

### About the Book

For several years in the peaceful English village of Meadthorpe, the church and chapel have existed in an uneasy peace while the rector and the chapel minister are distracted by poor health. Now a young curate arrives at St Simeon's, bringing high church ritual and ways of worship. Gildas Haven, the daughter of the chapel minister is furious to discover the curate is enticing her Sunday school children away. The curate insists that his Church ways are right, and Gildas who has only known chapel worship says the opposite.

Battle lines are quickly drawn by leaders and congregations. Margaret Haycraft writes with light humour and surprising insight in what could be a controversial story line. With at least one major surprise, the author seems to be digging an impossible hole for herself as the story progresses. The ending of this sensitively told romance is likely to come as a surprise.

### Gildas Haven

### Margaret S. Haycraft

1855-1936

Abridged Edition

Original book first published 1896

This abridged edition ©Chris Wright 2016

e-Book ISBN: 978-0-9935005-7-2

Published by

White Tree Publishing

Bristol

UNITED KINGDOM

Website: www.whitetreepublishing.com

Email: wtpbristol@gmail.com

Gildas Haven is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this abridged edition.

### Contents

Cover

About the Book

Author biography

Publisher's Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

More Books from White Tree Publishing

About White Tree Publishing

Christian non-fiction

Christian Fiction

Books for Younger Readers

### Margaret Haycraft Biography

There were many prolific Christian writers in the last part of the nineteenth century and the early twentieth. The majority of these books were fairly heavy-handed moral tales and warnings to young people, rather than romances. Two writers spring to mind who wrote romantic fiction for adults -- Mrs. O. F. Walton and Margaret S. Haycraft, whose works are still popular today. Our White Tree Publishing editions from these authors have been sensitively abridged and edited to make them much more acceptable to today's general readers, rather than publishing them unedited for students of Victorian prose. The characters and storyline are always left intact.

Eliza Kerr is less well known than Mrs. Walton and Margaret Haycraft, but she wrote similar books, but with perhaps less emphasis on romance, but in a similar style to the books of Walton and Haycraft, and we welcome Eliza Kerr to our catalogue. We will be publishing more books from Margaret S. Haycraft and Eliza Kerr in 2018. The titles and release dates will be announced on our website.

Victorian and early twentieth century books by Christian and secular writers can be over-sentimental, referring throughout, for example, to a mother as the dear, sweet mother, and a child as the darling little child. In our abridged editions overindulgent descriptions of people have been shortened to make a more robust story, but the characters and storylines are always unchanged.

A problem of Victorian writers is the tendency to insert intrusive comments concerning what is going to happen later in the story. Today we call them spoilers. They are usually along the lines of: "Little did he/she know that...." I have removed these when appropriate.

£2,000 in the late 1800s may not sound much, but in income value it is worth about £240,000 pounds today (about US $300,000). I mention this in case the sums of money in this book sound insignificant!

Chris Wright

Editor

Publisher's Note

There are 15 chapters in this book. In the second half are advertisements for our other books, so this book may end earlier than expected! The last chapter is marked as such. We aim to make our eBooks free or for a nominal cost, and cannot invest in other forms of advertising. However, word of mouth by satisfied readers will also help get our books more widely known. When the book finishes, please take a look at the other books we publish: Christian non-fiction, Christian fiction, and books for younger readers.

### Chapter 1

On Meadthorpe Moor

A RAINY day in the heart of November. Hour by hour the downpour has been steady and incessant. Beneath grey, leaden skies the noontide bell struck from the old ivied church to the music of splashing drops on bare furrows and amid the yellow leaves.

But now it is sunset time, and there is a beautiful calm over field and wood. The rain has ceased; a soft breeze shakes the wet, swaying boughs, revealing here and there a gleam of crimson berry, or the fading splendour of blackberry leaves shining late within the hedges.

Jasper Ruthven, crossing the moor, looks towards the western horizon. His is a life keenly in touch with Nature's power, and this fair sunset at the end of the cheerless day is full for him of joy.

Not that he forgets the little cares of the everyday round, the possibility of losing his situation of tutor at the Grammar School, the uncertainty as to the ever-varying number of his private pupils, the lack of leisure time until late evening for the literary work he loves, the need of little garments before the winter for his young brothers and sisters at home -- Milly's face pain, the increasing appetites of the twins, and the baby caring nothing at all for its food, losing weight from its tiny limbs and its anxious face.

Not so the girl with whom he presently comes face to face, just as he turns into the pathway leading to Burrows' Farm. She does not see him for a moment, and he, who has learnt to read her every mood, knows the meaning of that thoughtful, shadowed look, that firm, resolute step, those lips compressed, those dark eyes where trouble and perplexity reveal themselves, unconscious of his close observance.

"Gildas, it's a wet day for you to venture so far," he remarks, feeling as he always does that what he says to her is tame and stupid (for what he would wish to say he must not, while teaching pays so badly, and the little mouths need food so plentifully). "I hope you are wearing good boots; the moor is almost like a bog."

"Cousin Jasper!" The girl looks glad to see him, as though relieved to outpour her confidences to one who will sympathize. "Oh, never mind the wet. My boots are thick, and this cloak is waterproof. Oh, I have such things to tell you. It makes me so indignant, I feel I must take some decided step -- write to the Bishop or something. If you only knew how that man Pendrill is going on. I'm certain he's a Jesuit!"

"It is possible,'' says Jasper Ruthven, who likes to agree with the girl looking up into his face for sympathy -- the girl who by courtesy calls him cousin, her father and his having had connections by marriage. "But no one has the right to assert such a thing as a fact, Gildas."

"Every right!" she cries, hotly. "Wherever I go it's the same story of superstition, bigotry, and priestly assumption. Why, Jasper----"

"You must tell me another time, cousin," he says, reluctantly. "You know I have a couple of hours at the farm on Tuesdays and Fridays, coaching Frank Burrows in commercial arithmetic. He has to go into business soon. And, Gildas, I wouldn't worry your father with Pendrill's doings if I were you. When anyone is not very strong, troubles are apt to seem magnified."

"Oh, Father doesn't assert himself sufficiently. He takes things too quietly. He could soon put an end to what's going on if he'd rouse himself as of old," says Gildas with decision. "But if he will not act, I must \-- and I mean to. I'm not going to have Rehoboth Chapel emptied just because Mr. Bertram has unfortunately taken a curate who goes about spreading falsehood, and sowing contentions like a snake in the grass."

"Now your metaphors are getting mixed, Gildas," says her companion, smiling. "We know little of Mr. Pendrill as yet. He has only been here a month, remember. It is rather early to credit him with being a serpent in our Eden."

Looking back with his pleasant smile, as he lifts the felt hat which has too evidently seen its best days, he is troubled to discern the girl's distress and indignation. The gloom has not lifted from her usually sunny face, and she looks drearily down at the sodden grass, too discomfited to be aware of glories that grow faint and fainter now in the western sky.

"It is only natural," he thinks, "that she, the soul of Rehoboth Chapel, should resent the new curate's activity in the parish church. I remember the last one, Mr. Colson. He was very much the same when he first came, but he soon fell into the rector's quiet, easy-going way. Gildas need not worry herself over these attempts to alter our convictions. Most likely they will only be a passing whim."

"Oh, Mr. Ruthven!" says the burly farmer, meeting him in the lane, "didn't ye see my carter? I told him to call at your place and leave word that our boy's gone to London for a week. I'm real sorry now you've had the walk for nothing."

"I have not been home since the early morning," says Jasper, "so I will have missed your message, Mr. Burrows. Will Frank be here for Tuesday's lessons, then, or shall I come this day week?"

"Today week. He'll be away until then," says the farmer. "You'll be no loser because the lad's gone to London. I'll pay you for the two lessons he misses all the same, you know. And by adding half an hour now and again, you'll be able to get things square."

Jason Ruthven bids him good day, and turns back patiently, wondering how those extra half hours are to be worked in, seeing it is all he can do after leaving the farm to get back to Meadthorpe for his evening pupils. At any rate, there is more than a gleam of compensation today for his needless walk, in the thought of returning across the moor by the side of Gildas. A rush of gladness thrills his pulses as he hastens to catch up with her, and she is soon outpouring her grievances like a flood into his attentive ears.

"You know, Jasper," she says, "how pleasantly we've gone on with Mr. Bertram, the Rector -- dear old gentleman, and with Mr. Colson our last curate, too. They worked away at their Chaldean History (or whatever it was) together, and collected their rare manuscripts and things, and spoke to Father when they met, and sent nice letters of apology to be read at meetings Father asked them to attend; and not a shadow of disagreeable feeling between church and chapel existed at Meadthorpe."

"Mr. Colson was a great loss," says Jason; "but with his large family he must be thankful to get a good living."

"Then because this new man is his third cousin, or something like that, Mr. Bertram goes and engages a curate who steeps the whole place in bitterness!" cries Gildas, indignantly. "Perhaps he counts on having everything his own way because Father is old and he's been so ill. But he will find in the Havens the same strong Puritan spirit that bowed neither to king nor clergy, but owned the rule of Scripture and conscience alone in religious matters. Were not my ancestors and their followers fined, imprisoned, and branded by the hand of oppression? How fearlessly Father himself fought in the past for the right of preaching on our common, and again and again in his time he has suffered for resisting Church rates! To the core I'm Nonconformist, Cousin Jasper, and I will keep Meadthorpe Nonconformist whatever wiles this Pendrill may bring to bear on the place."

"I scarcely think you need fear for Rehoboth Chapel," says Jason Ruthven, soothingly. "Our chapel has withstood many a storm in the past, and in these late years it has prospered more than any other in the county. Even when I was little I remember the place being thronged to hear your father's sermons. I used to be wedged against the wall in the gallery, and emerge with my back regularly whitened each Sunday. Of course, the place fell off a little, while your father's long illness necessitated guest preachers, but since you left school you have worked it up splendidly, Gildas. Rehoboth Chapel is the flower of our denomination hereabouts. We have nothing to fear from the opposition of the new curate, I assure you."

"You always cheer me up, Cousin Jasper," replies Gildas. "You're sure, somehow, to look on the bright side of things -- I suppose poets always do."

"Fancy calling a matter-of-fact tutor like me a poet, Gildas! I don't think I have written a line for weeks. I have been far too busy."

"Ah, but you're a poet in your heart, Jasper, and one day the world will know it," says Gildas, with proud confidence. "One day you will lead the world's hosannas, and your songs will go on echoing when the superstitions of men such as Pendrill have vanished like mists. How proud I'll be of you when you wear the laurel, Jasper!"

The shadows of gloaming are bright for Jasper at that moment. A sweet, golden vision seems beckoning from the future -- the poet's wreath, the world's acclaim, the treasures of greatness laid down before the girl who filled his boyhood's dreams, the heart of his manhood.

Passionate words, of which "Cousin Gildas" guesses nothing at all, are almost on his lips. A flush rises to his face, and for once his life-secret has almost been revealed, but commonsense returns just in time. In his mind he sees his sister Milly in the boots that need patching, the twins just ready for school, Gordon with much-darned knickerbockers, and baby who will need support and care for many a long year yet. The elder brother of these children, who have no helper save himself, puts aside the wild, sweet longing, and tries to listen with his whole heart to the girl's further revelations of her trouble.

"Last Sunday," she says, "I noticed a difference in our Chapel School. I attributed the smaller attendance to the wet, but the teachers tell me the new curate is systematically visiting all over the place, insisting that the Church Sunday school, and not our Chapel Sunday school, is the right place for Meadthorpe children. And the same with our day schools. You know how some of the parents are so easily persuaded. The truth is, Jasper, the parish church has the power over distributing a great many gifts, and this has weight, I expect, with many fathers and mothers."

"I hear Mr. Pendrill is introducing improved methods into the Church School," says Jason Ruthven, gently. "Hitherto we know it's been at a low ebb. If some of our children are removed, we must search out others to fill their places. There are plenty who go nowhere yet."

"I know," says Gildas; "but it is nothing more nor less than stealing to take our scholars away. You know he has gone to lodge with Mrs. Abbot, and I hear now that the Abbot children are leaving our school -- children that began in our infant class, and have been under our care pretty well all their lives! He has gone and put young Willie Abbot in the church choir, and Mrs. Abbot thinks 'Mr. Pendrill would not like him to sing at the temperance festival at the chapel,' and you know he was down for a solo. I have spent hours training that boy's voice."

"That is a pity, Gildas," says Jasper. "I know how you have worked for that festival. I think my young brother, Gordon, could take his place, though. I hear him humming the piece at home, and I could give him some practice to save your time."

"Gordon's upper notes are nothing like Abbot's, but I suppose he must do," she answers, feeling too much hurt to respond very gratefully just then. "But think of the bigotry of such ways, Jasper! First he steals our children, and then objects to their helping a society which is really non-sectarian, though it is held in our lecture hall. But that's not the worst. When I met you I had just been to see Mrs. Burrows. Cissy, the third girl, is in my Sunday school class, and for two Sundays she's been away. So I called to ask after her, and whatever do you think, Jasper? That curate Pendrill has talked Mrs. Burrows into letting all the girls join some guild he is working up in connection with the church -- and the meetings take place on Sunday afternoons. I think it's really Miss Rowena Bertram's Bible class, but they call it Saint Somebody's Guild. And he told Mrs. Burrows it was time Janet and Cissy should be confirmed -- they were 'quite old enough.' Fancy anything in the nature of a religious profession depending on age instead of personal faith!"

"I'm sorry," says Jason, sympathetically. "I know you felt you had a part and share in your chapel girls, Gildas, but Miss Bertram is the Vicar's daughter, and she likewise spares no pains to benefit her class. So let us hope and believe they will get good teaching under her care. I think some of my own little class must have been removed to the church Sunday school, for I noticed last Sunday we were reduced as to numbers. Well, perhaps we all need to learn a lesson of patience"

"I'm sure you do not!" Gildas cries impulsively. "I never remember you anything but patient, Jasper, and I have known you all my life. As for me, I cannot see we are called on to submit meekly to all that emphasis on sacraments, rituals, and ceremonies. I wonder how the church people can put up with the new order of things! I hear he has altar candles now, and adopts the 'eastward position.' Such superstition, putting ceremonies in place of sincerity! However can the man have taken up such false ideas?"

Jasper Ruthven is silent for a moment, then he gently quotes:

"Call no faith false which e'er has brought

Relief to any laden life,

Cessation from the pain of thought,

Refreshment 'mid the dust of strife."

"Oh, I hope I am not narrow minded. I detest bigotry wherever found!" cries Gildas. "But, Jasper, what help or comfort or relief can any sensible person find in lights and altar cloths, and all the changes of Church millinery?"

"You see, Gildas, you and I have been brought up in a school of thought removed from types and symbols. But often the Lord taught heavenly lessons by means of pictures. And today some see sacred meanings in the imagery within the church building. However much we may differ from their opinions, let us respect them as devout worshippers. Our Master has His saints and disciples among those reverencing Church traditions as well as in our own old chapel -- that is certain!"

"At any rate," says Gildas, emphatically, "ritualism is dangerous, and Meadthorpe will not be poisoned by it. Against Pendrill and his rituals, I stand firm with the principles of truth and freedom. I mean to withstand him at every point. The victory will never be his in our town while God gives me strength and power!"

Like one of that grand Puritan race from which she springs, Gildas walks into the Rehoboth Chapel Manse with shining, fearless eyes and stern face, full of earnest purpose and undaunted resolve. Gilead Haven, her father, sits at the table with head bowed over the pages of his beloved book on sermon preparations by Andrew Fuller. Two unopened letters lie beside him, and Gildas, who attends for the most part now to his correspondence, opens them with a premonition of further annoyances.

One is from the leader of the Rehoboth mothers' meeting, complaining that three of her mothers have deserted to the newly formed class at the parish church. The other is from the mother of the boy who blows the organ bellows at Rehoboth Chapel, complaining that five pounds per annum is insufficient remuneration, and hinting that it is not impossible an opening may offer for the talents of the youth in question elsewhere.

Gildas silently lays the letters on her father's book. He adjusts his spectacles, reads them through, and returns to the paragraph he is perusing and says quietly, "There seems a great awakening at the church. The new curate appears to be a man of energy and power. I hear there is to be daily service, and the church will be open always for prayer. I would it were the same at Rehoboth, but then the deacons.... Yes, Gildas, there seems the stir of new life at the parish church now. If the Master be glorified, if His kingdom triumph, we will rejoice and give thanks, my daughter. Whether by us or by them, may His work be done, and may the earth be filled with His glory."

Gildas turns silently away in bitter disappointment. Time was when her father, the minister of Rehoboth, would have thundered forth in splendid eloquence against the sacerdotal wiles that despoil his vineyard, and every weapon of his grand spiritual force would have been turned against priestly inroads; but the word Ichabod, the Glory has Departed, seems written across the old man's powers since God's finger touched his only son, and the grasses twine his grave.

In the remembrance, and in the prospect of the soul-to-soul struggles that await in Meadthorpe, the dark eyes of Gildas grow dim with quivering dews. Somehow the family dog, an old Welsh collie called Jones, knows she is in distress, and stretches his shaggy length to kiss her.

### Chapter 2

An Official Visitation

BY-AND-BY Gildas persuades her father to go to the waiting tea. Jones has already, with his nose on the minister's knee, groaned and sorrowed aloud at the delay in partaking of Emery's hot teacakes, a soft delicacy dear to the heart of a collie that has known better days as to his teeth. Miss Emery herself, a staid, elderly, solemn-faced woman who is the live-in housekeeper at the manse, one of the pillars of Rehoboth Chapel, considers it quite in keeping with the popular opinion of Mr. Haven's learning that he should prefer theological study to the needs of the inner man. She notes approvingly that his finger traces the words that fix his attention, and he marks the page with a folded missionary report ere he takes his place for the evening meal.

Once conscious, however, that tea is in progress, the minister gives his earnest attention to the proper preparation of the beverage. He never lets Gildas infuse the tea. It is hers to wait deferentially while the old man steeps the exact quantity to ensure a correct result. Then the teaspoons have to be warmed, and the cups; and precisely when he gives the signal, Gildas must be ready to pour out a consummation that, in her present state of headache, she devoutly desires.

Mr. Haven led a bachelor existence up to the age of fifty, and when he then took to himself the daughter of the deceased pastor of a neighbouring chapel, a highly intelligent woman whose heart was full of reverent admiration for his preaching and his works, he could not change his personal attention to such points as heating the teaspoons.

"I will not think anything more about that curate's doings today," Gildas decides to herself. "It only makes me angry and wretched, and Father needs somebody to cheer and help him, instead of depressing him.

"Father," she says tenderly, "I'm going to make the lists for the anniversary trays tomorrow. You know it's the week after next. I expect the place will be crowded for tea. Jasper Ruthven told me on Monday that a number of people are coming over from Blencoe and Moorhanger, and I'm sure it will be a splendid meeting. We nearly know the anthems now, and we're to have a long practice tonight."

"I do not like anthems, daughter," says the minister, laying buttered toast on the cold, damp nose of the collie resting on his knee. "Have something all the people will know. Something we can all stand up and sing, and know what comes next -- and know when we've finished. You remember last Sunday I began to give out the notices, believing Miss Spencer had concluded, but she had only stopped for breath, and she commenced her part all over again."

"Of course, Father, those bars are repeated. I found the place before service in your anthem book. You weren't following, Father, or you would have seen Miss Spencer's part was in italics. That means, in our book, twice over."

"Just so, my love," he assents, resignedly, "but you won't let the congregation sit and listen all the time, will you, dear child? We must have 'When I can read,' and 'Come, let us join,' and you know we always end up the service with 'Behold the glories of the Lamb.'"

"Oh, yes," says Gildas, "it would never do to have the music all anthems. We only have two, Father. 'I will sing praises' and 'Be Thou exalted.' Everyone in the choir is talking about Miss Mundey's upper A in 'I will sing praises.' I'm certain the church choir cannot manage that."

But here she stops abruptly, reminded that she meant to forget the affairs of the church for a while; and the old minister, with his wrinkled hand on the dog's shaggy head, brightens up and says with a nod, "'Be Thou exalted.' I don't mind how many times they sing that over and over in the old place, daughter."

Presently the scene is changed. In the midst of enjoying the milk, which forms his evening refection, Jones hears a peal at the front door bell, and his ancient frame thrills with indignant barking, resentful of intruders.

"Finish your tea, Father," says Gildas. "It's only Mrs. Volly, or perhaps someone has sent a message about the choir practice."

Mrs. Volly is an aged dame from the almshouses. Although, a churchgoer by reason of her parochial position, she is a frequent visitor to the Manse to consult Mr. Haven concerning the signs and wonders of the latter days. The minister looks wistfully at his book, though conscious his views on prophecy are calculated to attract the enquiring to his residence.

But Emery enters, followed by the sound of many feet, and in her solemn way announces in a low voice of mystery, "Please, sir, the deacons."

"It isn't deacons' meeting night," exclaims Gildas to her father. She notices he looks worn and tired, and wonders, with a vague sense of disquietude, when he will make a thorough recovery from that long nervous illness that followed her brother David's death.

Gildas has known the deacons all her life, and she is a great favourite with every one of them, though Mr. Hornby shakes his head at the notion of her giving Sunday school addresses, and thinks young ladies of the present day forget the apostolic injunction: "I suffer not a woman to teach; let the woman learn in silence, with all subjection."

Mr. Hornby is tall, pale, and serious of countenance. Gildas has never yet seen him laugh, though when the debt was paid on the alterations to Rehoboth Chapel the year before last, she remembers a near approach to a smile. Mr. Hornby is suspicious of the Mutual Improvement Society at the chapel, and absents himself on principle from the young folks' musical evenings and recitations and the like. He scents danger lest Rehoboth become a centre of entertainments, and many a grave discourse has he held on the subject with the powers that be. But without Mr. Hornby, Rehoboth Chapel would scarcely seem the same. He works late on Saturday nights, being a grocer in the town, but he is always at the prayer meeting preceding the service, and his tall figure is never absent from its post of conducting strangers to seats in the chapel, supplying them with hymn books, and appearing in due course with the collection plate.

Mr. Weston, who enters behind him, is a retired veterinary surgeon, and chiefly noted for his anti-Romanist tendencies. Keenly does he scent heresy in such matters as quoting a phrase or two from a Church of England prayer -- of which visiting preachers have sometimes been guilty -- and be became convinced Rehoboth was on the road to the Vatican when one of the choir from the cathedral town of Dilchester gave a solo once at a midweek evening service, and bowed low in mention of our Saviour's name. Tonight his iron-grey hair is almost on end with horror, aroused by the new curate's crusade, and he can scarcely wait while Gildas draws seats forward before he plunges into the iniquities that have reached his ears.

The third deacon, Mr. Mundey, lives in a perpetual state of admiration of his pastor, and advertises his praises and the fame of Rehoboth Chapel wherever he goes on his rounds as a draper with an outlying country connection. Mr. Mundey, as superintendent of the Chapel School, and in constant contact with the juveniles, is rounder of face and more jovial of visage than the rest. It is a creed with him that never was there such a Sunday school as at Rehoboth, or such a minister as theirs. When his neighbour, the nurseryman, talks of the Primitive Methodist preacher at Shiloh, all he has to say is, "Our man was preaching at Rehoboth before yours was born!"

Side by side with Mr. Mundey comes in the Meadthorpe auctioneer, Mr. Channing-Surtees, the oldest representative of the diaconate, looking quite venerable with his flowing white beard and spectacles of gold (a testimonial from Rehoboth). Gildas greets him with a smile. The dear old man is a father in Israel to all the young folks at the chapel. He has lived so long, and seen and known so much, that he is quite an ancient mariner in respect of persevering delivery of narrative.

There is one more deacon, Mr. Chatten, bookseller and stationer in the town; but he is not here this evening. He leaves most of the arrangements and discussions to his brethren in office. All he does is to manage the money matters of Rehoboth, and keep the balance on the right side. If you met him in the High Street with a tranquil air of serene satisfaction, you could be certain he holds within his glove a sovereign he has secured from some individual he has just visited, on behalf of the chapel incidentals or the alterations to the stove.

"We have taken you by storm, Mr. Haven," begins Mr. Weston, hurriedly, "but such dreadful things have reached our ears. After earnest consultation, and in view of the anniversary, we decided to put the matter into your hands. No time can be better for a fearless, plain-spoken protest than the anniversary occasion, when our friends of other evangelical denominations gather round us,. And we will have their indignant support, as Rehoboth denounces the snares and pitfalls the new curate is cunningly devising for the peril and condemnation of our townspeople."

"It is our opinion, Mr. Haven," says Mr. Hornby, his slow, grave manner of speech emphasizing his words, "that it would be well for you, at the approaching anniversary, to deliver a special discourse against high church rituals and delusions. You might make allusion to facts well known in Meadthorpe, that regular chapel-goers have been drawn, either by the new organ at the parish church, or by the new curate's eloquence, which is reported to be great, to attend services according to the liturgy."

"Jesuit preachers always are noted for their eloquence," says Mr. Weston eagerly, "and then they are so deceitful. The other day he actually had a hymn out of Sankey's collection. Of course, it was only to delude the people into thinking him Evangelical."

"He has taken away Willie Abbot, my best soprano," says Gildas, standing by the mantelpiece with eyes bright with wrath. She had intended leaving the room, but Mr. Mundey and Mr. Channing-Surtees nodded to her to remain. "And he's looking after the older girls in our day school, to get them confirmed in the spring."

"It is all jealousy," says Mr. Mundey. "Where can he get a congregation like we see at Rehoboth, or how can their little cramped-up Sunday school compare with ours? Think of our partitions and classrooms, and long list of successes at the Sunday school examinations! The man is envious of your successes, Mr. Haven, but he must not be permitted to steal away the lambs of our flock. Meadthorpe must be warned from the pulpit against clerical aggression."

"I remember," begins Mr. Channing-Surtees, "some fifty-five years ago, when I was about ten years old -- yes, it must have been just then, because good King George the Third--"

"The point is, Mr. Haven," says Mr. Weston, hotly, "excuse my interrupting you, friend, but I promised to be down at the brewery at eight o'clock. One of Solly's horses is ill. Although I am retired now, I agreed to have a look at it in a neighbourly way, and it would ease my mind to have this matter settled before I go. The point is, Mr. Haven, will you preach on the anniversary evening an out-and-out anti-Anglican sermon? We want no uncertain sound, but the kind of discourse you know so well how to deliver. Something that will prevent the Meadthorpe people from giving heed to what that young Anglican curate may utter. Every subterfuge to despoil our place should be exposed, and you might dwell at length on the crying evil of the whole system."

"Leave it to the minister," said Mr. Mundey. "He will know just how to put it, and every word, we know well, will drive home a nail into the underhanded attempts of Mr. Pendrill to weaken our cause. Why, Mr. Haven, the pamphlet you wrote years ago against the eastward position, and the use of incense in Anglican churches was quite an inspiration! I know most of it by heart. I was quoting it only yesterday to Hopkinson the churchwarden, across the way."

"I remember the circumstances under which that pamphlet was written," says the auctioneer. "In fact, I may be said, brethren, to have had some humble share in the production of that protest. Coming home one day from a sale of cattle at Moorhanger -- it must have been Friday, for that is market day -- I happened to notice lights in the church by the green, and thinking the skies betokened an approaching storm \-- you know some years since the hurricanes in the surrounding locality were----"

"Pardon me, brother," says Mr. Hornby. "Our minister looks unwell, and we must not intrude to weary him. You will agree with me, Mr. Haven, we cannot lightly allow the church people to fix meetings the same evenings as our own, suggest that the Sacrament can only be taken properly at church, and that kind of thing. We deacons think it is time reference was made to such proceedings from the pulpit, and you will doubtless feel it your duty to protest against them at our anniversary with no uncertain sound."

"Yes, Father, do," says Gildas, pleadingly. "Mr. Pendrill has come down on Meadthorpe like a wolf on the fold, and it is most certainly unbearable that he should have things all his own way."

They are silent, awaiting the minister's reply. Mr. Channing-Surtees is inspired with a reminiscence of his childhood in Rehoboth school, when he wept outside the old squire's gates, being denied the bun and orange commemorative of the young heir's majority, because he was not a "Church school child." But with the narrative and all its attendant anecdotes trembling on his lips, he is constrained into silence by the visage of Mr. Hornby, who pauses resolutely for the pastoral reply.

Mr. Haven's wistful thoughts are with the pile of books at one end of the table, and it is doubtful if he has heard much of the conversation that has been going on. Of late it has become increasingly difficult for him to concentrate the forces of his mind, and even Gildas notices with an uneasy feeling at her heart that he is frequently absentminded and at a loss for the right word and phrase.

Sometimes the momentary hesitation in the pulpit serves but to drive home more powerfully the sentence that is presently found \-- the exact word than which a better even Gildas herself (and Gildas has a degree) could scarcely select. But at times the absentmindedness is more perceptible, as now, when the sudden silence seems to bewilder him, and he is about to take to his knees, associating the gathering with the deacons' weekly prayer meeting.

Gildas lays her hand on his arm, leans over his chair, and reminds him of the matter under debate, feeling more hotly concerned for the cause of Dissent in Meadthorpe than even Mr. Weston and his troubled colleagues. Is she to have laboured in vain, and to have spent her strength for naught? Is it to be a memory of the past that Rehoboth has a larger congregation than any church or chapel within thirty miles? Are her tireless energies in organizing, visiting, developing, supplementing her father's pastoral office, to weigh as nothing against the specious machinations of a brainless young curate? No. If only for once her father will preach as he preached of old, launching his thunders of rhetoric against Establishment and its representatives, Meadthorpe will realize the beguilements in its midst, and parents will turn a deaf ear to the wooing of the young priest, notwithstanding the parochial bounties.

"Brethren," says the old minister, falteringly, "the anniversary is many a day away yet. I cannot promise. I will think over what you wish. I will make it a matter of prayer."

"Oh, if you do that," says Mr. Weston, "you will be clearly shown that protest is not only desirable, but scriptural. This new curate has come to a peaceful country town like a root of bitterness to trouble us, and he and his teachings must be openly denounced. Rehoboth must make the country ring with its abhorrence of priestcraft and Anglicanism."

"You're wanted at the school, Miss Gildas," says Emery, appearing and conspicuously bringing out the minister's sermon case and pen and ink, as she clears the table. "It's the choir practice. Friday evening, you know." Emery emphasizes these words, for she considers every minister should be left to the sweets of solitude at the end of the week. She has doubts as to whether Sunday's sermons are yet composed, and her pastor's reputation is at stake, for the Joplins from Shiloh Chapel (new residents in Meadthorpe) are coming to hear him.

The deacons are rather in awe of Emery, who is wont, in some still, potent fashion, to shape the opinions of a large company of friends at the church meeting. They rise to leave, content with the minister's promise to pray over the matter of their visit.

But when they get outside they look grave and troubled, and Mr. Hornby says solemnly, "He is very different from what he used to be. I doubt if he will ever be the same man again."

"I fear he is getting beyond the work of the pastorate now," says Mr. Weston mournfully, in tones subdued because it seems revolutionary to them to think of Rehoboth without Gilead Haven. "I see dark days ahead. The commencement, I fear, of the dispensation of tribulation."

A little uneasy in his conscience, being a pronounced abstainer, Mr. Weston proceeds to the brewery to look at the horse that has fallen lame; and things seem far less dreary somehow by the time he has used his knowledge of equine ailments on behalf of the great black creature that, bathed with lotion and bandaged, lays its huge head trustfully on his shoulder.

### Chapter 3

Rehoboth Anniversary

MEADTHORPE Rectory is a low-built, spreading country house in the midst of a walled garden, sweet and fragrant with the old-fashioned flowers the Rector loves, and rich with fruit in the autumn of the year. Life has led Mr. Bertram, the Rector, in pleasant places. His is a picturesque, cosy home around which just now the Christmas roses steal, and that later will be garlanded with tulips rare and gorgeous.

Mr. Bertram has glebe land fair and fertile adjacent to his house, and many an overworked, town-worn cleric, coming to preach on special occasions, has only just remembered in time the Tenth Commandment as concerns this peaceful, vine-wreathed dwelling, and the cure of souls in Meadthorpe.

The Rector is a good tempered, bland, easygoing old gentleman, devoted to his roses and his peaches, and to the book he has been writing for years concerning Nineveh. A quiet life is his idea of blessedness, and his enthusiastic self-sacrificing new curate, who counts life itself as nothing compared to the glory of the Church, seemed at first a crumpled rose leaf in the calm of Mr. Bertram's existence.

"But the lad will subside," he thinks resignedly, twenty-four years of life being but wild boyhood to the hoary-headed Rector. "I had similar visions when I was fresh from Oxford. And heaven forbid that I should damp the glow of his ardour. Gifted as he is as a preacher, and with his marvellous fund of energy, there ought to be a brilliant career in store for Bernard Pendrill. His capacity for work meanwhile will set me free to attend to my book."

Bernard Pendrill is distantly related to the Rector, but they knew little of each other until an advertisement in a Church paper led to mutual correspondence, and the connection as rector and curate of Meadthorpe parish church.

Pendrill lodges in the High Street, with the mother of Miss Haven's defector Band of Hope boy, Willie Abbot. He is necessarily a great deal of time at the Rectory, however, and this particular morning the Rector's spinster daughter and housekeeper, Miss Rowena, glances occasionally up from her task of cutting out garments for the mothers' meeting, desirous of having a few words with the curate on his entrance.

"Miss Rowena" is so called in Meadthorpe in memory of her sister, one year older, who went out to India as the wife of a judge, and whose young son Gilbert, a boy of eleven, is at present established at the Rectory, studying with his grandfather occasionally, and every afternoon with Jasper Ruthven. At this moment he is engaged in the various occupations of learning his Latin declensions, and swelling gelatine lozenges in a tumbler of water.

A crash in the hall causes the Rector's daughter to lay down the shirt in progress, and so startles Gilbert that the water goes over on his Latin grammar; but he dries it with his sleeve, glancing with innocent preoccupation at his aunt, of whom he stands in wholesome awe.

"Shall I go and see what is the matter, Aunt Rowena? Perhaps grandfather has fallen down the stairs."

"Continue your lessons, Gilbert. I wish you understood the value of continuity. You're far too ready to forsake one occupation for another,'' says Miss Rowena, gravely. Then, with her habitual self-control, she rises slowly from her seat.

"I don't believe Aunt Rowena would hurry if ... if ... if ... there was a circus coming along," reflects Gilbert, conjuring up the most exciting possibility that imagination can conceive. "I wonder how she and Mother come to be sisters. Aunt Rowena's awfully good, I know, but she's not a bit like Mother. Mother's always got such a nice, smiling face and eyes that look so loving at a fellow," and here the homesick boy blinks hard, and swallows a swollen gelatine to subdue the unmanly lump that afflicts his throat.

Out in the hall stands a girl of fifteen, red-faced and sullen, surveying -- with a determination to "give as good as she gets" if scolded -- the coals that repose on the white skin rug at the drawing room door. To set Anna Stutts to fill a scuttle is, as a rule, to hear the premature descent of the coal on its way to its destination. She is one of the many whom Miss Rowena Bertram has taken from hunger and need to train for domestic service.

Miss Bertram's heart sinks within her, beholding the offering outpoured to the rug, but hers is a religion that makes her slow to wrath, and keeps undue emotions repressed. Although cook who is passing by tells Anna contemptuously that her fingers are all thumbs, Miss Rowena only reminds her she has often been told not to overfill the scuttles, and bids her take up the coal and shake the rug in the garden.

"Something's always a-happening," grumbles Anna. "I never did see such a house. One can't take up a plate but it cracks, and one can't pick up a scuttle but what the whole lot of----"

"That will do," says Miss Rowena, with dignity. "I think, Anna, you forget the subject of the lesson the Rector read at prayers this morning, where Saint Paul admonishes servants not to answer when reproved. Oh, Mr. Pendrill, I didn't see you. I'll take care of the coal. The Rector has left the club books for you. Will you come and warm yourself in the breakfast room?"

"Well, young fellow!"

"Hello, Mr. Pendrill." Gilbert's face lights up as the curate lays his hand on his shoulder. Next to Jasper Ruthven, who is Gilbert's ideal, the boy adores the curate, who played cricket with him in the hall for an hour when a cold kept him indoors, and whose sermons that are fast filling the hitherto half-empty church are comprehensible and clear to Gilbert's eager mind.

"I'm making jelly," confides the boy. "Mr. Pendrill, if when you go to bed you leave a gelatine in your tumbler, the next morning it's as big as a half-crown."

Then Gilbert's face grows suddenly grave, remembering that his only half-crown is forfeited by order of Miss Rowena, for exchanging grimaces with the verger's children in church. All fines at the Rectory go to the waifs and strays, and Gilbert feels sorely guilty in not being able to rejoice that his two-and-sixpence should gladden the soul of Miss Charrell, the district waif-collector.

"Take your book into the library, Gilbert," says his aunt, "and mind you touch none of your grandfather's papers. ... The Rector indulges him so," she remarks to Bernard Pendrill as the boy retires. "I'm obliged to maintain the balance by strictness. The care of a boy like Gilbert is a great responsibility. I only hope I will be enabled to do my duty by him."

"You have a great deal on your hands altogether," says Pendrill. "What with Anna and her predecessors and prospective successors, and the Guild and Girls' Friendly, and mothers' meeting and Dorcas, to say nothing of the parish library and the penny readings. Sometimes I think I overtax you, Miss Rowena, but your help is simply invaluable. In the development of Church influences it cannot be sufficiently estimated. By the way, isn't Forest Cottage in your district -- where young Jasper Ruthven lives, I mean?"

"Yes, but of course I only visit the poorer people. And besides, Mr. Ruthven is a Dissenter. I believe he goes to Rehoboth Chapel."

"Rehoboth? Oh, that unofficial place of worship!" says Pendrill. Such places have no part in his thoughts at all. He sees but the one Church -- historical, apostolic, national. All other resorts of worship are to him conventicles, unauthorised gatherings.

"I thought I'd not seen Ruthven at church. What a pity for a capable fellow like that to imbibe such extraordinary notions. What about his infecting Gilbert with dangerous ideas?"

"Oh, nothing in the way of doctrine ever arises between them. The Rector told Mr. Ruthven that must be understood," answers Miss Rowena. "But do you have any special reason for enquiring as to Forest Cottage?"

"Only that I hear the baby is very delicate, and I wondered if it had been baptized. Perhaps you could urge the matter on the attention of.... Is there a lady of the Ruthven house?"

"No," replies Miss Rowena. "I believe Mr. Jasper Ruthven is like a father and mother to the children, taking care of them with the help of some old body who was his own nurse once. His father was a man of good position until his premature death, one of the partners in Windon's Bank that failed some years ago. The young man is now left in sole charge of these little ones. Up to last year he had his father's mother on his hands as well -- an old lady quite in her dotage, and ill with chronic rheumatism. He appears to be a hard-working, deserving young man, and I have heard the report that he is somewhat of an author, but I know so little about any of the Rehoboth people."

"It is a cruel thing for him to neglect the soul of that delicate child,'' says Pendrill warmly. "Why, if it dies unbaptized, it cannot lie in consecrated ground!"

''The chapel people are careless in these matters," says Miss Rowena. "And while we are speaking of them, Mr. Pendrill, may I suggest that you alter the date you fixed the other day for our new institution -- the parochial tea and entertainment?"

"Alter the date! My dear Miss Rowena, we went carefully through our mutual diaries, and found the twenty-first is the only evening for which it could conveniently be arranged. Indeed, I have already had the handbills printed concerning it."

"Oh dear, I quite forgot it was the evening of Rehoboth Chapel anniversary, an occasion always popular with the Meadthorpe people. I fear our concert will seem to clash with their arrangements, and that some may take offence."

"That Rehoboth seems a very important place, Miss Rowena," says the curate lightly. "Is it that peculiar-looking structure with the tombstones in front that stands back from Station Road?"

"Yes; it's the largest chapel in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Haven, the minister, is a very good man, I believe. He has been there since he left college. I'm sure the Rector would be very sorry in any way to hurt his feelings, though of course we cannot let Miss Haven dictate to us."

"Is Miss Haven the minister's sister?"

"No, his only child. The son died three years ago in his first charge as minister. I believe he was thought a great deal of in his denomination. The fact is," she adds, looking earnestly and thoughtfully at the curate, "Miss Haven has been talking, I hear, to Josephs, our under-gardener, who was once in the Rehoboth school. I suppose she was asking why they never see him at Rehoboth, and he told her he'd joined himself to the Church, where his master administered the Communion, and he quoted to her your words last Sunday, that only the priest duly ordained by the bishop and entitled to claim apostolic succession can rightfully administer the Communion. Of course, Mr. Haven's daughter protested against such teaching, but I have been telling Joseph he must listen to what you, his spiritual teacher, counsels him in the name of the Church. As I understood you, you are distinctly of opinion none but the regularly ordained priest has a right to administer the Holy Eucharist."

"Absolutely," answers Bernard Pendrill, the light from the stained-glass door that leads to the garden falling on his sunny hair, and deep, dark, earnest eyes, as for a while the solemn thoughts within him hush him to silence. Deep in his reverence for all pertaining to the Sacraments, and as he thinks of any ministering therein save the priest, "by Thine anointed heralds duly crowned," he is reminded of Uzzah of the Old Testament and the holy Ark of the Covenant.

"No irregular, unauthorised hand should lightly touch the sacred offices of holy Church," he says earnestly. "Oh, if these people around us only knew what they missed in hanging back from the blessings of their Mother Church offered through the priest!"

"Dissent is all-powerful here," says Miss Rowena sadly. "My father's weak throat has always hindered special activity on his part, and your predecessor was absorbed in his books. Since then, Gildas Haven has been back from school and college, and she's been here, there, and everywhere, working up Rehoboth Chapel, so the parish church has been at a disadvantage."

"I see signs of daybreak, though," says Pendrill, with the smile that is the sweeter, perhaps, because it is so rare -- his habitual expression being one of serious earnestness. "There are nine baptisms next Sunday afternoon, and there will be quite a long list of names for confirmation. The worst feature I think is the small attendance we get at the Sunday and day schools. I hold education on Church lines of untold importance nowadays. Ah, there comes your father. I wanted to see him about the Workmen's Guild."

"Then," says Miss Rowena, "you mean to leave the date of the parochial tea as it stands? You're not afraid of creating enemies, I see!"

"Most people who try to do their duty know something of adverse criticism," he answers. "The chapel people must indeed be sensitive if they take offence so easily. In making our church arrangements we are no more called upon to note their various engagements than to consult the devotional appointments at the Roman Catholic Mission Chapel!"

* * *

The parochial festive entertainment draws a good many from Rehoboth on the evening of the anniversary, and the secret wrath of the office bearers is only equalled by the indignation of Gildas who is distinctly of the opinion that someone should write to the Bishop to complain that the new curate of Meadthorpe fixes engagements purposely to weaken the influences of the Dissenters in the place. Since Mr. Bertram, the Rector, will not put down the deplorable bigotry of this insufferable young man, the hand of authority should be invoked to repress him before he pollutes Meadthorpe with his superstitions!

"It's shameful, this attempt to frustrate our meeting," she exclaims to Miss Mundey, as they fan themselves with the anthems after their efforts for an hour and a half to supply with tea and food the hungry multitude that has poured in from outlying villages. "Last year there were quite a number crowded out, and you know we ran short of everything. This year we have enough and to spare. I only hope Father will allude to the subject in his sermon. Someone ought to make that bigoted, interfering young man feel ashamed of his underhanded trickery!"

Mr. Haven's anniversary sermons are traditionally quoted for miles around, long after they are only a memory, and somehow it has become a matter of general expectation that today the pastor of Rehoboth Chapel will speak openly of that which is on every tongue: namely the aggressive tactics of the new curate at Meadthorpe Parish Church, and the doctrines he is spreading critical of Dissent.

The minister looks weak and ill as he ascends the tall, old-fashioned pulpit. Some who remember him in the vigour of youth, and the grandeur of his prime, look wistfully at the thin white hair, the sunken cheeks, and the quivering hand that rests on the Bible. A few more years, and a stranger will fill the old man's place, but they shrink from the thought, and hang the more on his lips, because already it seems to them he sees the Promised Land.

Mr. Haven's text is that of the apostle John: "Little children, love one another." Beginning in evident faintness and weakness, his voice grows fuller and stronger as he proceeds, and there is a ring of the old trumpet note of power as he appeals to the Master's disciples, for His glory, and to light the beacon fire of witness-bearing to the world that knows Him not; to be pitiful, tender hearted, patient, forgiving, fighting the wrong alone, and, heart knit with heart, "shaking hands over the lowered walls of separation."

No mention is made of the bitterness that has arisen between church and chapel in Meadthorpe. The sermon is full of love and of the loving Lord, and somehow that parochial tea does not seem such an irritating arrow by the time pastor and people join to sing the hymn he selects:

"Lo, what an entertaining sight

are brethren that agree!

Brethren whose cheerful hearts

Unite in bands of piety."

Charrell, the tailor, who was "born and baptized Church," and brings all the reverend fathers to bear on his neighbour, Mr. Mundey, at times has denied himself the parochial festivities to hear what Mr. Haven has to say against the Church of England, and sits alert and prepared to hurl back any stones of reproach through the medium of the local newspaper.

When the sermon closes and the deacons offer prayer, there is still the prick of suspicion in Charrell's ears for phrases of accusation or offence; but that echoing appeal, "love as brethren," is ringing through the hearts of the petitioners, and even Mr. Weston forgets priestcraft and the Vatican, and prays only that of the increase of His kingdom there may be no end. And he who came to wax indignant goes out by-and-by into the peaceful starlight, and bares his head in the old, still graveyard, as Mr. Haven's best loved hymn floats up triumphantly:

Behold the glories of the Lamb

Amidst His Father's throne:

Prepare new honours for His Name,

And songs before unknown.

Thou hast redeemed our souls with blood,

Hast set the prisoners free,

Hast made us kings and priests to God,

And we shall reign with Thee.

Chapter 4

"When Greek Meets Greek."

"IS Mr. Jasper Ruthven here?"

At the door of Forest Cottage, within the porch wreathed in summer days with jasmine, stands the curate of Meadthorpe, commissioned by his Rector with a message for Gilbert's teacher.

"Gordon, here's a man!"

Away runs the flaxen haired child in Holland blouse that looks chilly, Pendrill thinks, this frosty weather, and a grave-eyed boy of eight or nine takes his place at the door, surveying the curate with the earnest scrutiny of childhood.

"Brother will be home directly," he says, politely. "He has only gone for the groceries. Won't you come in and wait?"

Bernard Pendrill is doubtful if these little ones could remember his message aright, and thinks he had better deliver it personally. He follows Gordon into a small bright living room, so full of winter sunshine that the small fire in the grate, the worn carpet and shabby furniture escape the visitor's notice at first. He is intensely fond of children, and advances with almost eager tenderness to the blue-eyed boy who is marking in crimson thread the motto, "I love Jasper."

"Him's Jacky," says the child in the Holland blouse. "I'm Jemmie. Jacky and me's twins. Gordon's the biggest of us. He's eight, and a grammar school boy. And Jemmie and me's going there too when brother can afford to get us knickerbockers. Milly's our sister. Can't you hear her getting baby to sleep?"

