.

But the rector was inexorable. "What have we here?" he continued, fingering the contents of the overflowing basket. The pretty, trailing Potentilla repens with its yellow flowers, a few late specimens of the Cowslip and what's this? Ah, I remember, Aquilegia Vulgaris,

a hardy plant-springing sometimes from the clefts of rocks-"

"Hold, good sir! my flowers begin to wither. They hang their heads in bashful confusion, they are utterly confounded by their magnificent nomenclature. Show a little mercy, pray. Do they speak to you only scientifically? Do they make no tender appeal to your heart? Why,'you classify them and designate the peculiar property of each, just as you denominate and describe the religions of men, enumerating and distinguishing them by their ruling characteristics of faith, with divisions, and sub-divisions, and hair-breadth differences that quite distract the inquiring mind and suggest the old German aphorisin, uttered when classification was far less difficult and perplexing than at the present day:

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and

doctrines three

Extant are; but still the doubt is where Christianity may be.

Ah, if all wrangling, cavilling, anathematizing believers would but stoop to learn a lesson of the flowery folk, how loving, humble, reverent would they grow towards one another! There is no dissension between these lowly, gentle worshippers! though differing in forms and habits of life, each with the other tenderly mingles its breath of praise, and with one spirit they adore the Infinite Father. To-day I was drawn into their charmed circle and permitted, in my poor blundering fashion, to take part in their sacred rites of worship. I was standing on an eminence crowned by an aged oak; suddenly out of the great sunny calm came a wandering breeze like an itinerant preacher of divine truths, and smote upon the oaken harp with wondrous skill and power; the wild columbine from her stronghold in the rocks rung her gold and purple bells with music too fine for mortal ear, and all the flowery hosts with one accord swung their censers and poured their incense on the air, while I, moved by the general impulse to thanksgiving and praise, fell upon my knees in an ecstasy of love and gratitude, and the infinite hope and aspiration of my soul broke forth in the word that compasses all human and divine possibilities, God! God! Then as suddenly as it began to sound the harp of hope grew still, the columbine bells hung motionless in their rocky towers, and here and there in groups and pairs, the floral children, late so jubilant, stood with meek, downcast heads, beautiful in humility. It was the season of penitence and prayer, and in the solemn hush that lay on earth and sky, I remembered my infirmities and bowed my forehead to the dust, finding no word to tell my need but God! oh, God! yet that, for its fulness of knowledge, power, mercy, and com passion, did unspeakably ease my burdened heart, what I could not express the Omniscient One knew. Now I can understand why Jesus went with the multitudes up to a mountain

when He taught those sublime truths which do never wax old, but grow in beauty as the centuries roll; and I wonder why the good shepherds who care for His sheep do not sometimes literally lead their flocks into the green pastures and beside the still waters, or up to the hills and into the Gothic temples builded by the Lord, and there preach from the Holy Word, illustrated, as no Gustave Doré can illustrate, by the hand of the master artist. No need to pray for faith in the being, wisdom, love, and tender care of God when we are drinking the blessed air, sunshine, and fragrance of the outer world. Oh, He is real-He is near! we stand in his visible presence, and the spirit of devotion that we struggle to attain at your new moons and your appointed feasts, your Sabbaths and your solemn meetings, comes without thought or effort. We fall down and worship not from a sense of duty but because we cannot help it."

"You speak as one who has had no deep religious experience," said the rector, gravely. "Your devotion is purely emotional, the mere outgrowth of impressions made through the medium of the senses on a soul highly susceptible to beauty in its material form, but unable to perceive and feel by an interior way the existence of a God whose wisdom, goodness, and power are unspeakable; and who, at all times and in all places, is near to those who seek Him. A truly earnest and devout spirit is not so much influenced by outward things, but can worship the Infinite Creator on the barren sandy desert with as great love and zeal as when surrounded by the most magnificent and awe-inspiring works of His hand. These a religious man can rejoice in, but he feels the power of God less in them than in the wonderful experiences of his own soul. The pious monk, kneeling on the hard floor of his cell with all the glory of the natural world shut out by frowning monastery walls, gets nearer to the Divine person than you with all your silent raptures and impulsive hallelujabe over the beauty of cloud and flower, sunshine and forest-temple."