"Baby always wants that song, you know," says Gordon, confidentially. "Brother was nursing him one day, and he made it up while he nursed, and baby liked it, and it always gets him quiet. It goes to the same tune, you know, as 'Now the day is over.' Now Milly's beginning it over again. You listen."

Pendrill seats himself by the side of the diligent worker, wondering why the simple lullaby from the childish voice that renders it being so tenderly, being extremely flat at times, should so move his heart.

"Baby-boy is sleeping

Tiny limbs at rest;

Weary little birdie

Quiet in the nest.

"Evening dews are falling,

Evening winds are cold;

Little white lambs gather

In the grassy fold.

"With a gentle murmur,

Like a lullaby,

Flows the rippling river,

Where the rushes lie.

"Flowers are faintly sighing

O'er the darkened plain;

Rest thee, sweet, till morning

Kiss thy lips again.

"Jesus, bless our birdie!

Keep him close to Thee;

Now beneath Thy shadow

Hush him tenderly.

"Baby-boy is sleeping,

Tiny limbs at rest;

Weary little birdie,

Quiet in the nest:"

"Baby's feeling better," says talkative Jemmie. "Chidgey gave him a crust with a lot of dripping, and he ate it all this morning. Chidgey says he'll make old bones yet; he's getting quite a man. Chidgey's the lady that takes care of us, you know. What's your name, please; and how old are you? Do you know brother? Isn't brother a brick? I heard our milkman tell Chidgey so. Why did he call brother a brick?"

Gordon, with a grave shake of his curly head, admonishes Jemmie to be less conversational.

"He doesn't know who you are," he explains, "but I do, You're the new clergyman that's come to help Mr. Bertram. You're Mr. Pendrill, aren't you, please?"

"Yes," says the curate, much amused, "that is my name, Gordon, and I hope we'll be great friends."

"Mr. Pendrill!" repeats Jemmie. "But you're very wicked, aren't you? I think it's downright mean of you to steal little boys and girls from Gildas."

"My child," says Pendrill, laughing, "I don't know who Gildas may be, but I never stole a boy or girl in my life, I assure you."

"Jemmie means Gildas Haven," says Gordon. "He's a very rude boy. He shouldn't go repeating things."

"Gildas shouldn't tell stories then," says Jemmie, sturdily. "I heard her tell brother that Mr. Pendrill steals her boys and girls from the day school and the Sunday school, but I don't believe he do, and please I want to see inside the stomach of your watch."

Jacky, perseveringly pursuing his needlework on behalf of Jasper's birthday, hides it now in his treasure drawer, unable to resist the attraction of the curate's large watch. While all three boys bend over it, holding their breath vigorously lest they should dim the works, seven-year-old Milly runs in, fat, rosy, and smiling, as chubby a little dumpling as lassie ever could be.

"He's sound asleep," she announces, triumphantly, "and Chidgey's given me this for getting him off so soon. Gordon, you divide it. Oh, I didn't see there was anybody here -- how do you do?"

She offers her hand to Pendrill.

"I thought all the jam had gone," says Jemmie, doubtfully. "I suppose Chidgey scraped round the bottom of the jar."

"Yes, she did," says Milly; "and she says brother can't get us any more, because the boy Burrows has given up his lessons, and some of the others don't pay their bills. So we'll be a long time eating this, and make it last out."

Gordon takes the bread and jam, dividing it into five portions, one being hospitably pressed upon the curate. When he declines it, this is transferred to Milly, "because she's a girl."

Milly, too, must see the watch, and exhibit her own treasures of a family of wooden dolls. Confidences have waxed deep and cordial by the time Chidgey comes in -- a tiny old woman in a clean mob cap, who surveys the curate with feelings divided between pride in his notice of the children, and anxiety lest he inoculate them with his liturgical views.

Jemmie has just volunteered to recite "The Young Lochinvar," and, on its termination, Pendrill enquires if his little friends know any hymns.

"They don't know any Church hymns, sir," says Chidgey, with respectful decision. "They were born and bred in the chapel, and chapel they'll live and die, please Heaven. No offence taken where none is meant, but I don't hold with them as can't stick up for their principles and give an answer to priest or parson for the faith as is in them."

"I am glad you think so highly of principle, Mrs. Chidgey," says Pendrill. "So you don't know any Church hymns, children?"

"No," says Milly, shaking her little brown head. "We can't sing those."

"What do you know then?" he asks.

"We know 'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,' and 'There's a Friend for little children,'" says Jacky.

"And 'There is a happy land,' and 'Around the Throne,' and 'Now the day is over,'" adds Jemmie.

"And 'Once in royal David's city,' and 'Brightest and best,'" says Gordon.

"Yes," says Milly; "and that one brother's teaching us now:

"Lead us on our journey,

Be Thyself the way

Through celestial darkness

To celestial day.'"

"I can sing another one," says Jemmie. "Jacky doesn't sing it in tune, but I do! I'll sing it now, if you like; but I don't know any Church ones." And he sings at the top of his voice:

"O Jesus, King most wonderful,

Thou conqueror renowned..."

"I don't know how it goes next," he explains; "but then it goes like this:

"May every heart confess Thy Name,

And ever Thee adore,

And seeking Thee itself inflame,

To seek Thee more and more.'"

The hymn is dear to Bernard Pendrill and he gently touches Jemmie's eager face, saying softly, "Do you know our boys and girls at church sing those very same hymns? Only last Sunday afternoon at the catechising we had 'There's a Friend for little children,' but very few were as careful to sing the correct notes as Jemmie."

He is privately considerably astonished to find that these little ones, whom he has for some time believed to be in heathen ignorance, are learning very much the same hymns as the happier children who enjoy Church privileges.

"I'm afraid he'll tire you, sir," says Chidgey, looking proudly at the sturdy boy. "He's twice the heaviness of the boy next door, though born in the same month of the same year, which well do I remember, the children were making May garlands, and begging at our door for pence, when---- Ah, here's Master Jasper. I do hope he hasn't been and forgotten the yellow soap, for it's washing day Monday, and the way those precious children do run through socks and blouses and pinafores----"

Her remarks are interrupted by the entrance of Jasper Ruthven, laden with sugar, treacle, soda, and a variety of assorted groceries.

"Housekeeping cares must come rather arduous in addition to your teaching work, Mr. Ruthven," says Pendrill, shaking hands, and feeling sympathetic towards the frank, cheery face of the tutor.

"Oh, the pulse of the machine is Chidgey," he answers, smiling; "but today being a holiday at the Chapel school in honour of the headmaster's birthday, I have turned domesticated for once. I hope you have not been waiting long. I see the children have come down on you like an avalanche."

Jasper smiles at chubby little Milly, and seems much gratified by the curate's reply that he has greatly enjoyed making friends with the children.

"I came to bring a message from the Rector," Pendrill says. "He's heard of a pony at Greendell that he thinks will suit his grandson, Gilbert. He wants to drive the boy over to see it this afternoon. So please do not trouble to go to the Rectory to tutor Gilbert today."

"Oh, brother," exclaims Gordon, eagerly, "now you'll have a long, long day for the Rose of Life!"

"That's brother's poem," explains Jacky. "Brother's going to be very great one day. Did you know?"

"No, Mr. Pendrill knows nothing of the kind," says Jasper Ruthven, with a burning face. "Now run away, children. I hope Mr. Pendrill will excuse your far-too-ready tongues."

"But why should we run away?" asks matter-of-fact Jemmie. "It's dinner time, and we'd only have the trouble of coming back. It's soup today. Gordon went and got twopenny-worth of bones yesterday, and Chidgey's boiled them down; and there's suetty pudding -- but no plums in it."

Amid Jemmie's excitement, the curate makes his way into the porch. There is much that as an earnest shepherd of the flock in Meadthorpe, obedient or wandering, he feels called to say to Ruthven concerning his personal practices and omissions, and his responsibility as regards these children. But he feels he cannot speak abruptly on sacred subjects, and lingering for a moment he remarks to Ruthven that he has noticed his overflowing bookcase, and seeing he is a book lover he would be pleased to lend any volume acceptable from his own store at his rooms.

"If you're passing this evening, look in," he says, cordially. "I always have a bachelor cup of tea at five, and you might cheer me up with a visit when you're round my way. I'd like your opinion on a book I have just finished reading, a treatise of the foundations of the Christian faith."

Jasper feels a glow of pleasure in being thus set free to use the curate's library. Only a few years earlier he was the centre of clever, hard working, go-ahead University men, some of whom have since come out brilliantly, and all of whom have hopeful prospects. But Jasper had only one year at college, and then the crash came that killed his father -- the father who was taken hence five months before little Noel's birth, that came as an added anxiety to the ruined household.

Mrs. Ruthven never entirely recovered from her illness. She passed away in a slow decline, entrusting Jasper without a fear with the little ones she left to God's care and his. Then, with none to know the daily struggles save the old lady, his father's mother, whom he refused to send to an institution, and whose holy patience in her helplessness blessed the humble little home, Jasper Ruthven shouldered the burden of life, and never looked back to the "might have been."

But the shades of existence are dark at times, and association with a cultured mind like Bernard Pendrill's has an attraction for him. As for the children, they are charmed with the new curate, and Milly has every detail of his attire at her finger's ends, from the "nice clean collar choky at the neck," to the "grand new boots with lots of beautiful shiny blacking."

The curate has heard of a little girl who is ill in a cottage on the moor, the child of one of Farmer Burrows' carters. He thinks he will call this morning to make his enquiries, Forest Cottage being on the borders of the expanse of heath. He has become well known by this time, and one and another salutes him with respect in passing, though there are others who seem to think it needful to hold their heads extra high and betray overacted indifference and contempt when they catch sight of his soft felt hat approaching. A choirboy he meets directs him to the Demseys', and informs him that little Kitty has had "information of the lungs."

In front of the cottage door lies an elderly collie, grown white about the mouth and a little dim of sight. At present the dog is using all his vision to observe the proceedings of a kitten that sits in the sun, that is equally interested in the dog. There appears to be a degree of mutual awe couched under an aspect of deferential survey. Jones does not stir, feeling this would give Tibby an advantage, and Pendrill steps over the collie's shaggy form, knocking gently at the door.

He obtains no reply, and presently turns the handle and ventures within the little kitchen, which is empty, the child's mother having gone to draw water from the pump in the garden. He hears voices upstairs, however, and knocks softly at the door that leads to the higher regions. Presently, steps sound on the staircase, and he begins with kind solicitude,

"I have heard of your trouble," Pendrill says gently.

But here he pauses aghast. He is confronted by a haughty-faced, bright-eyed young lady whom he never remembers having seen in Meadthorpe before. He wonders who she can be. She is dressed in some neatly braided, brown woollen costume, with furs at her neck, and a Christmas rose or two shining among them.

Pendrill is never embarrassed by the gentler sex, knowing that as a priest he has constrained himself to celibacy by the force of his own opinions, but both sexes alike simply represent to him his spiritual flock, those immortal souls he is to guide faithfully, tirelessly within the sheltering bosom of Mother Church.

"I have called to see the little invalid," he says pleasantly, recovering very soon from his surprise. "Allow me to introduce myself as the curate of Saint Simeon's, Meadthorpe. Can I speak to the child's mother? If special nourishment should be required----"

"Mr. Pendrill," says Gildas Haven, her pretty figure drawn to its full height in the earnestness of her protest, "allow me to introduce myself as Kitty Demsey's Sunday school teacher. The child has been three years in my class, and I visit her four times a week. My father, Mr. Gilead Haven of Rehoboth Chapel, also comes here when he is able, and the superintendent of our Sunday school has been more than once. The Demseys are Nonconformists, and neither need nor desire your ministrations. In my opinion it is as unchristian as ungentlemanly to go from house to house making sickness and need an excuse for proselytizing, and using underhand means to weaken the influences of Dissent as you do. At any rate, you will obtain no footing in this house, and no influence over the poor sick child upstairs. Her father is one of those honestly indignant at the desertion of a few -- a very few -- of those who worshipped with us. If you think you will get these children to the Church Sunday school----"

"I am sorry, Miss Haven," says the curate, politely, "to find I have unconsciously been the cause of such mental agitation. I assure you since I have been in Meadthorpe I have simply followed the dictates of duty as to parochial visitation. I have had no thought or intention of offending anybody. I am glad the little invalid is the object of care and attention, and I will not intrude further this morning, though in due course I shall come here again, the family residing in my parish. Good morning, Miss Haven. What a glorious day, is it not?"

He bows politely, pausing as he retires to bestow a pat on Jones, who receives it with gracious toleration. The dog's calm, quiet manner is so opposed to Gildas' agitation that she feels ashamed of the torrent of words she outpoured on him. She remembers a remark she once overheard in a train that "The clergy always keep their tempers, but Dissenters cannot be emphatic without quarrelling."

She is the more indignant against Pendrill, because in this instance she feels she has not displayed the unruffled serenity that is victorious in argument. And her flippant remark was without foundation, as she recalls it now uncomfortably, with self-reproach for conversational heat and rancour.

Chapter 5

"That Man will be the Death of Me!"

HUMAN nature likes to be popular, and it would doubtless be far more to the taste of Bernard Pendrill if he could possibly please everybody, and perform his vocation as a parish priest (for the Rector is virtually laid by at present through the delicacy of his throat) without causing offence to Shiloh or Rehoboth, or the stewards and deacons thereof -- or Gildas Haven.

But duty is to him as the voice of God, and he has exalted ideas of his calling. If his efforts to promote the faith of his fathers bring upon him abuse and persecution, he is not the first one, he tells himself, who has suffered for conscience sake, and he will not be laughed or sneered away from the task before him of combating the results of past inactivity and lack of energy.

He strongly objects to the lassitude that has crept into the service at Saint Simeon's -- the half-lounging, half-sitting attitude of those engaged in prayer; the plain old-fashioned Communion table that has so little in keeping with his reverential ideas of the "Holy Eucharist"; the closed church doors during the week, except for the Wednesday evensong.

He has not been long at the parish church before a row of neatly surpliced boys is seen, instead of the lads in various shades and patterns of jackets and knickerbockers. The schoolmaster who plays the organ supports the diligent practices desired by the energetic curate, and he gives up one of his own evenings weekly to training the voices of the white robed band.

Bernard Pendrill makes a special request from the pulpit that those of his congregation who are not debarred by infirmity will kneel with reverence at worship; and his efforts to supersede by intoning the diverse keys wherein the service proceeded of meets with congregational support, with but few exceptions.

The Communion table likewise experiences changes. It becomes an altar, with coverings appropriate to various seasons, and shines forth radiant with flowers and lights. Under the new order of things there are frequent celebrations of what is now called the Eucharist. Matins and evensong are held daily, and the church door always stands open for private prayer and meditation.

RITUALS AT OUR PARISH CHURCH remains for weeks the heading in the local paper of an animated controversy between Mr. Weston and Hopkinson, one of the churchwardens. Several others are drawn into the correspondence, protesting and defending, and the new curate is alternately described as an angel of light, and quite the reverse.

Pendrill cares for none of these things. The Rector, cheered by the large congregations that are found within the church, lets him take his own way and choose the methods dictated by conscience, and in all his reforms he has the help and deep though unspoken sympathy of the Rector's daughter, Rowena Bertram, a devout Churchwoman whose heart has never been satisfied with the easy-going ministrations at Saint Simeon's in the past.

To attend to her district, and care for one neglected girl after another, often meeting with more disappointment than her calm, quiet, aspect betrays -- such claims have hitherto absorbed Miss Bertram Rowena's ideas. But now she is beginning to realize the joy and comfort of more vital religion, and what she owes to this young curate, twelve years her junior -- who has set her to work in so many opening channels of help, and whose eloquent teachings she drinks in with thirsting heart -- only her woman's spirit knows and understands.

There are secrets no mortal sight may guess. To many, the adoration of a young curate by a spinster of uncertain age would savour of the comic. But God knows there is suffering somewhere in this hidden devotion that has never envisioned return, but lives upon self sacrifice and its ministration to the idol it has enshrined.

Bernard Pendrill's heart is cheered by the improved attendances; the brighter, more attractive, and orderly aspect of the church; the greater care in the musical portion of the service. But there is still a great trouble at his heart. He does not seem to have obtained a hold over the Meadthorpe children.

"We get hold of the men," he remarks to Miss Rowena. "Our Workingmen's Guild shows a long roll of names, and I am thankful to see so many at church. And still more are our congregations representative of women, even at the daily services, which doubtless some find it difficult to attend."

The feminine mind can quite understand that a handsome and eloquent young curate is a magnet to certain of the very regular young ladies, as Miss Rowena has noted of late at Saint Simeon's, but she reproaches herself quickly for want of charity, and resolves each noon to offer a special petition for that holy grace.

"But notwithstanding that we have to put seats in the aisle, you are not satisfied?" she says, gently.

"I am not. Grownup people are all very well, but those who come after them are, as regards spiritual instruction, of as much or even greater importance. Our day school is well supported by voluntary contributions, but it seems to me to be doing little or nothing. We ought to have every child in Meadthorpe under our care, and build a first-class modern school. As for the Sunday school, did you see the thin little line that straggled in to catechising last Sunday? Unless the children receive definite Church teaching, Saint Simeon's will be empty a few years hence. What then becomes of the Meadthorpe children, I cannot imagine."

"Gildas Haven has got hold of them," answers Miss Rowena, who is carefully embroidering an altar cloth appropriate for Easter. "Every child in Meadthorpe knows her, and they are infatuated with her. She has many juvenile societies of one kind and another, and she's secretary of the Rehoboth Sunday school, and on the committee of the voluntary day school the Dissenters carry on here. I passed the place only yesterday, and quite a troop of children came pouring out."

"What can the parents be thinking about?" asks Pendrill, greatly shocked. "It is evident that wherever we visit, we must earnestly represent the importance of sending these little ones to the Church school. The workers at present spend their time and trouble for a mere handful of children. Surely better results can be obtained if we resolutely set to work?"

"The Rector is convinced a School Board is about to open in the place," says Miss Rowena. "He has been discouraged for a long time about our day school."

"A School Board? Heaven forbid! The religious teaching imparted to the children must be definite and pronounced if it is to impress their after-lives. As has been simply and ably said concerning this matter, 'It is no trifling obligation to maintain the connection between national education and the national Church.' At the risk of offending some, we dare not shrink from our responsibility. At the next meeting of district visitors, I shall urge upon every worker the duty of bringing the children of Meadthorpe, as far as possible, within the range of influences that will arm their future lives against sectarianism and secularism."

"I am visiting in the Tannery Lanes today," says Miss Bertram. "I will speak to the mothers there. Some of them are Church people, but the children are fond of Miss Haven. She takes a great interest in the Chapel day school, and they have feebly allowed their little ones to drift there."

Bernard Pendrill makes no reply, but the observant eyes of his companion note a sudden shadow on his earnest face. Gildas Haven! Is the blind, wilful opposition of this schismatic girl to crop up everywhere, resulting in the seeds of heresy where he would fain implant the pure wheat of devout Anglo-Catholicism alone? If it were not for Gildas Haven, it daily becomes more evident to him that his work in Meadthorpe would be far more fruitful, and bring far more glory to the Church he loves. This might be the thorn to tempt and buffet him -- the trial that is to prove his endurance, or vex him to impatience. Not one word of irritation or resentment will pass his lips; but Miss Rowena sees the shadow, and believing him weary, presses him to stay to lunch.

"Many thanks to you," he answers, "but I want to catch Crane in his dinner hour. You know I have induced him to sign the pledge, but I know he is tempted by that tavern near the factory. For a few days at least I shall get him to share my soup at Mrs. Abbot's. I do not believe in reforming a drunkard on prison fare, and Crane will spend nothing much on dinners, I know, until he has paid up his long tavern score."

"Well, put a biscuit in your pocket. You really look faint. I fear you sit up too late studying, and you give yourself no rest by day," says Miss Rowena with a calm, elder sisterly air as she produces the biscuit box and a paper bag.

When Bernard Pendrill has closed the garden gate behind him, and she sits at her needlework, musing on his saint-like life, and the face that seems to her sometimes in its glow of devotion like the face of an angel, the warning whisper seems to fill her heart: "Little children, keep yourselves from idols," and the altar cloth drops for a while from her trembling hands.

Gilbert Haines, creeping in furtively by-and-by to hunt for the white mouse that is truant from its cage, and scared by his accidental overthrow of her work bag, is still more startled by the fact that his aunt seems unaware of his presence, but sits in meditation, looking out into the garden with a face that puzzles him by its expression.

Gilbert faithfully keeps a diary, and that night he writes it up as follows before retiring to rest: "Went to church twice today -- a saint's day -- and had two sermons, 'Moses in the Bush,' and 'Weighed in the Balances and Found Wanting.' Fine, but blusterous. I try my hand at fishing in Burrows' pond. I catch nothing. I make some jellies with Artie Burrows. Upset nearly all of it. I lend Burrows a penny at compound interest until three weeks next Wednesday. I lose Midge, my white mouse, which grieves me very much, until I find Midge inside Aunt Rowena's sideboard, which Aunt Rowena never diskuvers. I wonder why Aunt Rowena looks more like mother today, for all over her face she looks so nice and loving at something in the garden, while I hunt for Midge. I think there's tears in Aunt Rowena's eyes, but I suspect this is imagination. Perhaps Aunt Rowena has a karbunkle. Cook cried when she had a karbunkle. I hope Aunt Rowena isn't going to die. Who would carve at dinner, and who would sew up my holes in my trousers?"

The crusade against the Chapel day school soon commences in earnest. Some of the district visitors would undertake any sort of doctrinal tournament if such were pronounced by Bernard Pendrill to be his express desire; but others go to work with a holy zeal, convinced they are serving the cause of religion by urging every father and mother with whom they converse to support the Church school.

It is not long before Miss Palin, the mistress of the girls' department of the Chapel day school, calls on Gildas with numerous complaints concerning little deserters, and remarks that one mother with whom she personally remonstrated, replied, "What am I to do? If I don't take Miss Rowena's advice I might lose my coal ticket, and only last week the Rector sent me a rabbit, and Mr. Pendrill has put me down for a loaf on Saturdays at the church. Times are very hard, and I can't afford to go against the parson, though our Maria's got on wonderful at her week-a-day school, and she's sorry enough to leave."

By the time Miss Palin has gone home, Gildas is in a white heat of indignation against Saint Simeon's, against the woman who accepts church rabbits, and, above all, against Bernard Pendrill, the bigoted troubler of peaceful Meadthorpe.

* * *

This is the regular evening for the deacons' prayer meeting at the Manse, and the engagements usually close with a hymn. This is led by Mr. Channing-Surtees, who always sets the tune, by reason of being the oldest Rehoboth member. How Gildas wishes the deacons would depart! The hum of their voices, rising and falling in supplication, seems to irritate her tonight, and she is conscious of relief when, finally, the sounds ascend of:

"Backward with humble shame we look

On our original;

How is our nature dashed and broke

In our first father's fall!"

She hears the quavering voice of the snowy haired deacon as he pitches the tune, and Mr. Mundey's tenor blending with the deep bass of Mr. Hornby; and the alto of Jones who always during the progress of anything in the musical line, moans aloud in a sort of protesting second.

At last all eight verses are sung through, and Jones winds up with a long crescendo note by way of hallelujah, followed by a short bark. Gildas hears the retreating feet, and Emery's reminder to Mr. Channing-Surtees in the hall that he "forgot to give out last Lord's Day that the Dorcas was altered to 3:45 Tuesdays, instead of 3:30 as before."

The conversation thus arising ceases at last, and Gildas runs downstairs, startling her father who is just replacing his velvet cap after worship, with the cry, "Father, that man will be the death of me! There are no limits to his impertinence, his wicked, deceitful, malicious hostility!"

Mr. Haven is about to engage in the peaceful occupation of making porridge for supper. Every night Emery brings in the saucepan and the oatmeal, which the old minister patiently stirs, often murmuring to himself over the fire some of the many treasured lines stored in his memory.

"What is troubling you tonight, Gildas, my heart?" he asks tenderly, as he carefully inserts a stick of wood to assist the fire.

Gildas glances at him doubtfully. She is not at all sure if her father will follow her grievances with the concern they demand, but her heart is so full of wrath it must overflow in some direction, and she pours out her indignation, trusting that for once he will not be absentminded.

"What is troubling me, Father? Why, everything," she exclaims, clasping her hands behind her, and shaking her head reproachfully at Jones, who for an honest dog sits somewhat too near the toasted bread dipped in gravy that Emery has placed in the fender to keep warm. "Never a day passes but I hear something dreadful of that conceited looking man -- Pendrill, I believe his name is -- who has come to Saint Simeon's. All I have done in Meadthorpe seems now just wasted time. Everybody has taken to going to church. This new curate has become quite the fashion, and with his ignorant superstitions, his haughty self-assertion, his----"

"Love suffers long with patient eye,

Nor is provoked in haste;

She lets the present injury die,

And long forgets the past."

The minister says this in an absent way, pausing to rest in the stirring of the meal. "I forgot, my daughter. My mind has been running on an old hymn I taught your brother when a child. Did you say the new clergyman is superstitious? We see not all yet eye to eye, my child. Be mindful of that. Let us strive for toleration"

"Toleration, Father! Hasn't someone said toleration may go as far as treachery? Conscience calls on those who obey Scripture alone to be bold in opposing such a man as this new curate. Why, Father, he actually puts on special vestments for the Communion service, and he calls himself an Anglo-Catholic priest. He ought to have the honesty to say 'Roman Catholic.' And I hear he eats very little on Fridays, and thinks people should not entertain on Fridays! And he makes the choir turn to the east at some particular part of the services, and says the early Church used to pray towards the east, expecting the dawning of the promised dayspring! Oh, there's no end to the ideas and notions with which he is infecting Meadthorpe. To think how Rehoboth has been prospering, and now to have all one's work spoilt like this!"

"'Affliction is a stormy deep,'" begins Mr. Haven, regarding with anxiety the grief and despair on the young face that gazes so miserably into the fire. "My heart, 'hitherto hath the Lord helped us.' Do you think our Lord means to forget or forsake Rehoboth Chapel, or let the old cause go to shipwreck now?"

"I know that Pendrill will do all he can to destroy our influence, Father. Why, only today I heard he has got hold of Tom Crane, who had a seat in the gallery for years until he took to drink. He has persuaded Tom to join the Temperance Guild at Saint Simeon's -- they only started one, I know, because of our society. And Crane has actually turned Church of England, and he used to have a sitting in the gallery here!"

"Church of England is he, Gildas? I would rather hear of him as a Roman Catholic trusting in Jesus than a drunkard, wretched in body, and mind, and soul," says the minister, with a touch of his bygone energy. "My Gildas, let us take heed lest we set the honour of Rehoboth before the glory of Him who must increase, though we and ours decrease. 'The wind bloweth where it listeth;' so is the work of the Spirit. If the preaching of this young man restores such a one as Thomas Crane, will you and I, dear heart, sit down on the judgment seat and proclaim his labours as false and evil? To be first, to be greatest, we will not strive, my daughter. If only our Lord be glorified, can we not bear to fill but the little space?"

"Oh, Father, you're just like Jasper. You two have the patience of Job, but such goings-on as Mr. Pendrill's are more than I can stand! The latest thing is that he is setting the district visitors to work against the Chapel day school, and persuading the parents there are better advantages at the Church school, where of course all the poor little things will be taught will be to order themselves reverently to the clergy, and to know the Creed and the Catechism. We're losing scholars every day, and all through that insufferable man!"

And Gildas goes to get out from the sideboard the sugar for her porridge, wondering in the anger of her heart how her father can hum to himself so placidly over his domestic task:

"From East to West, from North to South,

Emmanuel's kingdom shall extend;

And every man in every face

Shall meet a brother and a friend!"

Chapter 6

Mr. Hornby's Reproof

AS time goes on, Jasper Ruthven and the curate of Saint Simeon's become better acquainted with one another. Both have little time for leisure, but they often chance to meet in passing from one duty to another, and on the common ground of their love for books a mutual interest arises that deepens into regard.

Concerning his family circumstances, Jasper is always reserved, though frank and free enough on other subjects. It is the general impression in Meadthorpe that between his teaching and his writing the young man makes "rather a good thing of it," and even Gildas reproaches him laughingly at times for preferring to hoard rather than to spend money on a new suit or hat; but Pendrill is secretly of the opinion that the young tutor has a harder struggle than is supposed.

Of the financial benefits of literature and its ascents, Bernard Pendrill knows something, and he is aware it is not the easiest or most lucrative pathway for an unknown and overworked hopeful. Sometimes he delicately tries to turn the conversation on the subject of authorship, having editorial friends, and desiring to hold out to Japer Ruthven, if possible, a helping hand. But the young man shrinks from the notion of patronage with proud independence, and nobody save himself is aware that the cares of rent, of food and clothing for his little family, of medical expenses, and the countless domestic needs of a household, are hanging like tempest clouds over his young life, and at times almost tempting him to despair.

Something -- perhaps his own intuition -- tells Bernard Pendrill that Jasper Ruthven is not happy just now at Rehoboth. To him it appears that Ruthven's spiritual nature may be awakening, and hungering and thirsting for the precious dole of grace to be reached through channels duly ordained. Surely Jasper is too loyal to the old chapel, where he has worshipped all his life, to betray the little pricking thorns that discomfort him just now.

The fact is, old Gilead Haven has had a slight relapse, and Mr. Hornby is supplying the pulpit for a few Sundays, very acceptably to Rehoboth indeed, for he is a tireless Bible student, and spares no pains or research in throwing light on obscure passages. But like a crimson rag to a bull is the subject of all fiction to Mr. Hornby, and given the chance of a public address, you may be certain of hearing from his lips severe condemnation of works of imagination, and solemn warnings to the young to read only that which is strictly improving.

This for Jasper Ruthven is particularly uncomfortable. Everybody at Rehoboth knows he writes, and that he is not wholly innocent of composing stories likewise, and many an eye on such occasions is turned on him, until he feels he could rise in his seat and inquire of Mr. Hornby if the gifts of imagination emanate direct from his Satanic majesty, as the speaker's words appear to imply.

Then he feels he will worship in Nature's temple next Sunday rather than come to chapel and be publicly denounced, but he knows it will never come to that. The elder brother dare not teach the children of Forest Cottage to spend their Sundays in the fields. So he leans back in his seat, trying to look as though Mr. Hornby's remarks are unheard, but feeling utterly miserable within himself. He is convinced for a time that Mr. Hornby is right, and that he never ought to pen another line of any work of fancy, and then savagely asks himself if those children at home are to starve to satisfy the deacon.

Just now, Jasper Ruthven's pupils are dropping off from various causes, and the only sure payments to which he can look are the town Grammar School and the Rector. Then the literary work, to which his whole heart has gone out -- the best, most artistic thing he has written, his poem, "The Rose of Life" -- is drifting from publisher to publisher, in many cases he is aware unread, scarcely opened, the poetry of a novice writer being presumed hopeless.

As regards other work, much that is accepted waits long months for insertion and payment. More lies waiting consideration. Meanwhile the children at home wear out boots and shoes, and seem to grow visibly every day out of their clothes, and though Jasper is a vegetarian, and chiefly lives on bread and dates, life is a very dark outlook for him at present.

"What are you writing now, Jasper?" asks Gildas, mischievously, one evening when he has called to fetch the children home from the Manse. Mr. Haven is downstairs again, and Mr. Hornby has stepped in awhile to see him, so Gildas ought to know better than to allude to Ruthven's authorship in their presence.

"I suppose," she says, "you're very busy, as usual. Won't you tell us the name of your last story, Jasper?"

"'Steeped in Gore'; or the 'Glorious Escapes of Petratello, the Pirate,' and 'Fair Angelina, the Heiress of the Earl of Rumpelrampant.' Would you like to hear any more about it?" returns Jasper, in desperation at the remarks he knows to be inevitable.

"My young friend," begins Mr. Hornby, in horror, "has it ever occurred to you that the contaminating influences of fiction, the pernicious, I might say iniquitous, consequences of idle works of imagination, such as you have mentioned---"

"Oh, Mr. Hornby!" says Gildas, laughing, "Jasper doesn't really write things like that. It is only his nonsense. Jasper writes the sweetest, loveliest stories, and the most beautiful poetry"

Jasper throws at her the wild roses he has brought, to silence her. The children come running in from the garden, eager to exhibit to Mr. Haven a baby toad they have found among the grass, and Jones pants after them, resolute not to realize or betray he is growing too old to romp and race with boys and girls as of yore.

"Has it ever occurred to you, young man," asks Mr. Hornby, in a low, solemn voice, "that yours is a tremendous responsibility as regards those dear young people in the morning of life?"

"Yes," says Jasper, "that has occurred to me more than once. Jemmie, don't tire Mr. Haven. You're too heavy to sit on his lap."

But the children are absorbed in the minister's talk concerning the baby toad, Mr. Haven being as devoted to children as he to being a naturalist. They cling round the old man, asking him all kinds of questions about their treasure, while Jemmie, whispering in his ear, tries in vain to disclose to him confidentially that he has learnt a new hymn on purpose to recite to him, and he would like to repeat it before he forgets.

"The minds of the rising generation, my young brother," says Mr. Hornby, clearing his throat, "are as a white and unsoiled page. It would be to you an untold grief that anyone should poison the thoughts of these children we see before us by the debasing influences of idle works of fancy. Has it ever occurred to you that hundreds of young people, who could be using precious time for their instruction and improvement, are led by the multiplication of works of fiction to waste precious moments, and dwell on things that are visionary and unreal? To me it is an awful fact that there is a demand at the present day for fiction, for mere stories. If you young people only knew the mental enrichment of inspiring biography, of----"

"Pardon me, Mr. Hornby," says Jasper, coldly. "I'm extremely fond of biography. Only last week Mr. Pendrill lent me the life of Saint Augustine."

There is a cloud now on the face of Gildas, who distinctly disapproves Jasper's acquaintance with the curate, and Mr. Hornby interrupts him by an exclamation of solemn protest.

"It's a glorious book," says Jasper. "I strongly advise you to read it, Mr. Hornby. But with regard to your sweeping condemnation of fiction, has it ever occurred to you that in the present hard age of toil and mental strain, people need means of recreation as well as improvement? To release a reader's faculties, or to afford the medicine of a laugh now and then, to rest the mind that has been working for its right to live -- is this altogether from below, as I fear you suggest? It is iniquitous to write anything evil or impure, but to denounce all fiction as of the infernal regions seems to me somewhat uncharitable, especially from pulpit or platform, when nobody can reply! Come, children, you ought to be in bed. Say goodnight. And Chidgey sent this wrap for you, Milly. Mind you put it on."

"Let Jemmie say his hymn first," begs the minister. "Come, hold up your head, and let us hear what Mrs. Chidgey has taught you."

"I know one," says Jacky, rather inclined to resent his twin brother's reputation as a reciter; "and nobody didn't teach it to me, Mr. Haven. I learnt it my own self from hearing brother say it when he's getting up. Brother always talks to himself when he's dressing."

There is a general laugh, and Jacky is encouraged to repeat his "hymn," which he does with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and his sturdy legs planted well apart:

"O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor:

How blythely was I bide the stour,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,

Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

"That isn't a hymn," says Jemmie, contemptuously. "That's only something brother sings week-a-days. I know a Sunday hymn. Isn't it a nice one, Mr. Haven? Chidgey says I'm not to say it sing-song. Do I put the emfuz right?"

"Our days, alas! our mortal days,

Are short and wretched too;

'Evil and few,' the patriarch says,

And well the patriarch knew!

"Please, I could eat a ginger biscuit and a cocoanut cake," adds Jemmie hurriedly, bringing his recitation abruptly to conclusion as he observes Gildas is distributing contributions from the biscuit box.

Mr. Hornby commends Jemmie's good memory, and the minister tenderly puts back the curls from his brow, and gazes at the children with wistful eyes, saying, "The God of light and gladness, the Lord who redeemed me from all evil, bless these little pilgrim feet."

Gildas throws on a light shawl and goes down the garden with her little guests. She wishes to speak to Jasper, for she thinks it would be more than she could bear if he -- her playfellow of old, her brother in all but name -- were induced by the wiles of Pendrill's pretended friendship to go over to Saint Simeon's and forsake the church of his fathers.

"Don't mind Mr. Hornby, Jasper," she says, soothingly. "He never reads any stories, you know, so how can he judge what fiction is like? As to reading poetry, he would think that a sinful misuse of time! But Father and I are so proud of you. Father was asking me only yesterday how you're getting on now as regards your writing. He wants you to come and have a long talk with him now he is better; but tonight Mr. Hornby is over about Father's favourite movement, the Friends of the Jews Society, and when Father gets the Jews into his mind, you know he becomes utterly absorbed."

"Yes, I suppose the annual meeting will soon come off now. Mr. Haven is always in his element when anything is to be done for the Israelites," says Jasper, smiling, his passing vexation dispersing like a mist now Gildas is beside him, gentle and gracious. On the subject of his own writing he says nothing, however. Even to Gildas he cannot share the history of wounds, disappointments, and heart-wearying delays.

"How many times Father has been induced to render private help to needy Jews, and how many times their supposed needs have turned out works of imagination, I cannot reckon," says Gildas. "But I would not have Father different, Jasper. As he says, 'Better be beguiled nineteen times than be unbrotherly once,' and he loves the race -- and I do too -- for the sake of Him who came out of Israel. Father declares there are glorious days waiting for the Jews, and he is always studying the prophecies concerning them, and always trying to increase the Meadthorpe subscriptions for the Friends of the Jews Society. I even had a box for that society when I was smaller than Milly, and so had my brother David."

"I suppose the meeting will be at the Town Hall, as usual?"

"Oh, yes; and Father is to be in the chair, as he has been for so many years."

"You generally ask the clergy as well as the chapel ministers, do you not, Gildas, because the society is quite nondenominational?"

"We ask them, Jasper, but we know exactly which of them will come: dear old Mr. Cayley from Thicket End, and Mr. Buisson, the vicar from Bilsboro'. Mr. Buisson is often at our house now. He's writing a book on hymnology, and I believe Father knows more about hymns than anybody else in the place, so they have many a chat together."

"What does Mr. Bertram, the Rector, say on such occasions?"

"Oh, last time he 'had a cold,' and the time before he wrote a very nice letter, 'regretting the weakness of his throat prevented evening meetings just then.'"

"He does have a weak throat -- that's his great trouble," says Jasper. "I suppose those who arrange the meeting will ask him again this year, and mind you don't forget your friend, the curate, Gildas. Be sure to send him an invitation."

"My friend, indeed! But don't start me on the subject of that person, Jasper. He puts me out of all patience. You know very well he's my pet aversion. I often come across him now in the street or about the lanes, but of course I take no notice of him. Half Meadthorpe seems to bow down to him, but I can see him in his true colours. He is nothing but a Jesuit, full of priestly airs and intolerance."

"No, Gildas, if you knew him better you couldn't say he gives himself airs. There's no pride or assumption about Bernard Pendrill. Of his calling, his ideas are exalted; but as to himself, he would as soon walk and talk in the High Street with a chimney sweep as with the people from the Manor."

"Sooner, perhaps," says Gildas, bitterly, "if the sweep were a chapel-goer, and he could win him over to the Establishment."

"Gently, Gildas," answers Jasper. "You're not wont to be uncharitable, little woman, but I really think you do Pendrill injustice. A great many of those he has drawn back to Saint Simeon's were Church people already, you know, only I imagine they found very little help in the preaching at the parish church. Things had become rather neglected there. And if a few have been won over from Nonconformity, it's only natural that anyone with strong convictions will seek to impress them on others. Pendrill believes there are blessings that can only be fully received, and graces to be obtained at their highest through the channels of the Church. In his Episcopal zeal he tries to draw souls within the shelter of the Church. He has no bitterness against Dissent, only pity for it. The fact is, he has never entered a chapel in his life. And of Nonconformity he knows absolutely nothing. He told me I'm the only Dissenting acquaintance he possesses."

"Yes, Jasper, and I want to warn you earnestly against him. He will seek to draw you into the Establishment. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing, and I feel very uncomfortable about your knowing him at all, and reading his books. Oh, Jasper, it would be dreadful not to see you any more at Rehoboth. I don't know what the Sunday school and the Children's Union would do without you."

His face flushes with pleasure at the thought that his presence and help are prized by Gildas, but he assures her she need have no forebodings as to his abandonment of Nonconformist principles.

"I hope I have more backbone than to surrender my views on Free Church doctrines because Bernard Pendrill is my friend," he says, smiling. "I have only had three books from him as yet, Gildas -- a Browning Commentary, an Analysis of the Art of Shakespeare, and the Life of Saint Augustine. None of these are making me a churchman, though I revel in them all. Of course we have often talked concerning our different views. I think I have learnt to understand that the ritualism we Dissenters despise so impatiently is to such as Pendrill but an object lesson of religion, to teach great and glorious truths. Many minds are reached more easily through the eye and sense. In reality, Gildas, we're not so far apart as we seem. I only wish these religious differences didn't mean, as a rule, distrust and suspicion. But never fear, I shall not desert Rehoboth Chapel."

"I hope you never will," says Gildas; "but Pendrill is a dangerous sort of friend. I thought it right to warn you, at any rate. Now I really must turn and hasten home."

"Jasper," suddenly exclaims round-faced Milly, who has been staring hard at the two until her feminine nature has evolved a charming romance, "brother Jasper, aren't you big enough to get married? The big boy, Burrows-Alexander, you know, he got married the other day, and you look bigger than him. Why don't you marry Gildas, brother? Then we could all live with Mr. Haven, and hear lots of stories about the dear little teeny frogs."

Jasper's face burns hotly as he tries to silence the child, but Gildas answers lightly, "A man may not marry his sister, Milly, and you know cousin Jasper is my dear 'brother' as well as yours. Besides, I made up my mind long ago, Milly, to be an old maid -- old maids are so free and independent -- and Jasper means to marry a blue-stocking one of these days: some gifted girl, clever enough to deserve a great literary genius for a husband! Oh, Jasper, I'm ashamed of you to bring Milly up so sentimentally. Fancy that mite giving you matrimonial advice!"

Gildas kisses the children and goes off laughingly. Jasper walks silently on to Forest Cottage, the children clinging lovingly about him.

"If ... if ... I were more than the playfellow she cares about 'for old sake's sake' -- if there were a gleam of hope for me in the coming days, she wouldn't look so natural and undisturbed," he says to himself sadly. "It is better indeed that Gildas does not care. A home of my own such as other men strive for is not for me. Did I not promise our mother of these children to provide for them as a tender trust from God?"

Chapter 7

Kitty Demsey's Quilt

WHO may Timotheus Mundey be, Miss Rowena?"

"Timotheus Mundey, Mr. Pendrill?"

"Yes," says the curate, handing her a letter from his pocketbook. "'Timotheus Mundey, Local Secretary of the Friends of the Jews Society.' You see, I'm favoured by a communication from this personage, inviting me to be present at the annual meeting, and regretting the Rector's indisposition again prevents his attendance."

"Oh, of course, my father must avoid crowded evening meetings while he is under Sir Henry Marsh's treatment for his throat," says Miss Rowena. "Mr. Mundey is the draper in High Street, Mr. Pendrill, but his initials, I believe, are J.O.; Timotheus must be his son. I daresay you've noticed the young man arranging the window, and serving in the shop. He is very thin and pale, and wears glasses. Of course, we always deal at Emerton's, but I believe the Mundeys are civil, respectable people. The son is a teacher at Rehoboth day school."

"What an extraordinary thing it is," says Bernard Pendrill, reflectively, "that Dissent is almost exclusively confined to small trades-people and the like. They are nearly sure to be Nonconformists, I have often noticed."

"Please, Aunt Rowena, can't I go on the common and see Mr. Ruthven's team at the football match?" Gilbert runs in eagerly, and seeing Pendrill he exclaims, "Oh, Mr. Pendrill, it's the last match this season. Do coax Auntie to let me go!"

"Does your tutor go in for football then?" asks the curate, whose mind has been lately occupied in devising athletic clubs for the villagers, though this first winter in Meadthorpe he has been too busy to help his parishioners as to the matter of games.

"Go in for football? Why, when he was at school he was captain of the first team, and at college he was one of the crack men. He always goes out with the Grammar School boys on half-holidays, you know; and today there's a splendid match on with the Invincibles. Can't I go on the heath for an hour, Aunt Rowena?"

"Are all your lessons duly prepared for tomorrow, Gilbert?" asks his aunt.

"Yes, and I even know my history," he answers eagerly. "It's such a nice chapter today -- all about Cromwell and his Ironsides, and the brave things they did, and how they never were afraid of anybody or anything. Aunt Rowena, now I have learnt my history, and done my money sums, can't I go?"

Miss Bertram consents, and off he dashes, convinced, by successful and repeated experiment, that his aunt is somehow far more amenable to persuasion and coaxing when Mr. Pendrill is allied with the pleading force.

"Of course," says the curate, resuming his conversation with Miss Bertram, "there are exceptions to every rule, and Ruthven is a manly young fellow enough. In the majority of cases, I maintain, Dissenters are remarkably wanting in physical and intellectual stamina. Poor, weak-kneed Timotheus is a fair specimen, I imagine, of Rehoboth adherents -- amiable, well-meaning people, but in no sense the flower and glory of healthy English life."

"To be honest," says Rowena Bertram, smiling, "I must remind you that most of the chapel people are unknown to you, Mr. Pendrill. I scarcely think your notion correct, though it is very complimentary to our own congregation. Griffith, the blacksmith, belongs to Shiloh, another Dissenting chapel; and the chapel keeper at Rehoboth is Platt, a most vigorous looking man, employed by the firm of engineers now making the new railway tunnel. Then the grandsons of Mr. Channing-Surtees are always taking prizes at the athletic sports around. Oh, I am sure your idea is mistaken. Think of Gildas Haven!"

"Gildas Haven?"

"Yes, the minister's daughter. You may have noticed her about the town. A dark eyed girl with very beautiful hair, who generally has a collie called Jones for companion, and walks quickly, as if in a hurry. It is well known she's exceedingly clever, and her health must be perfect, or she never could attend to all the varied work she accomplishes in connection with her father's chapel. So, you see, all Dissenters are not without stamina. But perhaps you have not chanced to see Miss Haven as yet."

"Yes," says Bernard Pendrill, "I know her by sight. I'm sorry to say that Miss Haven is a great hindrance to parish work in Meadthorpe. Her fanatical notions have done very much mischief in the place. I cannot understand how she has gained such an influence around Meadthorpe. Her manner appears to me most brusque and overbearing."

"I know nothing of her," says Miss Bertram, "except from hearsay. But I believe she gives addresses, and arranges most things at Rehoboth Chapel, and altogether takes on herself more than is consistent with my own ideal of womanhood."

"Ah, you feel as I do, Miss Rowena, that woman, like the violet, should only be discerned by its sweet, subtle fragrance."

"Perhaps I am being unjust to Gildas Haven," says Rowena Bertram, whose little daily book of spiritual landmarks she peruses on rising, has this morning counselled her to refrain from judging. "Her father's breakdown of health may have forced her unavoidably into prominence; and if one feels the consciousness of certain gifts, it must want great self denial to repress their exhibition."