"That may be true," Helena said, after a brief silence, in which she thoughtfully threaded her fingers through a spray of delicate grass. "When it comes to individual comparisons I am generally a sufferer. But what appears most singular to me is that this pious-praying friar, living so near to God as he is supposed, does not perceive that the body which is given to be the faithful instrument and servant of His will, ought, according to the teachings and the blessed example of our Lord, to be worn out in the loving service of human kind, and not by fasts, penances, mortifications, and long prayers, which profit no one; no, not even himself; for the law of recompense, if I understand it rightly, is that every man shall receive good in the ratio that he dispenses good to others. As he sows so he reaps. I have grave doubts, however, as to the fulness of the harvest gathered by him who scatters broadcast with

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no other hope or motive than to reap abundantly to his own advantage. Perhaps I do seek God too much in His eternal works, recognizing him only in the material goods which He showers upon me, loving Him for these alone, and lacking that inner spiritual consciousness of His love and power which makes one feel His omnipresence, draws one near to Him whatever the time or place. I frankly confess that under certain conditions, and those, too, of a character conceived to be conducive to religious feeling and worship, I cannot dispose my mind so as to receive any good impression. Sometimes of a Sabbath, in the house of God, I miss His presence altogether. Don't interrupt me. I acknowledge the fault mine. The trouble is, my soul lives in a terrestrial body, and the things seen, heard, and felt through that medium, vex and disturb it sorely. The deeper trouble is that my soul living so is vexed and disturbed when it should be calm and patient. But when I am sitting in the sanctuary gasping for a breath of pure air, with my head in the torrid zone, my feet in the frigid, and my body alternating between the chill and fever of the Arctic and Equator, I really cannot think rationally of my spiritual condition. And when the women come in like Hiawatha's wedding guests―

'Clad in all their richest raiment,

Robes of fur and belts of wampum, Splendid with their paint and plumage, Beautiful with beads and tassels,'

it is difficult to realize that we are gathered together to murmur with contrite hearts, Lord, have mercy on us miserable sinners,' for there is nothing in our appearance which indicates that we feel ourselves anything of the sort. And when the men stand talking on the steps and in the vestibule, or seated in the house work their jaws in a mysterious manner, leaning forward now and then to eject a mouthful of strange coloured liquid of sickening odour into some dark corner, or perhaps into the very aisle, I fancy I have made a mistake, and come to a club meeting or a political caucus, where indulgences of that kind are, if in any place, permissible. And when the preacher kneels down, or not having the grace to do that, stands up and tells the Lord, with quite a rhetorical flourish, of all the events that are happening in the world and of the weakness and sinfulness of all His creatures, and then proceeds to instruct Him what to do in a voice loud and peremptory, with no touch of pleading in it, I feel my heart sinking, for with every word he utters God seems to recede, and at the 'Amen' I am only conscious that there is a tradition of a Divine Being who rules in human affairs, but has to be greatly urged and entreated to do the right thing. When the Jubilate Deo sounds through the church I seem to hear the petty jealousies, and spite, and ill will of the singers fighting against the divine spirit of the words, and there is a discord in

the music which does not proceed from any violation of harmonic laws in their outward form, but from a lack of love, which is the soul of all harmony; and instead of being soothed, lifted up and inspired with heavenly life, I am filled with unrest, dissatisfaction, and depression. Then, again, when the speaker rises and gives forth his text, I listen eagerly to the discourse which follows, in the hope that some word of all will touch upon the real vital affairs of every-day life, and be as a staff to lean upon in the toil and struggle of the week; but oftenest he soars so high and talks on themes So remote from the common interests and experiences of his hearers, that I for one am ready to weep because I am so tired, so utterly tired of contemplating the grim, fleshless skeletons of doctrines, and long so much to hear a little plain practical talk on the duties of daily life. Altogether, without enumerating any farther, as I might do, I go away with a weary, perplexed, unsatisfied feeling, unable to comprehend how God can be pleased with such worship, and murmuring under my breath the words of the preacher of old, Surely this also is vanity and vexation of spirit.'