"And I don't know, Rowena," says the Rector, entering just then with a page of his Ninevitish manuscript in hand, "that to bury one's talents in a napkin is specially meritorious or acceptable to the Lord. Bernard, I thought I heard your voice. Just come here and give me your opinion of this commentary I have just concluded on Professor Kimble's views as to the maternal dynasty of Nimrod."

* * *

Mr. Timotheus Mundey, as local secretary of the Friends of the Jews Society so dear to old Mr. Haven's heart, receives a polite letter from the curate of Saint Simeon's, regretting that he cannot see his way to taking part in any meeting not wholly "on Church lines."

Nevertheless, there are two or three clergymen at the Town Hall that evening -- men who count sect and name as nothing compared to the great cause of proclaiming the Messiah to those who are His brethren according to the flesh. Mr. Buisson, from Bilsboro', declares it is worth more than the eight miles' drive to listen to the speech by Gilead Haven, the chairman.

Gilead Haven, pleading for Israel's race, forgets his years and his many infirmities. He seems, in the tenderness of his yearning, in the passion of his advocacy, as though his heart is throbbing to the music of that echoing cry of Jesus recorded in the Gospel of Matthew: "How often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!"

The Rehoboth people tell each other delightedly that their minister is getting to be "quite himself again," and that "Mr. Haven's was the speech of the evening." The deputation from headquarters speaks gratefully of the sympathy and help the society has always had in Meadthorpe through Mr. Haven's tireless labours on its behalf. There is an excellent collection, and a branch of the society is arranged at Bilsboro' under Mr. Buisson's care. It is a capital meeting from beginning to end, as everybody feels when they disperse for another year.

But Gildas cannot rid herself of a vague anxiety concerning her father, whose power has flashed out so grandly tonight, like the upward leap of a well-nigh burnt out candle, and who walks home now so feebly with the support of herself and Jasper Ruthven, murmuring to himself in the starlight:

"The Jews He freed from Pharaoh's hand,

And brought them to the Promised Land;

Wonders of grace to God belong,

Repeat His mercies in your song."

****

Owing to her father's weakness, and claims unnumbered from all sides on her attention, several weeks have elapsed since Gildas last saw her delicate little Sunday scholar, Kitty Demsey, on the moor. Kitty is now on the road to recovery, but still needing the greatest care -- and watchfully to be guarded, says the parish doctor -- against a return of her complaint, by warmth and nourishing food.

Gildas has several times sent puddings and beef tea for the little one, knowing the Demseys are a large family and the father's wages are but low. A day or two after the meeting on behalf of the Jews, she resolves to take Kitty a present from the Dorcas Society in the shape of a warm plaid frock. Coaxing out of Emery one of the cakes she has made for an approaching tea meeting, Gildas sallies forth, accompanied by Jones.

The collie usually walks sedately and with dignity, as becomes a dog long since attained to years of discretion; but today he is frolicsome and restless, and Emery presses waterproof and umbrella on Gildas, predicting rain.

"Depend upon it, Miss Gildas," she says, solemnly, "the poor dumb beast would never act so ridiculous without he had reason, which well I know. I only made the remark to Mrs. Chidgey last Wednesday evening after service, that Jones is equal to a weather glass for the signs he gives when there's hurricanes in the air."

Gildas glances up at the sunny sky, and laughs away the notions of hurricanes and umbrellas. She enjoys the bright, breezy walk across the moor, and Kitty fairly cries with delight to see the face of her teacher again.

"I have brought a cake for the children, Mrs. Demsey," says Gildas, untying her parcel, "and something to keep little Kitty warm. But what a charming quilt you have there, Kitty! Who gave you that nice, warm, little eiderdown?"

The child lies on a chair-bedstead now in the kitchen. She is dressed in the neatest frock she possesses, one of thin, black material; but she is covered with a snug and pretty down quilt, and looks cosy and comfortable.

"Oh, Miss Haven," says Mrs. Demsey, hesitatingly, and looking much confused, "someone as comes to read to Kitty give her that when the cold winds awhile back made it so draughty for her to lie here."

"But who was it?" asks Gildas. "Was it Miss Mundey, or did Mrs. Burrows from the farm give Kitty such a beautiful coverlet?"

"Oh, no, miss; it were just a friend as comes sometimes. Do see, Kitty, what a warm frock teacher's brought you!" exclaims the poor, worn-looking woman. "Won't you look smart now! And it is a plaid one, such as you have wanted many a time when you see the stuff in Mr. Mundey's shop."

But the poor mother's confusion has betrayed her secret, and Gildas turns round on her suddenly and indignantly. "Mrs. Demsey, surely you, a Rehoboth member, have not been accepting presents from the Church district visitors?"

Mrs. Demsey, more tired by reason of Kitty's cough, and with more needs than Gildas has ever had in her life, begins to cry. Kitty's colour comes and goes, between devotion to her teacher, and a sense of insecurity regarding her precious quilt.

"I am astonished," says Gildas, severely. "Mr. Demsey spoke only the other day at our Chapel meeting about the system of bribing children to the Church school by giving coal and clothes and things from house to house -- and to think such gifts are accepted in his own family!"

"Oh, Miss Gildas," says the woman, brokenly, "don't ye tell Reuben. He never would forgive me if he knew."

"Do you mean to say, Mrs. Demsey," says Gildas, looking the picture of indignant virtue, "that you accept bribes from the Church people, unknown to your husband? You should have no secrets whatever from your husband. Between man and wife there should be perfect candour, and no reserve whatever."

"Oh, Miss Gildas, but you don't know how hard it's been this winter," falters the culprit. "I'm as fond of Rehoboth Chapel as anyone, though it's little time I get to go there or anywhere, with baby teething, and Sylvanus fractious with the rickets, and poor Kitty not fit to be left so long. One and another of the children have been ailing for months, and Reuben's wages only just keeps us going. When sickness comes, it's terrible hard to get along, though I'm at the mangle whenever I can get a chance."

The Rehoboth people, seeing Mrs. Demsey so seldom at chapel with her husband, and beholding the little Demseys thinly clad and often in garments tight and short for their growth, are of opinion that she is "not quite such an earnest Christian" as Demsey, who is a regular attendant and stalwart supporter of Rehoboth; also that in domestic matters she is but "a poor sort of manager."

"And a kinder gentleman than Mr. Pendrill couldn't be, Miss Gildas, a-coming to see Kitty and read to her, and show her picture books and things. He came just the same, even after I told him plain nothing would induce Demsey to send our children anywhere but to the Rehoboth Sunday school; nor I shouldn't wish them brought up Church myself, being born Primitive, and always more at home in the chapel. I'm sure he's quite the gentleman, miss, and been a good friend to us all the same. Once he give me a grocery ticket, and once an order for coal; and that's all, Miss Gildas, except the warm quilt for Kitty -- and the comfort it's been to that child words cannot tell."

"We voted a blanket for Kitty only yesterday from the Loan Blanket Society," says Gildas, "and it's coming to you in a day or two. You had only to send me word, and I would have procured a quilt or blanket before. These Church gifts are only bribes to get hold of the children. If Mr. Demsey knew, he would justly be very much displeased that you didn't at once refuse them."

"Yes, I know he would be angry, and it worries me, Miss Gildas, that I took the tickets and the quilt, seeing you think it so wrong. But farming's been so dreadful bad in these parts of late, and I tell you, miss, I haven't known which way to turn to get along while we've had so much illness in the house. That there grocery ticket were like a godsend to me. Demsey don't know half what a struggle we've had. What's the use of worrying him? He brings all his money home, and don't waste a penny, and he couldn't do more than he do now in the way of work. I'd rather worry over things myself than upset him when he's reading his Bible chapter quiet of an evening, or some of Mr. Spurgeon's sermons. I'll tell Mr. Pendrill as how I'll manage without his helping us, miss; but please don't ye tell Reuben. It would be such a sore trouble to him, and you see he didn't know how little Kitty lay and shivered, with only the thin white and blue counterpane over her, and my jacket."

"But if the blanket comes, Mrs. Demsey, surely you won't keep this quilt? You require no presents from the clergy. Let it go back to Mr. Pendrill, with a note regretting that in a thoughtless moment you accepted it. If you like, I'll write the letter, and you can sign it."

Kitty says nothing, but with a face crimson with anxiety she lays both her thin arms over the beautiful quilt. It's Kitty's one bit of luxury in a grey little life of poverty and weakness, and her child-heart loves pretty things and bright colourings as much as the children whose artistic tastes are developed by lovely surroundings.

"How could I take it away from her, Miss Gildas?" says the poor mother, brokenly. "Demsey has never asked who gave it. I suppose he thinks it were some of the ladies from Rehoboth, but he's as pleased as I am to see Kitty so delighted with her nice, warm counterpane. 'Twould trouble her sore, poor lamb, to give it up. Miss Gildas, you've never known what it is to run short of food and firewood, and hear the children crying for cold and hunger. Don't be too hard on me for taking what parson offered out of his free kindness, and don't be for telling Demsey, miss. I'll tell him myself one of these days, when things looks a bit brighter ahead."

"I won't tell him, Mrs. Demsey," says Gildas. "It's not my place to. And don't cry, I am not angry with you, but I am with him. He had no right to come and tempt you with his bribes. And when I see him I'll tell him so. I have no fear of the clergy to hinder me from plain speaking! Kitty, don't look like that. Give teacher a kiss. I'm not going to take your quilt away. I only wish I'd thought about getting one for you myself, though."

And Gildas, swiftly calculating that she can make her everyday gloves do for best instead of procuring the new pair she planned, takes Mrs. Demsey's toil-worn hand soothingly into her own, and the mother finds half-a-crown quietly left in her possession.

Chapter 8

Fellow Refugees

WHEN Gildas emerges from the cottage she finds that the weather is changed. Dark clouds have hidden the sun from sight, and it is evident that a heavy downpour is imminent. Gildas is a quick walker, and she means to try to reach Meadthorpe before the rain comes down.

Once across the moor she will be able to shelter in a shop or house porch until the worst of the shower is over. So she hurries onward, much disturbed within by the fact that Pendrill's gifts have been accepted by Mrs. Demsey. Jones trots along behind, faithfully carrying a large paper advertisement that someone has thrown away on the common. Jones shows great reverence for printed matter, and carries bags and stray papers long distances in his mouth rather than leave them where careless hands have deposited them as refuse.

A few large drops of rain splash heavily down on her unprotected jacket, warning Gildas to hurry for shelter. Fortunately, a long shed is in sight -- a portion of the outlying farm buildings of Mr. Burrows -- and she turns in that direction, running at the top of her speed as the rain begins in earnest. She arrives in the cart shed flushed and out of breath, her wavy hair astray and inclined to escape from restraint. Jones pants after her, triumphantly dragging in from the hurricane his treasured manifesto: DO YOU SUFFER FROM VERTIGO? TRY POUNCEBY'S PILLS. TESTIMONIALS FROM ROYALTY, THE LEGISLATURE, ART, LITERATURE, AND THE DRAMA. CLEARANCE SALE NOW ON. NO REASONABLE OFFER REFUSED.

Depositing his treasure-trove beneath a wagon, Jones looks around for deserved applause, and trots round the cart to place two damp paws on the coat of a fellow-wanderer, whom Gildas only at this moment perceives, and whom she involuntarily recognizes with a startled "Oh!"

The very one who had filled her indignant meditations so lately is, like herself, a refugee from the weather. Her first impulse is to brave the rain despite her lack of umbrella; but there is a low threatening rumble overhead, and she shrinks from encountering a thunderstorm alone on the exposed common. Why should she face the lightning because he has chosen to seek refuge in the cart shed? No, she will ignore his presence and show him there is one at least in Meadthorpe who is perfectly indifferent to the movements of the absurdly popular curate.

On her sudden appearance he has raised his hat, a movement of which she took no notice. She seats herself on the shaft of a wagon and calls Jones to her side, but in the recesses of his canine heart the collie suspects Mr. Pendrill's overcoat pocket of biscuits, and he lingers beside the curate, amiable and watchful. Pendrill has started out to walk to Bilsboro', having promised to preach this evening in the parish church on behalf of Mr. Buisson. He has meant to lunch among the hills in company with a book, and now at a touch of Jones's hopeful nose he yields one of the biscuits meant to furnish forth the projected repast.

At first Gildas does not perceive that Jones is following Mrs. Demsey's bad example; but as soon as she is aware of the fact, she says coldly, "Will you have the kindness not to feed my dog, Mr. Pendrill? I do not like him to eat indiscriminately, or to accept food from strangers."

The curate replaces the bag in his pocket, saying pleasantly, "These biscuits are quite simple. I assure you they contain no poison. No more now, old boy. Did the lightning frighten you, poor old fellow?"

A sudden flash has caused Jones to run in front of Gildas, with a vague notion of affording her protection. She is always nervous of lightning herself, but she reflects that she may not have another opportunity of delivering her mind to the curate, and she resolves to speak out now while they are both storm-bound in the lonely shed.

"It is only a passing storm, Miss Haven," says Pendrill, desiring to be courteous to his fellow refugee, "and only sheet lightning as yet. Did you see how grandly Pine-tree Hill shone out just now against the black background of clouds? This storm will do a great deal of good, though I am sorry it has interfered with your walk."

"Yes," says Gildas, frigidly, "I believe the rain has been needed for some time."

"Whenever I see those lightning flashes," says Pendrill, "I am reminded of some lines I once came across, telling how terrible to many seems 'the red hand of God's wrath' as revealed in the gleam; but the poet, remembering the blessings in the track of the storm, recognized mercy rejoicing over judgment. To his eyes the print of Mount Calvary was shining in the 'bleeding palm' of the hand that ruffled Heaven's serenity."

He is talking more to himself than to her. She refuses to listen, telling herself he will not find her an admirer of his eloquence. "Storms are dreadful," she says, curtly. "They are too terrible to be beautiful in my opinion, unless theirs is the beauty of the tiger ready for prey. All Nature seems to tremble and hush, expecting the storm to break. To my mind it only forebodes destruction. But I am not given to rhapsody, Mr. Pendrill"

"Are you not?" he asks, innocently. "I have heard of Miss Haven as a very eloquent and poetic platform speaker."

"Oh, only to the children, when I can get nobody else to speak," she says, crimsoning. "We have a very large and important Sunday school at Rehoboth, though not quite so large as before, thanks to a system of beguilement and bribery to which Meadthorpe was unused until very lately."

"I'm afraid the roof leaks a little just where you're standing, Miss Haven," says Pendrill politely, refusing to be drawn into recrimination. "Will you not come more into the centre of the shed?"

"Thank you," says Gildas, "I would rather not." Her reply plainly shows she would prefer to endure the drippings like a martyr than to ensure immunity by proximity to Pendrill. "And as I may not have another opportunity, Mr. Pendrill, will you excuse my telling you that I think you might confine your parochial visitations to your own people, instead of attending to the sick indiscriminately, and distributing gifts among families long known as Nonconformists?"

"I only visit my parishioners, I believe," says the curate. "All such have a right to my ministrations. You, Miss Haven, as a parishioner, have a perfect right to send for the Rector or myself if overtaken by calamity"

"Excuse me," says Gildas, "I am no parishioner of yours. Pray disabuse yourself of any such notion."

"Pardon me, but Saint Simeon's parish includes the Manse, and you are fully entitled to the ministrations of your parish clergy. The fact that you are yet without the fold does not alter the truth that we regard you as belonging to the flock, though just now astray."

"You may regard me as you choose" says Gildas, indignantly, too much in earnest herself to detect that he is inclined to tease her, "but nothing that could possibly happen to me would cause me to seek the aid of any 'learned and discreet priest,' as the Meadthorpe people are admonished from the pulpit. And I candidly tell you, Mr. Pendrill, that I consider it most objectionable for you to intrude Church gifts on Dissenting families. I discovered only this morning that you have given a down quilt to little Kitty Demsey, and the Demseys have always belonged to Rehoboth!"

"That is a heinous sin, I confess, Miss Haven. Almost as bad as a Nonconformist young lady presenting crutches to the boy at the post office, and the post office people always attend Saint Simeon's!"

"I had the crutches by me," said Gildas, colouring. "A boy in our Sunday school had discarded them, and they were returned to me. Of course, I let poor little Charley Winthrop have them. The cases are quite different. Besides, his mother came and asked me, and it would have been inhuman of me to refuse the crutches just because the Winthrops go to Saint Simeon's."

"But quite correct of me to let a little lassie shiver because her parents are Dissenters."

"I didn't want Kitty to shiver," says Gildas, earnestly. "I would have been oftener to see her, but for my father's illness. The Demseys should have sent for a blanket to the Manse. But it is not only this case. You are getting quite well known to our chapel families. You visit everywhere, and you say things against Rehoboth"

"Never, Miss Haven. Will you not make your charges more definite?"

"Yes, you do. You say the Church has blessings and privileges more than irregular ministries such as Rehoboth can offer, and that those children have the best spiritual training who are brought up beneath the wings, as you call them, of Mother Church."

"In expressing those opinions," he says, "I am only true to my pastoral duty, and to the convictions of my heart. Can we not mutually respect convictions that differ? If my work in Meadthorpe clashes with yours, Miss Haven, it is not in any spirit of unchristian rancour and jealousy, I hope. But as a true son of the Church, I faithfully endeavour, by Heaven's help, to widen her influences and help my fellow creatures physically as well as spiritually. I trust the day may come when many as yet outside Church privileges---- Do not be frightened, the storm is nearer us now, but it will soon roll over southward. What a faithful guardian you have in your dog!"

Gildas has turned pale as a sudden lurid flash glared into the barn, and almost seemed for an instant to blind her. Jones, resentful of the thunder, barks at the top of his voice. To Pendrill, who feels that argument with so obstinate a renegade as Gildas is almost hopeless, the impossibility of conversing amid such a clamour of sound comes as a relief.

"Suppose a thunderbolt should come down," says Gildas, faintly.

"Suppose the worst is over, and the sky already beginning to clear in the distance," says Pendrill. "Look, the storm is rolling away. We will not have to wait here long. I wish you would make yourself more comfortable. Take my place. Those drippings are likely to give you a cold."

His voice is persuasive in its kindly tones, and Gildas has begun to feel chilly beneath the leaking roof. She moves to the spot he points out, and with considerable shame begins to apologize for her cowardice, for she can scarcely keep from trembling.

"The atmospheric influences of a storm keenly affect some constitutions," says Bernard Pendrill. "I was out in a thunderstorm with your friend, Mr. Jasper Ruthven, a week or two ago, and I noticed he was peculiarly sensitive to the electric conditions. What charming little children those are at Forest Cottage, Miss Haven; and how splendidly their elder brother has accepted the loss of their parents, and the family loss of fortune -- and a struggling life, instead of a bright University career."

"Oh, not many people know how truly good Jasper is. Father often says so," says Gildas, fervently. "A year or two ago his grandmother was on his hands as well, for her money also went in the general loss. She was quite infirm, and he was the gentlest, tenderest nurse you can imagine. Father said God would bless him for that old lady's sake, and for the sake of those sweet little children. I am sure Jasper will prosper some day, and make a way with his writings, though as yet I am afraid his duties are long and very tiring.''

On the subject of the Ruthvens, they find they can talk without disagreement. Pendrill has a secret notion of a probable attachment between Gildas Haven and the young tutor, and praises him with heartfelt cordiality, bringing for once a smile and a flush of pleasure to the face beside him.

When the heavens are clearer, and the faint twittering of the birds begins to greet the returning sunshine, he holds out his hand. Gildas, very much to her own surprise, vouchsafes him hers.

As she watches him cross the moor in the direction of Bilsboro' she begins to reproach herself for not taking the stand towards him she intended, and she resolves when next they meet to be on her guard against those gentle, musical tones, which have doubtless been cultivated to attract and beguile, while he uses every means to win the unwary over to his own mistaken opinions.

Bernard Pendrill, treading the hills, and mentally choosing new books for Miss Rowena's Guild library, impatiently wonders why he cannot concentrate his thoughts on church histories. To his own heart he refuses to acknowledge it, but dark eyes and windblown hair, and a tremulous, sensitive mouth, seem strangely pictured on hill, vale, and sky today, and half in fright he recognizes that his ideas have deserted the Guild, to recall the voice and the changeful face of Gildas Haven.

* * *

Not from Kitty's Sunday school teacher does her father hear aught concerning the presents received from a church visitor, but the matter is revealed to him by accident. One of the Abbots works with him at the farm, and Mrs. Abbot, Pendrill's landlady, who chose the quilt at the curate's request, bids her boy ask Demsey as time goes on how his little girl improves, and how she likes Mr. Pendrill's present.

Demsey is amazed and ashamed to discover that he, who has complained in the Rehoboth Chapel meeting of clerical bribery, is himself indebted to the curate for a valuable gift that he supposed as a matter of course was received, like many other bounties, from the Rehoboth minister's daughter.

When he goes home that night he takes no notice of his waiting tea, nor does he stop to change his wet garments, but he goes straight up to Kitty and lays his hand on her coverlet.

"My lamb," says the rough man, gently, "ye shall have my Sunday coat over ye. This must go back whence it came. Oh, mother, mother, ye told me he came here now and again, and even that were against my conscience, for he'd be more than likely to be teaching the little 'uns the Church Catechism if he got a footing in our place. But I never knew nothing about your taking presents from them Church folk -- and me a member at the chapel from a boy. Maybe there's worse behind. What else have he given ye? Maybe he's been a-christening of our babby unknown to me? I tell you as I'll know the truth of the matter. What have he given you for the sake of getting our little 'uns away from Rehoboth school?"

Mrs. Demsey, troubled at heart that he eats no tea, and that his bronzed, rugged face, in its setting of shaggy hair, looks more distressed than angry, tremblingly confesses to the grocery ticket and order for coal.

"I'll have to get a loan from the master," says Demsey, "and he'll dock my wages Saturdays until it's paid. Me and mine shan't be beholden to Church folk. And as for this here quilt, it ain't raining now, and the thing won't get spoilt with the wet. This shall go back immediate; and I'm sore-hearted to think you could take it, Martha. I never thought it of you that you set so little store by our Nonconformist principles."

Mrs. Demsey says nothing of the needs and privations that have many a time reduced her to dry bread that he might have bacon and dumpling, and the hungry little children might be satisfied. She makes no sort of excuse for herself for receiving the coal and groceries, but goes on busily with her mangle, dry-eyed and silent, though Kitty's tears fall fast at the loss of her coverlet.

Into Pendrill's presence, as he sits in his little parlour, patiently setting sums and copies for a little crossing sweeper who will presently come in for an evening lesson, as is his wont three times a week, Reuben Demsey stalks in by-and-by, injured and insulted, casting down the coverlet before the astonished giver.

"My name is Demsey," says he, "and I never know'd until this day, parson, as how my child were covered by charity of yourn. What my missus have took from the Church fund in grocery and coal I'll pay back in cash to you come next Saturday. Here's the counterpane, and as I'm a plain man, and speaks my mind straight, I'll tell you to your face, parson, you don't get hold of our little 'uns -- for that's what you Church folks is after. Because I'm poor it don't follow I can sacrifice my conscience for your presents. Every boy and girl of mine is going to grow up Free Church, please God -- and that's all I have got to say to you, parson. Don't bring no bribes across my threshold. There's many as will take them, but I couldn't respect myself if I stooped so low."

"My dear fellow," says Pendrill, "I respect your independence, but you really are labouring under a mistake. The little help I gave your good, hard-working, over-burdened wife is simply such as you yourself would give to anyone needing a helping hand were it in your power. Be fair to me, Demsey, and believe me when I tell you I had no notion of bribery or corruption."

His truthful eyes look smilingly into those of his visitor, and Demsey begins to feel a little ashamed of his resentment. "Ye wanted our little 'uns for Church Sunday school," he says, stolidly, "and ye'll not get them if ye keeps on calling until Doomsday."

"So Mrs. Demsey told me, though perhaps in more gentle guise. I certainly did impress on her the privileges of Church training in childhood -- as a clergyman I could do no less. She was candid in explaining you both preferred to retain the children in the Chapel school, and there that matter ended. I continued to visit your child because she was weak and ill, and seemed cheered when I called in, and I gave her the coverlet for the sake of our Lord who bids us care for His little ones, and supply the needs of His lambs."

Demsey is silent. The mention of Kitty is stirring him to the heart, and the curate's calm, gentle tones carry to his own honest spirit the conviction of simple truth. He is turning to go, and trying to frame a few awkward words of apology if he has seemed rude and abrupt.

But Pendrill's hand is on his arm, and the young man says pleadingly, "If a Dissenter can accept no expression of sympathy from a parson, Demsey, keep the quilt as from brother to brother. Jesus, our one Elder Brother, is my witness: I had no thought of making proselytes when I brought it to rejoice your little maid. Show me you believe me, Demsey, by taking it from me now in the Name that we both confess."

"God bless you, parson," says poor Demsey. "I do believe ye. It won't choke me to take what you gives me in His name. Maybe I have got too hot and hasty a temper."

But just then, the young crossing sweeper runs in with a spray of snowdrops he has somehow procured for his teacher. Demsey glances at the two faces lighted with love, and pulls his front hair almost involuntarily to "parson" in leaving; but Pendrill gives him a brotherly handshake, and fills his pocket in the kitchen below with biscuits for Kitty.

The child is lying white and sorrowful, with a patient face turned to the wall, trying not to think how ungrateful Mr. Pendrill will consider her to let his beautiful quilt go back. She does not move as she hears her father's returning step, but the little arms go tightly round his neck as he wraps her up tenderly in the coverlet she believed she has lost for ever.

"Here's your quilt, my lamb. Daddy's learned a lesson tonight," he says. "Daddy were a deal too ready to condemn them as can't see eye to eye with him. Parson's a man and a Christian if he do wear all manner of colours, and dress up his Communion table! I have had a sight of him, mother, and a bit of a talk, and I have taken his help to us freely as 'twere given. The little maid shall keep her counterpane, and not a bit of harm 'twill do her I reckon, though 'twere brought along here by Church of England hands!"

"I've kept the kettle ready to boil up for your tea, Demsey, and I've made you a plate of hot toast," says his wife quietly.

But when he is seated at his tea, and listening with approval to Tommy's delivery on a chair of "Bruce and the Spider" for his Band of Hope meeting, she creeps aside to Kitty, and the child feels a burning tear drop down on her own eager hand that caresses the pattern of her quilt.

Chapter 9

A Good Samaritan

THERE is trouble at Rehoboth -- not much talked about, for to depose their dear old minister seems unfaithful to the loyal-hearted congregation, even in thought. There are members yet gathering there who remember him when he came strong and eloquent from college, fiery-hearted for truth and freedom, victorious in argument and debate, triumphing to be challenged by doctrinal opponents to a theological joust.

There are fathers of families who have been Sunday scholars in his pastorate; lives bearing the burden and the heat of the day that at some still, quiet, long-past Communion Service, received in early youth from Gilead Haven the right hand of fellowship as members of Rehoboth Chapel. "He married us," say some in gentle tones of remembrance; and here and there a mother whispers, "No other minister can seem like him. Did he not bury our little child?"

But to the anxious deacons and office bearers it becomes more and more evident that something must be done as concerns Rehoboth pulpit. Loyally as they love their pastor, they dare not put personal feeling before the help of the congregation.

The sudden death of his son through diphtheria has plainly been the breaking up of old Mr. Haven's powers. His grandly gifted boy was to the minister as the apple of his eye. Scarcely had the young man been ordained to his first charge after a brilliant college career, before the arrow of destruction smote him, and he fell a victim to his ministrations in an infected house.

"His memory is going," Mr. Hornby says sorrowfully of their pastor. "Did he not call on Brother Whiteman to pray at the last prayer meeting -- and our brother has gone to glory this seven years?"

Mr. Mundey is the last to assent to any need for considering the question of a change, but he, too, looks grave and anxious when three Sundays in succession Mr. Haven gives out from the pulpit the annual meeting of the Friends of the Jews Society, and that meeting long since took place at the Town Hall. It is then, too, that Gildas feels, proud as she has been of her father's pulpit power and reputation, it is unjust to Rehoboth that his age and feebleness should stand so tremblingly where a younger man might minister to the people with strength and vigour.

Many an anxious day, many a wakeful night do such thoughts cost Gildas; but she can do no other than roll the burden of trouble and care on her Master, and the matter is taken out of her hands in the way she would least expect.

Mr. Haven himself writes the deacons a letter to be laid before the chapel, telling them he has grown conscious of failing health and ability, resigning his pastorate with many a tender expression of love and solicitude. Gildas feels a throb of pride as she reads that farewell letter of the aging shepherd who resigns his treasured flock to another.

"Rehoboth cannot give him up altogether," is the verdict of the whole congregation. The chapel keeper and his wife volunteer for lower pay; some of the members (and of these Mr. Hornby, struggling hard in business against pressing competition, is first) come forward to guarantee increased contributions, and young Mundey conquers his natural shyness far enough to offer his services freely for the organ, the paid organist having lately left Meadthorpe. Mr. Chatten, the treasurer, goes hither and thither on a quiet crusade that results in substantial additions of money.

The issue of these efforts and deliberations is that the old minister is earnestly begged to still give Rehoboth the help of his supervision and experience, while it is proposed to invite a younger man as co-pastor to undertake the active labours.

One morning Gildas is busy with pen and ink, ruling subscription books for her mothers' meeting, when Emery comes hurriedly in, tripping in her agitation over the prostrate form of Jones. The collie is always overwhelmingly demonstrative when hurt, in his protestations of forgiveness, and he insists on kissing Emery so profusely that at first Gildas can scarcely make out her words.

"It's the master," says Emery. "But don't you be frightened, Miss Gildas, dear. He's had a fall and come home in a cab. Some gentleman have brought him. Won't you come, miss? I'm all of a fluster, and master's that muddy, and his new light overcoat, too, miss."

Gildas has flown from her own little sanctum to the sitting room, where she finds her father lying on the sofa. Kneeling beside him, supporting his head with gentle touch is Bernard Pendrill. But Gildas scarcely sees him, or is conscious of his personality.

Her father has had several attacks of faintness of late, and she quickly administers the restorative prescribed by the doctor, while Emery at her bidding fills a hot-water bottle in the kitchen, and places it to the minister's feet, from which Mr. Pendrill has already removed the mud-encrusted boots.

"Mr. Haven is better now," he says to Gildas. Then, "Do you feel more yourself now, sir? Ah, here comes some beef tea for you. Let me support you while you take some. If you will allow me, Miss Haven, I will call at your doctors as I go home. Do you have Dr. Spencer?"

"Yes," said Gildas, "I'd like him to come as soon as possible. Thank you very much. We've given you a great deal of trouble."

"Not at all," Pendrill answers. "I am only thankful I happened to pass Stony Lane when I did. I saw your father in the distance. He was walking along quite briskly for an old gentleman, when he suddenly swayed and fell. It's quite a quagmire there, you know; but I feel sure he didn't stumble over anything. It was an attack of giddiness or faintness."

"He felt so well today," says Emery, "and insisted on going out alone to see John Markman at the Quarry. He's ill with rheumatiz. It's a mercy he didn't lie there for hours alone, Miss Gildas."

"Everything is mercy," says the curate, gently. "I was fortunately able to summon a lad working in the fields and despatch him for a cab. I'm very thankful to see Mr. Haven coming round so satisfactorily now. I'll call at Dr. Spencer's at once."

By the time the doctor arrives, the mud is the part of the accident most in evidence. Mr. Haven has recovered from his faintness, and remembers little about it. He placidly submits to the doctor's injunctions as to quiet, diet and medicine, and spends the rest of the day lying down beneath the sofa blanket, listening with closed eyes and attentive face to Gildas as she reads aloud at his desire, Elisha Coles' Divine Sovereignty.

Very little does she personally assimilate of the expositions and arguments therein contained. Her conscience is uncomfortably reproaching her for having failed to thank Bernard Pendrill with sufficient warmth for his aid to her father; and then, did he not settle the cost of the cab?

"I think Father had better write to him when he is able," she reflects, "and enclose the fare. But whether the man charged eighteen pence or two shillings it is impossible to say. If we send half-a-crown I think it would place us out of his debt."

* * *

The following day Mr. Haven is in his usual health, and in the afternoon Mr. Weston, the deacon, calls in to take him for a stroll. While they are out, the curate comes to enquire as to the patient's progress. Gildas happens to open the door, and asks him if she can speak to him for a moment.

"Father would have written to you, Mr. Pendrill," she says, her manner alternating between dignity and gratitude. "I didn't thank you nearly enough yesterday. It was so kind and unselfish of you to trouble about my father, and Dr. Spencer said it would have been serious had he lain there unhelped. Please believe we're more thankful to you than we can say. I wish Father had been in. I know he wants to thank you."

"I am only too glad, Miss Haven," he answers, "to be of help to any of my parishioners."

There is a gleam of fun in his eyes, but Gildas refuses to smile, and looks steadily in front of her. "We cannot lay claim to that distinction," she says, "but we're deeply grateful to you, all the same. And now, please, as Father is out, I would like to settle with you for the cab."

"Don't mention it," he answers. "Well, Miss Haven, I'm delighted to hear such good news of your father today, and now I will not further intrude. I see you're quite a Browning student," and he glances at the bookshelf. "Would you allow me to lend you a commentary on Browning that your cousin Jasper Ruthven has by him just now? I will ask him to pass it on to you. It has but lately come out, and I'm sure you would enjoy looking through it."

"Oh, thank you," said Gildas, "but we had a Browning Society at college, and I am intimately acquainted with his works. I scarcely think it is necessary. I would much prefer to pay for the cab, Mr. Pendrill. You will oblige me, I am sure, by receiving the fare."

She handed him a silver coin.

"Since you evidently consider it impertinent of me to decline, I have no option, Miss Haven. I paid one shilling and nine pence. There is the change out of your florin. I trust Mr. Haven will continue better. Good afternoon."

Gildas is secretly troubled lest she has offended her father's Good Samaritan. She wishes he had been in. Somehow, she would like Bernard Pendrill to see and know what manner of man her father is when his mind is unclouded by illness. At any rate, the cab is paid for -- that is one good thing! It would have been dreadful to combat Bernard Pendrill doctrinally throughout Meadthorpe at every point, while indebted to him in the matter of cab fare.

She decides to put the individual in question entirely out of her mind, and resolutely returns to her Mothers Meeting books, only putting them aside at last to carry down to Forest Cottage a dainty little frock she had just completed for the baby, little Noel Ruthven being two years old on the morrow, though none, to look at him, would believe him more than one. As yet he can scarcely stand, and he says nothing articulate; but Jasper declares his little brother will develop all the faster once he begins. The children are to celebrate his birthday tomorrow by a plum pudding, and a game with Jasper when he has ten minutes to spare from his work.

It seems to Gildas, much to her annoyance, that go where she will nowadays, she hears nothing but the name of Bernard Pendrill. The curate often drops into Forest Cottage, suspecting more shrewdly than does Gildas how helpful in Jasper's housekeeping are simple little offerings to the children. Sometimes they find fruit in his capacious pocket, sometimes a jar of jam or a bag of biscuits; but it is evident to Gildas that he has become to the little Ruthvens an object of delight and reverence.

Even Mrs. Chidgey, prejudiced though she has been against "the parson," says, "The children, bless them, think a sight of him, and children and dogs knows the ins and outs of folk wonderful quick. 'Tain't easy to deceive them. And, after all, there's good and bad everywhere, and maybe, poor young man, it's his misfortune, and no fault of his own, that he have been brought up to them new-fangled ways of cutting capers while he's a-saying of his prayers. Them as have been brought up chapel can't be thankful enough to Providence, especially them as have sat under Mr. Haven thirty year or more, which it were quite as long as that since first Chidgey took a sitting in Rehoboth table pew."

While the widowed Mrs. Chidgey's conversation flows on like the brook, Milly confides to Gildas that Mr. Pendrill has made Noah stand upright, and restored to the elephant his trunk, and altogether reformed the family of the patriarch in the matter of paint and limbs. Gordon's face glows as he displays a copy of Robinson Crusoe, in scarlet binding, that the curate allowed him to choose at the bookseller's one day when they were out for a walk.

Jacky laments, "Me did have a jumping Jinny out of Mr. Pendrill's pocket, only Jemmie executed her for Mary Queen of Scots;" and Jemmie incidentally remarks, "Mr. Pendrill give me a halfpenny, and if I had another halfpenny that would make a whole penny."

Baby, lying quietly in Chidgey's lap because it hurts his back to sit up in his high chair, listens to the mingling voices attentively, and looks long at the fair white ribbons of the dainty dress.

"He do take a deal of notice," says Chidgey, proudly. "Sure enough, wee darling, he knows the beautiful frock's for him."

"Well, Jasper," says Gildas, rather impatiently when Jasper enters and lingers for an instant in the doorway to watch her bending over the children, "your paragon of perfection will never need a trumpeter as long as he knows how to please these children. It is nothing but 'Mr. Pendrill' everywhere. I am quite tired of hearing that man's name."

"Why, Gildas, Chidgey heard from Emery that Pendrill had been quite a friend in need to Mr. Haven yesterday. I expected to find you as enthusiastic as Milly concerning him."

"Oh, he brought Father home when he found him unwell -- he could scarcely do otherwise," says Gildas. "Of course, I'm not ungrateful, but really the fuss made about this new curate is most absurd. A more ordinary looking young man could never be."

"I think his face is splendid," says Jasper. "If I were an artist I would like to paint it. Apart from its kind yet strong expression, it is by no means an ordinary face. One very seldom sees golden hair with such dark eyes as Pendrill's."

"Oh, has he dark eyes?" says Gildas, carelessly. "Of course, in a poet one expects rhapsodising, Jasper. Now do pray let us change this most wearisome subject. I cannot be enthusiastic over anybody whose opinions work as much mischief as Mr. Pendrill's. Jasper, Dr. Spencer was saying the other day it would strengthen baby very likely to let him live at the seaside for a few years, and I believe I know a motherly body at Beachlands who would take him for ten shillings or so a week. Why not think of it? He certainly looks very low just now. If I were you, now the days are brightening, I would despatch Mrs. Chidgey and all these little people to Beachlands for a month, and then let baby stay on in his new home when he gets used to it. They all look to me as if they want sea air. I am going to take Father there soon for a change. We would have such fun on the rocks if we all went to the seaside together, wouldn't we, Jemmie?"

There is a loud shout of delight, causing baby himself to attempt a faint crow in imitation. Jasper holds the little fingers in his own, and says, "We'll see, when summer comes, Gildas. Wait until the cold winds are ended."

And Gildas does not know that there is little money in Japer's pocket. The ways of literature are sharp and thorny, and of these baby's eldest brother has no heart to speak.

Chapter 10

The "Lost Chord"

AN entry made about this time in the diary of Gilbert Haines will throw some light on the state of affairs at the Rectory, where the domestic tide resembles the course of true love in respect of not running smoothly.

"Anna, our maid, gives notice this day," writes Gilbert. "Aunt Rowena, which has intended to train Anna and make her a credit to Aunt Rowena and Mr. and Mrs. Stutts, ask her why, and Anna Stutts says it's to better herself, and it's too dull and dreary here at the Rectory. I'd be dull, too, but for my pony, and Mr. Ruthven, and Mr. Pendrill, and grandfather's fishing tackle, and cook that gives me brandy snaps. But Anna did ought to be contented, as it's very wicked not to be thankful to Aunt Rowena who teaches her to knit and to mend her clothes. Anna have heard of a place in London. Anna's wild to go, though cook do say, 'Wait until she sees the stairs -- in them London houses there's flights and flights of them!' I make toffee in the back kitchen this afternoon. I see Aunt Rowena crying again. I say, 'Don't cry about Anna, auntie. Perhaps she'll repent and stay!' She pretends she isn't crying, but I'm not taken in, and I resolve to give Aunt Rowena half my toffee, and I won't give wicked, ungrateful Anna any; but I burn my pan and I get no suksess, and I eat the sugar and the butter raw."

Anna Stutts is to Miss Rowena Bertram's mind but a sample of all the various efforts she has put forth in life -- no duty, no self-sacrifice has found her slothful and reluctant; but somehow no laurel of brilliant success has ever crowned her brow. She often thinks the world could have got on just as well without her. "She hath done what she could," but honour and gratitude have but seldom been her deserved share of praise. She is not at all astonished, though grieved at heart, that Anna is carelessly repaying the many efforts she has put forth for her benefit, by throwing up the quiet, helpful place, and rushing off to be kitchen maid with a flighty Meadthorpe girl she knows, just as Miss Rowena was hoping, too, that the girl had become religiously impressed, and would soon desire Confirmation.

There is a heavier trouble, though, on Miss Rowena Bertram's spirit than the thanklessness of her maid. Day by day the knowledge is growing on her that Bernard Pendrill is disquieted in mind, and with all her longing to help and comfort him there is a barrier of reserve that cannot be passed. His work is devoted as ever. His sermons are, if possible, even more powerful and tender than of yore; but she detects a shadow on his face that was not wont to be, and she is sure he is bearing some secret burden that is veiled from her sympathy.

Her heartache is that their friendship has not gone deep enough for her to share and know his trouble. All she can do is to breathe his name in her prayers, and commend him to the All-knowing and All-loving God, the Searcher of hearts.

* * *

Rehoboth Chapel has not had to look far or endure long suspense in the matter of a co-pastor for Mr. Haven. A schoolfellow and college friend of his son -- John Mountford, a young married man who is well known to the old minister and has often stayed at the Manse -- is just now in a position to undertake the duties. After he has supplied several Sundays "with a view," he is warmly invited to Meadthorpe. Mr. Haven has a small private income, and now he is virtually retiring he will take from Rehoboth but a fourth part of his former stipend.

He has expected to leave the Manse, but the Rehoboth people declare it is his as long as he lives, and Mr. Mountford says he will not come to the place at all, if it means turning his old friend out of his house. So for the present he takes up his abode near the Ruthvens, on the common. John Mountford's son and heir, aged eight months, is a source of shame and confusion to Chidgey, inasmuch as he is fatter and noisier and altogether a finer child than poor little Noel, who is more than a year his senior.

John Mountford is one of the new type of ministers -- highly trained, and an earnest student, wearing University honours, yet counting it of more importance to his work to cultivate knowledge of mankind. Booklore in some cases means very poor preaching, but this is not so with Mr. Haven's helper. Sympathy and energy are strong within him, and his learning is alive with helpfulness and brotherly love.

At first Rehoboth is rather scandalized because he wears a coloured tie, a jacket instead of the ministerial frock-coat, and goes in flannels to cricket and football with his young men's class. Perhaps, indeed, John Mountford is unclerical to a fault, but these are but lesser matters, because his goodness, his courage, and his energy herald growth and prosperity for Rehoboth.

There is a Mrs. Mountford -- Annie, a pretty, grey eyed girl, shy and quiet -- who takes to Gildas as her opposite in character, and often brings the baby to enliven her new friend in her little sanctum at the Manse. Just now Annie Mountford is absorbed in her baby, and Gildas is soon in a position to pass an examination concerning Master Mountford's teeth, the number of bottles he has broken, and the preparation of the diet on which he threatens to become a young Samson.

The two ladies and their usual companion are together one morning, when Mrs. Mountford notices Gildas looking preoccupied, and enquires if anything connected with Mr. Haven's health is disturbing her mind.

"No," says Gildas, "Father is quite well and bright just now, Annie. Your husband coming here has done him so much good, for he had long felt the work at the chapel was getting beyond him. And Father is so proud of your husband. He simply rejoices over him, as once he hoped to rejoice over my brother David."

"I was noticing Mr. Haven's face in chapel on Wednesday evening," says the young minister's wife. "When John was giving the first of his series of lectures on the principles and history of Nonconformity, your father's face was positively shining. And while John was so worked up, and telling so earnestly why he is a Nonconformist, Mr. Haven kept leading the people in cheering. I never thought the Rehoboth people could get so excited." She notices Jones near the baby. "There, my itsey pitsey, did you want to stroke the dear old doggie then? You're quite sure, Gildas, he never bites?"

"Never," says Gildas; "and anyway he has nearly lost all his teeth. Jones, go and lie down 'dead' until dinner time. Yes, Annie, the Rehoboth people are quite capable of enthusiasm, though most of them seem so stolid and self-contained. That splendid lecture was exactly what Meadthorpe needs just now. Father used to preach on such subjects once, but of course his powers have grown much weaker now, and Meadthorpe really required a good denominational protest. The place has gone half out of its mind about that High Church curate at Saint Simeon's -- a most bigoted, dangerous, Pharisaical man! I'm certain it was he who sent the man with the barrel organ to play outside the chapel. The lecture was advertised in town, so Mr. Pendrill would know the time, and he would not be above trying to make the meeting a failure."

"Do you think so really? The barrel organ was certainly very disturbing for a while."

"It was dreadful. I wonder how your husband could go on at all, with that 'Lost Chord' and all its variations distracting one's mind so persistently. I believe Mr. Mundey had a great deal of trouble to get the man away. Depend on it, he had been paid to disturb the lecture. It is not the first time Mr. Pendrill has shown his opposition to Rehoboth Chapel."

"Oh, I think he has such a nice face, Gildas," says Mrs. Mountford, with feminine reasoning. "I often see him out, with children hanging around him, and evidently devoted to him. And the little Ruthvens would follow him all over the common if they were allowed. Anybody with a face like his would be above such petty meanness as drowning a lecture by noise, I'm certain."

"I am not misled by deceiving looks," says Gildas, sagely. "He means to make Saint Simeon's the head and front of all influences around. You can tell that by the Parish Magazine that he is managing just now. To certain minds all is excusable that leads to the end in view. If I were Mr. Mountford, I would see him about his horrible plan to spoil the meeting."

John Mountford, who has been visiting Mr. Haven, now knocks at the door, asking if his wife is ready to come home.

Gildas is so convinced the lecture on Free Church principles was interrupted by the "Lost Chord" purposely, that her grievance overflows to the young minister, and she asks him if he will not complain to Mr. Pendrill in person or by letter.

Mr. Mountford laughs away the suggestion. "That disturbance was purely accidental, I'm sure," he tells her. "Pendrill is a gentleman, and would not condescend to such vulgar tricks. Besides, the 'Lost Chord' didn't worry me nearly as much as some good woman's noisy children up in the gallery. I certainly wished that music lost, for I did grow 'weary and ill at ease,' under their echoes."

On behalf of the fellowship of babies, his wife immediately takes him to task, causing him to atone for his strictures on Nonconformist infancy by an embrace of little Oliver, in which he includes Oliver's mother.

Gildas gazes at them meanwhile with a sort of gracious pity. Young married people like these are given to sentiment, she supposes, but time will be their cure. And Annie Mountford is of a gentle nature that could scarcely get on without affection. Well, Gildas reflects, she will never be guilty of like sentimentality. Her ideal is one of freedom and independence. Marrying and giving in marriage have never entered into her dreams of the future. If she could choose her career, she desires to become either a missionary or a High School headmistress, or a Shakespearian lecturer; but first and foremost, as long as she can remember, the vision of the mission field has been her dream.

"Well, Mr. Mountford," she says, impulsively, "a woman's intuition is seldom at fault, and I generally find my conclusions are pretty correct. Why would that man bring his barrel organ right into the chapel yard unless he was sent there purposely? He is often in Meadthorpe, but he has never played there before. Of course, I know that Mr. Bertram, the Rector, would never stoop to any system of annoying Rehoboth. But I'm sure such a lecture as you advertised about the place would irritate Mr. Pendrill, and you may be sure he was at the bottom of the disturbance. Besides, I saw Mr. Pendrill passing along the road a few minutes before the man brought his organ there."

"Gildas Haven is very hard on the unfortunate curate," remarks Mr. Mountford to his wife, after leaving the Manse. "Most people have a good word for him, but she appears to object to him very strongly."

"Too strongly," says his quiet wife. "I think she's trying to persuade herself that she dislikes him with all her heart; but when one thinks of anybody, for praise or blame, as often as Gildas does of the 'unfortunate curate,' as you call him...."

"Well, what then? Explain yourself, you mysterious little sphinx."

But Mrs. Mountford only readjusts for the hundredth time the bows of her baby's hat, admiring anew the roses on his chubby face, and tells her husband, "Time will show."

That afternoon Gildas is walking up and down the lime tree avenue in which the Manse is situated. Mr. Haven is leaning on her arm and enjoying his stroll in the sunshine, when a pleasant voice hails her father, and he turns to greet Mr. Buisson, the vicar from the village across the hills.

Mr. Buisson is tall and elderly, with waving iron-grey locks, and a kindly twinkle in his keen, brown eyes. He is "as bad as a Methodist," according to some of his acquaintances, for he receives Dissenters and eats with them, and has on several occasions preached and prayed at Nonconformist gatherings. He is a great favourite with old Mr. Haven, and a thorn in the side of his Bishop. Today he is not alone. He is walking in company with Bernard Pendrill, who reminds Mr. Haven that he needs no introduction, having been fortunate enough to pass Stony Lane on the morning of the minister's attack of faintness, and to have been enabled to convey him home.

"I have been glad to find your illness was but temporary, Mr. Haven," Pendrill says, looking with interest at the fine old face that has lost the stern, rugged power that once it knew, but kept the sweetness that always lay behind. "How well your father is looking again, Miss Haven."

But Gildas is deep in conversation with Mr. Buisson, who helps her in the Greek studies she loves. Of the curate she takes no notice for some time, and he talks with her father, lingering beneath the limes, and making a picture of which Gildas is fully conscious -- the white-haired, gentle-eyed veteran who leans both hands on his staff, having fought the fight and so nearly finished his course, and the earnest faced young soldier of the Church, who has so lately buckled on his armour, and who is ready for any conflict, peril, and sacrifice.

Presently, however, Mr. Buisson reminds her father of a discussion they had lately as to the right rendering of a much altered hymn, and the two become quite animated as they renew the subject. Gildas finds Pendrill at her side, making a polite remark as to the beauty of the evening, and her secret thoughts very soon find expression in words.

"I believe, Mr. Pendrill, we have to thank your Episcopal zeal for our musical entertainment on Wednesday evening."

"I beg your pardon," he says, pleasantly. "I do not quite catch your meaning."

"Oh I thought you might not be unaware of the very annoying interruption that occurred about half past seven, during Mr. Mountford's lecture at Rehoboth on Religious Freedom. All our people much resented the disturbance. A man brought a most noisy barrel organ into the chapel yard, and persistently played the 'Lost Chord,' until one of the deacons silenced him with considerable trouble."

"I know the man," says Pendrill. "He scarcely understands English. I suppose he didn't realize the annoyance he was causing. Last week, during evensong at the church, he was regaling us in the road outside with 'The Death of Nelson.'"

"Well," says Gildas, severely, "I consider it most ungentlemanly and most unchristian of anybody to pay him to disturb our lecture. My opinion is he was not there by chance. It was a mean attempt to spoil our meeting."

"An attempt with which I am not associated in your mind, I trust, Miss Haven?" says Pendrill, flushing, as he stoops to caress the dog.

"I make no accusations," says Gildas, "but Rehoboth Chapel has suffered a good deal at the hands of some in Meadthorpe. I hope their consciences will prevent any repetition of stratagems so mean."

Pendrill is silent. He turns away to the others, looking hurt and offended. He makes no attempt to deny her insinuation, and vouchsafes her no further remark, leaving her to her own reflections, which are somewhat uncomfortable.

Mr. Haven prolongs his stroll today, but the beauty of the sunset is lost on Gildas, who cannot help wondering whether she has been unjust in connecting the Rehoboth disturbance with the curate of Saint Simeon's. She is also rather irritated by the good impression Mr. Pendrill has evidently made on her father. Here the curate has for months been counteracting the chapel influences in Meadthorpe, yet, forgetting all that, Mr. Haven is telling her that Pendrill is acquainted with his well-loved Thomas à Kempis and Jeremy Taylor, and murmuring, "His voice is very like my son David's -- clear and pleasant, with an honest ring about it. I like the lad. He and John Mountford should be friends."

Jasper Ruthven passes that way presently on the road to his next pupil. He stops to notice Jones, and to brighten his hard, busy life with a glimpse of the face that makes it light.

"Jasper," says Gildas, "won't you sympathize with me? Mr. Buisson and that curate from Saint Simeon's have been chatting with Father just now, and he is quite charmed with that bigoted Mr. Pendrill! I'll soon be the only person in Meadthorpe whose opinion of that man is unprejudiced."

"Would you expect your father to be an unkindly critic of anybody?" says Jasper, smiling at the old gentleman. "As for Pendrill, his creed may be bigoted, but his religion is broader than his doctrine. Our little ones at home judge him more truly than you do, Gildas."

"Have you seen the last number of his Parish Magazine?" she continues. "I found it in one of the cottages. It would open your eyes as to his ideas of the priesthood! To circulate teaching like that in a parish hitherto 'Low Church' will give offence to many."

"Oh, but, Gildas," says Jasper, "Pendrill is no hypocrite, and I do believe in people being straightforward and outspoken. Personally, I'm tired of editorial entreaties such as 'be moderate -- tone that down -- no reader must be estranged or offended!' I wish for the time when we can all speak out as we honestly feel, ignoring the results. If Pendrill holds strong opinions, why blame him for expressing them? His outspoken candour reveals his real position, and we are equally at liberty to set forth our views -- a liberty Mr. Mountford, for one, will certainly use."

Chapter 11

"Quiet in the Nest''

ALL night long Jasper Ruthven has watched by his baby brother Noel, ill with croup. Chidgey takes care of little Noel by day, but when set free from his regular duties, Jasper takes his turn of nursing. This morning the child seems so weak that Jasper sets out as soon as possible, meaning to call at the Manse.

This illness has come on so suddenly that he knows the Havens are not aware of the fresh trouble in his home, and Gildas has nursed many little children among the Meadthorpe poor. He will ask her if she can lend a helping hand for a little while to Chidgey, who is fairly worn out just now; Jemmie and Jacky having bad colds, and Gordon a troublesome throat.

Milly dances after him to the garden gate, telling him she will soon get Noel to sleep with his lullaby hymn, and whispering that she and all of them are asking "Gentle Jesus" to make baby brother "quite better."

"So he's sure to get well. You won't fret, brother, will you? You'll teach your little boys, and not worry one bit about baby. You leave him to me," says Milly, and Jasper dismisses her with a kiss -- the sight of her boots, broken out at the side, haunting him as he crosses the common.

"Plenty of nourishment; cod-liver oil, as much cream as they can take."

These are Dr. Spencer's directions concerning the little ones with colds. As for baby Noel, nursing can do more for him than medical attention, but Jasper's sinking heart echoes the meaning of the doctor's look. Those little feet that have never walked on earth will presently be playing with the children in the streets of gold.

Jasper shakes his head in despair. If only the dreamed-of success had come -- the success poured out libation-like to others more fortunate, but, his heart is whispering, less inspired -- the thoughts that should centre in the lifework that is dearest, would not be agonizing now over the need of firewood, of warm clothing, of the countless needs of sickness, and the weekly bills it is harder and harder to meet.

Only yesterday he was told that little Gilbert at the Rectory is soon to go to school, so that is another pupil lost; and only this very morning, while after his night's vigil he broke his fast on bread and tea, a bulky package came back to him for the tenth time -- the best work he has ever done -- "not calculated to sell."

Stern faced, brave eyed still, he has locked it away for a while. He comes of a Northern race that of old never cried surrender or fled the field. He is sure that the world will hear him yet. It may be late, but ere he dies, or after, it will hear the God-given prophet voice.

Yet these little children in need have no helper save himself.

"God forgive me," he cries within his heart, "that the powers which should be wholly consecrated to Himself have been used only for gain, in writing that which I could sell the soonest. He sees our need."

And then, as he speaks the Heavenly Father's name, there comes to the young man, robbed of youth's sunshine, that vague wondering dread \-- if God exists, can He be a God of goodness? Since all things obey Him, if Scripture is true, since He could have eased little Noel's pain last night, and dewed that baby-life with gentle sleep -- what profit is there to cry to Him rather than to the silent, tearless, pitiless gods of the shadowed East?

At His word, at His will, fame and prosperity could have blossomed for him like a rose, but every day brings the wearying tale of failure and disappointment. Even Nature, sweet and calm as she seems this morning, suddenly seems to the poet-heart to appeal to him in agony. A cow bereft of her calf is calling pitifully afar off; the singing birds dread the hawk; the creeping insects, bright like jewels here and there, are the prey of the little choristers. Even the innocent looking sundew that gems the heath, and the gossamer-like threads that gleam on the yellow broom like silver, are death traps for inoffensive insect lives. Nature, like the human creation, is a mystery of suffering untold.

"And looking up to Heaven, He sighed."

Last Sunday, with his heated brain crying out for a breezy walk, Jasper crossed the moor to Bilsboro' Church, and heard Mr. Buisson preach. Those words from the seventh chapter of the Gospel of Matthew formed his text, and they echo back now to Japer's mind like a sweet hushed strain of music. Upon the heart, all human, all Divine, earth's troubles lay like a burden the Son of Man could scarce endure. Now the struggling is waging, and the powers of darkness may seem victorious, but His sighs, His tears make morning sure.

"Thou, sighing, didst lift up to Heaven Thine eyes, O Christ, once pilgrim through the thorny ways! That joy and sunlight evermore may rise on souls that Godward gaze."

At the Manse he hears that Gildas went out after an early breakfast to take a class at the Chapel day school for one of the teachers who is unwell. He finds he has time to go in and see Mr. Haven, and, man as he is, he longs inexpressibly for a kind, comforting word such as his old pastor has spoken to him many and many a time in the past. As it happens, he could scarcely have called on Mr. Haven at a worse time. Early as it is, Mr. Hornby, who was passing on business, has looked in to take his old minister's advice as to whether nothing can be done to prevent Mr. John Mountford from putting back with his hand a fugitive lock of hair that wanders to his forehead -- an unconscious habit which to the worthy deacon and some others suggests affectation.

Mr. Haven is endeavouring to give the subject the attention it merits, and greets Jasper's entrance with a look of pleasure and relief; but Mr. Hornby's troubled thoughts are now turned into another channel. He is the last person Jasper would wish to meet this morning, and he is willing to withdraw, murmuring something about "not wishing to interrupt."

"No, young man," says the deacon, gravely, "in your presence here with Mr. Haven and myself, I see the finger of Providence. I have long felt uncomfortable that no one has stood forth to warn you, Jasper Ruthven, of the seriousness of life and the certainty of its end. I have more than once appealed to our former pastor here to admonish you as a trifler, and a tempter to others to trifle, but he has been reluctant, and so have others in the chapel, to put the matter before you."

"What have I done now, Mr. Hornby?" asks Jasper, his naturally sweet temper irritated by anxiety and want of sleep. "I know you are always holding me up as a solemn warning to young members, but I'm not aware of any extra special iniquity of late."

"Lovers of fiction are always flippant," says the deacon, "but I will discharge the duty enjoined upon me by conscience, and then you must settle the matter between yourself and the Almighty. I had a great respect, my young brother, for your poor father, and I take a friendly interest in you. Rumour has it that you increase your worldly store by wasting pen and ink in the multiplication of what is purely imaginative. Now, a young fellow like you should be good for something in this world, Ruthven, and not be living in dreams and visions. You know my objection to fiction, as causing readers to waste precious time when they might be deriving edification and improvement. Apart from that, it must be a very low, untrue sort of life that dwells so much on the unreal, and that is the sort of life yours is becoming and will become, my young brother, unless, like our young friend Timotheus Mundey now, you set to work to earn your living sensibly, and turn aside from visions and dreams."

Jasper is silent. Mr. Hornby's conversation generally for a while produces in him the feeling that writing fiction is sinful, and he will never know a vision or dream again, but keep wholly and solely to the tangible and the real around him -- which, Heaven knows, is at this hour sad enough!

But the old minister has risen and is standing by the window, looking at the white clouds that fleck the sapphire sky like lilies floating on the breast of a still, blue lake. He seems to be talking to himself, but the colour rushes to Jasper's face as he listens, and feeling unable to bear any more just then, he turns to go away.

"Oh, poet! God's prophet, touched with the fire from His altar!" murmurs old Mr. Haven, and a lark in the garden makes music to his words. "The things which are not seen are eternal; everything is unreal, save that which eye hath not beheld. The visioned only shall endure; the life that, like God, creates, is highest of all. Tell His secrets, comfort thou His people, make streams of beauty in the vast desert of existence. Jasper, my dear lad, my son, has God not anointed you with His oil to do a work no one can do but you? What did He make your gift for, save to reach the invisible, save to be His seer? Only, dear lad, give Him nothing less than your highest. He claims the very life-bread of your being. The inspiration He breathed into you must not be cast to the world like a stone. Be patient, my poet-son. Count it unworthiness to bring forth less than your best,"

"Does he know?" thinks Jasper, miserably.

Whether the old man knows or not, it is a secret torment to Jasper that he has fallen below his highest, written for ready money, for generous pay, that which costs him little trouble, and that which, though innocent enough in itself, is far beneath the powers he feels within. Sensational adventure the world will take. The message that burns within him like a fire, no heart will hear.

"Be patient, my poet-son" says the old pastor, tenderly; but surely it cannot be God's will that the children in his home go short?

After such an interview, it is harder than ever for Jasper to make up his mind to something he yet feels must be done -- namely, to ask Mr. Hornby to wait for the settlement of his trade account until the next quarterly payment from the Rectory. Jasper pays his bills every week, but many extras have been necessarily procured from Mr. Hornby at this time of illness. Three weeks are now due. The parents of some private pupils are away, and their account, on which he has relied, is unpaid.

If there were anything that could be spared of his own or at the cottage, Jasper would sell it rather than call and ask Mr. Hornby for another fortnight's credit. But his payments have been regular, and he feels an explanation is due to his creditor.

All the morning, while taking his classes at the Grammar School, he dreads facing Mr. Hornby again, and his mind anxiously resolves ways and means, longing to pay up his account as usual, yet not seeing how to do it. The headmaster notices his pallor, and tells him kindly not to burn the midnight oil too late over his literary work. "It will not pay in the long run, Ruthven," says he, and the young author thinks he would be content to leave the future alone, if only the midnight work paid now!

Before proceeding to the Church Rectory he manages to get home for a few minutes, and finds little Noel much easier. Emery has been in, and Gildas is coming by-and-by. There is comfort yet for his sore heart, but still that dreaded interview is before him. After leaving Gilbert Haines he has lessons to give a couple of miles away. He must call at Mr. Hornby's on his way. He will nerve himself for the conversation and get it over.

As he passes the parish church his glance falls on the open door, and in his disturbed state of mind its quiet draws him in like a charm. Saint Simeon's is always open now. There is a framed card hung up asking for silence and reverence in the house of God, open for private prayer and meditation. In the porch hangs also a placard with these words from Jeremy Taylor:

"Neither days nor hours nor seasons did ever come amiss to faithful prayer. Short passes, quick ejections, holy breathings, prayers like little posies, may be sent forth without number on every occasion, and God will note them in His book."

An old man, a white haired stone breaker, has wandered in and is fast asleep in one of the seats. Two little children, hand in hand, are staring at the painted window where the blue robed Maid Mother stands beside the cradle. All is so hushed, so still, that the holy influences of the place bedew Jasper's troubled heart, and he breathes an upward cry for strength and help and courage, before he goes on his way and sinks his pride in the confession of poverty.

At last he walks into Mr. Hornby's shop and asks for the proprietor, prepared for a further chapter of admonishing, warning, and depreciatory remarks.

"I will accept all he can say," thinks Jasper. "I cannot even plead success as an excuse for my writing. I can bear any amount of words if he will let the children have their cocoa and arrowroot and things, and take my word for payment next month."

Mrs. Hornby, whom he would prefer to avoid on the present occasion, greets him with a friendly handshake, and asks him into the comfortable apartment in rear of the shop.

Mr. Hornby joins them presently, inclined to think that spiritual discomfort of some kind has brought the young member of Rehoboth to him for advice. It takes a long time somehow for Jasper Ruthven to make him understand that he is a little pressed for money, and apologizing for delay as to his customary payment, for some in Meadthorpe have got hold of the opinion, and cling to it, that Jasper is making quite a little hoard by his authorship. Still longer does Mr. Hornby take to realize that being a few days in arrear can so distress a customer.

Greatly to Jasper's relief, he seems too much surprised to return to the vexed question of fiction, and only says, as he holds the young man's hand, "My lad, your father and your grandfather dealt with mine. Do not make a trouble of this, my young brother. Surely you have known us too long to doubt that your own time for payment will be the right time for us."

Motherly Mrs. Hornby says very little, but she asks where Jasper is teaching next, and she brings him a cup of tea and a biscuit, and insists on his partaking, in a neighbourly, womanly way, that sends him lighter hearted on his road.

When he gets home late that evening, Jasper finds a sound of merriment among the children, who ought to be asleep. A wonderful hamper has arrived at Forest Cottage, disclosing all kinds of delightful surprises -- from a couple of fowls to a gigantic cake, and from a huge packet of flour to a tin of nursery rusks.

"It's like Aladdin's lamp," says Jemmie. "It's just magical, brother Jasper, and there's a card to say, 'For the dear little children at Forest Cottage, with love and kisses from Mrs. Hornby.'"

"Isn't she kind?" says Jacky, sleepily. "I know her. She's the lady in the pew that's got a red curtain, with a long nose, but I loves her. I won't never, never say her nose is long. Besides, Chidgey says better have a long nose than----"

"Go to sleep, Jack. Baby Noel is rousing," says his elder brother gently, and the youthful moraliser subsides, while Jasper takes Noel in his arms and walks about with him to the special lullaby tune.

But a harder experience is in store for the young author next day. He chances to meet Gildas when he is going home from lessons, and he somehow feels that her manner has lost its usual warmth and frankness towards him.

It is not easy for Gildas to hide her feelings, and she suddenly bursts out with the enquiry as to whether a certain report she has refused to credit can be true: whether he writes for The Boys' Glow Worm \-- a penny dreadful shown in the lower class paper shops, and bearing most sensational woodcuts.

"I wrote one story for it," says Jasper, whose face is crimson. "It was anonymous, but I suppose some recognized my style. It is the only thing I have sold for three months, and they paid three times what I expected, and paid then and there."

"Oh, Jasper, what has that to do with it? I believed in you so. Father and I and everyone expect so much from you. Surely it is wrong and sinful for one with your gifts not to aim higher, whatever other writers may do. You always seemed to me to feel the responsibility of your talents. To think you have prostituted them like that! The idea of a Christian author writing for such a paper!"

"Has the place of my work anything to do with its merits?" he asks, looking white and miserable. The pain and disappointment in the girl's accusing face are a torture to him. "Have you read my story there?"

"No, and I would never have a journal like that in my hands. Oh, Jasper, how could you sink so low as to write for it?"

"Gildas, there is not a sentence in my tale that could offend if read aloud in our Sunday school. It is only an adventurous tale of sea life, such as boys like. They had better read a tale like that than one glorifying pirates and burglars. But I will not be a hypocrite. I had no thought of good influences in composing it. I wrote it for the sake of the cheque they gave me."

"I should think you must have become a miser," says Gildas sadly. "Fancy writing for the sake of pounds, shillings, and pence! I believed you were so different, Jasper. I thought in every sense you aspired to the highest. And now to think of your degrading your gifts to mere mercenary authorship!"

Her look of sorrowful reproach and disappointment sends Jasper home with a miserable heartache, such as the condemnation of none other could occasion. He will not enlighten her or anyone else as to the legacy of liabilities which was his only family inheritance; the pressing claims of the helpless children that set him writing for anything and everything that means money. These things are his secret. but when he gets home, the baby at his voice opens eyes dim and glazed that turn to him with a long, brightening look. Jasper, meeting that faint, sweet smile, says in his heart, "My Saviour understands."

* * *

Two days later, in the evening, Gildas with Emery at her side is hurriedly crossing the common in the direction of Forest Cottage. The starlight shines down on her tender, troubled face as Emery tells her again the tale that Chidgey's overflowing heart has poured into her ears: how Jasper has hidden his cares and his poverty from every eye, even from his old nurse herself as long as possible, and what a terribly hard battle it has been of late to keep that little home from shipwreck.

"And I thought him miserly. I believed he was making so much money," cries Gildas penitently within herself. She seems to see again Jasper's shabby suits, his pale, tired, patient face, the quivering of his lips beneath her reproaches. She has begged Emery to come over to the cottage at the close of the weeknight service. Jasper's teaching will be finished now, and he will be at home. She will tell him she knows now something of his struggle. She will beg his forgiveness for her hasty, indignant words.

Milly opens the door and bids them be quiet because baby is now sound asleep, and all day long he has been so restless. But Gildas sees Chidgey has been crying, and when Milly has run away again, Chidgey says, brokenly, "Them little children cannot understand. It were only an hour ago, and we've dressed him in your birthday frock, Miss Gildas dearie. He never had it on before. His little, sweet face is like the face of an angel."

Bernard Pendrill is in the parlour with Jasper. He had heard baby was worse, and his heart's concern as to the matter of baptism brought him up to the cottage tonight, only to find it is too late, and the little one will lie in earth unconsecrated, save for His steps who went down into the grave.

The need of nursing is over, and the baby is in the Gentle Shepherd's arms. Jasper Ruthven seems broken down. His face is hidden in his hands, and he scarcely hears the words of Christian comfort and sympathy breathed by the curate who stands beside him. But Gildas comes in quickly, not heeding the visitor, her whole soul full of tender sorrow, her eyes wet with womanly tears.

"Oh, Jasper, forgive me. Oh, dear Jasper, you mustn't grieve for our baby, our little white angel so!"

Then Pendrill sees her wistful face, softened by compassion into beauty that is enshrined for ever in his remembrance. He sees, too, Jasper's sorrowing looks light up into rest and comfort at her entrance, and he goes out softly and leaves them there, the night wind striking sharp and cold to his senses as Milly's sweet voice floats after him down the garden, singing the lullaby in low, soothing notes, lest Noel should stir and wake.

"Baby-boy is sleeping,

Tiny limbs at rest,

Weary little birdie

Quiet in the nest."

Chapter 12

"I Ought to Ask Your Pardon."

AMID golden sunlight and the tender, sad beauty of autumn, the baby from Forest Cottage is borne to God's acre at the chapel on the hill. To the curate it is a trouble and regret that the child is shut out from the consecrated portion. He cannot understand his friend's indifference on this subject. Personally, he would feel it a sore grief that one he loves should not lie in holy ground, among those blessed by baptismal dew, over whose place of rest the Church has breathed solemn words of peace and consolation.

Jasper in matters like this is far from orthodox. He tells Bernard Pendrill, "There was an old lady taken to the unconsecrated part a few months ago from our home, and where she lies, who was our household saint, it is consecrated evermore."

The curate is shocked, but at such a time he refrains from pressing his more reverent views on Ruthven. By-and-by he will earnestly strive to make this friend, to whom he has grown attached, like-minded with himself. He has the more hope of him because he knows Jasper Ruthven enters into the beauty and helpfulness of the Church prayers he loves, and is familiar with the history and confession of many fathers of the Church -- those whose teachings are the fountain whence Pendrill drinks inspiration oftentimes.

Mr. Haven himself conducts the simple funeral service, at which many children are present, for Jasper has long been a teacher in the Sunday school, and posies of late wild flowers and shining white asters arc brought to the baby's resting place.

The little Ruthvens are not clad in mourning, of which Jasper has a shrinking horror. They have all found flowers for the baby, and they look quite content and bright this morning, to the surprise of many good women who deem it only correct to weep at a funeral. Jasper and Gildas have told the children that little Noel is now in the arms of Jesus, the Good Shepherd.

Gordon and Milly, who remember their mother, say, "Isn't it nice for mamma to have the baby again? And isn't somebody in Heaven always glad when there's a funeral, because somebody's gone up there away to Happy Land?"

Whereat Jemmie adds, "Yes, and they can tell them all the news, you know, because of course they don't see the papers and things up there, do they, Jasper?"

But irrepressible Jemmie is quiet now, standing beside the little grave, tightly clinging to Jasper's hand, and fixing his eye on a little pink cloudlet floating above, which in some vague fashion the childish mind is associating with his baby brother.

Gildas takes the children afterwards to the Manse for the rest of the day; and Jasper goes forth to his usual duties, a restful look on his face as the funeral hymn sung in the little graveside chapel echoes all day in his heart:

"'I take these little lambs,' said He,

And lay them in My breast;

Protection they shall find in Me,

In Me be ever blest.

"'Death may the bands of life unloose,

But can't dissolve My love;

Millions of infant souls compose

The family above.

"'Their feeble frames My power shall raise,

And mould with heavenly skill;

I'll give them tongues to sing My praise,

And hands to do My will.'"

Nothing cements the goodwill of some people like the need of their sympathy and help. Hitherto to the Hornbys, Jasper Ruthven has seemed, as the deacon would express it, rather "high and mighty" -- not that in Jasper himself there is a trace of pride. But the Ruthvens have for generations been people of means and culture in the neighbourhood, and the Hornbys, even since the change of fortune, have regarded themselves socially as unlikely to be intimate.

Now, however, that Mrs. Hornby's motherly heart comprehends the burdens Jasper Ruthven has to bear, and his many anxieties, she takes him under her helpful wing. She sees that Chidgey is getting old and feeble, and that Forest Cottage needs the oversight of some active and sympathetic friend. Many a visit does she pay to the little Ruthvens, lending Chidgey patterns of garments, suggesting as to making, mending, and the like; and many a delicately offered hamper for the little ones finds its way to their home. Between Mrs. Hornby and Gildas, the children blossom out this winter into pretty, cosy garments, that cause them pride and delight of heart,

Young Gilbert Haines develops a cough, and Dr. Spencer advises that his departure for boarding school will be delayed until the warm weather. Mr. Hornby finds an opportunity of mentioning to one of his well-to-do customers who has five boys, that Jasper did wonders at the public school he attended, and "is reputed to be a most intelligent young man." The result of the worthy man's solemn and impressive recommendation is that Jasper is engaged as tutor to these lads, a far more lucrative and restful employment than his Grammar School work.

Altogether, things begin to improve for him, and Jemmie's private opinion, confided to Chidgey, is that "when baby went to Heaven he whispered right into God's ear that we didn't have our knickerbockers, and there wasn't much pudding, and then God told him, 'It's all right, little baby,' and we wouldn't be poor any longer. So then God sent Mrs. Hornby with the serge suits, and gave Jasper the little boys at the manor to teach."

* * *

The Rector, Mr. Bertram, has imparted to his friend and neighbour, Mr. Buisson, the vicar from the nearby parish of Bilsboro', his growing anxiety as to Bernard Pendrill's health, and his impression that his young relative is working and studying too much, and practising austere self-denial in his manner of living.

One day, when the curate is at Bilsboro' Rectory, a homelike place to which people have a way of drifting as often as they can, Mr. Buisson comments on Bernard's look of weariness, and tells him jestingly he wants some spirit in affinity with his own to look after him, and make him take more care of himself, reminding him "it is not good for man to be alone."

He has spoken the words lightly, and is astonished at their effect. Pendrill pales and then crimsons, and says in unsteady tones that loneliness is his lifelong choice -- a priest, beyond all others, should beware of idols. Human enchantments surely dull the spiritual ear and hinder the religious vocation. His friend begins to suspect some secret pain and resolves to change the subject, simply remarking that when a heart really loves, its one thought is how much blessing and help it can bestow, not how great is the measure of its own sacrifice or benediction.

"Yes," says Pendrill, "if self were only involved; but when one is responsible for a flock -- but what are we talking about? I didn't come here to infect you with my depression. This is one of the days when I am somehow out of sorts; but if anything can cure me of the blues, it will be that display of splendid bloom you have yonder in the window."

Mr. Buisson touches the bloom of a pot of chrysanthemums, drooping radiant fringes, and gleaming like snow. "Will you not learn a lesson from this wealth of brightness, Pendrill? The weather is certainly dark around, but out of the darkness has come this glory. Do not in stern austerity forbid yourself the innocent delights of God's fair world, and cloud your mind by absorbing every faculty in unbroken work. Your Vicar tells me you treat yourself mercilessly and unsparingly, forgetting you owe a duty to your own body as well as to your neighbour's. It will only shorten your time of usefulness. I have known too many worn out before their time by suicidal overdoing. This makes me very careful how I press my congregation into the harness of work. Some parsons do it, I know, in nearly every sermon; but my experience has taught me that slothful folks seldom absorb such appeals. They usually result in overloading with work some sensitive, nervous nature like yours that ought to learn more about rest. As a rule, it is a woman who takes home that sermon and kills herself as a matter of conscience! If we all of us would only study more to be quiet, and to sit at the Master's feet."

Bernard Pendrill has sought Mr. Buisson today with a purpose. There is a question he considers it his duty to put to him, for the responsibility of the matter has been laid urgently on his mind. The perplexity concerns Mr. Buisson's frequent association in religious work with the Dissenters. As a younger man, and one seeking guidance, Pendrill asks him earnestly how a priest can connect himself with any movement not absolutely on Church lines.

For answer the clergyman takes down a volume from his shelf, and reads emphatically the following passage: "If we really love God, and long to do good and to work for God, if we really love our neighbours and wish to help them, then we shall have no heart to quarrel -- we shall have no time to quarrel -- about how the good is to be done, provided it is done. We shall remember our Lord's words to Saint John, when Saint John said, 'Master, we saw one casting out devils in Thy Name, and he followeth not us; wilt Thou therefore that we forbid him?' And Jesus said, ' Forbid him not.'"

"Oh, Kingsley," says Pendrill. "Kingsley had very strange notions indeed about some things. For my part, I think that to countenance irregular agencies is to cause perplexity to the devout and faithful, to be disloyal to the Church, and to unsettle the minds of the young and easily beguiled, for whose safeguards we, as priests, are responsible."

"And I," says Buisson, "conscious of the devils that torment the world, cannot count these my Master's foes or mine who are casting them out evidently, gloriously. His Spirit is not working solely on Church of England lines, my dear fellow. Above those authoritative voices that of course I am bound up to a certain point to respect and obey, I hear His prayer: 'That they all may be one, as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee, that they also may be one in us -- that the world may believe that Thou hast sent me!' How can I, His servant, by unbrotherly intolerance and Pharisaical stand-offishness, hinder the fulfilment of His prayer?"

* * *

A week or two later Pendrill finds himself pledged to help the Meadthorpe people of various persuasions in the annual entertainment given in the Town Hall on behalf of the hospital.

Mr. Bertram, the Rector, and Mr. Weston, the deacon, are on the hospital committee, and both are tireless in securing volunteers for this gathering, which usually brings a substantial subscription to the funds, the Assembly Room being freely lent for the occasion.

Pendrill yields to his Rector's persuasions to assist with a violin solo, and trains the choirboys to give "Hearts of Oak" and "Good King Wenceslas." No needy cause is so popular with the majority of Meadthorpe folk as that of the sick and suffering.

The large hall is crowded on the night of the entertainment, with people of all shades of opinion, and of every social grade, flocking together to benefit the institution that cares for the unfortunate.

Gildas has a number of little ones present, whom she has prepared to render some action songs. These take immensely with the audience, her face flushing with pleasure on behalf of the children. After they have responded to the encores, she retires to sit with Mrs. Mountford at the back of the hall. The programme is a very long one. The Rector himself gives a reading, and his daughter, Miss Rowena, plays a sonata; Mr. Weston recites Macaulay's "Spanish Armada," and Miss Mimdey surpasses herself in "Oh, had I Jubal's lyre!"

By-and-by it is Jasper Ruthven's turn to recite, and there are some present who would rather listen to his delivery than to the sweetest music. What charm can be greater than that of the human voice when clear and perfectly modulated, and in tenderest sympathy with its message? He has chosen "Laus Deo," Whittier's song of triumph concerning the abolition of slavery, and his audience could fancy they hear the clanging chimes and the pealing guns that the poet describes as flinging the joy from town to town. Jasper loses all other consciousness in the splendour of his subject, and many spring to their feet thrilled with excitement, while "Hallelujahs" and "Praise the Lord" resound here and there from enthusiastic Nonconformist lips.

Gildas is in that state of mind which leaps beyond its own intensity to claim sympathy from another exultant soul. Involuntarily she looks at Pendrill, who is standing not far off, and she meets his gaze seeking her own eyes with the same longing to share that indescribable sense of rejoicing and uplifting.

She looks away directly, slightly flushing, but both are aware, in that moment, that the impulse to seek sympathy caused that sudden mutual glance. A movement in the crowd caused by pressure at the entrance brings Pendrill close behind her. At this juncture a young man belonging to Saint Simeon's is giving Tennyson's "Lady Clare" with much expressive grace, and a working man near them, a hearty Wesleyan, becomes quite absorbed in the recital as it finishes up satisfactorily:

"He laughed a laugh of merry scorn,

He turned and kissed her where she stood."

And the man says aloud, almost unconsciously, "Praise the Lord!"

This time Pendrill shares the smile with which Gildas and Mrs. Mountford listen to the man. "After all," says the curate in a low voice, "our friend is not without reason, Miss Haven. The delights of poetry are something to praise God for. It would be a cheerless sort of world sometimes save for the weavings of golden imaginings."

Gildas does not speak for a moment, but she has something within her heart to tell him, and by-and-by she says rather brokenly, "Mr. Pendrill."

"Miss Haven?"

"I ought to ask your pardon. You know what I thought about that barrel organ man who disturbed the lecture at our chapel. I met him afterwards, and he told me he came there because he had seen me go in that evening. I have given him a few pence sometimes, I suppose. I fear I was very unjust and uncharitable in what I said to you. I feel ashamed of myself. Please forget it if you can."

"Please say no more about that unfortunate barrel organ," he says gently. "I see an organ solo is our next item on this occasion. I hope it is not going to be the 'Lost Chord!'"

But both grow silent as a quiet youth takes his place at the sweet-toned organ of the hall, and sends a wave of throbbing melody, now hushing to a prayer-like murmur, now swelling into passionate pleading, and again deepening to strains of untold glory through every listening heart within that hall.

Pendrill looks at his programme, and sees the performer is Timotheus Mundey. He looks again in wonder. Never could he have associated that pale, shy, retiring lad, who has always seemed to him destitute of individuality, with such tones of "linked sweetness long drawn out," that seem the very breathings of the spirit crying heavenward.

"Do you mean to say," he asks Gildas, "that a musician is content to sell calicoes and ribbons in a country shop? I cannot understand it."

"I do not know that he is content," she says, "but I know Theo Mundey is good and great enough to set duty before all else. The business needs him sorely, if it is to be worth anything by the time his young brother can take up the work. His father earnestly desired his help, and so he does his best in the shop, and waits. But when Harry is old enough to set him free, I believe the hope of his heart is to devote himself to music."

"But do you know what he has been playing, Miss Haven?" asks Pendrill in surprise. "I wonder Mr. Weston, your deacon, can sit still."

"Well," says Gildas, "I am not sure that he would if the name of the piece happened to be on the programme. Theo Mundey has several books of voluntaries, and I suppose this 'Ave Maria ' is among them. It is by Liszt, is it not? But music means surely whatever our own hearts find there. It is more than creeds and doctrines -- it is the universal voice, and speaks to one's inmost soul. There is no face in this hall but looks inspired by the message of those tones."

And what does her own soul hear when the notes of Bernard Pendrill's violin echo through the hall? He believes that no heart guesses the secret that is poured out in that sweet, dreamy plaint. He is encored and applauded on every side, but only to one has his music borne its spirit-whisper.

Chapter 13

In the Starlight

"YOU will break down one of these days, Bernard, my dear fellow, unless you take more care of yourself. My daughter Rowena was saying last evening how worn and ill you look; and now I come to look at you, I see she is right. The fact is you're too intense, and have the work too much on your mind. I believe you consider yourself responsible to the Almighty for every individual soul in the parish. That way leads -- well, not to madness, I hope, in this instance, but certainly to spiritual depression and bodily breakdown. Now my throat is better, you really must spare yourself, Pendrill. Asceticism is all very well, but you're getting quite thin and white of face. Somehow or other you're overdoing it."

So says the kind-hearted Rector anxiously to his curate, whom he suspects of self-imposed fasting carried too far, in addition to the consuming zeal and unremitting labours to which Miss Rowena attributes the look of illness she has been the first to observe.

But Bernard Pendrill, conscience stricken and unhappy, says within himself there is no medicine for a mind diseased. The passion of love is strong upon him, and every hour of the day he fights it, trying to forget its object, yet seeing her continually in the mirror of remembrance.

At Oxford his mind was seriously and solemnly made up for celibacy -- the celibate priesthood reaching more to his ideal of spiritual devotion than that necessarily occupied also with domestic thoughts. Hitherto his heart and life have been unruffled by any emotions save those stirred by his holy vocation.

When first his mind found itself lingering around one sweet, girlish face, his conscience awoke in an agony of reproach, telling him this fancy for a woman who openly opposed the holy Church was a temptation of the devil, a snare to weaken his spiritual force, and make him a traitor to the religious life.

Over and over again has he entreated for deliverance from this snare, pouring out the bitterness of the spirit conflict within him in the quiet church as he kneels before the altar.

Is not the commandment clear that the very eye if offending must be cast away? Though Gildas Haven be the light to which his heart turns in infinite longing, no thought of her must triumph over Conscience, or make him unfaithful to that Church he holds more precious than all.

Such thoughts as these chime sadly, earnestly within his mind, as he reproaches himself for a heartache he condemns as evil. The thought of changing his sphere of work begins to possess him more and more. He feels it would be better to live where he is never likely to hear the voice of Gildas Haven, or look upon her face.

Then comes the feeling that it is cowardly to turn one's back on temptation -- can he not confront it and overcome, like those spiritual princes, those sainted ones who never by looks of women have been beguiled from religious vows and their heavenly vocation? The Church has many faithful daughters, yet not one of these has made his heart beat quicker or stirred his pulses like this girl who is without the fold -- such a dream is a snare of the arch enemy, and as such he will resist it, pray it down, forsake it!

* * *

As time goes on, it comes to pass that Meadthorpe is greatly agitated over another little ferment of feeling between church and chapel. There is a vacancy in the Queen Adelaide Almshouses, an institution for the aged and feeble poor. This is managed by a committee, on which the Church party predominates, and Rehoboth people are deeply concerned to secure the benefits and privileges of the place for old Mrs. Meadows, who is one of their members. She is the pet old lady of Gildas Haven -- a sweet faced old body whose weary eyes have looked on many a storm of life, and who has hard shift now in age and infirmity to keep out of the Union workhouse.

"I hear they means to get in Mrs. Nubble, that washes for the Rectory, and she able to earn her living, and with sons to help her," says Emery to Gildas. "You wouldn't get that committee favouring a poor body from Rehoboth. Not likely! Mr. Mundey and Mr. Weston will do their best on the Board, I know, and Mr. and Mrs. Mountford is trying to persuade folks to take an interest in Granny Meadows. But, mark my words, Miss Gildas, 'twill be settled in the end that the most deserving body is her as attends the parish church."

Gildas makes an appeal to Jasper to enlist Mr. Pendrill's sympathy on behalf of their old friend. But he confides to her that the curate has "thrown him over," as he expresses it -- at any rate, they see very little of each other now.

"The fact is," says Jasper, "he will at any sacrifice be true to his convictions, and I respect him for it. He heard I was writing a paper for The Socratian, holding a brief for Disestablishment, and he came up to see me about it, perfectly shocked to find me advocating 'sacrilege and robbery,' and denouncing me as ready to rob England of 'that national Church which represents her religious feeling.' We went in for a long argument for and against State interference and legislature in spiritual things, and I told him my reasons for believing the Church, unbound from State control, would not be ruined, but saved.

"But he considers me a dangerous Radical, panting to pull down the religious bulwarks of my native land, so my advocacy of any cause would only injure it just now, I fear. Why not speak to him yourself, or go up to the Rectory and see Mr. Bertram and Miss Rowena? I'm sure they will see the claims of our old lady to be the strongest that have been laid before the committee."

Gildas cannot bear to picture the disappointment of Mrs. Meadows when she finds the shelter for which she longs so expectantly is lost to her. The matter is so laid upon her heart that at last she resolves to adopt Jasper's advice, and put the case personally before the Rector. She has never been to his house, and Miss Rowena Bertram's dignified demeanour always strikes her as formidable. But, as she thinks of the cosy refuge of the Queen Adelaide Almshouses, with its weekly pension and gifts of coal and bread, and the struggling life that surely merits a quiet haven at its eventide, she feels fearless enough to make the call.

Mr. Bertram is out when she calls at the Rectory, but she hears he will shortly return, and she asks to see his daughter, who, she is aware, has a good deal to do with the management of the institution. Miss Rowena greets her civilly, but is rather astonished at her calling, and suspects she has come to protest against the fact that a Rehoboth child was lately persuaded to become a member of the Guild of Innocents at Saint Simeon's. The curate manages this guild, and Miss Rowena heartily wishes he were present just now. He would know far better than herself how to argue with this misguided young person.

"I must apologize for calling, Miss Bertram," says Gildas, "but I thought if I saw you personally I might be able to interest you in a poor old lady who is a candidate for the vacancy in the almshouse."

"Oh, I believe the vacancy is filled, or nearly so," says Miss Rowena. "Application has been made by a respectable woman in whom we are much interested. I know the family well, having trained three of the daughters for domestic service."

"Then," says Gildas, eagerly, "surely they can help their mother now. You're referring to Mrs. Nubble, I think, Miss Bertram? Isn't the election decided by the need of the candidate? If you would only see Mrs. Meadows, who lodges at River Yard, and enquire into her case, I'm sure you would see she is very poor, and most deserving. Her husband was lost at sea, and she brought up an only son who would doubtless have looked after her old age, but he was a fireman, and died in the endeavour to save life. Mrs. Meadows has been a nurse, and she has been a help to so many. It would be a mercy to give her peace and shelter now for the few years that remain."

"I believe the election comes off very soon. I'm not certain of the day. I see Mr. Pendrill has just come in. I'll ask him to join us. He visits in River Yard, and may know something of this case in which you're interested, Miss Haven."

She goes out into the hall, and shakes hands with the curate, who is removing his coat. "Father is out just now, Mr. Pendrill," she says. "I hope you can wait. I want you in the drawing room. Miss Haven is here, pleading for somebody else she wants to get into the almshouse. You will know what to say better than I can. Perhaps you will have time to make a few enquiries into the case. Of course, it is one of their Rehoboth people. You have been hurrying, I fear, Mr. Pendrill. You look quite pale."

"I am a little out of breath," he says, trying to speak casually, but his voice is not natural, and there is something in his face as he advances to Gildas that shocks Miss Rowena with a sudden consciousness of trouble and amazement. She is bewildered by the thought that has taken possession of her, and womanlike she scans closely the girlish face that quietly greets his entrance.

Gildas is evidently the earnest advocate of the Rehoboth member; but he \-- for a moment Pendrill's words are only stammered and abrupt. Miss Rowena has never seen him confused before, and she realizes, with a cold aching at her heart, that she stands outside his dreams, his life, his secret thoughts, while this mere child, this stranger, this heretical Nonconformist has the power to shake his self-possession and bring the light to his eyes by her very presence. Another moment, and Pendrill is his calm, courteous self again.

"Your earnest recommendation is sure to have weight with the committee," he tells Gildas, politely. "Indeed, so strongly has the case been advocated by Mr. Mundey already that I feel certain it will meet with careful consideration. I believe Mrs. Meadows is at present helped by the parish?"

Gildas tells them Rehoboth Chapel allows the old lady a small weekly pension, but the rent of her room is her principal expense, and to live rent free would be untold help to her. Miss Rowena is trying to listen, feeling that her interest in this aged widow should be warmer, but far more concerned as to these two who have so suddenly become associated in her thoughts.

Presently the Rector comes in, kindly and genial, enquiring as to Mr. Haven's health, and making Gildas more at home than she has felt with his more reserved daughter. To him the case has to be stated again, and Gildas pleads hard on behalf of the old woman, feeling in her heart that in spite of all the surrounding civility, the Church protégée is far more likely to obtain the room than the Rehoboth member.

She has just risen to go, and they are standing discussing the prospect of a fine or snowy evening, when a loud, frightened cry rings shrilly through the house.

Miss Rowena, pressing her hand to her side, for she is subject to attacks of palpitation, says faintly, "Something's happened to Gilbert -- oh, go and see what it is!"

Gildas is already halfway up the stairs, that piercing cry causing her to forget she is in a strange house; and the servants hurry likewise to the little attic which is Gilbert's playroom, and where he is spending the day owing to a cold.

The child is screaming in fright. Wrapped in his warm dressing gown he has enlivened his solitude by making toffee over the fire. Growing careless in his excitement, he ventured so near the stove that the bottom of his dressing gown caught, and one of his legs is hurt and scorched.

Gildas has the thick hearthrug over him at once, and Pendrill presses it on the gown until all fear of further harm is past. Cook tries to remove Gilbert's sock, but Gildas stops her, as the boy is calling out and she sees the attempt is hurting him. She asks for oil, and soaks the part well before she attempts to remove the sock.

Miss Rowena is by this time in the room, and marvels at Gildas' self-possession, for the very sight of the injured limb turns her sick and faint.

Pendrill goes off for the doctor, leaving Rowena to study Gildas' quiet, tender face and gentle hands that shrink from no service that can remove pain, and help the young sufferer.

"Aunt Rowena," Gilbert says faintly, "you told me never to take away the guard from the fire, and I did today. I wanted some fun, and I made some toffee up here unknown to you, and now I'm going to die -- I'm in awful pain."

"Oh, my poor boy," says Miss Rowena, speaking to him for the first time demonstratively, "the pain will be better very soon. Look how beautifully Miss Haven is bandaging you now. Where did you learn to do things like this?" she asks Gildas. "You must be very strong minded."

"I went to ambulance classes," says Gildas, "and I get practice among the children around. Gilbert is very exhausted, Miss Bertram. He ought to have something at once. Have you any beef tea?"

"Oh, yes; we always keep it on hand for the poor people," Rowena answers. "Will you feed him? Anything like this makes my hand shake so; but I will be better presently."

Gildas tells her she should take some beef tea herself, and presently persuades her to do so, for she sees Miss Bertram is thoroughly unnerved today.

By the time the doctor arrives the injured limb has been placed in warm water, and then dressed with lint soaked in oil, covered with cotton wool and a bandage made from old sheeting. Dr. Spencer will not disturb the limb just now. He secures the bandage, and questions Gildas as to the treatment.