"Your own fault, as you said," answered the rector, with considerable severity of tone. "If you went to the house of worship with some better motive than to criticise the habits and appearance of others there assembled, I think you would get a little nearer to God, and would come away more refreshed and satisfied in your soul. The evils which you enumerate undoubtedly exist, but so long as you are not yourself guilty of them, they need not trouble you."

"Truth, I trow; but unfortunately they do trouble me. I don't know but I am guilty of some of them, or might be under other circumstances. Besides, I have a weakness, while trying to grow good, of wishing other people to grow good too. Why should any evil that exists go unrebuked? Is it not the duty of our spiritual leaders and teachers to point out and reprove whatever error they may observe in our principles or practice? Is not this their peculiar office, and is there a greater service which they can render us? I hear much about the eloquence of certain preachers, but I confess I am only able to appreciate eloquence in its effects as manifest in the amended lives of those on whom it is brought to bear. I hear, sometime, what are called good sermons, good prayers, and the like, but I can judge of them only by their fruits; if they awaken aspirations for a better life, if they assist the feeble efforts of those who are striving against sin, they are unquestionably good. But I think this end is oftener attained when one speaks directly from the heart and from individual experiences, than when one treats us to airy speculations and profound doctrinal expositions, and I cannot help saying-while I beg you to pardon my freedom of speech-that great as may be the labour and care you have expended in the preparation of the discourse which you will deliver to-morrow,

an "excellent sermon," as some will name it, and never think of it again, there are many in your congregation who would be more benefited if you would set it quite aside and come right down to the discussion of those matters which engross them through the week, and which they evidently regard as something entirely apart from their religion, that being much too fine for every day use, and only put on with their Sabbath suits and worn choicely on rare occasions. If I stood in your place, I would not have these sheep, who seek the fold only one day in seven, looking up at me with such conscious meekness and innocence, as if they never harboured a wrong thought in their lives. I would seize upon their individual evils, hold them up and exhibit them in all their hideousness and deformity; I would lash them most unmercifully for their sins, and cry, Repent! repent! repent!' louder than ever John the Baptist did."

That you would," answered the rector, emphatically. "And what would you gain ? No one present would imagine himself guilty of the evils which you would be sure to paint in very strong colours; each would think his neighbour sat for the picture, laughing inwardly at the correctness of the sketch, but never dreaming that it bore any resemblance to himself. Very few, even of those most ready to perceive faults in others, can recognize their own failings, however strong the point you make of them. Now I know a young lady, and see her sometimes in my congregation, with all her week-day finery put off, and her hair drawn smoothly and penitentially back under the most unfashionable of bonnets, who I think possesses this common weakness of being quite blind to her own imperfections, while she is painfully alive to those of others. She spares neither youth nor age in her strictures and animadversions, but whenever she sees, or fancies that she sees, wickedness or folly, be it in high places or in low, she sends a flying shot from her ever-playing batteries, never heeding whether it hit her dearest friend or deadliest foe. Of reverence-using the word in its common acceptation-she has not a particle. Nothing is too high or holy for her to criticize; no opinion or belief will she accept until she has thoroughly weighed and gauged it by some curious standard of her own, as if her wisdom exceeded that of the sages and divines who have lived and died in the faith which she presumes to question; and forms and customs, sacred and dear to hearts purer in the sight of God than hers, she attacks without compunction, treating them with a kind of contempt that seems to a simple reverent soul almost blasphemous.'

The rector paused. Helena's head, which had been drooping lower and lower during his speech, was bowed upon the table, and her face was hidden from his view.

"Is the lady a friend of yours, Helena?" "No; an enemy. Pray, go on," she an swered, faintly.