"These ambulance young ladies will ruin my practice before long," he tells Miss Bertram, jestingly. He has known Gildas all her life, and he calls her his assistant surgeon.

Gilbert has been in truth more frightened than injured. By the time he has taken a restorative brought by the doctor, and watched the turning of his hat box into a cradle to rest his leg, the pain is subdued, and he goes off to sleep holding the hand of his "nurse," who is startled to find how long she has lingered at the Rectory.

Gildas is beginning to feel the reaction from the strain on her nervous system as she comes downstairs rather slowly with Miss Rowena. She looks pale and somewhat tremulous, and the Rector's daughter offers her refreshment, but she declines, saying she has an engagement at a seven o'clock meeting.

The Rector holds both her hands, as he says feelingly, "How can we thank you, my dear young lady, for your helpfulness in my little grandson's danger and suffering? It seems sadly inhospitable to let you go off like this, just as dinner is about to be served. But if you're really obliged to leave us...."

"Yes," says Gildas, "I'm due at a meeting. Thank you very much, Mr. Bertram, but I really must go now. Please, Miss Bertram, think of my old lady in River Yard, if you can. She has had such a hard, stormy life," she adds, pleadingly, the object of her visit absorbing her anxious thoughts again.

"My dear," says Miss Rowena, gently, "we won't forget Mrs. Meadows. Father, I think one of the maids should take Miss Haven home. She is really not fit to go alone after such a shock."

"Pendrill, your road lies past the Manse. You're off to our little mission chapel on the moor, I know. You can take care of Miss Haven. We should be unwilling for her to take the walk alone just now."

The curate has stood apart, silent and serious almost to sternness. The Rector is inclined to think he objects to friendliness with a Rehoboth member, and thinks the little act of courtesy will do his young relative no harm.

"It is absurd to be so bigoted," says Mr. Bertram to himself. "I am sure this is a sensible, helpful sort of girl, and the least we can do is treat her politely. Besides, we can scarcely spare the maid just at our dinner time, and Pendrill has to go that way.''

Miss Rowena is the only one who detects any sort of tremble in the quiet tones wherewith the curate civilly undertakes the duty of escort. But for him it is a heart-crucifixion to find himself by the side of Gildas, between the hedges silvered by the moonlight -- knowing they are, for a few brief minutes, apart from all the world together. Yet no word or look must betray what is burning in his heart.

He tries to speak of the weather, of poor little Gilbert, of the value of ambulance information, of the improvement in the Rector's throat, and on various subjects of general conversation, but finds himself breaking off in the midst of sentences and forgetting what he meant to say next.

As for Gildas, she is extremely conversational -- too much so, could his disturbed mind realize it, to be altogether natural. She discourses easily and eloquently concerning the constellations apparent on high, and has a good deal to say on the topic of the Royal Family, and the prospects of frost or snow. Apparently her chief object is to avoid breaks and silences.

Pendrill thinks if she only guessed the spirit-conflict within him she would surely be far less at her ease. Thank Heaven, no suspicion of the truth has dawned on her cloudless mind. He feels he will have to abandon his curacy, to seek work afar from Meadthorpe. He must never again run the risk of temptation such as this, with only the moon and the stars to hear the words that are spoken between them.

In the midst of this very resolution, while Gildas is on the subject of the price of gas in Meadthorpe, asking him if he does not think it dear, he observes she has by no means yet recovered from the fright at the Rectory. He distinctly sees that the hand holding her little notebook is trembling, though she endeavours to hide it. The remembrance of her self-forgetful heroism drives all other reflections to the winds.

"Do you prefer the electric light, Mr. Pendrill?" asks Gildas, finding him silent concerning gas.

He bends over her, the words breaking from him almost irresistibly, "Why are you trembling like this? I have walked too quickly for you, Gildas \-- darling!"

There is a silence so deep that the calm evening winds and their own heart beats are all they hear. Gildas says not another word, her breath is fast and hurried, but she utters no comment.

Pendrill would give all he has to recall that which he has spoken. His conscience cries out that he has been a traitor to duty, to all his high resolves. But his eyes in the starlight draw the girl's look once on him. Face to face their secret is told, until the bewildering triumph of his supremacy drowns remorse in a sweet, wild flood of love and delight.

As they approach the meeting, the Ruthven children run up in excitement to meet her. "Oh, Gildas, we're all coming -- all the jolly lot of us. Brother's taking us, and he's going to fetch us when the lantern show's over. And, Gildas, will there be people with heads that wobble, and whirligig things that go round and round and round, and make one feel giddy? I love whirligig things, Gildas!"

"Yes, there will be some comic slides after the lecture," says Gildas. "Make haste, children, and get good seats. Mr. Pendrill, I have company now. And, Jasper, I can take care of the children."

Jemmie has rushed up to her and possessed himself of her hand. Jasper is just escorting his little flock to her dissolving view entertainment for the Sunday school children. He detects something amiss with Gildas' voice, and glances quickly, with a sudden flash of dread and pain, from one face to the other.

Pendrill forgets to acknowledge him, or to speak to the children, who stare in amazement as the curate goes off quickly towards the church mission chapel without a word.

"What a beautiful evening, Jasper!" says Gildas. "I suppose I must hurry on now, and see to the fixing of the curtain."

"Yes, beautiful," Jasper says, absently, "but the wind is very cold. I will go back now. Thank you for taking care of the children."

He turns away, not caring or heeding just then where he goes, unable to bear the light that is shining in her eyes; while Gildas, in the midst of the children, and followed presently towards the school by an ever-increasing throng of juveniles, goes on to deliver her popular Sunday school lecture on "The Life and Work of Robert Raikes."

Chapter 14

The Curate's Resolve

A MOTHER'S eye would detect the signs of sleeplessness and suffering in the face of Gildas as she enters the breakfast room next morning and bends over her father for his morning kiss, but old Mr. Haven is reading in his denominational quarterly the account of a special mission which has resulted in the conversion of eleven Jews. His looks are glowing with joy and praise while he eagerly reads the paragraph aloud.

Gildas has shopping to do on behalf of the Junior Dorcas, and she ought to pay a visit to the home of a truant member of her Sunday school class; but she feels afraid to go out. Often and often in street and lane has she come across him, and with that passionate cry of love still echoing in her heart she can scarcely bear the idea of coming face to face with him again.

Bernard Pendrill, too, has had a sleepless night, but the morning finds him calm and resolute, fronting his conviction of duty with stern and decided purpose. He has been blameworthy, even though for a moment he allowed the veil to drop from the secret of his heart -- he must suffer for it.

Dear as his Meadthorpe work has become to him, he must leave it as soon as his Rector can set him free -- leave it for both their sakes, and chiefly for the sake of the Church of Christ which claims the fidelity of his soul. Has he not vowed to banish and drive away with diligence all erroneous and strange doctrines, and minister that which the Lord hath commanded and the Church and realm hath received? No alliance can be possible between a life devoted to the sacred work of the priesthood, and another life that is so deplorably lacking in reverence for much that pertains to the Church as established by law.

All through the early morning service the weary heart-struggle goes on. The very thought of the preceding evening makes him condemn himself as unworthy of his exalted vocation. In darkness and depression of soul he lingers alone in the church at the close of the service, kneeling in penitential prayer near the flower-crowned altar where the cross is gleaming in the morning light.

Steadfastly, as a dark temptation, Pendrill refuses the love-dream of his life. Sacrifice to him means duty, and duty means prompt, unshrinking action. There is an explanation due to her, and this must be made, and then farewell evermore to the thought that is disloyalty to the doctrines and faith he confesses.

* * *

"Begging your pardon, Miss Gildas, for disturbing of you when you're so busy preparing your lesson for tonight's Bible class, here's that there curate from Saint Simeon's at the front door," says Emery, looking into the sanctum of her young mistress during the morning. "Shall I tell him you're busy, miss, and ask him for to give me the message? It is only something about the little boy as was burnt, I reckon. 'Tis too bad for folks to call of a morning, to be sure! I told him master were out a-driving in Mr. Mundey's trap, but he asked particular for you, miss. Maybe, though, I could get rid of him."

"Show Mr. Pendrill in, Emery. I will come," says Gildas, making a last entry in her notebook and a reference to the Commentary she is consulting. Emery glances at her with sympathy, well aware she prizes peace and quiet while engaged in preparation.

"Maybe he's only come to borrow some bandages or something, miss," she says. "It's to be hoped he won't stop long."

Last night seems to Pendrill like a wild fancy, as Gildas comes in quietly and asks how young Gilbert is progressing. It must have been his own imagination surely that in the starlight read more than calm courtesy in those dark eyes, shadowed by the deep, long lashes. How fair she looks, standing by the window in the glow of the wintry sunshine, in her neat dress of dark blue serge, a few ivy leaves fastened into her brooch. It is a minute or two before he can speak, for her composure makes it a hard task for him to introduce the subject that yet must be opened and closed between them.

"Miss Haven," he says, "I am unable to forgive myself for my impertinence to you last night. I have come to ask you in your generosity to forget my ungentlemanly conduct. My deepest apologies are due to you. This morning I thought of writing an apology, but I wanted to see you. I have just come from an interview with my Rector. As soon as possible I shall leave Meadthorpe. Mr. Bertram will seek at once for my successor."

Whatever sort of speech Gildas in her heart of hearts may have expected, there is no change in the quiet dignity of her demeanour. "So you have come to say goodbye?" she remarks. "I am sure Mr. Bertram will miss you very much; but I have heard it remarked that the air here does not seem to suit you. For some people, Meadthorpe is considered too bracing, perhaps"

"It is not the air," he says hurriedly. "We are not likely to speak thus together again, and I will not hide from you that Meadthorpe has meant for me untold suffering -- and all I shall ever know of love. I thank heaven the suffering is for me alone. Now I go forth, Gildas. Will you say, 'God bless you'?"

But Gildas says nothing at all. Jones is curled up in the window seat, scenting war in his dreams, for as he lies asleep he gives vent occasionally to barks of reproach and indignation. She lays her hand soothingly on him, and tries to answer her visitor, but is dumb.

"Gildas ... you will see I must go. I cannot, dare not, be happy as my whole heart craves. The one I love thinks lightly of much that is precious and sacred to my soul. With the ideas she cherishes I never could have sympathy. Marriage would be a misery for her, as well as a wrong to my Church. She is not one to be gently led and persuaded into the paths consecrated for me by every memory and every hope. Her convictions are firm and strong as my own, and her conscience tells her, as mine does, we never must stand nearer than we do now. It is God's own hand that sets us apart. That has been revealed to me. Now you know why I leave Meadthorpe. All night long these farewell words to you have been burning in my heart."

"Mr. Pendrill," says Gildas gently, but with a proud dignity that warns him he has said enough, "I think you are forgetting yourself. Such words as these are best unsaid. Have you not rather been taking it for granted that a contrary decision on your part would have brought the ... the road you speak of nearer to your own? Have you any right to assume she would have been willing to ... to...."

Then Gildas comes to a dead stop, for she meets his eyes again, and he comes near to her, and takes both her trembling hands.

"I have no rights at all," he says, "and from you I only ask forgetfulness, save in your prayers for such as earnestly desire to do the right, yet see dimly, and find the way thorny and sharp while struggling to help the flock of God. I hope the day will come, Gildas, that sets you as queen in the home of some thrice-happy man. You are young, and the end is not yet. As for me, only tell me you forgive me, and wish me Godspeed, and I shall be stronger to bear my part."

"I do wish you Godspeed," says Gildas; "and you are right to do what conscience says is your duty. I hope you will be very happy where you go"

"And it is my -- our duty," he says, brokenly. "You feel that, too? Your conscience is witness with mine? With such differing doctrinal views we could not dwell together, Gildas?"

Heaven knows what he hopes she will say, but she is very quiet. Only the silver ivy stirs and heaves a little as she gently withdraws her hands. "You came to say goodbye," she reminds him. "I think I must ask you to excuse me now. I have something to do. You will not remain to see Father?"

"No, I can see nobody." He is about to add he intends walking all the rest of the day among the woods and fields, but he thinks this will sound to her childish, and he struggles for composure like her own. "There is only one thing more I ask you to let me say. I have heard you once looked on me almost as an enemy, Gildas, but you never can again. You know what none other knows on earth. And if trouble should ever fall on you, and if your life should ever know the need of a friend and helper, give me the joy to be that one. I dare not say more, but I will pray for you every day I live. And now, goodbye. May the Lord guard and keep you every step, and lead you into all truth, beloved!"

"If you please, Miss Gildas, is there any orders for the parcels delivery today? It's one o'clock, miss, and time to lay the cloth."

Emery has devised these manoeuvres to rid her young mistress of the intruder who has so long interrupted her preparation. She is successful, for Bernard Pendrill departs, looking so unlike himself that Emery says, having let him out, "That there accident do seem to have given the curate a turn, Miss Gildas. He looks for all the world like my poor sister, Phoebe Ann, that had the jaundice. You remember her as used to sit third pew from the bottom left hand side, before she married the fishmonger and went away to distant parts. I knew you was wishing him away, Miss Gildas, so when the parcels delivery knocked I just made it an excuse. I'll shake my head at the parcels delivery though, as there are no orders today. I forgot all about him. And how is the poor little boy at the Rectory, miss?"

"I'll get you to call and enquire while you're out today,'' Gildas answers. "Mr. Pendrill only came to say goodbye. He is leaving Meadthorpe. He's going to some other curacy, I suppose. Well, I must get on with my lesson."

"A-going away, is he, miss? Well, that's the best news I've heard for many a day. All the Rehoboth Chapel folks will rejoice, I'm sure. It's to be hoped somebody will come in his place as is not quite so bigoted and so Papistical, what with prancing processions and bobbings here and there, and a great gilt crucifix, I'm told, inside the church. The Rector have given way to him a deal too much. Oh, he's good riddance, Miss Gildas, and I'm sure you sings 'Hallelujah' this day that he's taking his departure."

If Gildas sings thanksgiving, it is through tears. She locks herself into her little study and only God sees how there, from the smitten rock, the welling fountain of trouble outflows at His feet who knows the heart, and can touch its tears in infinite pity.

Presently Gildas' father comes in, calling her excitedly to receive and entertain an old scholar, grown to manhood, whom he has met revisiting Meadthorpe. The visitor stays to dinner, and Gildas is full of interest and enquiries as to his relatives and his personal doings. That her own life has this day been wounded sore is the last thing that occurs to anybody.

Only Jasper Ruthven, hearing by-and-by that a new curate is coming to Saint Simeon's and Mr. Pendrill is leaving -- it is believed to seek milder air -- secretly connects this news with the fact that Gildas has gone to London on a visit, and that before she left, he read in her face that in some mysterious way the careless light-heartedness of her girlhood was gone. And Miss Rowena, patiently nursing her little nephew back to health, understands why Pendrill is going, and crowns him her hero yet the more, because for conscience' sake he has turned from the vision of love.

* * *

Bernard Pendrill has been asked to take temporary duty for an Oxford friend. As he is restlessly anxious now to get away, Mr. Bertram sets him free before he has secured other help. The last Sunday of his stay in Meadthorpe arrives, and there is scarcely room at Saint Simeon's for the congregation that flocks to his farewell service. His earnestness and eloquence and his own self-forgetful example have widely influenced the whole neighbourhood.

Rich people are there who have been constrained to give up their wonted entertainments on Sundays and Fridays, and to turn their thoughts into higher channels than mere self-gratification. And the poor are there in large numbers, all calling to mind some kindly ministry the young curate with the gentle but grave face has done for them and theirs.

Greatly to his own astonishment, Reuben Demsey is among the worshippers at the parish church, having brought his little Kitty at her earnest entreaty to see the last of her friend and helper, for Kitty is stronger and stouter now, and can get to Meadthorpe by walking slowly, and occasionally enjoying a lift in her father's arms. Demsey's wages have undergone an increase, too -- a fact he somehow associates with the friendship of his master with Mr. Pendrill. He cannot help thinking the clergyman put in a good word for him with Farmer Burrows, for the sake of those depending on him.

The carter is sorely baffled as to how to find the places in the prayer book that has been lent him, and he gives it up at last as a bad job, inwardly congratulating himself that the Rehoboth order of service is free from all these "ins and outs." Everybody knows how that goes: prayer, hymn, reading, long prayer, chant, exposition, long prayer, hymn, notices, sermon, collection, hymn, benediction. That is simple enough, and he heartily wishes himself in his usual seat this evening, taking down Mr. Mountford's "heads," and nodding assent to his arguments. But little Kitty, with flushed cheeks and quick-coming breath, keeps her eyes fixed with eager intensity on Bernard Pendrill, and feels a charm she can scarcely describe in the delicate flowers on the altar, the gleaming candles, and the thrilling voices of the white robed choir.

Demsey and his little daughter are not the only representatives of Rehoboth at St. Simeon's for the last service conducted by the curate. Could they see her there, they would scarcely believe the witness of their eyes, but at the back of the church, almost hidden by a pillar and close to the great stone font, is Gildas Haven.

She returned to Meadthorpe yesterday, and started this evening as usual for Rehoboth, but an unspeakable longing drew her to his church, to hear his voice, and look on his face, and breathe the prayers that he is breathing, ere for evermore he passes from her life. Her soul trembles upward with his as he leads the congregation in the solemn petition for help in time of peril:

"O God, who knowest us to be set in the midst of so many and great dangers, that by reason of the frailty of our nature we cannot always stand upright; grant to us such strength and protection as may support us in all dangers and carry us through all temptations. Through Jesus Christ our Lord."

His sermon flies home like a bird to her heart. She does not realise it, but he is conscious of her presence there, close to the garland of white lilies wreathing the pillar. The infinite tenderness of his message -- "The Lord give you peace" \-- is for her, and she has never felt so near to him in spirit as now that he breathes of the all-knowing, all-caring, all-sustaining Christ, who healeth the broken in heart, and whose farewell word to His Church shall never through time or eternity be spoken.

And all her life long, Gildas remembers the low, sweet tones of the music following his sermon, and how in that closing hymn her soul parts itself from his, and she puts away for ever and ever the "might have been" that their consciences forbid.

Chapter 15

Miss Bell's Praise Meeting

AS Gildas goes home in the starlight, she overhears two little children who have evidently been to Saint Simeon's, talking together concerning the farewell service.

"My mother cried," says one. "He sat up all one whole night with my brother, George Richard, when he had spasms in his inside, and mother can't a-bear to think he's a-going away. She cried all the time he was talking, and so did my big sister Matilda."

"My Granny cried worse," says the other, in a tone of pride. "She never once put her handkerchief in her pocket from the time we went in church, so there!"

"Jane Mason's Aunt Emma were a-sobbing right out loud up in the gallery," is the triumphant reply. "Jane told me so just now. Everybody were a-looking at her, she cried so."

"My, I would like to have seen her!" says the other child, appreciatively. "Did she have to be led out like the woman that had the fit one Sunday? I see'd her. They took her right past where I was -- so there, Emily Ann!"

Gildas, as in a dream, hears the little voices, and half smiles even amid the heart-aching as they boast one against another of their tragic experiences. She knows there are many in Meadthorpe who "can't a-bear to think" they will see Bernard Pendrill's face no more. For herself, tonight her one thought is of that long eternity when the day will dawn and the mists will rise, and they will be heart to heart.

She rather dreads meeting some of the Rehoboth friends, who have doubtless pictured her as staying at home tonight with her father, and will be profuse in enquiries and in converse, for which just now she is wholly disinclined. Turning a corner she comes upon Jasper Ruthven and the old deacon, Mr. Channing-Surtees, who leans on Jasper's arm. They are going in her direction, and she resolves to say frankly, if questioned, that she has been to Saint Simeon's. But no enquiry is made.

Jasper, near whom she sits in the Rehoboth choir, has been conscious all through the service of her absence, and his troubled heart has rightly guessed its reason. He only remarks to her now that Mr. Channing-Surtees is giving an account of some of the earlier members of Rehoboth and their families.

Gildas says, "How interesting!" and listens to the old gentleman's discursive biographical conversation, which lasts until they stand outside the gate of the Manse. Even then, being in the middle of an account of Mr. Mundey's father when he led the congregation in singing, he decides to come inside and finish it. Mr. Haven keeps him to supper, and then he conducts prayers, and Gildas is thankful she has no more time for lonely meditations -- at least, until the Sabbath hours are well nigh over, and Meadthorpe is wrapped in the quietude of rest.

Gildas remembers her father once saying that "God changes the workers, but the work goes on." When some earnest, tireless life is removed from the sphere where it has laboured so well, Mr. Haven said folk are apt to think none can fill that place; but it is a glorious fact, or saddening -- perhaps both -- that very soon the worker seems but little missed, and things go on just the same, with someone else stepping forward at the right time.

Her father had smiled as he recalled that there was commonsense in the listener who, hearing the preacher of a funeral discourse declare the light was quite extinguished that had been upheld so brightly in the vanished hand, rose up, crying emphatically, "Glory be to God! That's a lie!"

* * *

"Oh dear, we can't never spare the curate from Meadthorpe. No one can do what he does in the place," many of the poor people sighed, hearing they were to lose the helper they had learnt to love, but they soon find there are not neglected. The mantle of Pendrill's energy has fallen on Miss Rowena Bertram and her fellow labourers, who keep the various agencies of the parish going with energetic fervour.

The new curate, Mr. Barton-Cox, is a mild young man, chiefly noted for being the son of a great man of the neighbourhood, who has bought him an influential living. His family have greatly desired meanwhile to have "dear Horace" in their midst, and Mr. Bertram is interested in him, having once been tutor to his brothers.

Young Barton-Cox is invaluable at tennis and readings and parochial tableaux. No bazaar can be considered complete without him, and he is in request for miles around when they are getting up a charity concert. He is a most amiable, inoffensive young man, not at all uplifted by reason of family greatness, and overcoming by ready good humour the disadvantages naturally experienced by one who follows an especially powerful predecessor.

But the one who seems most roused to outside service is the Rector himself. Pendrill's selfless devotion has stirred up the old gentleman to consider his parish before his unfinished book on Nineveh of old. The throat specialist, Sir Henry Marsh, has so greatly benefited him that he knows he can plunge anew into the arena of writing. But perhaps no heart in Meadthorpe guesses the sacrifice it means to the good old man to put his Chaldean history aside, and trot out here and there to respond to the many needs appealing to the Rectory.

Jasper Ruthven is certainly the only one aware of the mental depression through which Gildas is struggling. Others notice she looks poorly, but Rehoboth is wholly ignorant of the reason.

"You don't eat enough for a bird, Miss Gildas," Emery tells her. "You know there's nothing like a steak to begin the day on, as in my first place well do I remember the doctor made the master breakfast on hot rump steak, and it soon brought back his appetite."

"His appetite could not have been in a very bad state to manage the remedy, Emery," says Gildas, who dislikes meat. "Fancy coming down a lovely morning like this and eating steak!"

"Well, but, miss, folks must eat something, and you're always coaxing the master to take this and that. I'm sure it's a wonder how well he's keeping just now, and writing to the papers to get more subscribers for the Friends of the Jews Society, and leading the debate last night on the prospects of Palestine and the final restoration of Israel. Mrs. Joplin, from Shiloh, was there, and when I told her master's age, she said nobody wouldn't never have thought it to look at him last night and hear him talk. But I'm not near so satisfied about you, Miss Gildas. You've got too much on your hands, and that's a fact.

"You're always thinking about your classes, or working your brains about something, and with no food to speak of inside of you. Mark my words, Miss Gildas, the time will come when you'll be laid on a bed of sickness if you don't force yourself to eat. I'm sure you're losing flesh. Mr. Ruthven were a-noticing to me only the other day how poorly you're looking, and I'm thinking it will be a similar case to Mary Jane Parsons that sang seconds at Rehoboth when I were a girl, and that sudden went off in a galloping consumption. At least, so the doctor said, and she were prayed for as departing; but her young man wrote for her to come out to California, not knowing she were so critical, and seeing he'd sent the money, she made up her mind to take the voyage. Maybe she'd only been fretting, after all, believing he were keeping company elsewhere. Anyway, she sent two pound only last year to Mr. Chatten for the incidentals, and her now the mother of six!"

"Emery," says Gildas, who has heard very little of this semi-soliloquy, "I do hope you won't talk to people about my health, and spread the notion that I'm at all unwell. Meadthorpe people magnify things so much, and I would soon be reported as in the cemetery, beneath a suitable epitaph. You know I have long tried to get Father away to the sea. I'll persuade him to come to Beachlands soon, and then I'll get plump and hungry enough to satisfy even you. At this time of the year Meadthorpe air is always rather tiring -- that is all."

* * *

In the end, the plan Gildas proposed long ago is carried out. She and her father accompany Chidgey with the little Ruthvens to Beachlands, for Jasper has sold a series of critical essays on the poets of the time of good Queen Bess, and the sceptre of editorial favour has been held out to him of late, with a touch substantial enough to assure him all things come round to those who will but wait and work.

Old Mr. Haven is as happy as the children, giving them all sorts of information concerning jellyfish, starfish, sea urchins, and crabs. Gildas teaches the children swimming, and spends quiet hours reading to her father on the shining beach, while the little ones are in and out of the water. Jemmie is inclined to argue with Milly that in Heaven there must be little places cracked on purpose in the sea of glass, so that baby Noel and the other children there can paddle where it's broken.

It is a golden day when Jasper takes a holiday and joins the party for a few hours. Gildas rather dreads his insight, as specially observant, and exerts herself to be the liveliest of the number, bidding him tell Emery how rosy and sunburnt she has grown. But when he has gone back, and the children are sleeping, and old Mr. Haven nods over a pamphlet explaining the history of the lost tribes, Gildas goes out alone to the seashore that is lying white in the moonlight, lulled by the splashing of the gentle, slowly-moving waves.

Gildas cannot tell why she is sad and restless now. Her inmost heart accepts as right and wise the decision that separates her from Bernard Pendrill, and she is fully conscious she would be as wretched as himself were she, with her deeply rooted Nonconformist views, transplanted to an atmosphere such as he finds natural and helpful.

Nor has she for one moment regretted that he spoke to her so plainly and candidly of his feelings on the subject. That interview is the saddest, most precious memory of her soul, and it is only by a resolute effort she prevents herself from recalling his every word and look at that time, again and again.

No other decision could possibly be reached than they have mutually made. Time will doubtless dull the yearning and heal the pain -- it must, it will, she tells herself. Yet the foam breaking on the rocks and shingle brings to her thoughts and dreams almost more than she can bear, and she would gladly ask that quiet, solemn voice of the summer sea to be dumb, that her heart might rest.

* * *

Meadthorpe, on her return, somehow looks to her weary, dull, and matter-of-fact. Gildas is in that state of mind and health when even loved work is a burden, and one day she steals into the shop of her special helper and confidante, Miss Bell, and comes almost in despair to tell her how dark it has become within her soul.

Miss Bell is the Meadthorpe dyer and cleaner, and beyond taking the infant class in Rehoboth Sunday school, she has never occupied any sort of prominent position in the chapel or town.

Many people think it is rather good natured and charitable of Gildas to see so much of Miss Bell, who has very little to say for herself, and leads a quiet, uneventful sort of life. Several of the Rehoboth friends, the younger ones especially, are inclined to be brilliant; and brilliance is the attribute they demand in their chosen associates. But the elderly spinster is just retiring and dull enough to provide untold rest to Gildas, whose own mind is so active, that too often it experiences the reaction of weary depression. Then comes the longing for some mother heart on which to lean, some peaceful, loving friend, whose own brain is not working with fatiguing energy, to be comfort and support, and to strengthen her life anew by calm and tender quietude.

Miss Bell knew and loved the mother whom Gildas cannot remember, and there has always been a strong bond of affection and sympathy between these two. The humble maiden lady overflowed with joy and pride in every success Gildas achieved at school and college. She sat by her side with a shining face when in her early girlhood Gildas was received into Rehoboth Chapel as a member, and in her heart considers Mr. Haven's daughter the embodiment of all that is clever and attractive.

She it was to whom at eighteen years old Gildas brought the confession, with head resting against her comfortable shoulder, that she would "like to be wicked for a year or two; to go to dances and theatres and fancy balls and such places, and see the world, and have a good time of it."

Such words from a young member would have driven some Rehoboth friends to despair on the girl's account, but only to Miss Bell would she outpour the stragglings of her active young nature, and Miss Bell treated the confession with no more seriousness than it was worth.

She reminded Gildas tenderly that the happiest of all are those who serve the Lord Jesus Christ, and brighten the lives of others. She did not press home so much the necessity of surrendering delights, as the blessedness of enjoying life by the Saviour's side, and beneath His tender smile, which must result in the blessedness overflowing to one's neighbours too. Seeing that "to be wicked for a year or two," in the heart of Gildas only meant a fund of superfluous energy, it was a quiet suggestion from Miss Bell that set the Junior Dorcas afloat soon after.

Gildas thus began her ever-widening round of helpful labours in connection with the chapel; labours for which she had been deemed a little too young and inexperienced by brethren and sisters averse to changes in the place. Working her fit of discontent with her surroundings into gusset and seam on behalf of the poor and needy, the girl was soon cured of what many would have condemned in her as backsliding and worldliness.

Now in her womanhood Gildas goes again to Miss Bell, with a heavier burden lying on her heart. Miss Bell looks up with a smile at her entrance. She is cleaning straw hats, and is too busy to stop, but she sees the shadow on the girl's fair brow, and asks her to help, as there is so much to be done. Miss Bell believes in doing rather than talking. Gildas gets involved in the work, and begins to chat away like her old self long before the hats are put on one side.

Then Miss Bell makes tea, which she always takes at four o'clock. The cups are set on the table in the little kitchen, and Gildas prepares a plate of toast. The old tabby cat blinks at the fire as she reposes in Miss Bell's lap, and Gildas kneels before the fender, leaning against her friend, rested, as always, by her simple homeliness, her absence of pretension, and her quiet heart-goodness and sincerity.

By-and-by the darkness of Gildas' spirit is made known. She pours out to Miss Bell her awareness that she has grown cold in her Christian work, filled with fears of the future, less prayerful than she used to be, further off from God. What is she to do to be helped and restored, to regain faith and brightness, and lose this heaviness which is hanging over her even at the time of prayer?

"Gildas," Miss Bell tells her tenderly, "many a year ago, quoting from one of the Puritans, your father made use of words that often since have reminded me that our thoughts must not dwell so much on what we are, as what our Father is. Mr. Haven spoke of the Lord as 'our Hospital-God.' Let me pass that sweet name on to you, my little one. Whatever your need and your weakness may be, your Lord, in all His knowledge and help and healing, is the one Hospital for your heart."

"I don't know how it is," says Gildas, "but you always give me just the message I want. 'Our Hospital-God.' I shall find rest in that thought. I believe He always tells you, dear, dear Miss Bell, what to say to me," and the tears run from her tired eye as she bends and kisses the spinster's work-worn hand.

Gildas has had many a restless, sleep-forsaken night of late, when every effort to put thought aside and reach the slumber land has only seemed to make her more reflective and wide awake. Miss Bell believes her physical weariness has a good deal to do with her spiritual depression, and bids Gildas have a nap there and then, which she does, sitting on the rug and resting her curly head on her friend's lap.

Miss Bell goes on quickly with her sewing, only stopping now and then to smooth the wavy locks, and to adjust round Gildas the shawl she has thrown over her.

When Gildas wakes, it is past seven, too late for her to reach Rehoboth in time for the weekly prayer meeting. Her friend, Miss Bell, had also meant to go, but shrank from waking Gildas, and now she says with a smile, "We can have a praise meeting here together instead."

She begins, in a voice pleasant still, though breaking in the upper notes, "Let us with a gladsome mind," and Gildas joins in clearly and sweetly as a bird. Then they have, "When all Thy mercies, O my God," and "I my Ebenezer raise," and the mental shadows are lifted as the night mists disperse for the cheery dawn, by the time these two -- looking backward to goodness and grace, and forward in simple trust in the Father of Mercies, "the Hospital-God," the Fountain of Love \-- unite in the closing hymn of thanksgiving:

"Sing, ye redeemed of the Lord,

Your great Deliverer sing!

Pilgrims for Zion's city bound,

Be joyful in your King!"

Chapter 16

How the Call Comes to Gildas

THE DAYS seem a long bare stretch of sameness to Gildas, a wilderness way; but the Lord's comforts make the desert to blossom as the rose, and He gently leads the bewildered heart into the fulfilment of those kindly, helpful duties and ministries which heal the secret wound and brighten the outlook so blank and dreary.

Gildas is essentially a healthy girl in body and mind. There is in her no gloomy clinging to grief, no persistent watering of the grave within the heart by sentimental tears, and through prayerfulness and cheery companionship -- above all, through thinking of others and striving to help them -- that grave of memory becomes after a while garlanded with flowers.

She is energetic as ever in her Rehoboth work, on fire as of old for the service of Nonconformity and the simpler aspects of religion to which she adheres. But Jasper detects that she is quieter, more womanly now than in the past, and it is clear to the children and poor people, and all with whom she comes in contact, that her manner is softer, more tender, more patient, because she has learnt to love, even though without hope.

One day Gildas has been to see the Demseys on the moor, and she is coming quietly back in the twilight when she hears wheels behind her, and a pony carriage stops at her side. Young Gilbert Haines is standing up in the conveyance, waving his hat to her and begging her to get in. Gilbert's aunt, Miss Rowena Bertram, is driving, and seconds his desire.

Gildas is tired, and somehow there is something in Miss Rowena's face which no longer repels Gildas by distant dignity, but seems rather to attract her nearer. She is soon in the pony carriage, seated beside Miss Bertram, while Gilbert, with a glowing, admiring face, takes the opposite seat.

"I ought to have acknowledged your kind letter," Gildas tells Miss Rowena, "and to have thanked you for your kind efforts for Mrs. Meadows. She is the very picture of comfort now in her snug room at the Almshouse. She told me you had given her some curtains, too. I have been meaning to write and thank you, but I am glad to do so personally."

"I think it is I who have been remiss," says Miss Rowena. "The reason I wrote my thanks for your prompt and capable help with Gilbert was only that in his continued weakness I could scarcely get out at all. Now, I am glad to say, each week makes him stronger, and after this term we hope he'll be able to go away to school. If I could have left him that first week of his illness I would certainly have called, but I believe you went away soon after?"

"Yes," says Gildas, "we've been to Beachlands. Time goes so quickly. It is quite a long while now since Gilbert's accident. I think the fright must have weakened him, for it was only a very slight burn." She turns to Gilbert. "And is your leg quite well again now?" she asks.

"Oh, yes. Why, I play leapfrog and football now, and I ran in the sack race the Grammar School boys got up. Mr. Ruthven let me compete, and I came second. I never thanked you properly, Miss Haven," he says politely, "for bandaging me that day. I remember how soon the pain got better when you treated me, and put the cotton wool round. I have often wanted to see you and thank you."

Despite this formal expression of thanks, Gilbert is at heart a devoted admirer of Gildas Haven, and even as he speaks he resolves within himself to make her Mrs. Gilbert Haines when he becomes a man. Meanwhile, he offers her a portion of cocoanut ice from a cherished bag on his lap, and Gildas partakes of it to his great delight. It is evident their tastes will well agree, and he reflects she is sure to enjoy the Indian climate, with the curries and mangoes and custard apples and nice guava jelly that are part of his loved home memories.

Miss Rowena asks after Mr. Haven, and remarks she thinks Gildas is not looking quite as well as she used. Has she not become somewhat thinner, and did she not have a little more colour?

Gildas protests she never was so well in her life, and she has never needed a doctor since she was eight years old. Her health is perfect, she says. She explains she has just had a good deal of walking, and it may have made her look tired.

"Prince is tired, too," says Gilbert, noticing that the pony is inclined to pause reflectively at intervals and view the landscape o'er. "Wherever do you think we've been, Miss Haven? Miles and miles -- almost to Dilchester -- and Prince has gone splendidly, hasn't he, auntie?"

"You have had a long drive," says Gildas, in surprise. "Prince will be glad to find himself home again, I'm sure."

"Oh, he had a nice long rest," says the boy. "We've been to Mr. Pendrill's place, you know. And we had dinner there -- cod and pheasant, and blackcap pudding and jellies -- and, oh, he's got such funny sisters -- old ladies with curls like corkscrews, and you never know which is which, they're so alike. They're his stepsisters, and they're quite different to him. They've got faces like mother's dear old dog in India -- so sharp and----"

"My dear Gilbert!" says his aunt, reprovingly, "Miss Haven will be shocked to hear a little boy criticise ladies like this. The Misses Pendrill are most energetic, worthy gentlewomen, and will be invaluable in the parish, I am sure."

"Did you know that Mr. Pendrill is Vicar of Rosebrake?" Gilbert asks Gildas, and she is conscious that Miss Rowena is looking at her. Her breath is a little quicker perhaps, for the mention of his name has taken her by surprise, and her heart is hungry for news of him. But she answers composedly, "No, I thought I heard of his working in London after leaving Meadthorpe."

"He stayed there some little time," says Miss Rowena, "and then he was offered his present position, which seems a very happy one, and affording every scope for helpful work. He is the Vicar of Rosebrake now. The village is close to Dilchester -- about four miles beyond Mr. Buisson's. He has the advantage of living near a cathedral city, and yet among beautiful scenery. He is delighted with Rosebrake, and it is very nice for him to be able to have his sisters as his housekeepers."

"Yes," says Gildas -- and what she meant to say next she forgets.

The pause is broken by Gilbert, who informs her they wanted Mr. Pendrill to come over and preach the Harvest Thanksgiving sermon at Saint Simeon's, but he is "full of things he has promised to do at Rosebrake and Dilchester and all around, and he says it's awkward to get to Meadthorpe unless one drives, because the trains from Dilchester don't fit in."

"My father will be disappointed," says Miss Rowena. "But we hope to see him sooner or later. He is evidently in much request and very happy in his work."

"Well, but, auntie," says Gilbert, "the oldest Miss Pendrill, with the tortoiseshell comb, said he's lost his appetite, you know, and she thinks he ought to see a doctor. He only had a little bit of cod and none of that nice pheasant at all. And I had two helps of blackcap pudding, but he scarcely got through one."

"My nephew is very observant, as you see, Miss Haven," says Miss Rowena, quietly. "I am thankful your appetite keeps good at any rate, Gilbert. You paid an afternoon visit to the village baker's too, I see."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Pendrill took me after we'd been over the church. I had cocoanut ice, and a treacle tart, and some apple turnovers, and I've got a packet of toffee in my pocket that I am to ask Mr. Ruthven to take home to the children, with Mr. Pendrill's love. Will you have a piece of turnover, Miss Haven? It is not a bit sour."

But Gildas declines, and as they are now within sight of the Manse she alights, thanking Miss Rowena for the lift on the road.

"I am coming to see you, my dear child," says the Rector's daughter, whose heart has forgotten its own secret aching, in pity for the girl who so bravely hides her suffering. What can she do to cheer and comfort Gildas in the inevitable hopelessness of the dream those two may, for a brief, fleeting hour, have envisioned?

To some, to many, the clashing of doctrinal opinions would make no difference at all in friendship, but to Miss Rowena and Gildas their widely diverging creeds enter deeply into their lives, and the Rector's daughter holds she and Gildas are right not to be close friends. She has learnt by experience that duty and helpfulness are the lonely soul's best comforters next to the Great Healer Himself.

However, when she comes to the Manse, she asks Gildas to undertake the work she has attended to herself since the departure of Mr. Pendrill, who made it his own -- namely, once a week to read and give a simple Gospel talk in the hospital wards.

"If we could divide the work," she suggests, "you taking half the wards and I the rest, I think it would be better for the patients. My voice so soon loses its strength, and I have very little confidence in speaking."

Gildas often pays visits to patients in Meadthorpe Infirmary on her own account, but this is not the same thing as systematic weekly cheer and help. Her hands are very full, but this was the work he loved, and Miss Rowena offers to share it with her. So the two carry on the work together, wondering that ever they were strangers, and drawing nearer to their Lord and to one another as they tend the sick, dry the tears of the discouraged, and cheer the sufferers with flowers and fruit and heavenly messages of peace.

* * *

For some weeks Gildas has been to and fro on these merciful errands, when one day she is struck by the look of a woman who can neither hear nor speak, Betty Groves. Betty is a servant now out of employment, and ill with pleurisy. Someone has brought a child patient a bunch of grapes, and Betty's eyes look as though she longed for the luscious, juicy fruit with unutterable craving. She is very poor, and has no friends, and that look of weary longing haunts Gildas, who at once mentally foregoes a desired purchase of her own, and tries to secure some grapes for Betty, but all the shops are now shut.

Next day she is visiting in her tract district until late in the afternoon, when she suddenly remembers Betty's craving. Tired as she is, and ready for her tea, she hurries into the High Street, procures a dark, tempting bunch of grapes, and hastens to lay the basket on Betty's bed.

Betty Groves touches the purple bloom of the grapes with eager, yet lingering caress. The colour comes and goes in her face, and there are tears of joy in her eyes, weary of illness and pain.

"Why, how came you to think of those, Miss Haven?" asks a nurse, passing by the sick woman's bed. "Betty has been pining and wearying for grapes ever since the child over there had some brought to her yesterday, but she wouldn't take even one grape from the little thing, who would have given away all if the people would have accepted them. I meant to try if I could get Betty a few myself when I go out by-and-by. She can fancy nothing, and those will be food and drink to her. Why, Betty, those might have come from a royal garden -- they are splendid."

"They did come from the King," says Betty on her fingers. "He knew how I have craved for them. The Lord thinks about poor Betty. He giveth to His people their heart's desire, and that is more than just their need."

Her happy, grateful eyes are turned on Gildas who bends down over her suffering sister and touches the pale, parched lips with her own. At that moment a sudden cry rings through the ward -- a cry of such agony and urgency that Gildas answers directly, "Yes, here I am;" and she trembles from head to foot, for she knows the voice that called.

"What's the matter, my dear?" asks the matron, who is a Rehoboth member and has known Gildas for many a year.

"Didn't you hear, Miss Goring? Somebody called my name. There's something the matter. Did nobody hear that cry?"

"My dear child, you're dreaming. It has been perfectly quiet here. A girl is selling flowers in the street. You fancied you heard her calling your name."

Gildas says no more. She is spelling to Betty with her hands a few verses from the Bible that Betty keeps close to her pillow, and that voice calls her name twice more, even while she is bringing Betty the verse of comfort from Isaiah chapter 42:

"I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not. I will lead them in paths that they have not known. I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them."

Gildas knows within her heart that Bernard Pendrill has called her; that his need of her is so sore and urgent that the spirit-power has triumphed over matter and reached her own knowledge and consciousness. She has heard of such cases, and disbelieved them. All she realizes now is that she must reach the one who called her, for he is dead or dying. She must find him, she must respond to that appeal, clearer to her soul than any voice around.

How she leaves the hospital she knows not. She goes out as in a dream. To whom can she turn for help? Her thoughts fly to Jasper. He will know the way to Rosebrake. He will believe in what she tells him, and even as she resolves to seek him she sees him awaiting her within the hospital porch, standing in the sunset light with a face yet paler than her own. She goes up to him, and steadies herself by clinging to his arm.

"Cousin Gildas," he says gently, "Meadthorpe is hearing bad news this afternoon"

"I know. He called me. Is he dead?"

"The doctor thinks he will live a few days, Gildas, perhaps a week; but it may be only a few hours. He's dying. They've given up all hope of recovery now."

"I must go to him," she says, not thinking anything at all of the strangeness of such words to Jasper, who knows nothing of the spirit link between them.

And he answers simply, "I am here to take you, cousin Gildas."

They go down the streets, where the gas lamps are now glimmering out, calmly and quietly, as though the girl's heart were not breaking. Gildas expects he will start away at once to Rosebrake Vicarage. She has lost count of time, and seems to know nothing except that she must reach Bernard Pendrill before he dies. She thinks he will not die until he knows his cry has reached her, until Death, with tenderest pity, gives back to his heart the one from whom in life his conscience parted him.

But Jasper takes her first of all to the Manse, and puts his gentle hand on her shoulder as Emery admits them, crying out in alarm at sight of their faces. "Good gracious, Miss Gildas and Mr. Jasper, what's happened? If you don't make my heart fairly leap into my mouth seeing the two of you look so strange, almost like ghosts \-- if it wasn't superstitious to believe in ghosts and goblins! Is it Jemmie that have fallen in the water butt? I never did see such a child to frighten people out of their senses. Or is it Chidgey took sudden with a fit?"

But for once wondering Emery receives no answer.

"Go and tell your father, Gildas?" says Jasper quietly, and the two go side by side into old Mr. Haven's study.

The minister is arranging back numbers of the news sheet of the Friends of the Jews Society for loan to a neighbouring pastor. The task is a congenial one, and he marks especially noteworthy reports, lingering ever and again to peruse for the fiftieth time some remarkable case of awakening in a son of Abraham. Jones, who is given to the secret conveyance of literature to his kennel, is stealthily departing with The Prophetical Review in his mouth, and drops it guiltily as he perceives the entrance of his mistress.

"Why, my dear lad -- why, Gildas!" says Mr. Haven, removing his spectacles and laying down his pencil. "You have both just come in good time to hear that a remarkable tract, written by a Polish Jew in the Hebrew language----"

"Father," says Gildas, sinking on her knees beside him, "I cannot stay now. I have a journey to take. Bernard is ill. He has called me, and Jasper will take me to him this evening. I'll come back to you very soon when -- when God has taken him; but while he lives he needs me. Give me your blessing, dearest, dearest Father. How can I keep away from him?"

"Bernard?" says the old man, questioningly. He looks startled and bewildered, but his hand trembles to the girl's earnest face.

"Bernard Pendrill -- who was curate here," says Jasper, gently. "I will come back and tell you all I know, Mr. Haven; and Mr. Weston, who has been nursing him, will come in and make things clear to you. He promised me he would. Bernard Pendrill is dying, and his one cry is for Gildas. You will let her go? They love one another, and now Death brings them together a little while."

Mr. Haven is silent. A bitter tide of pain and disappointment surges within him. The sudden knowledge that his child has given her love to one of the Church of England is a greater shock and grief to the old minister than either of the two beside him will ever know. If he has thought of a husband for his bright, clever, capable daughter at all, he has sometimes fondly envisioned a shining light of his denomination, whose intellectual distinction his darling child is so well fitted to share, and a portion of whose laurels will suitably become her fair young brow. But to think there has been an unguessed secret hero in Meadthorpe, and that her love is already given -- that her longing and prayer is to go to the comfort of that young priest whom she has denounced as ritualistic and superstitious!

"Father, he's dying," she pleads. "I can't stay. Kiss me and bless me, for my mother's sake."

He sees her mother's look in the loving eyes she lifts to him so wistfully. With a kiss most tender he speeds her to that presence where she would be, saying brokenly, "The Lord bless thee and keep thee, my heart. The Lord preserve thy soul, and be thine All in All for ever."

Chapter 17

"Will You Stay Until the Last?"

JASPER has already ordered a conveyance from the livery stables, feeling sure that Gildas would go to Rosebrake, after finding the change of trains at Dilchester would cause a long delay.

The carriage is now at the door of the Manse. Two horses have been provided, because the country roads are hilly and trying, and already the carriage lamps are glowing, as it will be completely dark long before they arrive.

Gildas is quivering with anxiety to start, but Jasper will not go until Emery has brought her a cup of tea and some wraps for the journey, and packed her travelling bag -- for hasn't the doctor said Pendrill might linger a week? It may be many a long day before Gildas can return to her father's house. Her place is at his side while he remains on earth. She too feels the time of her coming back is uncertain, for she hurriedly begs Emery to take care of her father, and to send a letter should his cough return or any sign of weakness appear.

"And, Emery," she falters, "please go and see Miss Bell when Father is out for his Wednesday drive with Mr. Mundey. Tell Miss Bell, with my love, about poor Betty Groves at the hospital. Miss Bell can speak by signs, I know. Do ask her to go and see poor Betty for me."

"Oh, I'll ask her, Miss Gildas," says Emery, who is rather offended and scandalized by these summary proceedings; "but what Mr. Jasper means by telling me you're going to that there Mr. Pendrill I can't conceive, miss. Supposing as he is so ill, as Mr. Jasper says, I don't see what a Rehoboth member can have in common with that man"

"Emery, dear, good Emery, the tea," says Jasper, pleadingly.

"Oh, well, sir, the kettle won't boil no faster if all the priests in the Church of England were on their last legs; and everyone at Rehoboth knows I like to speak my mind once for all, and have done with it. What hath light in common with darkness? That's what I find in Scripture, and I don't like these here goings-on at all. There are Church of England convents as well nowadays, so I have heard tell. And I shouldn't be surprised if that there long tale about illness and dying isn't all a trap to get Miss Gildas shut up in a convent, and tempted by fasting and torture until she becomes a Jesuit. And mind you don't get kidnapped off to a monastery, Mr. Jasper. I wouldn't trust myself in the company of such as is under the yoke of superstition."

She turns to Gildas. "Come, my dearie, here's the tea and a bit of biscuit, and I have put a few into your bag. I suppose you know best, Miss Gildas, but I have a strong presentiment there's evil to come from suchlike doings as this!"

Gildas scarcely hears these words. She drinks the tea, seeing Jasper is resolute, and then hurries out to the carriage. Mr. Weston comes up just as they are starting, and she catches a glimpse of his face, looking at her with the same sorrowful solicitude and anxious pain she has seen in her father's eyes.

"Jasper," she says, suddenly, "you mentioned Mr. Weston. What has he to do with Bernard? You know he disliked him here because of all that went on at Saint Simeon's. Has he seen him since he left?"

"I will tell you all I know," answers Jasper. "Mr. Weston sought me out two hours ago, and asked me to find you and take you to Rosebrake. I think he shrank from telling you of Mr. Pendrill's danger, and he knows we're as brother and sister."

"I wanted you, directly I heard his voice call me," she tells him. "No one could help me like you. How quickly the horses go. How soon will we reach him, Jasper?"

"We'll not be long. I told them to put in the best horses they had. Gildas, you know Mr. Pendrill's sisters are there -- and Miss Rowena. She went over with her father yesterday, and he was so ill they wouldn't leave. You're quite sure you mean to stay? You mean to nurse him now until the end?"

"Until the end," she answers, solemnly. "Jasper, you don't know, but in heart, in soul, I am his wife. None other has the right I have to tend him now. I will tell them he called me to come to him. I'll tell them his voice reached me when they believed him incapable of speech."

"They know that, Gildas," says Jasper. "Weston says in all Pendrill's wanderings his one cry has been on your name. There are not many of that name," he adds, with a tender smile, "and it must have thoroughly startled Weston at first to hear that continual cry. Today the doctor asked for the person he craved so constantly, and begged you might be sent for, so that Pendrill's mind might, if possible, be calmed into sleep. He has intervals of consciousness, but they are very short, and then he relapses into delirium. The doctor's words caused Mr. Weston to hurry back to Meadthorpe today. He has been away since Saturday, you know, but we little thought he was nursing Bernard Pendrill at One Tree Farm."

"One Tree Farm, Jasper?"

"Yes, that's where he was taken. The people are his parishioners, and most kind and attentive, I hear. The farm is by itself, some distance from the village of Rosebrake. The accident took place nearly a week ago. Pendrill was thrown from a cart. I must tell you what I heard earlier today. Theo Mundey was out in their trap on one of his longer country rounds, and he had taken Mr. Weston with him. The Mundeys have a new horse on trial, and they wanted Weston's opinion, as was once the local vet. They were near Rosebrake, it seems, and had taken the trap into the long pond where the horse was drinking, when all in a moment Mundey became aware that a brewer's horse had taken fright on the high road and was dashing in the direction of the disused pits.

"He flung himself out of the trap, half swam and half struggled to the bank, and managed to reach the wagon and cling to the horse's head. There was a man inside the wagon, but he looked half dazed. He was so frightened, in addition to his having had as much drink as he could take. Theo Mundey was badly bruised, poor fellow, and I fear it would have been worse for him but for Weston's help. Weston hurried after him, and the brewer's horse knew his voice and his touch. It seems he'd treated it here in Meadthorpe, and he soothed it and brought it to a standstill. It was one of Solly's horses, and they had to deliver in Dilchester."

"But \-- Bernard?" says Gildas, with faltering voice.

"As far as we can make out, he must have met the cart earlier, and offered to drive it into Rosebrake. He probably detected the man was unfit to control the horse. Weston thinks the railway whistle on the bridge nearby frightened the creature. The brewer's man muttered something about 'parson been chucked out -- I can save myself -- see to parson!' Weston tied up the horse securely until passersby could assist him with it. He and Mundey, who must have been in a good deal of pain himself, went in search of the one about whom the man was evidently anxious.

"They found poor Pendrill lying insensible. They heard afterwards he was thrown out as the horse bolted. How Solly's man escaped is a marvel. Between them, Weston and Mundey carried Pendrill more than a mile to One Tree Farm, for by that time two lads passing from Bilsboro' undertook to look after Mundey's trap and Solly's cart. The horse was quiet enough then. Weston says they covered a hurdle with some straw and a piece of sacking they found in the brewer's van, and made a sort of stretcher, for Pendrill was quite helpless.

"Then Weston fetched the Rosebrake doctor, and Bernard Pendrill's sisters, who seem nervous in emergencies, for they begged him to remain, thinking he was a Meadthorpe friend. Weston seems very much cut up about Pendrill. He continued nursing him, it seems, until Miss Rowena Bertram came to help the sisters. Today Weston brought Theo home, none the worse apparently for his bruises. And then he came to me, asking me to tell you how continually Pendrill calls for you."

"But where is Bernard hurt?" she asks impatiently after that long discourse. "Did he strike his head? What happened when he fell?"

"It seems to be a fatal shock to the whole nervous system, Gildas, affecting brain and spine, and entirely exhausting his strength. The doctor says he was probably out of health at the time, and had no underlying power of resistance to the weakness caused by the accident. Solly's man, poor fellow, is in a dreadful state of mind about it. His boy's in Saint Simeon's choir, and Pendrill's been good to his family. The man says he was treated to a drink that day wherever he delivered ale, until he scarcely knew he was driving at all, and was almost overcome by sleep. The poor fellow has now signed the pledge in Miss Rowena's book, and he won't stay at the brewery. The Mundeys are going to try him as porter. They're always ready to help everyone. As for Theo, he's a grand fellow. He all but lost his life trying to save that poor helpless chap in the cart."

The rest of the drive is passed almost in silence. Gildas' heart is with Bernard, and every half hour seems thrice its real length to her agonized suspense, while Jasper's own heartbeats are conscious of her anxiety, and he tries to put away the memory of his own vain longing and aspiration for Gildas.

There has just come to him that glimmering of literary success and recognition which might yet beckon him on to prosperous authorship, and entitle him to indulge the thought of a lovely home of his own, but he knows his Gildas is lost to him evermore. Never will she be more than "Cousin" now. Never will she know the goal to which his tenderest yearnings have turned so long. And he accepts the will of the Lord he trusts. He will take up alone the burden of life cheerily, helpfully, praise-fully, since it is good in the Heavenly Father's sight that his dream be broken.

* * *

"Most peculiar! Really we do not know what to say. It is scarcely proper, is it, Letitia?"

Such is the murmur of Miss Sophia Pendrill, the elder of Bernard's stepsister. Gildas is standing in the little parlour of One Tree Farm, and Jasper is asking if she can be taken to Bernard Pendrill's presence, according to the wish of the doctor. Somehow, to these chilling looking spinsters, Gildas cannot tell the story of the voice she heard at the hospital. Her heart sinks within her. She is near to him now, and yet between them these elderly icicles array themselves, even though the hours of his life are numbered.

"We are not aware of any engagement," begins Miss Letitia, surveying Gildas disapprovingly through her eyeglass.

But just then Miss Rowena Bertram comes in, having heard of Gildas' arrival. She looks pale and worn herself, but takes both trembling hands in her own, and kisses Gildas in a gentle, womanly way that sets Jasper's heart at rest about leaving her at the farm.

"I'll take care of her," Miss Rowena tells him. "You had better come to poor Bernard at once, Gildas. The doctor says his animation must be calmed. It weakens him too much."

"Oh, then you know this young lady, Miss Bertram," says Miss Sophia, dubiously.

"Certainly I do," is the reply; "and the doctor's wish must be first in our thoughts just now, Miss Pendrill, as I am sure you will agree."

Miss Pendrill says something about bowing to "the dispensations of Providence," and "respecting the dear departing one's last wishes."

Miss Rowena glances at Gildas, and sees by her face she is unlikely to agitate the invalid by the undue display of emotion. Then she guides Gildas to the sick room, telling her on the way that further advice has been had from Dilchester, and it confirms the fears of the Rosebrake doctor -- that Bernard was so weakened by his austere, self-forgetful life as to possess no strength to battle against the shock.

Bernard is in one of his wandering phases when Gildas first sees him. He lies with closed eyes, looking prostrate and exhausted, murmuring disconnectedly a few lines from Browning over and over again.

Rowena Bertram's father, the Rector of Saint Simeon's, is with him, and makes room for Gildas with a sad, kind smile. This morning Bernard Pendrill joined in the prayers offered by Mr. Bertram and received the Communion. His next conscious moment is when, by-and-by, he feels the touch of a tender, calming hand; one soothing, helpful palm well used to weakness and pain, and he opens eyes that shine and brighten as he tries to draw her nearer.

The Misses Pendrill look shocked and amazed, but Miss Rowena's eyes fill with all-womanly tears as Gildas bends over him and gives him her first kiss. Is it not the kiss of a long, last farewell?

"You will not go -- you will stay until the last?" he falters, afraid she will vanish from his sight. "Gildas -- wife -- stay with me." He waits for a moment, then says, "Mr. Bertram?"

Only this morning he had breathed to the Rector his longing that Gildas might have a wife's right to nurse him, to close his eyes, to remember him as her own for ever. No such possibility has occurred to Gildas, but the Rector gently explains Bernard Pendrill's wishes, seeing his intense anxiety, and that it is pain for him to speak. She makes no protest. It is all one to her now, whatever may happen. All she desires is to be present with him, and comfort and help him until earthly help is over.

Mr. Bertram leaves at once to make hasty arrangements for the marriage the sick man has so earnestly at heart. Miss Rowena says her gold keeper ring shall be their wedding ring on the morrow, and Pendrill, looking in the tender eyes of his nurse, breathes faintly, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

The sufferer is rather weaker on the morrow, and those around him believe he will have passed into the coma, which is the fear shared by the doctor before Mr. Bertram can return. But Gildas knows Bernard is conscious, for at intervals he tries to press her hand, and when she gives him food he no longer takes it mechanically, but opens his dim eyes and accepts her ministrations with a tender smile.

Towards evening the Rector is again in the room, and Miss Rowena stands by the side of Gildas who is gently bathing Bernard's forehead with fragrant vinegar. The two maiden ladies are also present -- "out of respect for the dear one's memory" they tell each other solemnly, but now and then Miss Sophia shakes her head in protest.

Miss Letitia is heard to murmur, "Most peculiar, and we were not even introduced to the young person until yesterday. A very strange way indeed to enter the family, but we shall be glad to remember when he is gone that we gave way to the dear one's every whim."

Mr. Bertram almost breaks down as he speaks the words that unite these two -- the one in the fullness of her strength, the glow of her fresh young beauty, the other at the threshold of the unknown land. Mr. Bertram is the most agitated of any in the room. Bernard Pendrill's responses come in painful gasps, but his eyes are calm and glad, and Gildas turns her gaze only on him, scarcely conscious of anything except that he, her love, her husband, is leaving her.

The doctor comes in just as the short, simple service is over, and looks anxious when he has taken Pendrill's temperature and felt his pulse. Gildas sees and knows he is going to tell her that Bernard, by a strong, intense effort, has sustained his powers until the desire of his heart is fulfilled, but in all human probability they will now ebb quietly away, until exhausted nature sinks gently to rest. He gives Gildas full directions for her husband's care, seeing she is tearless and composed, and evidently used to nursing.

"I wanted him to have a trained nurse," he says, kindly, "but this is better. He looks quite content now I have put him into your care. I will be back the last thing tonight, Mrs. Pendrill."

Even the name does not startle Gildas or remove her thoughts from Bernard to whom she ministers now by sacred right. The sisters go out weeping, and confidentially lamenting they have lately bought brown dresses for best, that are "sure to shrink when dyed black."

Miss Rowena Bertram would leave husband and wife together, but her father, the Rector, thinks her presence may be some support to Gildas, for it is clear to his accustomed eyes that coma is gradually stealing over Bernard's senses. The clasp of his hand relaxes, a look of unconsciousness is seen on his face, and there is a change in his breathing.

Miss Rowena utters a low, troubled cry, and her father kneels quietly down beside the bed. The Rector's voice that so lately spoke the marriage service, breathes solemnly and clearly now the words from the Book of Common Prayer for the dying: "'O Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons, we humbly commend the soul of this, Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and a most merciful Saviour, most humbly beseeching Thee that it may be precious in Thy sight. Wash it, we pray Thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb that was slain to take away the sins of the world.'"

Chapter 18

His "Gift of God"

"It is not a coma," says Gildas, softly, during a pause in the Rector's prayers. "I have seen that several times. I am sure he is sleeping now. The sleep will do him good."

"He is sinking fast, my poor child," Mr. Bertram tells her, and Miss Rowena whispers, "He looks so unnatural. I think his sisters should come."

"He looks like this because he is exhausted," says Gildas. "He was worn out, and he has fallen asleep. I think I can get him to swallow what he has to take while he is sleeping. I won't wake him. Oh, Miss Bertram, I have prayed for him to sleep. Please ask them all outside to keep very, very quiet. It may be the crisis tonight."

Miss Rowena goes out to try and soothe Miss Sophia and Miss Letitia, who are sobbing audibly, and remarking that the wicked man who was unfit to drive "ought to be tried for manslaughter."

By-and-by the doctor returns, and in surprise and great relief confirms the assurance of Gildas that his patient is in a deep, soothing, thrice-healing sleep. "Better for him than all the medicine and doctoring in the world," says the medical man. "Let him see you when he awakes," he tells Gildas. "Your coming has wrought this miracle. It is one of those mysterious nerve breakdowns that respond to mental rather than physical treatment. You have evidently brought the poor fellow great comfort. If your own strength can bear the strain of prolonged nursing, and if he weather tonight's crisis favourably, we may thank God and be of courage yet."

The village doctor is proved right. Bernard Pendrill's love for Gildas is such that her very presence sets him clinging to life, even while in truth he believed himself to be passing away.

That sleep, which lasts for many hours, is the turning point in his illness. Slowly and almost imperceptibly he begins to battle for existence, taking his nourishment and tonics from his fair young wife with a grateful, loving smile, and often in a faint whisper begging her to think of herself and get help in the nursing, for Miss Rowena Bertram has to leave after the first week, being needed at the Meadthorpe Rectory.

The Misses Pendrill are coldly civil to Gildas, but make mutual observations that are intended to make clear the superiority and gentility of the family into which she has married "under such very peculiar circumstances," as they put it. Gildas as yet does not notice their scant courtesy and frigid disapproval. She is utterly engrossed with the patient, and she devotes herself to him so tirelessly that the doctor tells her she had no right to get married -- she ought to be a professional nurse!

"Am I really married?" Gildas sometimes thinks in dismay, as the remembrance of that sick room marriage flashes over her. "Oh, what will Meadthorpe -- Rehoboth -- say? What will dear, dear Father feel? No one must tell Father but myself. I begged Miss Rowena to see Annie Mountford, and ask her to shut up house, so that she and Mr. Mountford and baby can go to the Manse for a week or two. I couldn't bear Father to be alone, and he will love having them. I know Miss Rowena and the Rector have told no one. She said she would call on Father, and tell him the doctor wants me to stay and help the Miss Pendrills in the nursing. I wonder when I'll be able to go home? Father ought to know I'm married. I'll tell him when Bernard can spare me. But, oh, it is all like a dream! I never, never meant to get married. What will they think at Rehoboth? Oh, I do hope it won't be a trouble to Father."

And then she meets her husband's quiet, tender eyes, and forgets all else in the blessedness of knowing she is with him, ministering to his needs, and brightening the long, heavy hours of his lingering weakness.

The first time Bernard Pendrill sits up in the armchair is quite a festival at One Tree Farm. Gildas has shrunk from sending home for another dress, and her grey woollen one is worse for the work she has gone through. The farmer's daughter has proffered a pretty rose-sprigged linen gown, and Gildas has drawn it in at the waist with her black belt, and donned a bunch of shining primroses.

She looks charming in her husband's eyes as she pours out tea at the little table. The Misses Pendrill are out, but the good people of the house visit him one by one, and cream and cakes and custards have been brought up to honour the occasion.

He seems almost his old self again by this time: very weak, but still cheery and ready to chat with the children from below. Gildas is quiet, fearing he will feel tired, but he is rather concerned as to her silence, and lays his hand on hers when they are alone.

"Gildas ... wife ... do you understand how I am cheating you?"

"Cheating me, Bernard?"

"Yes; do you realize I am going to recover?"

"You are, indeed you are! And I thank God for it every day."

"But you married me, Gildas, as a dying man. Do you mean to say your poor heart is not already beginning to be troubled concerning the future? You never would have married me as one certain to survive, would you?"

The answer comes in a low voice. "Perhaps I would not have had the opportunity. And if I had? ... I don't know," she informs him, with womanly ambiguity.

"Well, it doesn't matter," he says, triumphantly. "I pleaded for that marriage as one facing death, and you took me as such. God gave us to each other, despite our resolutions, Gildas, and you will have to put up with me, and make the best of me."

"Are you sure we are married then?" asks Gildas earnestly, nestling down on the rug by the side of his armchair. "It was all done so quickly. We never had any engagement. You never even proposed. It didn't seem a real sort of marriage."

Bernard laughs so heartily that she rejoices to hear him, even though her inward heart is in truth disquieted as to the coming days, "I am afraid it is too late for the proposal now, Mrs. Pendrill. I will never ask you to marry me, be certain."

Gildas laughs gently. "I consider you a fraud, Bernard. Your hand is stronger than mine already, and a few days ago everybody shook their heads about you. I want to go home soon, Bernard, dear. It seems so long since I saw Father, and you are in no danger now, you know."

"Home? Your home is with me henceforth, little wife. Have you written to Mr. Haven yet? He ought to know, my Gildas."

"I want to tell him myself. A letter might make him ill, but I can tell him gently," she says. "Oh, Bernard, I can't realize it myself yet. I thought we never would meet again."

"Never mind what either of us thought," he says, earnestly. "This is what God meant for us, my wife."

There is silence for a while; then he says rather brokenly, "My only dread is that I was too precipitate, Gildas. I thought -- that evening at Meadthorpe, and when we said goodbye -- I thought I could read my darling's heart in her sweet eyes; but it might have been my presumptuous mistake. Did you come here -- did you fall in with my plea for marriage, out of compassion, Gildas? I know how kind your heart is."

Her hand steals up and touches the face bent over her very gently, and he is satisfied.

"My gift of God!" he says, tenderly. "If you only knew how different life seems to me now. I thought His will was our separation, and in a way I never dreamed of, He has given me my heart's desire. What can I render unto the Lord for giving me my wife, my helpmeet, my Gildas, who is more precious than words can tell?"

The next day, Jasper Ruthven manages to come over to the farm, and Gildas goes down to him in the parlour, half shy, half eager to greet her good, helpful, restful "brother" again.

His first, quick glance is at the ring on the wedding finger. Some intuition has warned him to expect this. He has noticed a degree of reticence about Miss Rowena Bertram's tidings from the farm, for Miss Bertram knows Gildas would wish to tell her friends herself of her marriage.

Jasper has, therefore, prepared himself to face such a possibility, and his tones are quite calm as he says, "If you had notified Rehoboth, you would have received something electroplated with a suitable inscription."

"I want nothing," she says, holding out both her hands to him, "except their loving thoughts and wishes -- and yours, Cousin Jasper."

"God bless you both," he says, simply. "And so your presence and your nursing are curing your husband, Gildas? This is the best that could have happened for both of you. Your life together will be better and fuller than apart."

"Oh, Jasper, I'm afraid. What sort of a wife will I, a Nonconformist, make for a clergyman?"

"Ask Pendrill that," he answers. "Evidently you are the sort of wife one particular clergyman preferred."

"But if he has making a mistake, Jasper? If he should find by-and-by the difference of our views and ideas."

"My dear little cousin, my sister, Gildas," he says, earnestly, "you two are husband and wife. Love is higher, broader, grander than doctrine. These things will settle themselves. They must never be allowed to cloud your hearts. In things essential, your thoughts are one. And, oh, Gildas, when on all sides people are hungry, needy, miserable, debased, needing better food, better homes, and a more abundant life in the true sense of the word -- in face of the work that has yet to be done, you two, hand in hand, will forget the difference of creed, and one day hear Jesus welcome you both, and say, 'I was hungry, and ye fed Me -- sick, and ye visited Me.'"

"What a comfort you are, dear Jasper," she says, the first sign of tears since she came to the farm beginning to dew her wistful eyes. "I could not help feeling anxious, in case when he gets well, Bernard is sorry and find me a hindrance and a drawback. For myself, I am more than happy, Jasper, and I always will be."

In the quiet of the little parlour her tears overflow, witnessing of pent up feelings hidden under the needful aspect of composure.

"I am more than happy," she tells him, but in his heart of hearts Jasper has more anxiety on her account than on Pendrill's. He knows the strength and depth of her Dissenting principles, and that in his Episcopal doctrines Bernard Pendrill is firm as a rock. Women brood more than men, he knows, and Gildas is intensely sensitive. Yet they love one Saviour and Master, and they love each other. They have surely a blessed foundation whereon to build future peace and joy.

Meanwhile Gildas is thinking to herself how good Jasper is to not remind her of her disbelief in what she once referred to as "that most objectionable curate," and her prolonged opposition and enmity in that direction. She wonders if Jasper has forgotten those days. Pendrill has not. Only this morning he called her his "precious little persecutor," and told her he had never quite had her out of his thoughts since first she confronted him with shining, indignant eyes at Mrs. Demsey's.

Presently Gildas is calmer, and asks anxiously concerning her father. "Did you know he wrote me a long, beautiful letter last week?" she says. "The writing is as clear and plain as ever; and, oh, Jasper, I will prize it all my life. It seemed just like Father's own tender blessing on my marriage, though of course he didn't know. I wrote back that I would soon be home. I am going directly Bernard can spare me, and I must tell Father myself. Jasper, do you think he will be very, very sorry?"

"I think the resentment of losing you is past now, Gildas," says Jasper, gently. "In some things Mr. Haven is still quick-sighted as of old, and the fact that Pendrill wanted you in his illness, and you hastened to him, must have shown your father how you cared for each other. The Mountfords are with him, and he seems well and peaceful. He is to preside in a few days at the united Communion Service of all the free churches around. It was the great desire of all to have him presiding, if well enough. You need not be at all anxious about him, Gildas, but the sooner you are able to come and tell him how you are situated, the better."

"And, Jasper, I have such a beautiful plan for Father in my mind. I couldn't possibly have anyone take care of him but myself, and Bernard is willing and glad to take him in. Father must live with us, and Bernard will be to him a son in poor David's place. As soon as it can be arranged, Father and Emery and my Jones must come to Rosebrake. Oh, we'll be so happy all together, and the Misses Pendrill are shortly going back to their apartments at Cheltenham."

Jasper smiles, but makes no further comment on this portion of her information. He was certainly not smitten with the manner of the maiden ladies who received him on his last visit to the farm, and he is glad Pendrill is sensible enough to give his young wife the household reins. He has his own opinion as to the advisability of transplanting old Mr. Haven from Rehoboth Manse to a vicarage, even though Gildas is the Vicar's wife. But he will say nothing to dampen her bright anticipations, and presently Pendrill sends down to ask Jasper to come up to his room.

The invalid is dressed and sitting in the armchair. He looks almost himself as he receives Jasper with his pleasant smile. "Well, Ruthven, did your disestablishment article come out, after all? I have not forgotten our last talk, you see; but I hope you have not yet succeeded in pulling down the pillars of our Church, young man!"

"No, but you have removed a pillar of ours," says Jasper. "What Rehoboth is going to do without Gildas Haven it's impossible for imagination to depict."

"There is no Gildas Haven now," says Pendrill, proudly; "but Mrs. Pendrill will get you some tea, if you stay. How are my young friends at Forest Cottage? I often think of their dear little faces, and Jemmie's funny sayings."

The Misses Pendrill come in just as Jasper is leaving, and in reply to his cordial congratulations as to their brother's increase of strength they answer with melancholy resignation that the ways of Providence are inscrutable, and that little did they think, on leaving their very convenient rooms at Cheltenham, with the General's family on the first floor, and the Honourable Mrs. Mostyn-Mudge in the drawing room, that domestic dispensations of so painful a nature were in the immediate future.

Fortunately Gildas does not hear these mournfully submissive observations. She is absorbed in writing to her father, for Jasper will take the letter bidding him to expect to see her within the next few days.

* * *

Sunday dawns bright and peaceful, the first Sunday that the Vicar of Rosebrake feels anything like his former strength and energy. "Mrs. Griggs will look after me, dearest," he tells his wife, "and I have plenty of reading. I will follow the service here, looking out at the flowers in the garden. I would like you to go to church with my sisters this lovely morning. The drive in the pony chaise will do you good. Fletcher, who is taking my place for now, is a first-rate preacher."

So Gildas, to please him, goes to Rosebrake Church, which is decidedly "high," and where she is the object of much curiosity, the confidantes of the Misses Pendrill sharing their dismay at the notion of a Nonconformist at the Vicarage. Not a single genuflexion does Gildas perform, and she gets quite out of patience with the choirboys who sing the Psalms hurriedly and without regard to the clearness of the words, the congregation chiefly leaving the singing to them.

And today at Rehoboth they will be missing her from her seat near Jasper, and her voice will be wanting evermore in the dear old chapel as they sing with one accord such hymns as "Sweet is the work, my God, my King," and other hymns well known to Gildas.

A sudden yearning seems to show Gildas at that moment the old-fashioned chapel and its varied congregation, some belonging entirely to the old school, and some young, restless spirits responding more to such present day preaching as that of John Mountford. She pictures her father leaning on the pew rail as he stands up to sing with closed eyes and beaming face the rest of that hymn of praise:

When from the dead He raised His Son,

And called Him to the sky,

He gave our souls a lively hope

That they should never die.

What though our inbred sins require

Our flesh to see the dust,

Yet as the Lord our Saviour rose,

So all His followers must."

The joy and reverence on old Mr. Haven's face as he sings from memory these familiar hymns are a sight worth seeing. "That is worship," Gildas thinks, wearied with the long morning service. After the strain of nursing, she is beginning to feel somewhat low, though she does not admit it.

Mr. Fletcher is also unwell, and a young curate from a neighbouring hamlet preaches, informing the congregation that the Church of Christ is composed of those who are baptized and confirmed and duly attend the sacrament; also that Saint Paul and his fellow-helpers always worked on distinctly Church lines.

The Misses Pendrill remain in Rosebrake for the rest of the Sunday, and Gildas walks back to the farm, knowing they will need the chaise later in the day. The breezy walk and the songs of the birds do her good, but she cannot tell Bernard conscientiously that the morning service has been enjoyed by her, and he looks disappointed, being personally enthusiastic about his church.

"If I go anywhere this evening," she says, resolutely, "it shall be to that dear little Wesleyan place in the village street. I saw the local preacher coming out, and his face is a little like Father's."

Pendrill says nothing, but Gildas sees it is a keen pain to him to think of his wife worshipping with the Dissenters. His earnest face is still thin and pale, and Gildas, conscience-stricken for having grieved him, nestles beside him with a loving smile.

"Don't look so woebegone, Bernard. I said 'if I go anywhere;' but I'm too tired to go out again. Besides, the Griggs are all going to church in the wagon. I mean to stay with you, and get you for half an hour into the garden. There is a lovely place for you to rest. We will have such a happy Sunday together, Bernard."

And again his face lights up as she lifts her smiling, winsome lips to his own, and he calls her anew his "Gift of God."

Chapter 19

Light at Eventide

THE Misses Pendrill feel they certainly have grounds for mortification as concerns the sudden and most unlooked-for marriage of their brother. It has always been understood that when he had a house of his own, they would take up their abode therein as his housekeepers and parish helpers, his assistants and counsellors.

They were past that era of life poetically described as "not as yet unfolded quite," or, putting it prosaically, they were no longer girls when Bernard was in long clothes, and consequently they are aghast to realize that such an important step in his career has been taken without due reference to themselves -- and in opposition to all their sense of the fitness of things.

"Was it for this," says Miss Sophia, "that we gave notice to our very respectful and attentive landlady at Cheltenham -- such an excellent cook too, and so exclusive as to whom she took in? Was it for this that we had all the trouble of packing, and paying farewell visits to our many friends? Scarcely have we accustomed ourselves to our changed surroundings, and formed a circle in which we can visit, and scarcely has our dear little Tabitha reconciled herself to her new home, before this very designing girl, evidently the temptress and bane of our poor brother's spiritual life, appears on the scene, and installs herself with unblushing effrontery as the mistress of Rosebrake Vicarage!"

"It is too painful a subject to discuss," says Miss Letitia, settling herself down to enlarge on it as she works at the elaborate alms bags in course of preparation for the church. "Our unfortunate brother has laid himself open to grievous scandal, and brought upon himself years of unavailing remorse."

There is a movement in the storeroom that opens from the farm parlour. Gildas has gone there to find arrowroot and other needed supplies, and she purposely makes a slight noise so that the knowledge of her vicinity may stop this conversation. But both speakers are somewhat deaf, and they are too much absorbed in their grievances to notice the rustling.

"He always advocated celibate priesthood," continues Miss Letitia, "as so much more helpful to the meditative and devotional life. Do you know, Sophia, it occurs to me this young person from Meadthorpe may have hypnotized our brother? How can her most extraordinary and baneful influence over him be otherwise accounted for? They say hypnotism can produce singular results in the present day. I am sure in his senses Bernard would never have made such an unfortunate marriage."

"Well, he scarcely was responsible. His fancy was undoubtedly part of his delirium," says her sister. "I believe he could yet set aside so strange an alliance. If he wished to marry, why did he not think of the dear Dean's niece and heiress, or the Honourable Evelyn Desarte, of Dilchester Towers? Both are of a settled age, and would have helped in his career. Is it likely that ecclesiastical preferment will ever be his when the mistress of his establishment is 'a red-hot Dissenter?' I assure you, my dear Letitia, I heard that phrase used in Rosebrake yesterday concerning this Gildas Haven."

"Gildas Pendrill," says Miss Letitia, with a sigh. "Ah, Sophia, how fleeting are the vain ambitions of poor humanity! It has been the cherished dream of my life to see my unfortunate brother, ere I quit this mortal scene, a Dean or a Bishop. I have even in golden visions seen him as the Archbishop of Canterbury. But what is the sad reality? He has taken unto himself one who is outside the fold of the Church -- the very last person in the whole world fit to be helpmeet to a priest. Dinner is ready, Sophia. Come, let us cease so sad a conversation, and strive to resign ourselves to these afflictive Providences."

It is little wonder that by-and-by Gildas, sitting sewing by Pendrill's side in the summer house, puts down her work hurriedly with the impetuous cry, "Bernard, are you quite certain our marriage cannot be undone?''

"I am glad you spoke your mind out, little wife," he answers, tenderly. "I have seen for some time today that you are in distress. Are you beginning to repent the result of my rashness already?" And he takes her hand gently into his loving clasp.

"You know I am not," she says, with flushed, troubled face. "I never would have married anyone but you; and I thought -- I know there must be heart-sympathy between us, or I never would have heard that cry of yours so clearly when you were so dangerously ill. I cannot understand now how it reached me, nor can you. I only know I heard it, and then God seemed to tell me you wanted me, and I must come. But I might have been deceiving myself. It may not be His will, after all. Oh, Bernard, I cannot bear to think I may have ruined your future."

"Ruined my future, Gildas?"

"A Nonconformist wife will always be a drawback to you. You will never be a Dean or a Bishop, they say"

"Who are they?" he asks, still closely holding her hand.

"Oh ... people. And of course my own reasoning tells me the same thing. I stand in the way of your promotion, and our ideas will keep clashing, and you'll tell yourself every day that you have made a great mistake!"

"I never expect to be either a Dean or a Bishop, Gildas. If promotion is intended for me by our Lord, He will send it, my heretical wife notwithstanding. I think I can guess the opinions that cause you so much self-reproach just now. But remember, my dearest, our marriage was my doing far more than yours. I longed to have you with me while I lingered alive, and I felt objections would be raised unless the right to nurse me were openly your own. You have no cause for self-accusation, so do not look so troubled, my darling. We don't yet see everything eye to eye, but our blessed Lord has set us together now heart to heart, and we will, both as regards creeds and doctrines, be patient, forbearing, and prayerful. Two things, at any rate, we will agree to avoid. We will never question the wisdom of our marriage, which is an accomplished fact, you see, Gildas -- and we will never quarrel."

"Oh, but I am rather quarrelsome," she says. "I mean, I am outspoken in what I feel, and I must stand by what I hold to be truth. I will really do my best, Bernard, but I am not a bit like the people who visit at the Vicarage. I know the kind of people so well -- 'prunes and prism' -- suspecting anyone who is not exactly in their dull, respectable mould of being 'peculiar,' which, in their sight, is a social sin. I always was different from other people, and it's no use trying to frame myself on the correct clerical principle. Perhaps you ought to have married some of the cathedral people from Dilchester."

"Ought I? But we do not all see the path of duty so clearly as Gildas Haven -- that was."

"Then you are quite sure I never can set you free, even if you want to be, Bernard? I thought -- people thought -- there might be some way of undoing the marriage, if you wanted."

"Gildas," he says, with a sterner look than she has seen on his face before, "you must never ask me such a question again. Such words must not arise between us. Our marriage is sacred in the sight of God, and has been blessed by the Church. Some at Rosebrake will doubtless disapprove, and some at Rehoboth too; but we can never be put asunder. Kiss me now, and try to put up with me, dear wife," he says, with the smile that for the time being makes her forget she is "the bane and temptress of his spiritual life."

They begin to make arrangements for Gildas' temporary return to Meadthorpe, that she may break the news of her marriage by degrees to Mr. Haven, and induce him to consent to the proposal that henceforth he will reside beneath her roof at Rosebrake Vicarage. Pendrill will meanwhile be driven home to Rosebrake Vicarage; and in a few weeks, he tells her, they will journey together into Devon for the honeymoon, which, though tardy, will be "better late than never."

"I'll go home on Thursday," says Gildas. "Miss Rowena Bertram is coming over by train, Bernard, and I can return with her from Dilchester in the evening. There's one convenient train that goes by the direct route."

So it is settled; but, like many another plan of human making, it is suddenly altered. On Tuesday afternoon there comes a letter from Emery which decides Gildas to go home at once. Trembling and affrighted, yet comforting herself with the thought that she knows how to nurse her father better than anyone else can, and once she is at her father's side he is certain to improve. This is the letter that sends her back disquieted to Meadthorpe:

Honerd Miss, I hope you are quite well, which we have a sick house here, and only time to send a line. The master were took ill after the ordinance last night, and the doctor say it be a kind of a stroke and you was to come immediate. But I did not wish to fright you with a telegraff, miss, but the symptims I do not like the looks of, and Jones is a good dog but has moaned a good bit of a night, which is a sure sign of trubble. Do come, Miss Gildas, you have been away so long, and you are badly wanted, I tell you. So no more from yours respectfully,

Maria Emery.

John Mountford has added a postscript:

Dr. Spencer says it is impossible to say as yet if your dear father will recover consciousness. He may be spared to us yet for many years, or this seizure may be to him the Master's call to the Father's House. It would be wrong to hide from you that the illness is very serious. We know you will come to him as soon as you can leave your Rosebrake friends."

That evening Gildas is back in her old home, those Rosebrake days seeming to her like a dream; but the gold band on her finger tells her they are real -- the keep ring that is Miss Rowena's, for she is to wear it until her husband has chosen a wedding ring for her at Dilchester of the usual kind.

The Mountfords and Emery know by this time the secret that, in fact, by some subtle sense all Meadthorpe has begun to suspect. The young minister and his wife are kindly and sympathetic, and gentle Mrs. Mountford, Annie, is considerably excited over the romance of the affair. But Emery is distinctly shocked, and does not hesitate amid the sick room ministrations to murmur reproaches concerning being "unequally yoked," and putting one's hand to the plough and looking back, and taking up with "false shepherds that destroy the flock by not preaching the Gospel."

But her father can never be told of her marriage -- at any rate, by human lips. Gildas knows he could understand nothing of the matter now, and it rends her heart to be unable to tell him and receive his blessing ere he goes. All day he lies in the same still, stricken state, with open eyes that see not, with ears that hear not, though his oldest deacon, Mr. Channing-Surtees, prays long beside his bed, and John Mountford and Gildas breathe many a text he loves and treasures, trying to recall to consciousness the spirit so nearly fled.

"He presided at the annual united Communion Service," Annie Mountford tells Gildas. "Rehoboth was full even to the galleries, and none will ever forget his voice and his look as he pleaded with the Lord's people to be faithful to their Redeemer, let life bring what it may, and to remember our Heavenly Father to whose sympathy and mindfulness they never can be lost. And what a prayer he offered, Gildas! It seemed to us we were in the very Holy of Holies as he pleaded with God to perfect that which He began, and not to leave any one of us alone until His tender will is our own will, and we are one with Him. We sang our last hymn, 'According to Thy gracious Word,' and everyone was standing when he lifted his hand and spoke the Benediction. It was in the vestry afterwards that this stroke came on, and that Benediction was his last message on earth, I fear."

But later on, Mr. Haven's condition changes somewhat. Once he revives sufficiently to speak to Gildas as "Mary" mistaking her for her mother, and asking, "Is the boy home yet?" for his thoughts are full of David. Once he says to the young co-pastor, "If you minister to my death, preach the sermon, dear lad, from this text, 'Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of Truth.'"

On the Sunday evening, while the service is in progress at Rehoboth Chapel, and John Mountford is leading the people in prayer for him whose voice the congregation will hear on earth no more, Gilead Haven knows Gildas, and smiles on her with such tender brightness that she cries out to Annie Mountford,

"Oh, did you see that look? He knows who I am. I'm certain he will begin to get well. Father, my darling, darling, you know I have come back to you. We never will be parted again."

A tender arm encircles her from behind, and she realizes with a glad heartthrob that her husband is at her side, weak still from his illness, but too anxious about her to refuse the Bertrams' invitation to the Rectory, so that he can be of cheer and comfort to Gildas.

Annie Mountford glides away and leaves them together, Gildas leaning her trembling form against Bernard Pendrill as her longing gaze is fixed on her father's face. Mr. Haven has begun to doze again. When his eyes open, Bernard Pendrill sees within them something which makes him thankful he has reached his wife, so soon to be bereaved.

"Mr. Haven -- Father," he says, earnestly, "give us some sign you know us. Give us your blessing, for we are both your children. Gildas is mine. God helping me, I will take care of her with my love and life until we follow you to Heaven."

Gildas creeps close to the bed, for the thin, trembling hand is groping for hers, and presently there is a light in the dim eyes as they turn on Bernard Pendrill. Whether he clearly comprehends the fact of their marriage they know not, but he seems striving feebly to lift his child's hand to Pendrill's, and that is his last conscious gesture. Even as the young man stoops and kisses his brow, he relapses into the deep drowsiness that is for him the gentle pathway to the Meeting-land.

Meanwhile, they are singing at Rehoboth their closing hymn: "Bread of Heaven, Feed me till I want no more," when Gilead Haven passes hence with the Sabbath sunlight, leaning on his daughter's breast, and sinking to sleep like a weary child.

Gildas feels that the Rehoboth people would value his dying testimony, and seeing his lips move feebly at the last, she bends her head to treasure his parting whisper, but this is all she hears as the old man enters Heaven: "Comfort ... comfort ... comfort ... the Friends of the Jews Society."

Then Bernard Pendrill takes to his heart his fatherless wife, repeating the words of the Psalm in the solemn hush, as the last streaks of day make glory in the room, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints."

Chapter 20

Miss Stretton Scents Heresy

THE shock occasioned to many of the Rehoboth Chapel members by the sudden marriage of their young helper and adherent, to a Church clergyman, is merged in the grief with which they follow to the grave all that is mortal of their dearly-loved pastor. Censure and disapprobation are out of place towards Gildas at this time of her bereavement, though several in their hearts prophesy such marrying in haste will mean repenting at leisure, and feel anxious and distressed on her account. But knowing the vigour of her doctrinal opinions, she hears no words save those of kindness and sympathy, and only by observation of Emery's face can she realize her position as culprit.

It is doubtful if Bernard Pendrill would have been found at any service in the chapel, but the journey to Meadthorpe has exhausted him, and he decides to rest at the Rectory. All the neighbouring ministers, and three or four of the clergy around, gather at Rehoboth for the memorial service, and at the grave Gildas is touched to see Mr. Bertram and Miss Rowena, who have come as representatives of her husband to pay a tribute of respect to the old pastor's memory.

Here by the grave of that tender-hearted shepherd, whose simple goodness outlived his intellectual greatness, differences of creeds and name are put aside. Mr. Bertram and his brethren of the cloth are in the midst of Primitives, Bible Christians, Baptists, Independents, and believers of varying persuasions. The children from the Sunday school put down their posies on the coffin ere it is gently lowered, the solemn hymn meanwhile ascending to the calm blue sky,

"Lord, I commit my soul to Thee!

Accept the sacred trust;

Receive this nobler part of me,

And watch my sleeping dust."

Despite mutual disapproval, latent but foreboding, Rosebrake and Rehoboth vie with one another in honouring the unexpected nuptials of Bernard Pendrill and Gildas Haven. From the parishioners of Rosebrake Church comes a silver cruet stand; from Rehoboth Chapel comes a handsome family Bible with elaborate clasps, and large clear text. "And it is to be hoped the parson will read and profit by it," say some of the donors in their hearts.

But Gildas prizes far more the old, worn Bible that her father used, marked and thumbed, and inscribed, "A gift to my beloved husband on our wedding day. With my love and prayers, -- Mary Haven. 'Thou, hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth!'"

Bernard Pendrill calls on both Mr. Weston and young Mundey to thank them for their selfless help in his time of need, and the devoted nursing wherein Mr. Weston assisted his sisters until Gildas came. Tears of joy are in Weston's eyes to see the young man stand before him, for it is truly as one raised from the dead; but there is a struggle in the good man's breast -- he is not clear internally whether this restoration is for the advantage of truth, seeing that the Vicar of Rosebrake is, in his own opinion, so blind a leader of the blind.

"Young man," he says very earnestly, albeit affectionately, for those days of helplessness gave Pendrill a strong claim on his heart, "young man, you have been again brought from the jaws of the tomb. Take heed lest in superstition and stiff-neckedness a worse thing come unto thee," and he presses into Pendrill's hand a pamphlet warning of error.

Theo Mundey's shyness makes him ill at ease when Pendrill tries to thank him for his attempt to stop the cart -- an attempt which might have cost him his own life, but the risk did not occur to the youth on seeing the driver's danger. Pendrill remembers how, amid the pain of his own bruises, young Mundey helped to bear him to the farm, and he comprehends then that even in those humble lives, there may burn fires of heroism which are little suspected by the dimness of human vision.

The little Ruthvens are inconsolable at the notion of losing Gildas. They are promised a visit by-and-by to Rosebrake Vicarage, but Gordon says, "Sunday school won't be like Sunday school now you're going -- the place is spoilt."

And Milly asks, "Aren't there any husbands for you to marry here in Meadthorpe, Gildas? Couldn't you have had the man that gives out the hymns, or the one that showed the conjuring at the treat? Or Jasper?"

"Why, bless me, Gildas," says Jemmie, who often borrows his phrases from Mrs. Chidgey, "what made you get married to Mr. Pendrill when you said he steals away all your little girls and boys?"

"She is going to watch over me, Jemmie," says Bernard Pendrill, with a smile, "and prevent me from following such evil courses in the future."

"This is for Mr. and Mrs. Pendrill from us children and Chidgey," says Jacky, making the presentation of a brown paper parcel.

The parcel proves to contain photographs of Saint Simeon's parish church and of Rehoboth Chapel, also of the customary sitting room at the Manse as in the old minister's time, before the furniture was moved from its usual place. Gildas touches these memorials tremblingly. She knows it is to Jasper's thoughtfulness she owes the precious photographs.

From Jasper himself she receives, as her wedding gift, a beautifully painted text, wreathed with heartsease, in an oak frame: "He hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." It is the text with which, many a long year since, Gilead Haven received his daughter as a member into the fellowship at Rehoboth.

There are so many things to arrange that the time for her final departure has almost arrived before Gildas is able to steal away to the cleaner's little shop, and bid farewell to her dear old friend, Miss Bell. Many and many a time has Miss Bell's message to her in her time of dreariness and heart-sickness -- the message of "Our Hospital-God," all-knowing, all-caring, all-healing -- comforted and helped her when she has needed strength along the way. Now there is a secret anxiety shadowing the fullness of her bridal peace, an anxiety as to the future -- a fear lest in the home to which she goes, the differing theological elements may cause disunion, and bring pain and disappointment to Bernard.

Perhaps her old friend reads something of her thoughts, for as they sit quietly talking together, and Gildas murmurs something about supposing Miss Bell would never come to hear her husband preach, and they will never worship beneath one roof again, she caresses Gildas' ringed hand very tenderly, and says, "Indeed, Gildas, I am ready to worship my Master wherever He is. Where two or three meet together in His name, whether under His sky, or in that grand church folks go to see in Rome -- Saint Peter's, I think they call it -- He is in the midst. Neither church nor chapel can keep Him outside, dear child, where one humble heart loves Him, and lifts a prayer to Him."

"But, Miss Bell," says Gildas, anxiously, "that is not the way we have been taught. We are to worship not only in sincerity, but in truth, you know. Oh, if only everyone could see and believe the simple truth!"