Nay, indeed, I never strike the penitent." "You need not fear," she said, lifting a pale face, and trying to force a smile. Nothing that you could say would strike so deep as the accusations of my own conscience. Those are only a few of my outside faults which you name; I have crueler ones, that I know. Just at this moment I do not realize that I have any virtue at all. How dark it is. Is the sun shining?"

"Brightly."

" I cannot see."

Llanaber was the prettiest little village in romantic Caernarvonshire, and Maggie Pugh was the prettiest girl in Llanaber. A red-cheeked, red-lipped girl she was, with sparkling black eyes, and smooth, dark hair, but her principal charm was the lovely expression of her face, to which no words can do justice-her principal charm, I say, by which 1 mean her outward charm, for her disposition far excelled her face in its fascinating properties.

Maggie Pugh was everybody's friend; no one listened with such patience to a list of fancied ailments; no one showed so great an interest in incipient love affairs, and no one gave so good advice in either case. It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that she was the depository of numerous secrets, and that her face was a welcome one in every cottage in the village. There was, however, one cottage where Maggie's rosy, happy face was particularly welcome, and that was the one owned by Mrs. Owen; but even the happiness caused to that worthy old lady, when Maggie's pretty form crossed her threshold, sank into insignificance when compared with the pleasure and the heartbeatings of Richard Owen, her nephew: and, if the truth be confessed, Maggie herself felt more pleasure when sitting near the stalwart young fisherman (for he was a no more exalted personage) than at any other time.

The old, old story, of course! Whether the scene be laid in the garden of Eden, Sir Fiery Cannon's castle, or the fishing village of Llanaber, it is still the old, old story-love! Maggie Pugh, I have already said, was the village beauty, consequently she did not lack admirers; indeed, when the men were not upon some fishing expedition, she could not walk many steps from her home without being surrounded by a troop of admiring beaux. Was it better, I wonder, to be accompanied by these hearty fishermen, paying her rough, but really felt compliments, than to be the belle of a London season, with a carriage in the park, mobbed

by the dandies of the town, whispering meaningless, soft-spoken nothings at every opportunity? Would she have been happier at having a volume of idiotic poems dedicated to her, than she was when Richard Owen named his new boat "Maggie"? Be that as it may, she was happy, contented, and beloved.

Now one bright morning Richard Owen sighed like a furnace, and determined that day should decide his fate. Blind Richard! Had he but remarked Maggie's pretty face each time they met he need not have feared much. Had he but recalled glances and words, the doubts and fears which agitated his broad chest would soon have vanished. A dozen stammering words, increasing in vigour as he felt their truth, a timid request couched in but four words -a pause: then came the answer: first a blush, and then an incomprehensible murmur; another moment and Maggie was in his strong arms, looking up into his face, and smiling through her tears. Thump, thutnp, thump went Richard's heart, and he walked home whistling gaily, stopping every now and then to recall her words and gestures, and then, again, pursuing his path with a little laugh, and a louder, merrier whistle than before.

Now of Maggie's admirers there was but one other besides Richard who had ever thought of her as his wife. Not that the others were lukewarm in their affection for her; but she really appeared so far above them, that they could more readily have written a note to her most gracious Majesty, requesting the honour of an alliance with the first unappropriated princess, than have asked Maggie Pugh to wed them. This other exception was Hugh Griffiths.

Were I inventing this tale I might, perhaps, draw this second lover as an incarnation of evil, who would use any unlawful means to get rid of his successful rival, and abduct the lovely Maggie: but, as it is, truth compels me to say that, in his way, he was quite as worthy a fellow as Richard Owen, although he found less favour

in the eyes of the Llanaber beauty. Now Hugh had been for some days endeavouring to screw up sufficient courage to propose to Maggie, and, as luck would have it, but a few hours after Richard had gone home a happy man, the second suitor sought, and found, an, opportunity to speak to Maggie. She had a presentiment of what was coming, as he stood by her side, nervously shifting from one leg to the other, and fidgeting with his cap. She strove to go on calmly with her knitting, but she wished the interview over.

Hugh stood pondering as to the words he should use--a silence.

"Could you love me well enough to be my wife?"