"And Jesus said, 'I am the Truth,'" says Miss Bell, softly. "Worship, looking by faith on Him, my child, and that which seems to your notions only husks will become to you as angels' food. Dear Gildas, you have taken a step whereon I know you have asked the blessing of the Lord. Commit your way unto Him, and do not be afraid. You have married a good man who loves you deeply. You will be his cheer, his rest, and his helpmeet. Put aside the differences in your beliefs. May you two grow one in the Lord, your characters moulded in His likeness. I often think of what I heard Mr. Mountford say when he first came to Rehoboth. Do you remember that sermon, Gildas? He said the great test of religion is life, not creed. Christ-likeness, not the name and title of our sect. He told us there are, after all, only two real divisions of humankind -- those who live to self, those who live to the Lord, and so to their brethren also. May our God save us all from selfishness, dear child, and bless us with His Spirit."

"Oh, Miss Bell, who's this coming in? Oh, Betty, Betty, can it really be you?"

Gildas springs up joyfully, as from the little back kitchen a delicate-looking but smiling woman, clean-aproned and warmly clad, brings in the tea.

"Well, dearie," says Miss Bell, "I looked after Betty at the hospital in your place, and when they discharged her as cured, I just took her in here, for she's company for me, and she more than pays for her keep by her goodwill and helpfulness."

At this, in her gladness, Gildas hugs them both. The old cat sets up a sympathetic purr, and Betty sheds tears of joy and praise.

"You will come with us to Rosebrake, Emery?" says Gildas, to the servant who has been her friend and helper so long. "There's only a young maid at the Vicarage as yet, and you would be just the one to take charge of her. And, oh, you would be such a comfort to me. Mr. Pendrill says he'll be very glad for you to come, as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Mountford move in here. And we will send for Father's desk and the few things we want to keep. You could come over with them, Emery dear, in the carrier's cart."

"Begging your pardon, miss -- ma'am, I mean," says Emery with dignity, "I am obliged to Mr. Pendrill for his willingness all the same, but for me to enter into employ against my conscientious principles isn't to be thought of for a moment. I'm chapel to the bone, Miss Gildas, and I'm no turncoat, which the end of such is remorse and confusion of face. And now the minister's gone to glory, I don't know as I shall continue in service, Miss Gildas. That will be as Providence directs, for to change one's estate isn't to be contemplated without circumspection and weighing of one's responsibilities. When I leaves here the finger of Providence points to residing with my cousin, Mrs. Joy that married the miller, for there's twins twice over, and she'll be glad of my company for a bit, being handy at the needle. So God bless you, my dearie dear, and I wishes you happiness from the depths of my heart. And I'll pray for you, my precious, every day I live -- but don't ask me to come to no vicarages. I'd just be a fish out of water."

Then Jones comes up and puts his nose into the young wife's hand, and she throws her arms around him and hides her face against his coat.

So Bernard Pendrill finds her, as he comes to tell her the conveyance waits that is to bear them to the station on their way to Rosebrake. His kisses dry her falling tears, and amid Emery's sobs and blessings she passes away from her home, Jones shuffling after her and following her into the new life she is to lead henceforth.

The honeymoon in Devon never comes to pass, for an epidemic of measles breaks out in Rosebrake, and the Vicar feels he is needed there to be of help and comfort to troubled parents.

The Misses Pendrill have departed -- figuratively shaking off the dust of their feet against the pretty house where Gildas is mistress -- and there is little at first to cloud the serenity of the Pendrills' married life.

In this time of illness in the parish Gildas is a ready helper, and the need for her knowledge and skill in the village is balm to the heart that aches sometimes in memory of her father, and in secret longing for the associations that hitherto have ministered to her spiritual life. She is not expected to be at many church services while the poor and sick are requiring her.

Pendrill's heart is tenderly proud of her ability and usefulness, and he tells her again and again she was intended by nature and grace for a parson's wife. It is many a day before both are conscious of "the little rift within the lute," but it nonetheless exists, and there are neighbours and acquaintances who take a good deal of trouble to widen it.

The Vicar's wife is about the only one in the church who keeps her seat when the choir boys enter before the service, who makes no reverence in passing the altar, who stands out of the guilds that promise to do all kinds of things for the advancement of the Church, and who keeps the same firm position of protest when all the other women present are crossing themselves or humbly bowing.

All this, Pendrill knows well enough, but he takes no outward notice, though Gildas sometimes sees a look of trouble in his eyes as they follow her lovingly about their sunny breakfast room at the Vicarage, where Jones spends his honourable old age in meditation on the rug, and looks up expectantly at times when anyone opens the door, as though thinking the white hair and bowed form of Gilead Haven will be seen again.

"Far be it from me to make mischief, Mr. Pendrill, or to be the means of shadowing domestic felicity," says Miss Stretton, the Squire's sister and housekeeper, and superintendent of the girls' department in the Sunday school; "but at the sacrifice of personal feeling I feel it my duty to suggest that you should remonstrate with Mrs. Pendrill as regards her mode of instruction in the Sunday school. Being so very short of teachers, I entrusted her with a class, though rather anxious concerning the matter, for I have heard that the most extraordinary notions prevail at Meadthorpe Chapel, where her father was minister. It is my painful duty to tell you Mrs. Pendrill is not teaching from the additional catechism and the selection of hymns for Anglo-Catholic schools that were introduced when you came here. I do not like suggesting that she should be asked to resign her post, but I fear the lessons she imparts have very little in common with our treasured principles."

"I think there must be some mistake, Miss Stretton," said Pendrill, politely; "but I will converse with my dear wife as to her Sunday school class. It is certainly important that the lines I laid down for the moral and spiritual instruction of the little ones should be definitely followed week by week, and I thought this was understood by every teacher."

"How do you get on with your class in the Sunday school, love?" he asks Gildas, when that evening she sits making a warm dress for a child in the village, and he lingers beside her for a while, his hand laid tenderly on her shoulder. He has no intention of betraying that any complaint has reached him from the Sunday school superintendent. Similar remarks have filled the parochial atmosphere, he knows, but concerning all this he has been silent to Gildas, determined as far as possible to spare her pain.

"Oh, they are dear little things, Bernard," replies his wife, "and I am getting quite fond of them, though, of course, as yet, they don't seem quite so nice as my Rehoboth children. I must show you this beautiful letter I had from Kitty Demsey today. She's in Miss Mundey's class now, and she tells me all about last Sunday's lessons"

"I suppose, dear, you take the lessons from our manual, like the other teachers?"

"Yes, Bernard, though I must own I cannot always teach them exactly as they advise in that little book, and ... and ... Bernard, I cannot use that catechism Miss Stretton wishes me to teach. I do not consider it suitable for Protestant children. And some of the hymns in that collection they use seem to me to encourage praying to the saints. Of course, I only teach my class what I believe to be scriptural. You don't mind my managing the children in my own way, do you, Bernard? We're very happy together, and the mothers say their children enjoy their Sunday school lessons."

"Invocation of saints is not praying to them, Gildas," he answers. "Those in authority and competent to judge have approved our hymnal and ecclesiastical primer, and it is most important that the instruction of the children should be definitely on Church lines."

Almost unconsciously he has removed his hand from her shoulder, and he looks troubled and perplexed. The disapproving gesture sends a quiver through her frame; but she looks into his eyes and speaks out frankly that which is within her heart.

"I will never teach," she tells him, "that which I do not believe. There can be no objection surely to my giving a simple Bible lesson to these little ones, even if I do ignore doctrines I cannot honestly pretend to believe? But I am glad you asked me about my class, Bernard. More than once I have wished to speak to you about the Sunday school, but I shrank from annoying you. I know Miss Stretton doesn't like me, and she's keenly on the lookout for heresy in my instructions! If such stress be laid on my teaching emphatically 'on Church lines,' as you seem to imply, had I not better resign my class at once? I'll be very sorry to give up the children, but I cannot conscientiously impart the doctrines Miss Stretton seems to advocate."

There is a pause, then he says gravely, "Your resignation, Gildas, can be as the teachers decide. You can lay it before their meeting if you choose, and they would in due course accept it, or request you to continue your class. Personally speaking, I do lay stress on the religious instruction of our scholars being wholly systematic and orderly, such as will conduce to their fidelity to the faith of their fathers. Your views, I fear, are deeply prejudiced against doctrines we hold sacred and precious, and I feel a great responsibility in using you at present as a spiritual teacher of the young."

"Well, Bernard," says Gildas, after a silence, "I will be very, very sorry to give up my class, for already I love the children, but I often see them in their homes, and I must try to help them still. It need not be a matter of voting at the teachers' meeting. You wish me to resign. I see you do. I will write to Miss Stretton tomorrow, proposing to give up my class."

"I am afraid there is no alternative, dear," he says, sadly but decisively. "I would ask any other teacher holding such views to resign, and I must not act against my conscience, must I, Gildas? I pray every day that one day my precious wife will be a true and devout daughter of the Church, loyally reverencing the Church's teachings, and using every power for her honour and her glory. There is nothing too hard for the mighty power of our blessed Lord."

This is the evening for his sermon writing, and he goes slowly to his study and shuts the door.

The faces of the Rehoboth Chapel boys and girls, whose smiles ever welcomed Gildas' appearing -- the children she was not counted unworthy to guide and teach -- rise before her eyes as in a mist of tears. She presses her lips firmly amid those tears to her wedding ring. Dearer than memory even is her husband, and for his sake she will do the little she can in church work that touches no question of belief. Her troubled heart in the evening stillness steals to its Father for help and strength, and she falters patiently within her:

"When obstacles and trials seem

Like prison walls to be,

I'll do the little I can do --

And leave the rest to Thee."

### Chapter 21

Life at Rosebrake

MR. FLETCHER, Pendrill's nearest neighbour, presides over a church much "higher" than Rosebrake, at any rate in practice. To please her husband, Gildas accompanies him to a festival service at that church, uneasy in her seat in consequence of the incense, banners, nun-like sisters from the Protestant Retreat in the vicinity, and the sermon itself. The Holy Communion is administered during this service, and many take part, but Gildas is shut out from the sacrament, never having been confirmed. To her this seems only a little deprivation, for it appears more like the celebration of the Mass than a Protestant ordinance.

When she takes the Lord's Supper again, it will be at the little whitewashed village chapel that struggles along somehow under the ministry of itinerant preachers -- men who through the week have to earn their living by the sweat of their brow.

Gildas is of opinion that Mr. Fletcher, to whom her husband looks up with admiring reverence, has her state of mind on his heart, and advises Bernard what books to place in her way. She finds herself in the midst of literature concerning the True Historical Church, the Fathers of the Church, Saints, Confessors, Bishops, and Archbishops in profusion, also surrounded by treatises on the Rites of Baptism and Confirmation and the Holy Eucharist.

Mr. Fletcher begs her acceptance of a book he has written himself, called Do I observe Fridays? and Gildas gives him a treatise by Jasper Ruthven on The Liberation of Religious Matters from State Control. It is her private copy, for, as Bernard's wife, she cannot circulate the small book according to her desire.

Emery comes over to see her one day, driven in a light cart by a stolid-looking man who wears a flower in his overcoat, and pulls his front hair to Gildas at intervals, looking with silent admiration at the more conversational Emery.

"Why, Emery, dear!" says Gildas, delightedly, "how well you look, and how good it is to see you again!"

"Wishing I could say the same of you, Miss Gildas -- begging your pardon, Mrs. Pendrill, ma'am, I mean," says her visitor, looking closely at the girl's face, and shrewdly suspecting the signs of tears. "Every living creature at Rehoboth sent you all sorts of messages, and Mr. Mundey says surely you'll try to come over for our Sunday school anniversary? Them boys and girls in the school would go fairly wild to see your face again, my dearie dear."

"I never forget them," says Gildas, almost at the point of breaking down; "but Meadthorpe is such a long way off. I won't be able to come, Emery, I know."

"'Taint Emery," says the man standing by the door. "Her's Maria Joy, and she's my wedded wife."

Gildas discerns that Emery's mourning is lightened today by a profusion of grey ribbons and a new bonnet. "Are ... are ... are you married, dear old Emery?" she cries, excitedly, holding out her hands to the happy pair.

"Yes, my dearie, at Rehoboth this morning, for though Simon Joy is Shiloh -- he's brother to my cousin's husband at the Mill, you know, Miss Gildas -- he gives the lady the choice on this occasion, and we were made one at the old place by Mr. Mountford. And we've made an amicable arrangement to avoid unpleasantness, Miss Gildas -- Shiloh in the morning, seeing the husband's the head of the wife -- which is according to Scripture -- and Rehoboth of an evening. But I'll get him over to Rehoboth after a bit twice a day, and he'll join as a member, I don't doubt in the end," she adds, confidentially, taking the saucepan from the hands of the young country maid who is making melted butter, and has rather vague ideas on the subject.

Miss Emery -- or rather Mrs. Joy -- sends upstairs Mrs. Pendrill's favourite pudding, and prepares a festive dish or two for the kitchen, where she and her new husband dine in company with Lizzie, who is devoted to Gildas, and by her ready tongue makes the visitor pretty well informed that the red eyes she has noticed are not a rare occurrence.

"There's an old cat up at the Hall," says Lizzie, "as makes mischief about things in the church. Miss Stretton, the Squire's sister. She'd have liked to be mistress here herself, they say in the village, and she can't abide missus, so she and some others talks about her 'dangerous notions' and so on, and says she teaches in Rosebrake things which is contrary to the Prayer Book."

"Didn't I foretell as much, Simon?" Mrs. Joy asks her husband later. "I foresaw trouble ahead for the poor dear. What good can come of marrying them as is steeped and dyed in Papacy and superstitions? Them as makes their bed must lie on it, says the proverb; and I don't see as how any living creature can set things right betwixt man and wife when they're of opposite persuasions."

"There's One with whom nought is impossible, though, my woman," says Mr. Joy, reverently, and his wife exclaims, "There! If I hadn't almost forgot what I have got for the dear in my basket from that there deaf and dumb woman at Miss Bell's. There's only one way for Miss Gildas, or for any one of us, out of trouble and into the light, and that's to pray; for the best of us is but helpless little children, and if the Lord don't help and pity us, which way can we look?"

"He's very pitiful and of tender mercy," says Simon Joy, and then he goes out to see a Rosebrake friend. His wife has a quiet hour with Gildas, and strokes her hair with gentler touch than many might expect those busy, capable hands could bestow, while Gildas and Jones, both faithful-hearted and unable to forget old friends, cry a little over "Emery," and then rejoice anew in her company.

Betty's present is only a bookmarker, worked laboriously by feeble, willing fingers; but it bears from that sister-soul just the message Gildas needs in her many perplexities: "Tell Jesus."

Pendrill is with his wife in the breakfast room when Mr. and Mrs. Joy come up to take their leave, having made the drive to and fro their honeymoon, and having now to return to Meadthorpe. The Vicar greets his old acquaintance cordially, and heartily congratulates Simon Joy. But the worthy miller seldom or never pays a visit without falling on his knees, and to Pendrill's astonishment he says with simplicity, "Shall we have a bit of prayer afore we says good day?"

Quiet and of few words in general conversation, Simon Joy finds his tongue in addressing his Lord. It seems that prayer is his native language, and though the Vicar initially felt inclined to smile at these unexpected proceedings, a sense of awe is in every heart, as in the eloquence taught by earnestness, Joy pleads for the blessing of God on this house, and beseeches the great burden-bearer, whose love is father's and mother's and Saviour's in one, to show to each needy life His sympathizing heart, and be Himself the light and comfort and dear desire of the never-dying souls He has made and understands.

A few days later Mrs. Joy writes to Gildas that some of the Meadthorpe people whom she knows are coming over to the anniversary of the little chapel at Rosebrake. It is to be held that evening, and as her husband has had to go to London for a few days, and Gildas feels rather lonely, her heart beats high at the thought of seeing those familiar faces and of spending a happy, homelike evening in the company of her father's friends.

It does not occur to her, in the glad anticipation of this reunion, that for her to take part in the chapel service may give offence to some in the parish, and so distress her husband. It seems to her quite natural that she should welcome Mr. and Mrs. Mountford to Rosebrake, and the Shiloh minister whom she knows so well.

The chapel people give her kindly welcome, and tell her they would be "right glad to see the Vicar too." It is a veritable homecoming for the girl's hungry heart. She rejoices in the familiar sight of the country chapel tea meeting; in the old tunes started by the precentor's pitch-pipe; in the helpful, inspiring words spoken by John Mountford, and those who have charge of the meeting.

Annie Mountford, sitting beside Gildas at the service, feels her tremble in the vivid recollection of her father when two of his favourite hymns are sung: "Not all the blood of beasts" and "Begone unbelief." Though read out verse by verse, and delayed in progress by certain members whose vocalization is lingering and long drawn out, these hymns have more power to reach the heart of the Vicar's wife than the carefully rendered chanting and intoning in her husband's church.

To Gildas that bare little place -- bare not because the worshippers are averse to beauty, but because they are poor and struggling -- is as the gate of Heaven, bright with the light that shines from the Master's presence.

She sends to Meadthorpe by the Mountfords a wreath of Rosebrake flowers she has twined for her father's grave, and on her knees that night she thanks God for the help and comfort He has sent her in the renewal of old associations, and words of Godspeed for the future.

All her joy is soon clouded, however, in the consciousness that in some way her husband has been influenced to look on her participation in the meeting as an offence offered to himself and his congregation, and a matter calling for earnest and serious rebuke.

"I would have gone just the same had you been here, Bernard," she tells him, with wistful eyes fixed on his disapproving face. "I love these country anniversaries. One sees so much character -- and, oh, the addresses were grand. Besides, the Mountfords came, and many that I knew. How could I help wanting to meet them?"

"Your position here," Pendrill answers, "has its responsibilities, and I must ask you, Gildas, not to ignore them. To attend on irregular and unauthorized ministries is to give the parishioners a wrong impression of the importance of consistence. When those to whom they naturally look up for guidance and example, worship indiscriminately here and there, they are led to suppose it is a trifling and easily excusable matter to forsake their parish church."

Gildas never goes again to Rosebrake Chapel. She is thrown back, to her growth and gain, upon her Bible -- nay, she is thrown back upon her Lord, and as one whom a mother comforteth, so He comforts the heart of His child. She strives hard to gather messages of help from the sermons at church. Pendrill's preaching is never barren, but he is greatly in request on special occasions around, and there are frequently clergy in his pulpit who intone far better than they preach.

Again and again when Gildas' weary spirit can make no sense of the discourse going round and round the subject and "o'er and o'er," yet never seeming to enter within it, she reminds herself this is the time when "God takes the text and preaches Patience."

She knows that what seem hindrances to her own devotions may yet be helpful to others, and all this she can quietly accept and bear.

When summer again comes round, Miss Sophia and Miss Letitia, with Tabitha, their stately Persian cat, arrive for a fortnight's sojourn at the Vicarage. Gildas has long dreaded this visit, knowing she is no favourite with the old ladies, and that all her attempts to gain their favour and make them comfortable will be resented with chilling and consistently disapproving dignity.

Miss Sophia cannot forbear a start of dismay when Gildas, like a quiet little ghost, glides forward to greet them, and hastens to get them tea.

"Has your wife been ill, Bernard?" ask his sisters, when Gildas is out of the room. "You did not inform us, but of course sisters are nobody, and would naturally take no interest in your domestic affairs."

"My dear Sophia and Letitia," he answers, rather irritably, "Gildas is in good health, with the exception of occasional headaches. I must ask you to excuse me now -- the bell is calling to evensong."

"I never saw such a change in anyone," says Miss Letitia, solemnly. "She was just a bright eyed child a few months back. Now she looks years older, and mark my words, she is stamped with the seal of decline. She ought to see a medical man immediately. Neither Sophia nor I like the look of her."

Bernard Pendrill knows his sisters are given to melancholy and groundless forebodings, but he does not like the thought that Gildas seems unwell to them. Seeing her day by day, he has noticed no change, but now he asks her if she thinks she is weaker and paler than she used to be, and she quietly answers nothing is amiss with her but the heat of the weather.

The anniversary of the Coronation of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria is always a festival in Rosebrake. At the church there is a special service, which all the children attend, and then there is a feast in the grounds of the Hall, when Mr. Stretton, the squire, provides Punch and Judy, fire balloons, and all kinds of amusements for the juveniles; and his sister, Miss Stretton, is quite a Lady Bountiful with cakes and sweets.

The gala takes place this year as usual, and all from the Vicarage go up to help. A day or two later a heinous offence is brought home to the conscience of Gildas. Her husband informs her that Dissenting children were discovered at the treat, and asks her if it is true she admitted them to a tea arranged by private hospitality for the children of the Church Sunday school.

"They never came to tea," says Gildas. "It was long after tea I let the three little Wilsons in. Poor little things, they are motherless, and they were peeping through the palings so wistfully at Punch and Judy. Yes, I opened the gate and let them stand close and see the show. Then I sent them away with some sweets, but only out of the bag I had myself provided for the scrambling. They never tasted Miss Stretton's feast, and they were not ten minutes in the grounds. I know I ought to have hardened my heart against their pleading little faces, but I could not. I think it would have been nice of the Strettons to have thrown open their grounds to all the village children, seeing the Queen reigns over the little Dissenters as much as over Miss Stretton's chosen flock!"

Pendrill, urged on by a sense of duty, and speaking the more sternly, perhaps, because the offender is so dear to his heart, endeavours to point out to her that it is not the only ground of complaint she has given the Church people, and as he proceeds it becomes evident to Gildas that her fears are realized -- the bond between them is untold misery to him at last.

"This cannot go on," she says suddenly. "We are not likeminded, and never will be, and every day only makes us more unhappy. Let me go my own way, and you go yours. It was a mistake for us ever to marry. There are many who mutually agree to separate -- so let us do that. I can earn my own living. I want nothing from you. We will let hate grow to each other soon if this kind of life goes on. Let us separate. Indeed, I cannot bear it."

"Gildas," he says, severely, "this is hysterical folly. Such a scandalous separation is not to be thought of for one moment. I will not hear of it, and I am astonished you can so lightly make the suggestion. All I ask of you is that you will avoid giving offence to the Church workers, who are naturally sensitive as to undue encouragement to those children who will not attend our Sunday school."

Gildas makes no reply. This conversation is the beginning of an estrangement which both feel, more than is mutually suspected. Each believes the other bitterly repents the link between them, and though outwardly only a close observer could discern any difference, they are both aware that in their home the music of heart-union is, alas, discordant and almost mute.

"What is amiss between Bernard and our sister-in-law?" the Misses Pendrill ask when visiting Miss Rowena Bertram for the day at Meadthorpe. "Demonstrative sentimentality is offensive, but it is not natural to see a young wife so quiet and repressed, and they seem to us almost to avoid each other. We are much distressed about the two. What can be the matter?"

Miss Rowena, who has been several times to Rosebrake, gives it as her opinion that Mrs. Pendrill's differing doctrinal notions have been made the most of by some in the parish. She has heard that the admission of the three little Dissenters to the Coronation feast caused special indignation to Miss Stretton.

"Hoity-toity Miss Stretton, indeed! So she means to control the parish, does she? I thought she was at the bottom of this trouble," says Miss Letitia. "I shall make a point of putting Bernard on his guard against her as a mischief-maker. Miss Stretton, indeed! What next, I wonder?"

The fact of Miss Stretton's displeasure is a speedy passport for Gildas to the favour of the Misses Pendrill, who have never forgotten how on one occasion when their brother was invited to the Squire's house to meet a Bishop, a Dean, and certain other dignitaries, they were somehow left out of the invitation.

In truth, their compassions, unconsciously to themselves, have already gone out to the quiet little mistress of the Vicarage, and not only do they try, despite an inbuilt want of tact, to draw husband and wife closer together, but they begin to make quite a pet of Gildas. She is touched to the heart by the change in their manner, and sees them leave at last with real regret.

One afternoon Gildas enters the house, feeling dejected and lonely, missing her sisters-in-law more than she could ever have supposed, and conscious to the depths of her heart of the great gulf that has opened between her husband and herself, when Lizzie meets her in the hall and asks her to come to the kitchen.

"I'm afraid that there dog ain't very well, missus," she says. "He's ate no dinner, and he don't seem to take no notice. He just keeps on the rug afore the fire. Perhaps he'd arouse a bit if you was to speak to him."

"I thought he was very quiet this morning," says Gildas, anxiously; "and he's not tried to come out with me of late. Sometimes a little cod-liver oil has done him good. Lizzie, I must be extravagant for once and tempt him with a little beef tea."

Lizzie goes to fetch some, but a cry from Gildas brings her quickly from the larder.

"Lizzie, he's dying! Oh, Jones, don't leave me, my doggie. You're all of home I have left!"

She murmurs the words brokenly, with her arms round the old collie sleeping his life away calmly on the kitchen rug, having lived as long as collies may, and Nature being almost exhausted within him. Quieter and quieter has Jones become of late, more faithful to the fire and less inclined to bark even when cats are in question. But somehow Gildas has never realized that the last sleep can come to the playmate of her girlhood, her trusty comrade through shade and shine.

Hearing her voice and feeling her touch, Jones makes a last effort to lift his whitened head and kiss her cheek, then his head drops again on his paws, a tremble passes gently through his patriarchal frame, and Jones, her collie, is no more.

"Missus ... he's dead," says Lizzie. "I thought he were too old to last much longer. Where will we bury him, missus?"

But Gildas cannot reply. She clings to the still form, and the words of Luther to his dog -- words often quoted to Jones by her father with his sweet, kind smile -- bring unorthodox soothing to her sorrowing heart, "Be comforted, little dog -- in the resurrection thou, too, shalt have a little golden tail."

The loss of Jones has left Gildas quite alone. He was her last link to the past, and she knows she will never hear his voice in her home again. And the calm for which she has striven so bravely breaks down beneath this last grief.

When Bernard comes in to prepare for an evening meeting at Dilchester, whither he has promised to accompany Mr. Buisson of Bilsboro', he finds Gildas sobbing alone in her little sanctum. The long-repressed tears have found vent at last, and her grief goes to his heart as he watches her, with white, troubled face, knowing nothing yet of the loss that has shaken her stillness and composure.

He remembers her appeal to him to repair the mistake of their marriage, to give freedom to them both by a separation, and let both go their own ways, rather than prolong variance of spirit and mutual disquietude. He begins to realize that the home troubles have been worse for her to bear. Was his decision against that separation a cruelty to her? Is her heart beating to be away from him, as a caged bird beats its bars? Is she so miserable as this? "Lord God, help us both, and guide us to that which in Your sight shall be right and good!"

"Gildas," he says, softly, and she turns with a startled cry.

His voice is kinder than it has been for many a day. His heart is victorious over his doctrines for once, and she would fain hide the tears she cannot help on his breast, but his next words seem to freeze them on her lashes ere they fall.

"Do not grieve so, Gildas. I see our present life has become to you unbearable, and Rosebrake is only a prison to your heart. When I denounced the idea of a separation by mutual consent, the thought was new to me and it revolted me. Since then I have wondered more than once if in keeping you here against your will I am doing right. Your desire may be the solution of our perplexities. I will consider it in all its bearings, and see what is best to be done."

"I am sure that is best," says Gildas, sitting up, and trying to speak in composed and dignified accents. Since he can bear to consider the course he opposed so strongly, it must be for the best. She will go away out of his life -- he evidently needs her no longer. "I hope it can soon be settled," she says calmly.

"I am bewildered," he answers. "I want to secure your peace and happiness, and at Rosebrake I have not made you happy. Gildas, we are blind and ignorant, and in sore need of guidance now -- we two whom God gave to each other. Will you pray to Him concerning this idea of our separation? And I will too, and He will assuredly show us His will in this matter. Let us each pour out our heart before Him, telling Him the whole of our bewilderment. I am certain He will have mercy on us, and reveal to us what He would have us do."

Just then Mr. Buisson's ring on the doorbell warns Bernard he must prepare for departure. But before he leaves the house he comes again to the room where Gildas sits in lonely thought, and lays his hand gently, as in blessing, on her head, leaving with her a parting message that sends her in the quiet starlight to her knees, and brings her to the Mercy seat, the words by the poet John Greenleaf Whittier:

"The paths to trouble are many,

And never but one sure way

Leads out to the light beyond it,

My dear wife, let us pray."

Chapter 22 (last chapter)

"He That Hath Mercy on Them Shall Lead Them"

THE Dilchester meeting, to which Bernard Pendrill goes in company with Mr. Buisson, is a great annual missionary festival, largely attended by the clergy, and of a most inspiring nature, telling anew of the triumphs of Redeeming Love, dark and primitive districts changed to homes of brotherliness and peace, the Lamb of God beloved and served by those who dwelt in the habitations of cruelty.

An earnest appeal is made for helpers in the great broad-spreading harvest field. The call has come over for labourers from many a far-distant spot, and one who is himself on the point of returning to live or die in a remote Syrian district entreats the vast audience to unite in prayer, that the Lord of the harvest may send forth labourers in response to the cry of the needy: "Come over and help us!"

Bernard Pendrill, during the first part of the meeting, is far away in thought from the people gathered there, and hears little of the glad, glorious tidings that thrill the heart of Mr. Buisson, and cause his face to glow with joy. Pendrill is revolving, almost in despair, the perplexity as to his married life. He cannot see Gildas miserable, yet it is difficult for him wholly to ignore the anxiety of those with whom he is connected, lest her Dissenting inclinations should unfairly represent the status of Nonconformity, and prove injurious to the growth of Church doctrines around.

The idea of arranging a separation is hateful to him. He knows what a painful position in many cases is that of a wife living apart from her husband, and he cannot bear that any breath of gossip should touch the name he holds so dear.

"Lord, help me!" is all, in his blindness, he feels able to pray. "Undertake for Thy children ... Thou who knowest all things, who knowest that we love Thee!"

The sound of many voices singing the missionary hymn startles him from his reverie. Like a trumpet call it rings aloud, and all night long as he lies, knowing little of sleep, in the house of a brother clergyman in Dilchester, it echoes again and again in his soul:

Lift up your heads, ye gates of brass!

Ye bars of iron, yield!

And let the King of Glory pass;

The Cross is in the field.

That Banner, brighter than the star,

That leads the train of night,

Shines on the march, and guides from far

His servants to the fight.

Next morning there are several meetings here and there in connection with Foreign Missions. Buisson goes early to a gathering of workers who take special interest in the society, and have met thus at the commencement of the day for a season of prayer.

Pendrill accompanies him, as the return train home is not leaving for some time. The leader of the meeting asks them to make it a subject for prayer that someone may be raised up in response to an urgent call from Christian workers in Africa, who want to send a pioneer into a distant district where the people themselves have expressed a desire for mission work. It will need a heart aflame with Christian zeal, a brave, energetic spirit, a healthy body, to hold forth the Christian banner to the tribes who have everything to learn.

"Oh, for one," prays Buisson fervently, "whose creed is Christ, whose lips the fire from Thine altar hath touched, to go for Thee in answer to this call, to be Thy messenger, O Lord of Hosts, and set up Thine ensign in the land of the shadow of death."

Then Pendrill himself takes up the prayer, pleading for a herald on whom the Spirit of God shall rest, to rise up and answer to the call, "Here am I -- send me."

As he prays, a sudden message seems to come straight to his heart -- " Thou art the man" \-- and he pauses brokenly, to the wonder of some in the room. But Buisson sees he is strangely moved, and lays a brotherly hand on the young man's shoulder.

Like a flash of light, has come to Bernard Pendrill the sense that God has answered his prayer, and revealed to him the path he is to take. Opposing thoughts crowd to his mind -- his ignorance of the language needful for mission work among these people; his quiet, safe life in his country parish, and the possible dangers that await him if he answers to this call; but still a Voice seems saying to him, "I will be with thee -- now, therefore, go;" and he leaves the meeting seeking a still retreat by the riverside, where he spreads the matter before God, and his resolve to answer that call from afar grows stronger and deeper as he prays.

In boyhood Pendrill envisioned the mission field, but the idea has left him for many years, and until now he has been quite content with his parish work, and happy in the lovely spot wherein his sphere of labour has been allotted. Now the old longing wakes within him, and he feels that his own life must fulfil that prayer made specially for a willing, fervent messenger.

He does not know that in his childhood his mother's secret prayers asked for mission work on her boy's behalf, for her heart had throbbed and thrilled in those days reading of those whose sacrificed lives are the seed of the Church, and she longed that the child God had given to her should take up the banner their hands had held.

Then he sees that if he no longer is Vicar of Rosebrake, if his life work lie abroad, will this not solve his wife's domestic troubles? May this not be his Father's way of showing him how to set her free and yet save her name from blight? As the wife of a missionary working afar, there will be no room for gossip concerning her; yet she will regain the liberty she craves, that he can scarcely give her here, save at the cost of scandal.

He knows there is much to weigh and consider, but practically his mind is made up before he leaves the hush of the riverside. He is strong and healthy now, fearless of difficulties, quick in acquiring a language, and with some knowledge of mechanical work -- pursued as a recreation -- what could hinder him from offering himself for the field?

Pendrill has a long talk with the deputation from the parent society, with the good Dean of Dilchester himself, and with his friend Buisson. The latter is the only one who is not surprised at the sudden longing and decision for the mission field. He has felt for some time that to the Vicar of Rosebrake a change was at hand. He has been aware of a restlessness of soul in Pendrill, of expanding powers, enlarging thoughts, readiness, eagerness to do and dare greater things in the unknown future years.

The missionary committee will welcome the young clergyman, they say with one accord, if after consideration he still volunteers for the work. He leaves them with sunshine on his face, and the heavenly whisper of God's words to Joshua girding him with ardent courage, "Have not I commanded thee? Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."

The necessary interviews have detained Bernard Pendrill the whole day in Dilchester, and it is not until evening that with a restful heart he returns to his home. He feels his prayer for guidance has been answered -- no breath of scandal shall rest on Gildas in a quiet English home, delivered from the troubles of her domestic life, yet exposed to no "separation" save that necessarily enforced by his missionary career.

They will write often to each other, and her letters will cheer and strengthen him to preach Christ to his flock, who need their Saviour in all His fullness, and can have little to do with creed or doctrine beyond the Lord Himself. She, too, has doubtless been praying that their perplexities may be solved, and both be guided aright. God has heard their prayers, and led his feet by an unforeseen way to service across the seas.

Yes, Gildas has been praying, and her Lord Himself being her greatest need, she is calmed and helped and rested in communing with Him. Of the future she knows nothing -- the present is full of difficulties \-- only one thing has been made clear to her as she prayed: there is nothing save death that must remove her from her husband's side. That wild, resentful thought of separation is for her a sin.

Whatever may come, whatever Rosebrake hold for her of trial or of thorn, God made her Bernard's helpmeet. Her love, her faith, her patience will yet disperse the mists between them, and the heart of her husband will safely trust in her.

The gardener buried poor Jones last night at the bottom of the garden among the clustering marigolds. Gildas is just returning from a starlight visit to his grave, when she hears the gate open, and she hurries to her husband's side.

"You should wear a shawl, my love," he says, bending to kiss her with tenderness that seems to her newborn. "You should not expose yourself to the dew, little woman."

"Oh, I have not been long out of doors," she answers. "I have only been to my doggie's grave. Jones died yesterday. You didn't know, did you, Bernard?"

"Jones dead!" he exclaims in real regret, for he has been thinking the faithful creature will be some company for his wife in her nearing loneliness. "That was a trouble indeed for you, Gildas. He was a dear old chap, and our home will be the emptier for his loss. May we all do our duty as faithfully and willingly as your good old collie!"

"You must have tea, now," says Gildas. "Mr. Fletcher's curate had your telegram today, he told me, and took evensong here, as well as the morning service. He was very good-natured, and wrote me a Latin epitaph for Jones. But what made you stay so long, Bernard? You expected to be back by two."

He does not tell her until tea is over, and they are together in the lamplight, so quiet of heart, and so untroubled as to coming days, that each feels as though last evening were only a dark dream. Pendrill, in view of the waves that will roll between them, is infinitely gentle and tender in his manner; and she, conscious that while they two live, there will be no shadow of parting, is utterly restful tonight, by some inward power born of prayer.

With his hand on hers, he tells her of the resolve he has made that day, of the call that has come to him, and his decision to leave this English retreat to preach the Gospel to the unsaved. He tells her he knows he has failed to make her happy, but now without scandal her freedom will again be her own. From some safe, cosy nest, amid the scenes and flowers she loves, she will send to him across the ocean words of cheer and help. No one will now misunderstand their parting, for he goes to difficulties, perhaps to danger, and they will each be nearer in heart in those coming days than they have been in the past weeks of doubt and misunderstanding.

"So God has answered our prayers for His guidance," says Bernard, "and now you know how the guidance has reached me, dear wife -- and all is well."

But Gildas has risen up and stands beside him, such a light on her face as shone in her father's eyes of yore, as he witnessed to the glory of God.

She realises that her husband will be going to discouragements, darkness, peril in the name of the Lord, to prepare His way in the hearts of those shadowed ones, amid whom her and Bernard's differences of doctrine and creed will sink low in the simple teaching of Christ Jesus and Him crucified. Is this the honour that God puts on her, to fulfil her heart's desire and longing for mission work, and to grant her that service at her husband's side? To bid her go forth as his cheer, his brightness, his fellow-worker for the sake of their one Lord?

She looks quietly at Bernard, and he cannot understand the meaning of those shining, dew-wet eyes. She puts both her hands together against his heart, and as he folds them in his own she says softly the words of Ruth, "The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."

* * *

And so it comes to pass that one bright morning, all things having been put in order, and many a farewell, many a "Godspeed" spoken, husband and wife stand together on the deck of the outward bound steamer that is just about to leave the London dock for the regions beyond the sea.

Not only Bernard, but Gildas likewise, has found it hard to part from Rosebrake when the time came for goodbye. Very sweet, very fair in its summer glory looked the home to which she came as a bride, and there were many to bless and thank her for her ministrations in that village, and to tell her that she and the Vicar would be followed by their prayers.

Even Miss Stretton looked sorry to say farewell, and told her she would sadly miss her in cutting out the clothes for the Mothers' Meeting.

The Misses Pendrill find themselves heroines and objects of interest in their special relationship with the couple, as related to one who is going out to labour in the interior of those regions, They come over to Rosebrake again for a parting visit bearing presents in the shape of hammocks and travelling writing cases, and full of solicitous warnings as to lions.

The parishioners of Saint Simeon's, Meadthorpe, have given the travellers a couple of restful folding chairs; and Rehoboth Chapel members contribute a generously-fitted medicine chest, with all things needful for aid in case of emergency. But beyond all else that she takes away does Gildas treasure a baby fern that has breathed amid Meadthorpe airs, a little life she has tenderly culled from the side of her father's grave.

The Pendrills are not alone this sunlit morning of their departure on board the Speedwell. Mr. Bertram has come to London on business, and while he is engaged elsewhere, Miss Rowena has come to see them off.

Here, too, are not only Jasper Ruthven, but Gordon, Milly, and the twins, for all four children have had mumps, and to comfort them during their indisposition their elder brother in a moment of weakness promised them a sight of the ship that would bear Gildas away.

"Chidgey's at the hotel," says Gordon. "She's frightened of the cabs, so we left her there, and Jasper's going to take us back while he sees his publisher. His great book has come out, you know, Gildas."

"Yes, and then he's coming home to take us to the waxworks," says Jemmie. "I want to see the king that had his wives' heads cut off."

"And we're going to the Zoolodgekle," chime in Milly and Jacky; "and then home at night -- oh, ever so late. Oh, we're enjoying ourselves! We do like coming here to see you off, dear Gildas."

Gildas turns to Jasper, and tells him in a trembling voice how she and Bernard are reading his poem, "The Rose of Life," and how they treasure it for its own sake and for his.

"You are having grand reviews, Ruthven," says Bernard, clasping his hand. "You are climbing up Fame's golden ladder. When you are a great man, do not forget old friends."

"He never will," says Gildas. "And, Jasper, how we will glory far away in your successes and your fame! Father always prophesied greatness for you. I think he knows in Heaven what the world says of your book. It is so good to know that year by year your poems will be turning hearts sunward!"

Jasper speaks broken yet cheery words of blessing for both. Fame is not the highest joy, the supreme laurel of the heart, and there is a painful wound today that no earthly eye sees.

There is no need for him to say much. The children chatter enough for all, and the noise around prevents even the little voices from being heard at times. Jasper stands by the side of his 'adopted sister,' waiting for the moment when visitors must leave, and he will see her face no more.

A sudden cry that startles the little group. A bright-eyed maiden rushes up to Miss Rowena with eager steps, forgetting awe of her former mistress in surprise and delight at finding her here.

"Anna!" cries Miss Rowena in bewilderment, holding out her hands to the agitated girl. "Surely it cannot be you!"

"Indeed, and it is, ma'am," says Anna Stutts, who looks quite a bonnie lassie in her neat, dark attire, and a bonnet with the veil flowing over her cloak, and tied beneath her chin with white ribbons. "I'm going to Cairo, Miss Rowena, and I'm maid to a missionary lady, and she's been a deaconess, and there she is. And all them other deaconesses have come to see her off. She give me this cloak and bonnet, and I'm going to help her and the other ladies out there all I can. By-and-by she says I may be able to teach some of the little children in their schools. And, oh, Miss Rowena, it's all through you I ever wanted to be of use to anyone, and do something for Jesus."

The last words are spoken in a low voice. The two draw aside together, and then Anna explains more coherently how she comes to be on board. Her present employer -- lately one of a band of deaconesses working in London -- is related to the lady for whose service Anna left Meadthorpe, and has been asked to take out an English servant to the Egyptian mission station. Anna, with her parents' consent, volunteered for the post, being strong and not afraid of work, and longing to have some share, however lowly, in Christian service.

"I have never been able to forget what you taught me at Meadthorpe, ma'am," she says to Rowena. "I tried to get those texts and verses out of my head, but I never could. 'Twas you taught me of the love of God, and I owe everything to you, body and soul'"

The signal is given for visitors to depart, and one by one they slowly leave the ship, and linger to see her glide away towards the broad Channel she must cross to distant seas.

Miss Rowena is crying, but through her tears she smiles at Anna Stutts, the first-fruits of her labours as concerns needy, heedless girlhood; and Anna, close to the "missionary lady," waves her handkerchief from the deck.

Gildas stands up, brave-eyed, calm of face, by her husband's side in the golden morning light. His arm is round her, and his looks are bright with love and courage as he whispers to her that in their Heavenly Father's world they cannot be lonely strangers, for in the Lord, their Dwelling-place, they are at Home.

So Jasper sees them at the last -- Jasper to whose legs the little twins are clinging, while Gordon clasps his hand, and Milly, mounted on his back for a better view, tells him anew she loves him -- loves him \-- and squeezes him about the neck, chattering about Madame Tussauds wax works.

Slowly, slowly the Speedwell passes thence, the travellers feeling they have started forth for the unknown, untried country. In tones that falter at first, a hymn is begun by the deaconesses grouped upon the shore, and one and another take up the prayer until it swells across the water and floats softly back, re-echoed from the ship:

God be with you till we meet again;

By His counsels guide, uphold you;

With His sheep securely fold you,

God be with you till we meet again.

God be with you till we meet again;

When life's perils thick confound you,

Put His arms unfailing round you,

God be with you till we meet again.

God be with you till we meet again;

Keep love's banner floating o'er you;

Smite death's threatening wave before you,

God be with you till we meet again.

THE END

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## Christian Non-fiction

Four short books of help in the Christian life:

_So, What Is a Christian?_ An introduction to a personal faith. Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-2-7, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-2-6

_Starting Out_ \-- help for new Christians of all ages. Paperback ISBN 978-1-4839-622-0-7, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-0-2

_Help!_ \-- Explores some problems we can encounter with our faith. Paperback ISBN 978-0-9927642-2-7, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-1-9

_Running Through the Bible_ _\--_ a simple understanding of what's in the Bible _\--_ Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-6-5, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-3-3

### Be Still

Bible Words of Peace and Comfort

There may come a time in our lives when we want to concentrate on God's many promises of peace and comfort. The Bible readings in this book are for people who need to know what it means to be held securely in the Lord's loving arms.

Rather than selecting single verses here and there, each reading in this book is a run of several verses. This gives a much better picture of the whole passage in which a favourite verse may be found.

As well as being for personal use, these readings are intended for sharing with anyone in special need, to help them draw comfort from the reading and prayer for that date. Bible reading and prayer are the two most important ways of getting to know and trust Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour.

The reference to the verses for the day are given, for you to look up and read in your preferred Bible translation.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-4-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

116 pages 5x7.8 inches

A Previously Unpublished Book

### The Simplicity of the Incarnation

J Stafford Wright

Foreword by J I Packer

_"I believe in ... Jesus Christ ... born of the Virgin Mary."_ A beautiful stained glass image, or a medical reality? This is the choice facing Christians today. Can we truly believe that two thousand years ago a young woman, a virgin named Mary, gave birth to the Son of God? The answer is simple: we can.

The author says, _"In these days many Christians want some sensible assurance that their faith makes sense, and in this book I want to show that it does."_

In this uplifting book from a previously unpublished and recently discovered manuscript, J Stafford Wright investigates the reality of the incarnation, looks at the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, and helps the reader understand more of the Trinity and the certainty of eternal life in heaven.

This book was written shortly before the author's death in 1985. _The Simplicity of the Incarnation_ is published for the first time, unedited, from his final draft.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-5-7

Paperback ISBN: 9-780-9525-9563-2

160 pages 5.25 x 8 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### Bible People Real People

An Unforgettable A-Z of Who is Who in the Bible

In a fascinating look at real people, J Stafford Wright shows his love and scholarly knowledge of the Bible as he brings the characters from its pages to life in a memorable way.

Read this book through from A to Z, like any other title

Dip in and discover who was who in personal Bible study

Check the names when preparing a talk or sermon

The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly – no one is spared. This is a book for everyone who wants to get to grips with the reality that is in the pages of the Bible, the Word of God.

With the names arranged in alphabetical order, the Old and New Testament characters are clearly identified so that the reader is able to explore either the Old or New Testament people on the first reading, and the other Testament on the second.

Those wanting to become more familiar with the Bible will find this is a great introduction to the people inhabiting the best selling book in the world, and those who can quote chapter and verse will find everyone suddenly becomes much more real – because these people are real. This is a book to keep handy and refer to frequently while reading the Bible.

"For students of my generation the name Stafford Wright was associated with the spiritual giants of his generation. Scholarship and integrity were the hallmarks of his biblical teaching. He taught us the faith and inspired our discipleship of Christ. To God be the Glory." The Rt. Rev. James Jones, Bishop of Liverpool

_This is a lively, well-informed study of some great Bible characters._ Professor Gordon Wenham MA PhD. Tutor in Old Testament at Trinity College Bristol and Emeritus Professor of Old Testament at the University of Gloucestershire.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-5-6

314 pages 6x9 inches

Note: This book is not available in all eBook formats

### Christians and the Supernatural

J Stafford Wright

There is an increasing interest and fascination in the paranormal today. To counteract this, it is important for Christians to have a good understanding of how God sometimes acts in mysterious ways, and be able to recognize how he can use our untapped gifts and abilities in his service. We also need to understand how the enemy can tempt us to misuse these gifts and abilities, just as Jesus was tempted in the wilderness.

In this single volume of his two previously published books on the occult and the supernatural ( _Understanding the Supernatural_ and _Our Mysterious God_ ) J Stafford Wright examines some of the mysterious events we find in the Bible and in our own lives. Far from dismissing the recorded biblical miracles as folk tales, he is convinced that they happened in the way described, and explains why we can accept them as credible.

The writer says: _When God the Holy Spirit dwells within the human spirit, he uses the mental and physical abilities which make up a total human being . . . The whole purpose of this book is to show that the Bible does make sense_.

And this warning: _The Bible, claiming to speak as the revelation of God, and knowing man's weakness for substitute religious experiences, bans those avenues into the occult that at the very least are blind alleys that obscure the way to God, and at worst are roads to destruction._

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-4-0

Paperback ISBN 13: 9-780-9525-9564-9

222 pages 5.25 x 8 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### Howell Harris

### His Own Story

Foreword by J. Stafford Wright

Howell Harris was brought up to regard the Nonconformists as "a perverted and dangerously erroneous set of people." Hardly a promising start for a man who was to play a major role in the Welsh Revival. Yet in these extracts from his writings and diaries we can read the thoughts of Howell Harris before, during and after his own conversion.

We can see God breaking through the barriers separating "church and chapel", and discover Christians of different denominations preparing the country for revival. Wesley, Whitefield, Harris. These great 18th century preachers worked both independently and together to preach the Living Gospel. This book is a vivid first-hand account of the joys, hardships and struggles of one of these men -- Howell Harris (1714-1773).

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-9-5

From the Streets of London

to the Streets of Gold

The Life Story of

Brother Clifford Edwards

A True Story of Love

by

Brother Clifford Edwards

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

A printed copy is available directly from Brother Clifford -- thejesusbus@hotmail.co.uk

This is the personal story of Clifford Edwards, affectionately known as Brother Clifford by his many friends. Going from fame to poverty, he was sleeping on the streets of London with the homeless for twenty years, until Jesus rescued him and gave him an amazing mission in life. Brother Clifford tells his true story here in the third person, giving the glory to Jesus.

### Seven Steps to

### Walking in Victory

Lin Wills

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-3-5

Also available as a booklet

www.lenandlin.com

How is your Christian life going? Finding it hard and not sure why? Wherever you might be, _Seven Steps to Walking in Victory_ is a very short book to help you see where you are in the Christian life, and help you keep on the right path to the victory that comes through walking closely with Jesus -- _to live the Christian life you always wanted to live!_

### Seven Keys to

### Unlock Your Calling

Lin Wills

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-2-3

Also available as a booklet

www.lenandlin.com

God has a special plan for each and every one of us -- that includes YOU! He has given all of us unique gifts. Not sure what that might mean for you? _Seven Keys to Unlock Your Calling_ is a very short book that will help you discover how to explore those gifts and encourage you to go deeper into all that God has for you.

English Hexapla

The Gospel of John

(Paperback only)

Published to coincide with the 400th anniversary of the Authorized King James Version of the Bible, this book contains the full text of Bagster's assembled work for the Gospel of John. On each page in parallel columns are the words of the six most important translations of the New Testament into English, made between 1380 and 1611. Below the English is the original Greek text after Scholz.

To enhance the reading experience, there is an introduction telling how we got our English Bibles, with significant pages from early Bibles shown at the end of the book.

Here is an opportunity to read English that once split the Church by giving ordinary people the power to discover God's word for themselves. Now you can step back in time and discover those words and spellings for yourself, as they first appeared hundreds of years ago.

Wyclif 1380, Tyndale 1534, Cranmer 1539, Geneva 1557,

Douay Rheims 1582, Authorized (KJV) 1611.

English Hexapla -- The Gospel of John

Published by White Tree Publishing

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-1-8

Size 7.5 x 9.7 inches paperback

Not available as an eBook

### Roddy Goes to Church

Church Life and Church People

Derek Osborne

**No, not a children's book!** An affectionate, optimistic look at church life involving, as it happens, Roddy and his friends who live in a small town. Problems and opportunities related to change and outreach are not, of course, unique to their church!

Maybe you know Miss Prickly-Cat who pointedly sits in the same pew occupied by generations of her forebears, and perhaps know many of the characters in this look at church life today. A wordy Archdeacon comes on the scene, and Roddy is taken aback by the events following his first visit to church. Roddy's best friend Bushy-Beard says wise things, and he hears an enlightened Bishop . . .

Bishop David Pytches writes: _A unique spoof on church life. Will you recognise yourself and your church here? ... Derek Osborne's mind here is insightful, his characters graphic and typical and the style acutely comical, but there is a serious message in his madness. Buy this, read it and enjoy!_

David Pytches, Chorleywood

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-0-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-09927642-0-3

46 pages 5.5 x 8.5 inches paperback

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### Heaven Our Home

William Branks

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

"I go to prepare a place for you." This well-known promise from Jesus must cause us to think about the reality of heaven. Heaven is to be our home for ever. Where is heaven? What is it like? Will I recognize people there? All who are Christians must surely want to hear about the place where they are to spend eternity. In this abridged edition of William Branks classic work of 1861, we discover what the Bible has to say about heaven. There may be a few surprises, and there are certainly some challenges as we explore a subject on which there seems to be little teaching and awareness today.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

### I See Men as Trees, Walking

Roger and Janet Niblett

Roger and Janet Niblett were just an ordinary English couple, but then they met the Lord and

their lives were totally transformed. Like the Bethlehem shepherds of old, they had a compulsion to share the same good news that Jesus Christ had come into the world to save sinners. Empowered by the Holy Spirit they proclaimed the gospel in the market place, streets, prisons, hospitals and churches with a vibrancy that only comes from being in direct touch with the Almighty and being readily available to serve Him as a channel of His grace and love. God was with them and blessed their ministry abundantly. Praise God! (Pastor Mervyn Douglas, Clevedon Family Church)

The story of Roger Niblett is an inspiration to all who serve the Lord. He was a prolific street evangelist, whose impact on the gospel scene was a wonder to behold. It was my privilege to witness his conversion, when he went forward to receive Christ at the Elim Church, Keynsham. The preacher was fiery Scottish evangelist Rev'd Alex Tee. It was not long before Roger too caught that same soul winner's fire which propelled him far and wide, winning multitudes for Christ. Together with his wife Janet, they proceeded to "Tell the World of Jesus". (Des Morton, Founder Minister of Keynsham Elim Church)

I know of no couple who have been more committed to sharing their faith from the earliest days of their journey with the Lord Jesus Christ. Along the way, at home and abroad, and with a tender heart for the marginalised, Rog and Jan have introduced multitudes to the Saviour and have inspired successive generations of believers to do the same. It was our joy and privilege to have them as part of the family at Trinity where Janet continues to serve in worship and witness. Loved by young and old alike, they will always have a special place in our hearts. (Andy Paget, Trinity Tabernacle, Bristol. Vice President, International Gospel Outreach)

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-1-0

Also available as a paperback

(published by Gozo Publishing Bristol)

paperback ISBN: 978-1508674979

### Leaves from

### My Notebook

New Abridged Edition

William Haslam

(1818-1905)

You may have heard of the clergyman who was converted while preaching his own sermon! Well, this is man -- William Haslam. It happened in Cornwall one Sunday in 1851. He later wrote his autobiography in two books: _From Death into Life_ and _Yet not I_. Here, in _Leaves from my NoteBook_ , William Haslam writes about events and people not present in his autobiography. They make fascinating and challenging reading as we watch him sharing his faith one to one or in small groups, with dramatic results. Haslam was a man who mixed easily with titled gentry and the poorest of the poor, bringing the message of salvation in a way that people were ready to accept. This book has been lightly edited and abridged to make reading easier today by using modern punctuation and avoiding over-long sentences. William Haslam's amazing message is unchanged.

Original book first published 1889

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-2-7

### Blunt's Scriptural Coincidences

Gospels and Acts

J. J. Blunt

New Edition

This book will confirm (or restore) your faith in the Gospel records. Clearly the Gospels were not invented. There is too much unintentional agreement between them for this to be so. Undesigned coincidences are where writers tell the same account, but from a different viewpoint. Without conspiring together to get their accounts in agreement, they include unexpected (and often unnoticed) details that corroborate their records. Not only are these unexpected coincidences found within the Gospels, but sometimes a historical writer unknowingly and unintentionally confirms the Bible record.

Within these pages you will see just how accurate were the memories of the Gospel writers -- even of the smallest details which on casual reading can seem of little importance, yet clearly point to eyewitness accounts. J.J. Blunt spent many years investigating these coincidences. And here they are, as found in the four Gospels and Acts.

First published in instalments between 1833 and 1847

The edition used here published in 1876

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-5-8

### Fullness of Power

### in Christian Life and Service

Home and Group Questions for Today Edition

R. A. Torrey

Questions by Chuck Antone, Jr.

This is a White Tree Publishing _Home and Group Questions for Today_ Edition. At the end of each chapter are questions for use either in your personal study, or for sharing in a church or home group. Why? Because: "From many earnest hearts there is rising a cry for more power: more power in our personal conflict with the world, the flesh, and the devil; more power in our work for others. The Bible makes the way to obtain this longed-for power very plain. There is no presumption in undertaking to tell _how to obtain Fullness of Power in Christian life and service_ ; for the Bible itself tells, and the Bible was intended to be understood. R. A. Torrey (1856-1928) was an American evangelist, pastor, educator, and writer whose name is attached to several organisations, and whose work is still well known today.

"The Bible statement of the way is not mystical or mysterious. It is very plain and straightforward. If we will only make personal trial of _The Power of the Word of God_ ; _The Power of the Blood of Christ_ ; _The Power of the Holy Spirit_ ; _The Power of Prayer_ ; _The Power of a Surrendered Life_ ; we will then know _the Fullness of Power in Christian life and service._ We will try to make this plain in the following chapters. There are many who do not even know that there is a life of abiding rest, joy, satisfaction, and power; and many others who, while they think there must be something beyond the life they know, are in ignorance as to how to obtain it. This book is also written to help them." ( _Torrey's Introduction._ )

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-8-9

Ebenezer and Ninety-Eight Friends

Musings on Life, Scripture

and the Hymns

by

Marty Magee

Samuel, Mephibosheth, and a woman on death row -- people telling of our Savior's love. A chicken, a dinosaur, and a tarantula -- just a few props to show how we can serve God and our neighbors. Peanut butter, pinto beans and grandmother's chow-chow -- merely tools to help share the Bread of Life. These are just a few of the characters in Ebenezer and Ninety-Eight Friends.

It is Marty's desire to bring the hymns out of their sometimes formal, Sunday best stuffy setting and into our Monday through Friday lives. At the same time, she presents a light object lesson and appropriate Scripture passage. This is done with the format of a devotion book, yet it has a light tone and style. From Ebenezer to Willie, Marty's characters can scarcely be contained within the pages of this whimsical yet insightful volume.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-1-1

Also in paperback

from Rickety Bridge Publishing

ISBN: 978-0-9954549-1-0

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

ALSO BY MARTY MAGEE

### Twenty-five Days Around the Manger

# A Light Family Advent Devotional

Marty Magee

Will a purple bedroom help Marty's misgivings about Christmas?

As a kid, Martha Evans didn't like Christmas. Sixty years later, she still gets a little uneasy when this holiday on steroids rolls around. But she knows, when all the tinsel is pulled away, Whose Day it is. Now Marty Magee, she is blessed with five grandchildren who help her not take herself too seriously.

Do you know the angel named Herald? Will young Marty survive the embarrassment of her Charley Brown Christmas tree? And by the way, where's the line to see Jesus?

Twenty-Five Days Around the Manger goes from Marty's mother as a little girl awaiting her brother's arrival, to O Holy Night when our souls finally were able to feel their full worth.

This and much more. Join Marty around the manger this Advent season.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-1-0

Also in full colour paperback

from Rickety Bridge Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-4923248-0-5

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

The Gospels and Acts

In Simple Paraphrase

with Helpful Explanations

together with

Running Through the Bible

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing presents a paraphrase in today's English of passages from the four Gospels -- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John -- relating Jesus' birth, life, death and resurrection in one continuous narrative with helpful explanations, plus a paraphrase of events from the book of Acts. Also in this book is a brief summary of the Epistles and Revelation. For readers unfamiliar with the New Testament, this book makes a valuable introduction, and it will surely help those familiar with the New Testament to gain some extra knowledge and understanding as they read it. Please note that this is _not_ a translation of the Bible. It is a careful and sensitive _paraphrase_ of parts of the New Testament, and is not intended to be quoted as Scripture. Part 2 is a short introduction to the whole Bible -- _Running Through the Bible_ \-- which is available from White Tree Publishing as a separate eBook and paperback.

**Translators and others involved in foreign mission work, please note:** If you believe that this copyright book, or part of this book, would be useful if translated into another language, please contact White Tree Publishing (wtpbristol@gmail.com). Permission will be free, and assistance in formatting and publishing your new translation as an eBook and/or a paperback may be available, also without charge.

_Superb! I have never read anything like it. It is colloquially worded in a succinct, clear style with a brilliant (and very helpful) running commentary interspersed. I have found it a compelling read -- and indeed spiritually engaging and moving._ Canon Derek Osborne, Norfolk, England.

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-9-6

### Faith that Prevails

The Early Pentecostal Movement

Home and Group Questions for Today Edition

Smith Wigglesworth

Study Questions by Chuck Antone, Jr.

This is a White Tree Publishing Home and Group Questions for Today Edition. At the end of each of the seven chapters are questions by Chuck Antone, Jr. for use either in your personal study, or for sharing in a church or home group. Why? Because _Smith Wigglesworth, often referred to as the Apostle of Faith, putting the emphasis on the work of the Holy Spirit, writes, "_ God is making people hungry and thirsty after His best. And everywhere He is filling the hungry and giving them that which the disciples received at the very beginning. Are you hungry? If you are, God promises that you shall be filled."

_Smith Wigglesworth was one of the pioneers of the early Pentecostal revival. Born in 1859 he gave himself to Jesus at the age of eight and immediately led his mother to the Lord._ His ministry took him to Europe, the US, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, the Pacific Islands, India and what was then Ceylon. _Smith Wigglesworth's faith was unquestioning._

_In this book, he says, "_ There is nothing impossible with God. All the impossibility is with us, when we measure God by the limitations of our unbelief."

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-4-1

### The Authority and

###  Interpretation

### of the Bible

J Stafford Wright

When we start to think about God, we soon come to a point where we say, "I can discover nothing more about God by myself. I must see whether He has revealed anything about Himself, about His character, and about the way to find Him and to please Him." From the beginning, the Christian church has believed that certain writings were the Word of God in a unique sense. Before the New Testament was compiled, Christians accepted the Old Testament as their sacred Book. Here they were following the example of Christ Himself. During His ministry Jesus Christ made great use of the Old Testament, and after His resurrection He spent some time in teaching His disciples that every section of the Old Testament had teachings in it concerning Himself. Any discussion of the inspiration of the Bible gives place sooner or later to a discussion of its interpretation. To say that the Bible is true, or infallible, is not sufficient: for it is one thing to have an infallible Book, and quite another to use it. J Stafford Wright was a greatly respected evangelical theologian and author, and former Principal of Tyndale Hall Theological College, Bristol.

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-9-6

### Psalms,

### A Guide Psalm By Psalm

J Stafford Wright

The Bible Psalms. Do you see them as a source of comfort? A help in daily living? A challenge? Or perhaps something to study in depth? _Psalms, a Guide Psalm by Psalm_ will meet all these requirements, and more. It is an individual study guide that can be used for daily reading in conjunction with your own Bible. It is also a resource for group study, with brief questions for study and discussion. And it's a Bible commentary, dealing with the text of each Psalm section by section.

eBook only

eBook ISBN **978-0-9957594-2-8**

### The Christian's Secret

### of a Happy Life

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

Christian _and_ happy? Do these two words fit comfortably together? Is our Christian life a burden or a pleasure? Is our quiet time with the Lord a duty or a delight? _The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life_ was first written by Hannah Whitall Smith as monthly instalments for an American magazine. Hannah was brought up as a Quaker, and became the feisty wife of a preacher. By the time she wrote _The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life_ she had already lost three children. Her life was not easy, with her husband being involved in a sexual scandal and eventually losing his faith. So, Christian _and_ happy? An alternative title for this book could have been _The Christian's Secret of a Trusting Life._

How often, Hannah asks, do we bring our burdens to the Lord, as He told us to, only to take them home with us again? There are some wonderful and challenging chapters in this book, which Hannah revised throughout her life, as she came to see that the truth is in the Bible, not in our feelings. Fact, faith and feelings come in that order. As Hannah points out several times, feelings come last. The teaching in this book is firmly Scripture based, as Hannah insists that there is more to the Christian life than simply passing through the gate of salvation. There is a journey ahead for us, where every step we take should be consecrated to bring us closer and closer to God, day by day, and year by year.

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-6-6

### Every-Day Religion

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

How are we to live out our Christian lives every day? This book isn't about everyday (ordinary) religion, but about a _living faith_ that changes our lives day by day. Hannah Whitall Smith had to live her life based on her trust in Scripture and the promises of God. In 1875, after the loss of three children, and her husband suffering a mental breakdown after being accused of infidelity, she was able to write _The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life_ , in which she showed that it is possible to find peace with the Lord, no matter what life throws at us, through trusting in His promises.

In 1894, after the death of yet another child, with her three surviving children professing atheism, and her husband losing his faith, Hannah's trust in the Lord Jesus is still so strong that she is able to write in her introduction to her Scripture-based _Every-Day Religion_ , that the purpose of the book is, "To bring out, as far as possible, the common-sense teaching of the Bible in regard to every-day religion. ... How to have inward peace in the midst of outward turmoil."

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-0-9

### Haslam's Journey

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing Edition

Previously published 2005 by Highland Books

If you only intend to read just one Christian book, this should be the one! You may have heard of the clergyman who was converted while preaching his own sermon. Well, William Haslam is that man. It happened in Cornwall one Sunday in 1851, and revival immediately broke out. Later, another of William Haslam's "famous" sermons will cause a mass walkout of assembled clergy in St Paul's Cathedral! Once he starts to preach the Gospel with zeal, you can rejoice over powerful conversions in nearly every chapter.

Haslam's Journey consists of selected passages from William Haslam's two autobiographies: From _Death_ Into Life (published 1880, his Cornish ministry) and Yet Not I (published 1882, set mostly in Bath, Norfolk and London), abridged and lightly modernised. Just under half of the originals is included. With copious notes and appendices by Chris Wright, editor of _Haslam's Leaves_ also from White Tree Publishing. William Haslam writes with humour and great insight.

_William Haslam writes about his early life:_ "I did not see then, as I have since, that turning over a new leaf to cover the past is not by any means the same thing as turning back the old leaves and getting them washed in the blood of the Lamb. I thought my acceptance with God depended upon my works. This made me very diligent in prayer, fasting and alms deeds. I often sat and dreamed about the works of mercy and devotion I would do."

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-8-5

### My Life and Work

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

Rodney "Gipsy" Smith was born in a gipsy tent in Epping Forest, England. He was the son of gipsies, Cornelius Smith and his wife Mary. Growing up, he had to help support the family by making and selling items like clothes pegs around the area. He only had a few weeks at school one winter, and was unable to read or write. One day his father Cornelius came home to say that he had been converted, and was now a Christian. Cornelius helped bring his son to the Lord, and from that moment, Rodney wanted to share the way of salvation with others.

Now followed a difficult time, because he knew that in order to preach to others, he had to be able to read the Bible, both for himself and aloud to others. He writes, "I began to practise preaching. One Sunday I entered a turnip field and preached most eloquently to the turnips. I had a very large and most attentive congregation. Not one of them made an attempt to move away." When he started preaching to people, and came across a long word in the Bible he was unable to read, he says he stopped at the long word and spoke on what had gone before, and started reading again at the word after the long one!

Gipsy Smith quickly learnt to read fluently and was soon into fulltime evangelism, where he soon became known as Gipsy Smith, a name he accepted gladly. He joined the Salvation Army for a time, until being told to resign. Instead of this being a setback, he now took up a much wider sphere of work in England, before travelling to America and Australia where he became a much-loved preacher. In spite of meeting two American presidents at the White House, and other important figures in society, Gipsy Smith never forgot his roots. He never pretended to be anything other than a Gipsy boy, and was always pleased to come across other Gipsy families in his travels. Like Billy Bray and others uneducated writers, Gipsy Smith tells the story of his life in a simple and compelling way. This is the account written by a man who gave himself fully to the Lord, and was used to help lead thousands to Jesus Christ as their Saviour.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-4-7

eBook Coming January 2018

### Living in the Sunshine:

The God of All Comfort

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

Hannah Smith, who suffered so much in her personal life, has an amazing Bible-based grasp of God's love for each of us. She writes in this book: "Why, I ask myself, should the children of God lead such utterly uncomfortable Christian lives when He has led us to believe that His yoke would be easy and His burden light? Why are we tormented with so many spiritual doubts, and such heavy spiritual anxieties? Why do we find it so hard to be sure that God really loves us?

"But here, perhaps, you will meet me with the words, 'Oh, no, I do not blame the Lord, but I am so weak and so foolish, and so ignorant that I am not worthy of His care.' But do you not know that sheep are always weak, and helpless, and silly; and that the very reason they are compelled to have a shepherd to care for them is just because they are so unable to take care of themselves? Their welfare and their safety, therefore, do not in the least depend upon their own strength, nor upon their own wisdom, nor upon anything in themselves, but wholly and entirely upon the care of their shepherd. And if you are a sheep, your welfare also must depend altogether upon your Shepherd, and not at all upon yourself!"

Note: This is Hannah Smith's final book. It was first published as _Living in the Sunshine_ , and later republished as _The God of All Comfort_ , the title of the third chapter. The edition used here is the British edition of _Living in the Sunshine_ , dated 1906.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-3-0

eBook Coming early 2018

### Evangelistic Talks

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

This book is a selection of 19 talks given by Gipsy Smith which will provide inspirational reading, and also be a source of help for those who speak. There are also 20 "two-minute sermonnettes" as the last chapter! Rodney "Gipsy" Smith was born in a gipsy tent in Epping Forest, England. He was the son of gipsies, Cornelius Smith and his wife Mary. Growing up, he had to help support the family by making and selling items like clothes pegs around the area. He only had a few weeks at school one winter, and was unable to read or write. One day his father Cornelius came home to say that he had been converted, and was now a Christian. Cornelius helped bring his son to the Lord, and from that moment, Rodney wanted to share the way of salvation with others.

He quickly learnt to read fluently and was soon into fulltime evangelism, where he became known as Gipsy Smith, a name he accepted gladly. He preached throughout England, before travelling to America and Australia. Wherever he went he was a much-loved and powerful preacher, bringing thousands to the Lord.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-7-8

eBook Coming early 2018

### I Can't Help Praising the Lord

The Life of Billy Bray

FW Bourne and

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing Edition

This challenging and often amusing book on the life of Billy Bray (1794-1868) has a very strong message for Christians today. Billy, a Cornish tin miner, believed and accepted the promises in the Bible, and lived a life that was Spirit filled.

FW Bourne, the writer of the original book, The King's Son, knew Billy Bray as a friend. In it he has used Billy's own writing, the accounts of others who had met Billy, and his own memories.

Chris Wright has revised and edited FW Bourne's book to produce this new edition, adding sections directly from Billy Bray's own Journal, keeping Billy's rough and ready grammar and wording, which surely helps us picture the man.

eBook

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-4-7

Paperback ISBN: 9785-203447-7-5

5x8 inches 80 pages

Available from major internet stores

Also on sale in Billy Bray's Chapel

Kerley Downs, Cornwall

Christian Fiction

### The Lost Clue

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

With modern line drawings

Living the life of a wealthy man, Kenneth Fortescue receives devastating news from his father. But he is only able to learn incomplete facts about his past, because a name has been obliterated from a very important letter. Two women are vying for Kenneth's attention -- Lady Violet, the young daughter of Lady Earlswood, and Marjorie Douglas, the daughter of a widowed parson's wife.

Written in 1905 by the much-loved author Mrs. O. F. Walton, this edition has been lightly abridged and edited to make it easier to read and understand today. This romantic mystery story gives an intriguing glimpse into the class extremes that existed in Edwardian England, with wealthy titled families on one side, and some families living in terrible poverty on the other.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-2-6

### Doctor Forester

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

with modern line drawings

Doctor Forester, a medical man only twenty-five years old, has come to a lonely part of Wales to escape from an event in his recent past that has caused him much hurt. So he has more on his mind than worrying about strange noises behind his bedroom wall in the old castle where he is staying.

A young woman who shares part of the journey with him is staying in the same village. He is deeply attracted to her, and believes that she is equally attracted to him. But he soon has every reason to think that his old school friend Jack is also courting her.

Written and taking place in the early 1900s, this romantic mystery is a mix of excitement and heartbreak. What is the secret of Hildick Castle? And can Doctor Forester rid himself of the past that now haunts his life?

Mrs. O. F. Walton was a prolific writer in the late 1800s, and this abridged edition captures all of the original writer's insight into what makes a memorable story. With occasional modern line drawings.

* * *

Ghosts of the past kept flitting through his brain. Dark shadows which he tried to chase away seemed to pursue him. Here these ghosts were to be laid; here those shadows were to be dispelled; here that closed chapter was to be buried for ever. So he fought long and hard with the phantoms of the past until the assertive clock near his bedroom door announced that it was two o'clock.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-0-2

### Was I Right?

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Victorian Romance

With modern line drawings

May Lindsay and her young stepsister Maggie are left penniless and homeless when their father the local doctor dies. Maggie can go to live with her three maiden aunts, but May at the age of nineteen is faced with a choice. Should she take the position of companion to a girl she doesn't know, who lives some distance away, or accept a proposal of marriage from the man who has been her friend since they were small children?

May Lindsay makes her decision, but it is not long before she wonders if she has done the right thing. This is a story of life in Victorian England as May, who has led a sheltered life, is pushed out into a much bigger world than she has previously known. She soon encounters titled families, and is taken on a tour of the Holy Land which occupies much of the story.

Two men seem to be a big disappointment to May Lindsay. Will her Christian faith hold strong in these troubles? Was she right in the decision she made before leaving home?

Mrs. O. F. Walton was a prolific writer in the late 1800s, and this abridged edition captures all of the original writer's insight into what makes a memorable story. With occasional modern line drawings.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-1-9

### In His Steps

Charles M. Sheldon

Abridged Edition

This new abridged edition of a classic story that has sold over an estimated 30 million copies, contains Charles Sheldon's original writing, with some passages sensitively abridged to allow his powerful story to come through for today's readers. Nothing in the storyline has been changed.

A homeless man staggers into a wealthy church and upsets the congregation. A week later he is dead. This causes the Rev. Henry Maxwell to issue a startling challenge to his congregation and to himself -- whatever you do in life over the next twelve months, ask yourself this question before making any decision: "What would Jesus do?"

The local newspaper editor, a novelist, a wealthy young woman who has inherited a million dollars, her friend who has been offered a professional singing career, the superintendent of the railroad workshops, a leading city merchant and others take up the challenge. But how will it all work out when things don't go as expected?

A bishop gives up his comfortable lifestyle -- and finds his life threatened in the city slums. The story is timeless. A great read, and a challenge to every Christian today.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9927642-9-6

Also available in paperback 254 pages 5.5 x 8.5 inches

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-19350791-8-7

A Previously Unpublished Book

### Locked Door Shuttered Windows

A Novel by J Stafford Wright

What is inside the fascinating house with the locked door and the shuttered windows? Satan wants an experiment. God allows it. John is caught up in the plan as Satan's human representative. The experiment? To demonstrate that there can be peace in the world if God allows Satan to run things in his own way. A group of people gather together in an idyllic village run by Satan, with no reference to God, and no belief in him.

J Stafford Wright has written this startling and gripping account of what happens when God stands back and Satan steps forward. All seems to go well for the people who volunteer to take part. And no Christians allowed!

John Longstone lost his faith when teaching at a theological college. Lost it for good -- or so he thinks. And then he meets Kathleen who never had a faith. As the holes start to appear in Satan's scheme for peace, they wonder if they should help or hinder the plans which seem to have so many benefits for humanity.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-3-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-4-1

206 pages 5.25 x 8.0 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### When it Was Dark

Guy Thorne

Abridged Edition

What would happen to the Christian faith if it could be proved beyond all doubt that Jesus did not rise from the dead? This is the situation when, at the end of the nineteenth century, eminent archaeologists working outside Jerusalem discover a tomb belonging to Joseph of Arimathea, with an inscription claiming that he took the body of Jesus from the first tomb and hid it. And there are even remains of a body. So no resurrection!

As churches quickly empty, some Christians cling to hope, saying that Jesus lives within them, so He must be the Son of God who rose from the dead. Others are relieved that they no longer have to believe and go to church. Society starts to break down.

With the backing of a wealthy industrialist, a young curate puts together a small team to investigate the involvement of a powerful atheist in the discovery. This is an abridged edition of a novel first published in 1903.

Guy Thorne was the English author of many thrillers in the early twentieth century, and this book was not intended specifically for the Christian market. It contains adult references in places, but no swearing or offensive language. Although it was written from a high church Anglican viewpoint, the author is positive about the various branches of the Christian faith, finding strengths and weaknesses in individual church and chapel members as their beliefs are threatened by the discovery in Jerusalem. White Tree Publishing believes this book will be a great and positive challenge to Christians today as we examine the reality of our faith.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

Published jointly with North View Publishing

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9954549-0-3

### Silverbeach Manor

Margaret S. Haycraft

Abridged edition

Pansy is an orphan who is cared for by her aunt, Temperance Piper, who keeps the village post office and store. One day Pansy meets wealthy Mrs. Adair who offers to take her under her wing and give her a life of wealth in high society that she could never dream of, on condition Pansy never revisits her past life. When they first meet, Mrs. Adair says about Pansy's clothes, "The style is a little out of date, but it is good enough for the country. I should like to see you in a really well-made dress. It would be quite a new sensation for you, if you really belong to these wilds. I have a crimson and gold tea gown that would suit you delightfully, and make you quite a treasure for an artist." This is a story of rags to riches to ... well, to a life where nothing is straightforward. First published in 1891.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-4-1

### Amaranth's Garden

Margaret S. Haycraft

Abridged edition

"It seems, Miss, your father drew out that money yesterday, and took it all out in gold. The Rector happened to be in the Bank at the time, but was on his way to town, and could not stop to talk to your father just then, though he wondered to hear him say he had come to draw out everything, as treasurer of the fund." Amaranth Glyn's comfortable life comes to an end when the church funds disappear. Her father, the church treasurer who drew out the money, is also missing, to be followed shortly by her mother. The disgrace this brings on the family means Amaranth's marriage plans are cancelled. Amaranth is a competent artist and moves away with her young brother to try to earn a living. There are rumours that her parents are in France and even in Peru. Caring for her sick brother, Amaranth wants life to be as it was before the financial scandal forced her to leave her family home and the garden she loved.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-6-5

### Rose Capel's Sacrifice

Margaret Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

Rose and Maurice Capel find themselves living in poverty through no fault of their own, and their daughter Gwen is dangerously ill and in need of a doctor and medicine, which they cannot possibly afford. There seems to be only one option -- to offer their daughter to Maurice Capel's unmarried sister, Dorothy, living in the beautiful Welsh countryside, and be left with nothing more than memories of Gwen. Dorothy has inherited her father's fortune and cut herself off from the family. Although Gwen would be well cared for, if she got better and Rose and Maurice's finances improved, would they be able to ask for Gwen to be returned? Another story from popular Victorian writer Margaret S. Haycraft.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9954549-3-4

### Una's Marriage

### Margaret Haycraft

Una Latreille inherits the St Pensart's estate which has been in the family since the Norman Conquest. Unfortunately the estate is now bankrupt, and although still in mourning, Una's only hope of living in the style to which she has been accustomed is to marry a wealthy man, and quickly. Several suitors have disappeared after learning of the debts, and the one man who still expresses any interest in Una is Keith Broughton. Keith started work as a mill hand, and is now the young and wealthy owner of a large woollen mill. But how can she possibly marry so far beneath her class? Reluctantly, Una agrees to marriage on condition that there is no physical contact between them, and certainly no honeymoon! She also insists that she will never, ever suffer the indignity of meeting anyone in his family, or put one foot inside the door of his mill. This book was first published in 1898 by SW Partridge and Co, publishers of both Christian and secular books. Although there is no openly Christian message in this story, unlike the majority of Margaret Haycraft's books, it deals sensitively with the true nature of love -- as well as being an extremely readable story.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-5-9

### Miss Elizabeth's Niece

### Margaret Haycraft

"You have scandalised your name and ours, and the only thing to do is to make the best of it, and teach Maisie at least the first principles of ladylike conduct." Trevor Stratheyre, from a wealthy and aristocratic English family, impulsively marries Maisie, a servant girl he meets while touring the Continent. Maisie's mother had died at an Italian inn, leaving three-year-old Maisie to be brought up by the landlord and his wife, where she helps as a maid at the inn and cares for the animals. Maisie is charming and affectionate, but when Trevor brings her back to Stratheyre in England as his bride, to the large estate he is expecting to inherit, it is clear that Maisie's ways are not those of the upper classes. When she tells titled guests at dinner that she was once herding some cows home and one was struck by lightning, trouble is bound to follow.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-7-3

eBook Coming November 2017

### Keena Karmody

Eliza Kerr

Keena Karmody finishes school in London and invites her young French teacher, Marie Delorme, to stay with her on her grandfather's estate at Céim-an-eich in Ireland as her tutor, to complete her education. One day Keena will inherit the large house and the family money. As time goes on, Marie Delorme's stay becomes permanent as she makes secret plans to take possession of the estate. When Keena's grandfather dies, Keena finds that he has made a very different will than the one everyone expected, and Marie is now mistress of the house. What is the shameful family secret that no one has ever discussed with Keena? Her only hope of getting her life back together lies in discovering this secret, and the answer could be with her father's grave in Tuscany. Homeless and penniless Keena Karmody sets out for Italy.

"When she had sought out and found that grave in the distant Tuscan village, and learned the story of her father's life and death, perhaps then death would come, and she might be laid there at his side in peace, and Marie would dwell in Céim-an-eich."

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-5-4

eBook coming December 2017

### The Clever Miss Jancy

### Margaret S. Haycraft

Miss Orabel Jancy is indeed clever, and she knows it. The oldest of widowed Squire Jancy's six children, all living at home, Orabel is the author of several scientific books, and has many letters after her name. To Orabel, education and intellectual pursuits are everything that matter in life. She is secretary of a women's intellectual club that teaches that women are superior to men, and the members have all agreed to remain single because men would hold them back in their academic goals. However, when Orabel was born, a deathbed promise was made with a friend that Orabel and the friend's son, Harold Kingdon, should be given the opportunity to marry. Nobody thinks to mention this to Orabel, and she only learns of the arrangement when she is grown up and Harold Kingdon is already on his way from India -- to propose to her! Even before Harold arrives, Orabel decides she cannot possibly marry a lowly military doctor, when she is so intelligent. As soon as they meet, the feeling of dislike is mutual. But Orabel's younger sister, Annis, who never did well in academic subjects, is also of marriageable age, and would dearly love to settle down with the right man. Their younger brother and small sisters view the developing situation with interest.

The Squire had never found courage to broach the fact of the offer to Orabel, who looks as though her blue eyes would wither the sheet of foreign notepaper in front of her.

"You know, Orabel," puts in Annis, "we _did_ hear something long ago about papa and mamma promising somebody or other out in India should have a chance to court you."

"Oh, _do_ say 'yes,' Orabel," pleads a chorus of little sisters. "It will be so _lovely_ to have a wedding, and Phil can be a page and wear a fancy dress."

"Can he?" growls Philip. "I'd like to catch myself in lace and velvet like those kids at the Hemmings' last week. Orabel, I think you ought to send him your portrait. Let him know, at least, what he's wooing."

With these words Philip beats a prudent retreat, and Orabel gives utterance to such tones that Annis, trembling at her side, is almost in tears.

"Has it come to this," Orabel asks, "that I, the secretary of the Mount Athene Club, should be affronted, insulted by a letter like this? Am I not Orabel Jancy? Am I not the pioneer of a new and emancipating system? And who is this Harold Kingdon that he dares to cross my path with his jests concerning infantile betrothal?"

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-9-7

eBook coming January 2018

### A Daughter of the King

Mrs Philip Barnes

There are the usual misunderstandings in the small village of Royden, but one year they combine to cause serious friction. An elderly lady, the embodiment of kindness, is turned out of her favourite pew by the new vicar. Young and old residents start to view each other with suspicion when a banished husband returns, allegedly to harm his wife and children as he did once before. Both Mary Grey and Elsa Knott want to marry young Gordon Pyne, who lives in the White House, but Gordon is suddenly accused of his father's murder. This is a very readable romance from 1909, with many twists and turns. It has been lightly abridged and edited. A story in the style of those by White Tree Publishing's most popular author, Margaret S. Haycraft.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-8-0

### Hazel Haldene

Eliza Kerr

Two grownup sisters live under their older brother's thumb. He is obsessed with perfect Christian doctrine and farming, and cannot see why his sisters should want any company but his own. Marie is fond of a local artist, but her brother will not allow such a marriage. Marie's only hope of freedom is to run away and marry in secret. When she returns to the family home eight years later with a child, surely she will be welcome by a brother who professes religion. This story by Eliza Kerr again takes the theme of rejection, but her stories are all very different as well as involving.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-8-5

eBook Coming February 2018

### Rollica Reed

Eliza Kerr

When Rollica Reed is left an orphan at the age of sixteen, a friend of her father's takes her in, much to the dismay of his wife and two older daughters who consider themselves to be the cream of Victorian society. The wife and daughters resent Rollica as an intruder, and try to make her life wretched, humiliating her in front of friends and telling her she is too common to be a lady. The two unmarried daughters are concerned by Rollica's naturally good looks, and want to cut her off from meeting any of their friends. Rollica soon learns she must not show any sign of weakness if she is to survive. But can she ever forgive?

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-6-1

## Books for Younger Readers

(and older readers too!)

### The Merlin Adventure

Chris Wright

The day Daniel Talbot brought home a stuffed duck in a glass case, everyone thought he'd gone out of his mind. Even he had his doubts at times. "Fancy spending your money on _that_ ," his mother scolded him. "You needn't think it's coming into this house, because it isn't!"

When Daniel, Emma, Charlie and Julia, the Four Merlins, set out to sail their model paddle steamer on the old canal, strange and dangerous things start to happen. Then Daniel and Julia make a discovery they want to share with the others.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-2-7

Paperback ISBN: 9785-203447-7-5

5x8 inches 182 pages

Available from major internet stores

The Hijack Adventure

Chris Wright

Anna's mother has opened a transport café, but why do the truck drivers avoid stopping there? An accident in the road outside brings Anna a new friend, Matthew. When they get trapped in a broken down truck with Matthew's dog, Chip, their adventure begins.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-6-5

Available now in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-0-5

5x8 inches 140 pages

Available from major internet stores

The Seventeen Steps Adventure

Chris Wright

When Ryan's American cousin, Natalie, comes to stay with him in England, a film from their Gran's old camera holds some surprise photographs, and they discover there's more to photography than taking selfies! But where are the Seventeen Steps, and has a robbery been planned to take place there?

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-7-2

Available now in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-6-7

5x8 inches 132 pages

Available from major internet stores

### The Two Jays Adventure

The First Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

James and Jessica, the Two Jays, are on holiday in the West Country in England where they set out to make some exciting discoveries. Have they found the true site of an ancient holy well? Is the water in it dangerous? Why does an angry man with a bicycle tell them to keep away from the deserted stone quarry?

A serious accident on the hillside has unexpected consequences, and an old Latin document may contain a secret that's connected to the two strange stone heads in the village church -- if James and Jessica can solve the puzzle. An adventure awaits! This is the first Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-8-9

Available now in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-8-1

5x8 inches 196 pages

Available from major internet stores

### The Dark Tunnel Adventure

The Second Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

James and Jessica, the Two Jays, are on holiday in the Derbyshire Peak District in England, staying near Dakedale Manor, which has been completely destroyed in a fire. Did young Sam Stirling burn his family home down? Miss Parkin, the housekeeper, says he did, and she can prove it. Sam says he didn't, and he can't prove it. But Sam has gone missing. James and Jessica believe the truth lies behind one of the old iron doors inside the disused railway tunnel. This is the second Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-0-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5206386-3-8

188 pages 5x8 inches

Available from major internet stores

### The Cliff Edge Adventure

The Third Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

James and Jessica's Aunt Judy lives in a lonely guest house perched on top of a crumbling cliff on the west coast of Wales. She is moving out with her dog for her own safety, because she has been warned that the waves from the next big storm could bring down a large part of the cliff -- and her house with it. Cousins James and Jessica, the Two Jays, are helping her sort through her possessions, and they find an old papyrus page they think could be from an ancient copy of one of the Gospels. Two people are extremely interested in having it, but can either of them be trusted? James and Jessica are alone in the house. It's dark, the electricity is off, and the worst storm in living memory is already battering the coast. Is there someone downstairs? This is the third Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-4-2

**Paperback ISBN:** **9781-5-211370-3-1**

188 pages 5x8 inches

Coming December 2017

### The Midnight Farm Adventure

The Fourth Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

What is hidden in the old spoil tip by the disused Midnight Mine? Two men have permission to dig there, but they don't want anyone watching -- especially not Jessica and James, the Two Jays. And where is Granfer Joe's old tin box, full of what he called his treasure? The Easter holiday at Midnight Farm in Cornwall isn't as peaceful as James's parents planned. An early morning bike ride nearly ends in disaster, and with the so-called Hound of the Baskervilles running loose, things turn out to be decidedly dangerous. This is the fourth Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-1-6

Also available in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5497148-3-2

200 pages 5x8 inches

### Mary Jones and Her Bible

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

The true story of Mary Jones's and her Bible

with a clear Christian message and optional puzzles

(Some are easy, some tricky, and some amusing)

Mary Jones saved for six years to buy a Bible of her own. In 1800, when she was 15, she thought she had saved enough, so she walked barefoot for 26 miles (more than 40km) over a mountain pass and through deep valleys in Wales to get one. That's when she discovered there were none for sale!

You can travel with Mary Jones today in this book by following clues, or just reading the story. Either way, you will get to Bala where Mary went, and if you're really quick you may be able to discover a Bible just like Mary's in the market!

The true story of Mary Jones has captured the imagination for more than 200 years. For this book, Chris Wright has looked into the old records and discovered even more of the story, which is now in this unforgettable account of Mary Jones and her Bible. Solving puzzles is part of the fun, but the whole story is in here to read and enjoy whether you try the puzzles or not. Just turn the page, and the adventure continues. It's time to get on the trail of Mary Jones!

eBook ISBN: **ISBN: 978-0-9933941-5-7**

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9525956-2-5

5.5 x 8.5 inches

156 pages of story, photographs, line drawings and puzzles

### Pilgrim's Progress

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

Travel with young Christian as he sets out on a difficult and perilous journey to find the King. Solve the puzzles and riddles along the way, and help Christian reach the Celestial City. Then travel with his friend Christiana. She has four young brothers who can sometimes be a bit of a problem.

Be warned, you will meet giants and lions -- and even dragons! There are people who don't want Christian and Christiana to reach the city of the King and his Son. But not everyone is an enemy. There are plenty of friendly people. It's just a matter of finding them.

Are you prepared to help? Are you sure? The journey can be very dangerous! As with our book Mary Jones and Her Bible, you can enjoy the story even if you don't want to try the puzzles.

This is a simplified and abridged version of Pilgrim's Progress -- Special Edition, containing illustrations and a mix of puzzles. The suggested reading age is up to perhaps ten. Older readers will find the same story told in much greater detail in Pilgrim's Progress -- Special Edition on the next page.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9933941-6-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-6-3

5.5 x 8.5 inches 174 pages

Available from major internet stores

### Pilgrim's Progress

### Special Edition

Chris Wright

This book for all ages is a great choice for young readers, as well as for families, Sunday school teachers, and anyone who wants to read John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress in a clear form.

All the old favourites are here: Christian, Christiana, the Wicket Gate, Interpreter, Hill Difficulty with the lions, the four sisters at the House Beautiful, Vanity Fair, Giant Despair, Faithful and Talkative -- and, of course, Greatheart. The list is almost endless.

The first part of the story is told by Christian himself, as he leaves the City of Destruction to reach the Celestial City, and becomes trapped in the Slough of Despond near the Wicket Gate. On his journey he will encounter lions, giants, and a creature called the Destroyer.

Christiana follows along later, and tells her own story in the second part. Not only does Christiana have to cope with her four young brothers, she worries about whether her clothes are good enough for meeting the King. Will she find the dangers in Vanity Fair that Christian found? Will she be caught by Giant Despair and imprisoned in Doubting Castle? What about the dragon with seven heads?

It's a dangerous journey, but Christian and Christiana both know that the King's Son is with them, helping them through the most difficult parts until they reach the Land of Beulah, and see the Celestial City on the other side of the Dark River. This is a story you will remember for ever, and it's about a journey you can make for yourself.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-8-8

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-7-0

5.5 x 8.5 inches 278 pages

Available from major internet stores

### Zephan and the Vision

Chris Wright

An exciting story about the adventures of two angels who seem to know almost nothing -- until they have a vision!

Two ordinary angels are caring for the distant Planet Eltor, and they are about to get a big shock -- they are due to take a trip to Planet Earth! This is Zephan's story of the vision he is given before being allowed to travel with Talora, his companion angel, to help two young people fight against the enemy.

Arriving on Earth, they discover that everyone lives in a small castle. Some castles are strong and built in good positions, while others appear weak and open to attack. But it seems that the best-looking castles are not always the most secure.

Meet Castle Nadia and Castle Max, the two castles that Zephan and Talora have to defend. And meet the nasty creatures who have built shelters for themselves around the back of these castles. And worst of all, meet the shadow angels who live in a cave on Shadow Hill. This is a story about the forces of good and the forces of evil. Who will win the battle for Castle Nadia?

The events in this story are based very loosely on John Bunyan's allegory The Holy War.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-6-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-9-4

5.5 x 8.5 inches 216 pages

Available from major internet stores

### Agathos, The Rocky Island,

### And Other Stories

Chris Wright

Once upon a time there were two favourite books for Sunday reading: _Parables from Nature_ and _Agathos and The Rocky Island_.

These books contained short stories, usually with a hidden meaning. In this illustrated book is a selection of the very best of these stories, carefully retold to preserve the feel of the originals, coupled with ease of reading and understanding for today's readers.

Discover the king who sent his servants to trade in a foreign city. The butterfly who thought her eggs would hatch into baby butterflies, and the two boys who decided to explore the forbidden land beyond the castle boundary. The spider that kept being blown in the wind, the soldier who had to fight a dragon, the four children who had to find their way through a dark and dangerous forest. These are just six of the nine stories in this collection. Oh, and there's also one about a rocky island!

This is a book for a young person to read alone, a family or parent to read aloud, Sunday school teachers to read to the class, and even for grownups who want to dip into the fascinating stories of the past all by themselves. Can you discover the hidden meanings? You don't have to wait until Sunday before starting!

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9927642-7-2

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-8-7

5.5 x 8.5 inches 148 pages

Available from major internet stores

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