Oh how his heart beat when the words were spoken! Would she never answer? The few moments seemed ages while he waited for her reply, although he knew from her face what it would be.

"No, Hugh, I could not marry you." "Oh, Maggie, dear, do not say that! I will wait but do not say you will not marry me!" And the tone of grief came so truly from his heart, that Maggie's sorrow for his anguish was almost as great as his own.

"Do not think me unkind, Hugh," she said. "You would not have me wed you if I love another better! Oh, I am sorry, indeed I am, to see you so unhappy; but I—I— I have promised Richard Owen!"

Hugh punched his cap viciously. "Then good-bye, Maggie." And he opened the door to depart. "Do not be angry," sobbed Maggie: "we could not help loving each other," she added, innocently; but Hugh took no notice of her speech, and strolled on listlessly, with a choking sensation in his throat, and a strong desire in his mind to quarrel with the first person he

met.

Maggie went on with her work for a few moments, but her tears blinded her, and, laying it down, she cried, and murmured to herself, "Oh, why should I have it in my power to make him so wretched?" For she had not had the advantage of a finished education at a fashionable school; and her kind heart grieved at causing misery to anyone.

That evening Richard and Hugh met face-toface. Hugh would have turned aside without speaking; but Richard, knowing nothing of the cause, stepped after him, and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder. Hugh shook it off roughly.

"What is the matter, Hugh ?" asked the other, amazed, for the two had hitherto been the best of friends. "What is the matter?"

"You know well enough," was the reply: then, after a moment's pause, "I beg your pardon, Richard; I should not quarrel with you: you are lucky in having won the affection of the best and prettiest girl in Wales, but in

doing so you have caused ne more unhappiness than I can tell you."

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"But, Hugh, you must not blame me for that: surely you would not quarrel with me! It has been a clear field, and neither of us have sought to undermine the other. Maggie has decided in my favour, and has made me the happiest man in Llanaber; but that is no reason why you and I should not remain friends." And Richard held out his hand, which, after momentary deliberation, Hugh took. "We are none of us perfect," he said, as he did so. "And I have bad feelings in me, Richard. I know the truth of what you say, but it is easier for you, situated as you are, to speak those words, than for me to act upon them. I love Maggie with my whole heart, and I cannot feel friendly to you, who have deprived me of her. We will not quarrel, but let us keep apart for a time."

"I am sorry for you, Hugh; but —” "Yes, you can afford to be sorry, you can spare pity," said the rejected suitor, bitterly; and he turned and walked rapidly away.

Richard Owen was vexed, but most decidedly had no Quixotic notions of turning over Maggie to the sorrowing and disconsolate lover, even supposing she could be brought into the state of mind to consider herself "bank stocks" or "railway shares," to be transferred from one person to another.

That evening Maggie and Richard talked of Hugh's offer and united in pitying him, while he at the time was seated in the parlour of the Llanaber public-house, grumpily smoking, and ready to quarrel with or without cause. Poor Hugh! He was really to be pitied, he was a fine manly fellow, and possessed many good qualities, but, as he sat there brooding over his rejection he became more and more incensed against fortunate Richard Owen.

Is it not the case with us all? Do we not all look upon a successful rival, be it in love, ambition, or position, as if he were an enemy? Our better feelings tell us that we should not do so, but the demon Envy gnaws restlessly at us. Oh, brother author, when Tompkins' book is praised and yours cut up, would it not ease your mind to insult and fight Tompkins? So it was with Hugh Griffiths; could he have but punched or been punched by his rival, he would have felt happier, but, as it was, he had nothing better to do than brood over and magnify his grievance.

Day after day passed, and all Llanaber talked of the coming wedding, for the pair were to be married without delay. Poor Hugh, as he walked through the village, met children bearing flowers to decorate the church for the wedding; if he entered a cottage he saw a new dress preparing for the wedding. How he wished it all over! for then, he thought, time would soften his bad feelings.

The happy day for Richard and Maggie was at hand, the dresses were prepared, the church decorated, but still, for those who live by the sweat of their brow, business must be attended